"Not a word."
Adam had to be content with that. On the whole, he believed them, unless he found some kind of evidence they did know or had been paying blackmail. He paused at the front door to let the painters pass through.
"What's going on here, Tracey?"
"Claire Beauchamp is getting married next month."
On the way back into town, Adam thought about whether or not he should speak to Peg before the lawyers. It would be better if he told her first, he concluded.
Lunchtime filled the diner, but Adam found a place at the counter. As Peg cleared the dishes and wiped up in front of him, he told her she should contact Thomas Beauchamp with her documents. When she seemed hesitant, he assured her that, if not welcoming, they would at least be polite. Much later Peg told him they welcomed her and her sister warmly.
After the chicken potpie, Adam called Pete to meet him at Bill Perkins office.
In Owen, a medium-sized town southwest of Culver's Mills, the municipal building, newly-built in the 50's, with glass and colored panels decorating the facade, housed the county sheriff's office. Sheriff Perkins and Pete had their feet up among the remains of coffee and sandwiches on the desk.
They spent the afternoon reviewing and correlating the evidence, including good physical evidence. The files in Davis' office contained legal business. The search of Davis's home by Perkins' men revealed bank accounts with money transfers out of the country to the Cayman Islands, but they were only thousands, not millions. The house-to-house inquiries didn't turn up much either. Davis had been dead about twenty-four hours but other than the black SUV and the nondescript stranger, they had no new leads. Bill hadn't heard anything about Morrison either.
Adam crashed his boots to the floor in disgust. "Let's go, Pete. It looks like we're back to those damn files and genealogy charts."
In Culver's Mills, lights in the square glowed through the darkness of the late afternoon rainstorm. The windows of Erin's shop darkened as he passed and the sign turned from open to closed. He wheeled into the space in front. He could see Erin's silhouette at the back of the shop and tapped on her door window.
"Hi, Adam. Come in," she said to him when she unlocked the door. "Would you like some coffee or tea or a drink?"
"I'd love a beer if you have any. I'm coffee-ed out."
"In the office all day?"
"Bill Perkins, the sheriff's office. Worst coffee in the county. We went over the details of this case."
He took the beer and sat back in a wing back chair, with a contented sigh as he stretched out his legs towards the fire.
"What happened to the art deco chairs?"
Erin had changed the whole grouping again.
"A couple from Toronto came in and bought the lot. They said deco is popular up there right now."
Adam spent the next few minutes telling her how much he enjoyed their evening together. The more time he spent with her, the more he liked her and the more relaxed he felt. He found himself telling her about his law classes and his advisor's talk with him.
"Could you quit police work, Adam?"
"I think so. I haven't done a lot of different things, but I'm not one of those guys who say being a cop is who I am. For me, it's what I do now. I enjoy the disciplined thinking of the law."
"It's a tough decision."
"I have a little while."
He waved the decision away.
"What did you decide about the cast party after the play tomorrow night. Would you like to come?"
"I'd like to, but would the others be uncomfortable with me there?"
"They'll have to lump it. I'll leave you a ticket at the front."
Adam stood up to go. Erin moved into his arms, hugged him and put her face up to be kissed.
They both spoke at once.
"See you soon."
The next morning, Brad's lanky form hunched over the keyboard. When he saw Adam, he bounded across the room.
"I've got him."
D. Calvert was a passenger on a ship out of Liverpool. Anne said that Calvert was the original name for the Culvers. He showed him the printout of the passenger list. The date and month matched the entry against D.C. in Jennifer's file. He appeared against several entries of $3,000 each. Time to have a word with Mr. David Culver. Brad deserved to be in on this interview, so they drove together out to the estate.
Adam didn't know the maid who opened the door. When he asked where Mrs. Ames was, the maid told him she left on a short vacation. Perhaps Mrs. Ames decided whatever she wanted to say to him wasn't important after all.
Culver appeared, blustering as usual, with his narrow face even more pinched with the strain.
"What are you here for?"
You'd think he'd at least try to be polite, Adam thought.
"Mr. Culver, we'd like to know why you didn't tell us Jennifer Smith was blackmailing you?"
The young man sat down, all bluster gone, as his grandmother entered the room.
"David, what are they talking about?"
He made a few vague noises and waved his hand at Adam.
"We have evidence David, among others, was paying Jennifer Smith a large sum of money, in his case, monthly. As you can see by looking at him, ma'am, it's true."
"David?"
The warning note in his mother's voice was unmistakable.
"Mother, she knew about the indian."
"What indian?"
"The one they say was involved with great-great-great-grandfather. She was going to announce we were aboriginal."
There had to be more to it than that, Adam thought.
"You paid that woman money to keep that secret?"
His mother was incredulous.
"But you always were so proud of our French heritage."
"David, I knew you had some foolish ideas, but this is too much. Because some remote ancestor had a liaison with an aboriginal does not change our family history."
"I only wanted to save us embarrassment. Now it will all come out."
He was holding his head in his hands.
"Mr. Culver, if all you did was pay blackmail, then you're the victim here. We won't have to tell anyone unless it is evidence in a murder trial."
"Murder. No. I didn't kill her."
The plaintive tone changed to panic.
"How about you give us details of the blackmail scheme?"
The frightened young man explained Jennifer's technique. She advertised her genealogical services to the local paper and elsewhere. For his grandmother, David asked her to develop a family tree. She met him for lunch in Burlington, and she picked up on his extreme pride in family and distaste for anything that sullied their pure line.
When she was unable to find evidence of a second and parallel family, she went further back and found an aboriginal connection. She made it clear she would make sure the community knew unless he paid. He met her once a month in Burlington and handed over the cash. He'd paid her for three months before she was killed.
"I didn't kill her, Lieutenant. I was with my family that night. I didn't go out again after we got home. I didn't meet her at the library, only in Burlington."
"We'll need your DNA and fingerprints. You should also know our researcher hasn't found any such connection for your family."
"You mean she made it up?"
"Sure, why not. She could fake a family tree if you didn't ask to see original documents."
"I can't believe I was such a fool."
After a pause, as David sat and stared alternately at the floor and at his grandmother, Adam said, "When were you last in the library?"
"Not for about a year. I was on the fund-raising committee for the addition, but I haven't been in since we opened it."
"Then you have no worries. Come with us and give us a statement and samples, and I won't have to bother you again."
Adam watched the worried glances from grandmother to grandson. Finally, David straightened. "I'll come with you, Lieutenant."
Brad and Ad
am took Culver to the cruiser. He was calmer now and hugged his grandmother, assuring her he did nothing wrong. He was quiet and thoughtful on the way to the courthouse where his lawyer met them. Adam treated Culver as a victim witness, except to take the samples. David insisted on giving the samples over his lawyer's objections.
Brad was upset when Culver left. All that work for nothing. A few choice phrases expressed his feelings.
"You know, you've cleared away most of the underbrush from this case. We've eliminated several major suspects."
"Yeah, but what are we left with?"
"Maybe someone who had money to lose. Not indian ancestors or lost cousins, but a lot of money. Someone paid her $8,000 a week."
"There is nothing about $8,000 in any of her files."
"It has to be something she found in her research. What about Davis? Did you find anything in his files?"
"Perkins hasn't passed them over yet. I'm supposed to get them tomorrow. You and Pete both looked at them, didn't you?"
"Yes, but as far as I could tell it was ordinary business, some real estate deals, minor criminal stuff, traffic court. He was Dave Lauder's attorney on a couple of charges, so that may have been the connection. He could have hired Lauder to hit Jennifer and then Anne."
"I don't know. Lauder was small time assault. He may have fired the shot at Anne, but I don't see him as the murderer."
Adam grunted.
"Let's call it a day."
Atkins watched David Culver walk down the steps of the courthouse and drive off with his lawyer. He didn't look like a guy under arrest, the reporter thought, as he pushed his way through the heavy door of the police station.
"Lieutenant, have you arrested Culver?" he said, interrupting the intense conversation in the squad room.
"Mr. Culver has been helpful. He is not under arrest. Next time call ahead."
Adam brushed past Atkins and disappeared out the door.
"Whew, that's not like him. What's going on?"
"You'll have to ask the lieutenant. I'm out of here," Brad said
Atkins stood in the middle of the squad room, meeting the amused gaze of the receptionist.
"Must have been a bad day," he said, as he left the office, banging the door in disgust behind him.
Adam picked up Anne at the library and dropped her at Catherine's. She thought she was close to finding the disputed land record of long ago. Adam told her about the Beauchamps and the Culvers.
"So much pain for such foolish reasons. What's past is past."
"I'm surprised to hear you say so when you are so keen on this ancestor stuff."
They were sitting in Catherine's driveway, watching the first rays of sun of the day, and the last, play across her yard. The rain had stopped.
"I'm interested and curious, but whatever I learn doesn't change who I am and what I have done. Good night, Adam."
"Good night."
Chapter Twenty
The next morning was bright and cheerful, but Anne's mood wasn't. She spent one of those too-early mornings brooding about the events of the last few days. Two attempts on her life were too much. She wanted to go home. Canada would be a lot safer.
Even as she thought this, Anne realized she didn't want to leave without knowing the solution to the murder or without getting the information she wanted for her own family research. Perhaps she could visit one or two of the local churches to check their records today. Then she would go.
She showered in the bathroom attached to her bedroom and dressed for a walk in slacks, a pullover and her favorite wool socks.
"Good morning, Anne. Coffee?
Catherine set freshly-baked biscuits and her own strawberry jam out on the table.
"Yes, please."
"Do you have plans for today?" Catherine asked.
"I thought I might visit one or two local churches looking for my great-great great-grandmother's marriage record."
"Which churches are you going to visit?"
Catherine put mugs on the table and sat opposite Anne.
"There's a Catholic church here?" said Anne.
"Oh, yes, on the other side of the river from here."
"What about Anglican?"
"Anglican—they call it Episcopalian here. It's off the square. Why do you think those two?"
“My great-great-great-grandfather was French-Canadian so most likely Catholic but there were proselytizing Anglican priests who came through here also."
"I'm sure Margaret Kennedy, the secretary at the Catholic Church, will help you. Would you like me to drive you over?"
Anne's car had been demolished, the frame twisted beyond repair in the accident.
"No thanks. I'm going to the car rental place and get something I can drive home."
"Are you leaving soon?"
"I'm not sure. Is it okay if I stay a few more days?"
"Of course. Didn't Adam want you to go on taking precautions?"
"I can't do that forever, Catherine. He may never find the killer."
Catherine reached for a note beside the phone on the counter.
"You had a phone call, from a reporter from the paper. He's called Ted Atkins. I told him I would give you the message."
"I don't like to talk to the press. You never know how your words will come out."
"I don't think you have to. Refer him to Adam."
After breakfast, Anne walked through the sunshine to the car rental agency and picked out the safest sedan she could find. The clerk gave her directions to the Catholic Church.
St. Mary's was a small, quite old, stone church, set in a well-tended graveyard, its wrought-iron picket fence shining with a new application of paint. A team of roofers was replacing shingles. Either the congregation was more significant than the church looked, or more affluent, she thought.
The church office was in the back. A door to the right led to a hall full of seniors taking clogging lessons. The clack of their heels echoed in the hallway as Anne knocked at the office door.
"Come in."
Not Margaret Kennedy, a man's voice.
"Oh, good morning," Anne said. "I'm looking for Mrs. Kennedy."
"I'm Father O'Brien," the elderly man behind the desk introduced himself. "Margaret is away today. Can I help you?"
"I'm Anne McPhail. I've come to Culver's Mills to research my genealogy, and I wondered if I could search your oldest records if you have any?"
Father O'Brien stood up, not very far for he was a remarkably short individual, not more than five feet tall.
"We do have some records from the turn of the eighteenth century—baptismal and marriage records. We keep them in the back of the church."
"In a regular room, Father?"
Anne was horrified. Paper deteriorated rapidly in today's atmosphere.
"No, no, Ms. McPhail."
The little priest was equally horrified.
"Doctor McPhail, Father," Anne said. "I'm a pediatrician, and this searching the past has become my hobby."
"Indeed. I'm sure you must find it interesting. We were fortunate enough to be given money to outfit and air-condition a small room to hold all our old records."
He led her further down the hall to a surprising room, tiny but newly dry-walled and painted. Humidity monitors and thermostats automatically controlled the temperature and moisture content of the air. The old parish record books, covered in impossibly old cracked leather, lay on Mylar covered shelves. Someone knowledgeable advised them, Anne thought.
"Many of these have been transcribed to cd-rom," he said.
"The gift must have been very generous," Anne said.
"Yes, it was, and anonymous." The priest shook his head. "I can't pray for her by name."
"You're sure it was a woman?"
"Not sure, but I feel it most likely was. Now, what should we be looking at?"
"The baptism was in 1778, so we should look for a marriage fifteen or more years later."
"1793 or so. Those are not transcribed as yet."
<
br /> He pulled several parish record books from the shelves. On the table were several pairs of white cotton gloves. Anne followed Father O'Brien's lead in pulling on gloves before handling the books. They sat in a comfortable silence, searching for the elusive Margaret through the fragile pages. The writing, in an elegant 18th-century copperplate, was clear after all these years.
Towards lunchtime, Father O'Brien left her, and she could hear the bells ring for a mass. She turned the last page for 1795 when she caught the name de la Ronde. December 31st, 1795. A marriage between Charles de la Ronde and Margaret Pewadguonekwe was celebrated with a mass. Perhaps she could find the children.
As she moved forward through the past, she found the baptism of first one child, then the next. Many times, she had seen records of whole family groups baptized at the same time, after their parents' marriage had been celebrated, sometimes twenty or thirty years after the first child was born. This pair seemed to have lived a more routine life.
On the same page as one of the La Ronde offspring of Charles and Margaret, she noticed the baptismal record of Daniel Beauchamp, godparents Pierre and Madeline Beauchamp, father Michel, and mother, Marie. So the family had remained for a time in Culver's Mills. Anne copied the information into her ever-present notebook and when Father O'Brien returned she asked if she could photograph the page. She assured him she wouldn't use a flash.
When Anne finished, he said, "I'm delighted you found your ancestor, my dear, and that she was a daughter of this church."
"Thank you, Father. I've been following her trail for a long time now. It's so exciting to have an aboriginal ancestor, to have a connection to the country that goes so far back."
"Others would be embarrassed."
"Perhaps. Not an attitude I can easily understand."
Anne stood up and offered her hand to the little priest, who took it in both of his and shook it warmly. Anne dropped a generous donation in the parish box. If they couldn't find enough information on Jennifer's computer, she might have to come back to search the records here. She had a strong suspicion Jennifer was the anonymous donor, although she had no idea how to find out, or if it was even essential to know what she had done with the cash. She drove over to the station to help Brad.
Murderous Roots Page 11