“Want some?” She shook her head and lit a cigarette. Tosca came in and looked at her first and then me as though trying to decide when one of us had the greatest need.
Josie went to the patio doors and gazed outside. I followed and saw a platoon of rabbits springing out of my windbreak. Undoubtedly setting up their next assault.
“Is Harold making any progress?”
“No, it’s way too soon, but he’s less sure about the witness protection program being a possibility after I told him about the Talesbury connection.”
“I feel like I’m walking across land mines.”
“You are,” she said flatly. “But for now, it’s as dangerous to start back as it was to begin all this in the first place.” She went to the window, then back again. Edgy, touchy, not like herself.
“Storm coming up,” I said. She studied the clear blue sky. Only a few stray clouds floated serenely toward the east. I laughed. “It’s the electricity in the air. It gets under your skin. Makes you crazy. That’s why you can’t settle down.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.” There clearly was and Tosca thought so too. She lay stretched out with her head on her paws, anxiously watching Josie’s every move.
“It’s not just the weather,” she said. “I’ve collected all the local papers in every town I’ve visited. And there’s so many things I don’t understand. Some of the issues that I haven’t even heard about sound like a matter of life and death out here.”
“Like what?”
“Wind. Wind energy. Wind farms. What do people have against wind farms out here for heaven’s sake? It would boost local economies, it’s green, and it’s so logical. This has to be one of the best places in the world to harness the wind.”
“People are fighting it tooth and toenail in the Flint Hills, aren’t they?” She had to be aware of the controversy there. Manhattan was in the heart of this treasured area. The Kansas Flint Hills region extends from near Nebraska down into Oklahoma. It’s the last large expanse of tallgrass prairie in the nation.
Keith has long envied the ranchers lucky enough to own land there. The lush grass, whose roots reach down on limestone and chert, contains calcium and minerals and produces some of the finest beef in the world.
“The Flint Hills are a different matter altogether,” she insisted.
“Many farmers feel the same way about the land out here. I don’t know where to start. But different people in both parts of the state have marshaled the same arguments.” There were concerns about driving away wildlife, causing cancer, general ugliness, noise pollution from the equipment, and odd research about vibro-acoustic disease—wind turbine sickness. Opponents say there’s a constant subtle noise that causes memory loss in little kids and migraines in young mothers.
“And I suppose there’s another side?”
“Absolutely. Economics for one thing. Folks who allow companies to use their land for wind turbines get generous payments.”
We moved from there to ethanol plants and then to immigration. It was rather pleasant actually, to be discussing something other than killers and intrigues.
But, finally, we came back full circle to the elephant in the living room. Mary Farnsworth’s murder.
We traded theories, and shot each one down while we waited for Harold to call back about the witness protection program.
We both jumped like we’d been shot when the phone rang. Josie answered. She listened intently. “When will you know?”
She hung up. “Harold says this will take several days. It’s one of those ‘why do you want to know’ situations.”
Keith came home and whistled as he hung his jean jacket on a peg in the mud room. Tosca was ecstatic and nearly wagged herself to death until he reached for her.
“Big discussions going on, I see.”
“Not that big. We’re just wading through the major issue of the day. The week. Did you have a good day at the office?” I managed to look him squarely in the eye. Keep my voice pleasant.
“Yes, in fact it was rather boring.”
“It usually is. But I had an interesting run-in on my way home.” I told him about Talesbury. He listened intently.
“There’s something terribly wrong with the man,” he said. “Or something has gone terribly wrong in his life.”
Josie nodded. “Prostration. Deep penance. Unbearable guilt. This disconnect from people. There’s something we don’t know about.”
***
The next day Keith announced he was willing to be on duty again. “If you don’t mind.” His glance was cautious.
“Fine. In fact, I’m starting to make a little headway on stories. I have three more tapes to go for Edna before I start on Chip’s story. And with any luck at all, Myrna won’t phone in any more changes. Thank you for volunteering.”
He checked to see if I meant it. Then nodded and headed for the garage. I watched him drive off. He was making the ultimate sacrifice in sitting at a desk with relatively little to do. It showed how worried he was about my safety and how confident he was that no one would ever cross him.
He was wrong. He came roaring back in the drive in about twenty minutes and crashed through the back door. His face was flushed, furious, and he headed to his gun rack.
“What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong?” I pressed my fingers to my throat. Tosca leapt into Josie’s arms and we both stood there wide-eyed as he grabbed a rifle.
He started swearing then, and used words he’d never used in front of Josie before. He stood there, shoulders slumped, then put the rifle back in the case.
“Come look,” he said finally. “Just come look.”
Wordlessly, we followed him out to his Suburban. He drove down the road to his newly planted oats field. He depended on it to start feeding cattle before they switched to corn.
Although Kansas has a moratorium on wells until the state decides what to do about the declining level of the Ogallala aquifer, Keith’s family had grandfather irrigation permits. A complicated circle pivot system rotates around the oats field. It’s massively expensive and although Keith had once spent an entire evening explaining all the parts and reasons and advantages, most of it was over my head.
But it was clear the circle pivot wouldn’t be rotating this year. Someone had plowed swaths diagonally across the field back and forth. A few tracks were circular for good measure. Buying oats on the market would be a major expense. And planting oats was tricky. It was too late to do it over.
Plus, one can’t just transfer circle pivot equipment to another field because the set-up depended on a well. We only had one well. And there was no way to harvest any oats that came up now, because the rows were ruined.
Whoever did this, knew what he was doing.
“They used a V-ripper,” Keith said. “Can’t be too many of those around. I’m going to find the bastard that did this. And it shouldn’t take long.”
I breathed a little easier. At least he was no longer threatening to blow someone’s brains out.
Josie solemnly looked at the ruined field. “It’s so mean. So malicious.”
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly. And this has all the earmarks of a Deal.”
“I’m afraid this isn’t all that sick son-of-a-bitch has in mind,” Keith said. “If this is a sample of what he intends for any of the petition signers, all hell is going to break loose.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I walked into my office at the historical society glad for mundane chores and grateful that Keith had settled down into his thinking mode. Today, he would simply handle calls at the sheriff’s office and take notes.
However, it’s difficult to deal with crimes committed by someone in another county if the “someone” was a sheriff. There were approximately forty-five Deals, counting little children. The destruction of the oats field would have involved exclusively male adults. Then I amended that to include teenagers. Farm kids started driving at a ridiculously early
age.
And realistically, there were more Deals than that. There were married daughters with their husbands’ surnames and their teenage sons. Also a lot of women worked in the fields like men.
About nine, a woman arrived carrying a clip board and a back pack purse. She wore skinny jeans with a pressed-in front crease and a snowy white blouse. Her etched leather belt matched the pattern on her silver-tipped western boots. Her shiny black hair was cut in a fashionable wedge. She ushered in an aroma of starch and sunshine.
I rose and introduced myself.
“I’m Zola Hodson,” she replied with a soft faintly British accent. “I’m come in response to your advertisement for a housekeeper.”
“It’s a big place,” I stammered. “Two women come once a month to do heavy work.”
“That’s always appreciated.” She checked a square on her clip board.
“I’ll need references, and I’m also a law enforcement officer, so there will be a background check because I have to be sure of your immigration status.”
“Of course.” She smiled.
“We’re just starting to screen applicants.” A little white one, but surely there someone else would show up. Someone with a little more heft and a strong back. Then I was deeply embarrassed that I had prejudged on the basis of her appearance. “And employment forms. I’ll pay social security taxes, of course.”
She frowned. “Perhaps you don’t understand, Miss Albright. I need to see your place before I decide to accept you as a client. I’m an independent contractor. I will bring all my own cleaning supplies and equipment. After I evaluate your situation and if I decide to accept you, we will agree on a rate.”
Too dumbfounded to speak, I nodded.
“You also must understand that I take pride in my work, and will insist on implementing a few changes that may involve extra personnel. At my discretion.”
“For instance?”
“If I see a wasp nest on your porch, I’ll call an exterminator. If a faucet drips, I’ll call a plumber.”
Heaven. A glimpse of heaven. Uneasily, I eyed her checklist. I gave her directions to Fiene’s Folly.
“My sister is there. She can show you around.”
She punched my number into her cell phone. “I’ll get back to you,” she said pleasantly as she breezed out the door.
Frantic, I called Josie. “Make the beds and do something to my bathroom. Now.”
“Shall I make tea, too?”
***
Determined to concentrate on the job at hand, I donned my earphones and inserted one of Edna’s tapes in the player. She had been so proud of her son and daughter. I listened to accounts of music lessons and sports events and making costumes for school plays. She skipped around and backtracked through the years and there was no mention whatsoever of her feelings toward her husband. It was as though he didn’t exist. She spent her entire marriage working around him. Putting things over on him, for the sake of the children. Actually, she managed to do that very well.
I couldn’t shut Talesbury totally out of mind. I got up and located the photo of the nineteenth century Catholic Bishop, Salesburg, whose fearsome name often came up in Kansas priests’ memoirs.
His beard was much longer than Talesbury’s, and his eyes were deep set, but the resemblance was uncanny. I’d known that from the moment I saw him, and now I knew to trace Talesbury’s mother’s lineage. Not his father’s. Talesbury’s great uncle or great-great or some weird kin connection.
Chip Ferguson came through the door at about eleven o’clock, bearing a load of family photos. He had selected the one he wanted in the history books for his own entry and asked if I wanted to copy the others which were behind convex glass.
“Do I ever!” We collected as many photos as we could for our files and a quick glance told me these were a real treasure. There were pictures of Gateway City from the early 1900s, including ones of a rare flood when water had poured into businesses.
I went to our Beseler Digital Photo-Video Copy Stand and attached my Nikon D700. By now, I’d invested a fortune in equipment for my underpaid job.
“Would you mind if I took them out of their frames?” This part was always tricky. Persons imagined that I would somehow trash their precious photos. But it was difficult to do a good job through some types of glass.
“Be careful,” he said.
With jewelers’ tools, I carefully wobbled the tiny pins from the back of the frame and removed the protecting layer of fiberboard on the back. I centered the photo and took a series of pictures. When I’d finished duplicating everything, I placed the photos back in their frames and gave the collection back to Chip.
Then I uploaded the images to my computer, printed out every one of them on good photo paper. We had a comb binder. I put the pages into an album, printed a cover entitled “My Album,” with “Chip Ferguson” in script at the bottom and handed it to him.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, staring at the book. “God’s sake. Thanks. Wasn’t expecting this.” He fumbled for an old handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.
“You are very welcome,” I said. This was excellent PR and once we had the equipment we could make these books in about fifteen minutes. It had led to some unexpected and generous monetary contributions to the historical society, and through word of mouth, a cascade of fantastic photos came in that ordinarily would never be shared.
“I’ll remember this,” And I hoped he would. He had no heirs and this stingy, miserly man had to give his money to someone or something. He vigorously shook my hand again and left.
I wanted this man to talk about his parents. How they happened to come to Carlton County, how they made a living. He would soon. I’d learned to take one step at a time.
I listened to Edna’s tapes until noon, and then called Keith to see if he could join me for lunch. He agreed and as I hung up, I was struck with a pleasant realization. For a full hour, I had not thought about Mary Farnsworth.
That changed a minute later.
***
Bishop Rice called my cell phone. “I’m on my way to Western Kansas,” he said. “On business related to issues other than St. Helena. But there has been a very strange development. I would like to discuss this with you personally. Will you be home this evening?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I understand that your husband is now a deputy?”
“Yes, he is.” The news must have traveled with the speed of light.
“Would it be possible to have him there also?”
“Yes. That’s not a problem.”
“Fine. And your sister? She’s still a KBI consultant?”
“Yes.” I wondered how he had put all this together and if he knew the dog’s name also.
“Fine. I’d like to include her in the conversation. And my wife, Sara, will be with me, helping me drive.”
“Please plan on having dinner with us. We would love to have you both.”
We agreed on a time. I hung up, and called Josie. I told her the Rices would be there for dinner.
“Is Zola there yet?”
“Yes, she’s right here in the kitchen. She says the floorboards on your east porch need replaced. And she says no.”
“Put her on the phone.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “So very sorry, but I will not be able to accommodate you.”
“If it’s a matter of money.”
“No, Miss Albright, it’s a matter of integrity. The answer is no. I require a certain level of cooperation.”
Anything, I thought. We’ll cooperate like crazy. I could imagine the amused expression on Josie’s face. Envision her elaborate smoke rings formed to keep from laughing out loud.
“Frankly, this place requires a great deal of work and I could only give you one day a week. A Tuesday. It’s a quite undesirable day. Most persons prefer to prepare for weekends or recover from them.”
“Once a week would be
wonderful.” Tuesday was wonderful. Today was Tuesday.
“One day a week is not enough time to set Fiene’s Folly to rights. My great-great grandfather managed an estate in England and my grand-father Tompkins…”
“Tompkins? Tompkins? You’re one of the Studley Tompkins?”
“Why yes, I am. Did you know them?”
“I know about them. I wrote an article about the English in Kansas.” A foot in the door. Finally. I shamelessly exalted her illustrious ancestors, and praised their noble accomplishments. I omitted references to any drunken reprobates. By the end of my self-serving manipulative recitation I had myself a housekeeper. When I mentioned a visiting bishop, she agreed to start at once.
Then I spoke to Josie again and begged her to dig out a recipe book and come up with something elegant and manageable. Especially manageable. No gourmet concoctions because our little grocery store would not have the ingredients.
***
Their little Honda Prius pulled up our lane early evening. The bishop and Keith hit it off immediately. His wife was a pleasant brown-haired woman with a trace of a New York accent. Sara Rice wore a cream cotton pullover over khaki cropped pants. She was a very gracious lady and I suspected she had a keen intuitive feel for setting people at ease anywhere in the world.
Josie had decided that grilled kabobs and a fruit bowl made more sense than a formal meal on short notice. It was just the right touch. The Rices were skilled conversationalists, and Keith and I enjoy entertaining. The evening should have been absolutely perfect, but curiosity was about to do us all in. There was a lull, then Bishop Rice sighed, stopped smiling, and looked at the three of us.
“It’s time to get down to the reason for my visit,” he said. “There’s been an unexpected complication regarding Bishop Talesbury. And the reason I’ve asked the three of you to hear this together is because of the time and energy you’ve all spent trying to make a go of St. Helena.”
I didn’t groan out load, but inside my stomach little dwarfs started beating kettle drums. How could there possibly be another complication?
Lethal Lineage Page 14