The Blood Ballad (27 page)

“Thank you.”

When I got back to the car, I relayed the directions to Helen, and within minutes we were pulling in his driveway. “I'm glad we brought your Jeep. That was a pretty steep hill.”

“You don't say,” Helen replied.

We got out of the car and noticed right away that there were two bloodhounds sitting on the front porch. The house was a stately white-and-black building with a wall of windows facing the Mississippi River and the state of Illinois. From Frank's driveway, you could see for miles. I glanced to the south and could see New Kassel in the distance. If I'd had a telescope, I most likely could have seen the Gaheimer House.

Frank Mercer had a well—most likely for decoration—sitting in the front yard. It was covered with Christmas lights. I glanced at Helen, who eyed the bloodhounds with quiet fear.

As soon as my hand touched the fence that enclosed the front yard, the dogs leapt to their feet and began barking.

“Gee, the guy in the gas station never mentioned anything about dogs,” I said.

“You think they can jump the fence?” Helen asked.

“Nah,” I said. Just then, they lunged for the fence, their heads coming as high as ours. We jumped back and squealed, and Helen made a mad dash for her Jeep. “Nice doggies,” I said.

“Honk the horn,” I called to Helen. I figured if Frank was home, he'd hear that for sure, but she didn't really get the chance to, because Frank opened the door and stepped out onto his front porch. He was younger than I thought he'd be. Frank looked about fifty-five, which meant that he had been in his twenties when he submitted the genealogical charts to Sylvia for the bicentennial. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans, and his thick hair was combed straight back.

“Can I help you?” he said.

“Hi, Mr. Mercer, I'm Torie O'Shea,” I called out, trying to be heard above the dogs. “I'm the historian down in New Kassel.”

He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. “Hansel, Gretel, go sit.” The dogs instantly shut up and went to opposite corners of the yard.

“Come on in,” he said.

I glanced toward Helen, who gave me a very firm shake of the head. She wasn't getting out of the Jeep. Smiling at Frank Mercer, I tried not to look in the direction of the dogs. I walked quickly to the porch and all but jumped inside when he opened the front door for me.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “They don't know the difference between friend or foe until I tell them.”

“Right,” I said, wondering what in the world he needed to worry about in the first place.

“So, what did you need to talk to me about?” he asked, and motioned for me to go inside. He ushered me into the living room and we both sat down.

“I need to speak with you about your aunt, or maybe it's your great-aunt—Isabelle Mercer.”

“What about her?”

“Obviously, you never knew her,” I said.

“That's correct.”

“I noticed you filled out a family group sheet back during the bicentennial, so I thought maybe you could give me some information. We think we've discovered what happened to her.”

“Oh?” he said and leaned forward in his chair. I explained as much as I could as quickly as I could about how we came to find her under the bridge.

“She was wearing some jewelry. One piece was made in Wisteria. I've seen photographs of Isabelle Mercer and Belle Morgan. They were one and the same woman,” I said.

“Doesn't surprise me.”

“Why not?”

“I think my grandpa knew what happened to her,” he said. “I mean, I don't think he knew she was murdered and buried under a bridge, but I think he knew that Belle Morgan was his Isabelle.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because one time I asked him about her. I guess I was about seventeen. I had to do a family tree project for Boy Scouts, or something like that. Maybe it was for school. Anyway, when I asked about her, the family clammed up. I got tired of messing with everybody and went straight to my grandpa. He answered all of my questions, and when I asked him what he thought really happened to her, he said, ‘She found another family. Down in Progress. But I don't think she ever found happiness.' And that was it. So one day, Sylvia Pershing came around asking questions, and she alluded to the fact that Aunt Isabelle could have been the same woman as Belle Morgan. Then I realized my grandpa had known all along.”

I thought about that for a moment. “But he never tried to contact her?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Why?”

“Evidently, there had been a huge fight at some point over the baby, and things were said that could never be taken back.”

“The baby,” I replied.

Frank smiled at me. “Isabelle's baby. You didn't know about it?”

“Know what? I don't know what you're talking about,” I said.

“The reason her fancy fiancé called off the wedding was because she got pregnant by him.”

“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “Don't people usually
get
married because of a baby? You don't usually call off a wedding because of a baby. I'm confused.”

“Well, her fiancé said that he could not marry a woman with a tainted reputation. And if she was pregnant, then she was tainted.”

“Well, if he didn't want her tainted, then he should have kept his trousers on!” I said.

Frank laughed and nodded his head. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

“Of all the nerve.”

“You see why she was so distraught. All that time, she thought he loved her. And he did love her, as long as she didn't damage him. So he called off the wedding, and Aunt Isabelle was left pregnant and unmarried in the twenties.”

“What happened?”

“Grandpa told her to go back to her fiancé and plead with him, which she refused to do. So Grandpa called his lawyers, and they sent her fiancé a letter saying that they would sue him and destroy his name if he did not marry Isabelle or support her and the child.”

“Well, what happened?” I asked. Frank could not speak fast enough for me.

“Archie, her fiancé, replied in a nice letter that he could supply the names of at least three other men who would all claim they'd had their way with Isabelle, too, and that my grandfather could not prove he was the father of her baby.”

“Oh my gosh,” I said, and sat back in my chair.

“Aunt Isabelle said it wasn't true.”

“But your grandfather didn't believe her,” I said.

Frank nodded. “I know all of this because Grandpa confessed it to me. Said if he had believed Isabelle, she never would have left.”

“Oh my gosh,” I said again.

“And he was probably right,” Frank added. “He always blamed himself. So much so that he felt the need to tell me. So that I'd know the truth.”

“Did you tell any of this to Sylvia?”

“Ms. Pershing?” he asked. “Yes.”

I thought about the chapter Sylvia had devoted to Isabelle Mercer in her book about unsolved mysteries. She had never mentioned any of this. Sylvia had decided to be discreet. Maybe in case Isabelle came back. There was no way Sylvia could have known that Belle Morgan was dead. So she didn't want to slander Isabelle any more than she had to.

I rubbed my eyes and sighed. “What happened to the baby?” I asked, realizing that neither one of Belle's two children was old enough to be the child of Isabelle and Archie. She did not come to the relationship with Eddie Morgan with a baby in tow.

Frank shrugged. “We don't know. Maybe she lost it. Now wouldn't that be horrible if all that big fuss was made and the baby never even lived.”

Somehow, I didn't think that was the case. “Yeah, that would be a shame.”

“So, she was murdered?”

I nodded. “Sadly enough.”

“By whom?”

“I don't know for sure. I only know that it was a jealous woman. It seems Belle's choice in lovers didn't get much better as she went on. I mean, Eddie, her husband, was a good man, and I think she loved him, but evidently there was something missing.”

“Either that or the other man was just really special,” he said.

“Yeah, or that,” I said. I couldn't help wishing I could bring Scott Morgan back from the dead so that I could jerk a knot in his tail. He deserved worse, and I was actually fantasizing doing much worse things to him, but jerking a knot in his tail would suffice.

“I can't thank you enough for sharing this with me,” I said.

“I hope it helps.”

“It helps a lot,” I said. “You have a good day.”

“And Merry Christmas to you,” he said.

I hesitated at the door because both dogs perked up as my fingers touched the knob.

“They won't move with me standing here. Now, if you slapped me or something, you'd be lunch.”

I held both of my hands up. “No, I'm not laying a hand on you.”

He laughed, opened the door for me, and watched to make sure that I got in the Jeep safely. Waving as I got to the car, I couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay in every house. I was willing to bet that in every home in America, somebody had a story to tell just like the one Frank Mercer had just told me.

Twenty-five

We had one more stop to make before going home for the day. Christmas shopping always made me feel like I'd just gone through boot camp in stilettos. I could not wait to go home and soak my feet and then shove the wrapping off onto Rachel, except for her presents, of course.

We pulled into Leo's music shop to pick up the DVDs and the CDs for my sister's Christmas present. Part of the reason that Rachel would be doing the wrapping was because I had a slide show to make on the computer for my sister, using these CDs, DVDs, and old photographs that I'd scanned. But I couldn't do any of it without the help of Leo's magic.

I walked in the shop, leaving Helen outside with the car running. Leo greeted me with his brilliant smile. “Glad you came by,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“I've got all of your stuff finished for Christmas.”

“Leo, you're amazing.”

“I try,” he said. “Hey, I want to get together with your dad and do some jamming.”

“I'm sure he'll be up for it,” I said.

Leo pulled a big brown bag from under his counter and then rang up the bill for his services. As I gave him my credit card, my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Torie, it's Bonnie. I've got that information for you. Number one-eighty-three was indeed a Percheron. It's owned by Leo King. His granddaughter was riding it that day.”

“Leo?” I said.

“Yeah?” he replied.

“I, uh…”

The horse in my stable belonged to Leo King. That had to mean something. I couldn't remember exactly who it was, but somebody had suggested to me that the squatter in the woods behind my house had left his horse. Presumably because he could no longer afford to feed it.

What if the person who'd left his horse in my corral did so because he'd been interrupted? Leo might have ridden his horse out to my house because he could arrive without headlights, and if I heard a horse, I wouldn't think anything of it. Then maybe somebody came out and spooked him. Perhaps he didn't have time to grab his horse, so he left it behind, hoping we wouldn't recognize it as his. The other times Matthew had seen him out there, Leo might have been trying to figure out a way to get it back out of the corral without being seen. But why? Why would Leo King, of all people, be watching my house?

“I'm at Leo's,” I said into the phone, hoping that Leo wouldn't notice me falter in the conversation. “Well, thank you so much.”

I clicked the phone off, slid it into my pocket, and tried to figure out what to do. I figured I could dial the sheriff's office on my cell phone, but nobody would understand what was going on and they wouldn't know how to find me. I could call Helen! I thought. I didn't want to take a chance on dialing all seven digits of her phone number without looking and thus get the wrong number. I remembered I'd called her in the mall when we got separated. With the phone still in my pocket so that Leo couldn't see, I hit redial—a button I couldn't screw up.

My mind reeled as I tried to make a connection to Leo. Had I ever mentioned “The Blood Ballad” to him? No, and even if I had, what could he possibly want with it, aside from the fact that it was a piece of musical history? I had nothing else that he would be interested in.

Then I remembered. Isabelle Mercer's fiancé's name was Archibald something, something King III.
King.
Leo King. Could it be that easy? Had Isabelle given her illegitimate son his father's real last name? I almost laughed at the thought of it. If she had, she would have gotten the last word after all. What better way to slander Archie King than to give his baby his last name?

And then there was the fact that Leo King had gone to school with Clifton Weaver. So he knew the family.

“Leo,” I said.

“Yeah, Torie?”

“Did you grow up around here?”

“I lived here when I was a boy; then we moved to Progress for a few years, then back here. Why?”

I shrugged. “Just curious. I thought your name sounded familiar, that's all.”

He handed me back my credit card, and with a shaking hand, I signed the sales slip. Then I took my bag and mumbled a thank-you and headed for the door.

“So, what about that other recording?” he asked. “The old one you said had been taped a few times? When are you going to bring that in?”

Slowly, I turned and made eye contact. It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn he was sweating. “Soon,” I said.

“How soon?”

“Next week,” I said, inching closer to the door.

“Well, I can't wait to hear it. Not every day you get to hear a song about—”

“A song about what?” I asked.