“Brian, I’ve been dreading this moment, but I’ve got to ask. Is there any way Fiona could have been involved in Zelda’s murder? I’m asking you as your friend and as your county campaign manager.”
“No,” he said flatly. Coldly. He looked at me steadily. “Absolutely not. I was here that evening. Here with Mother.”
“And I didn’t know? My God, Brian, I’m your campaign manager out here. Why didn’t someone tell me? I thought you were in Wichita.”
“I wasn’t. The press reported that we arrived the next day, but I had been home for three days. It was just Jenny and the kids who drove up from Wichita the morning when we all went to the St. Johns and Judy threw her famous hissy fit.”
“Your parents alibied for each other in the very beginning, of course, but I wish you had told Sam you were here, too. It lends credibility if it’s not just husband and wife vouching for each other’s whereabouts.”
“You can ask me what you just asked as a friend, Lottie.” His eyes studied me as he mouthed an ice cube. “But you can’t ask me as an officer of the court. You left out the Miranda warning.”
“You honestly think I should have gone into the ‘you have a right to remain silent’ bit?”
He didn’t smile. “If this is official.”
“It’s not official. You called me to come out here, remember? Brian, are you all right? Is something else wrong?”
He rose, poured another shot of bourbon, slowly turned the cut glass tumbler in the sunlight as it flashed rainbow prisms of light.
“No,” he said finally. “Actually, I’m not. I’m under so much strain right now I’m about to lose it. I know this, Jenny knows this.” He downed the whiskey, set the glass on the end table beside him, and ran his hands through his hair.
“Health problems? Marriage problems? Family problems besides Fiona? What, Brian? I have to know if we are going to get you elected. Better me, now, than the press later.”
“I know that.” He spoke so softly I strained to hear the words. “I’m terrified that what is wrong with my mother is the early onset of Alzheimer’s. It would ruin me, I can promise you.”
“But that’s so common! That shouldn’t…”
“Shouldn’t? You can’t be that naïve! The reality is that every single statistic any quack has ever produced on its hereditary aspects is going to be dragged out, printed, talked about. You know what my opponent is like. The press circles like buzzards. Thanks to the murder, I can’t even get decent treatment for my own mother without them video-taping every visit to every doctor.”
I was stunned, but it made sense. It would account for Fiona’s erratic behavior, the unpredictability of her moods. My heart sank. Brian was right. Senators stayed in office a long time. If the disease were present in the mother in her sixties, the media would look for the same tendency in the son. He had to look ahead.
“Brian, my twin sister, Josie, is a psychologist. We could count on her complete discretion in arranging total medical testing. She would understand everything.”
He looked at me with mute gratitude.
“That would be wonderful. Not doing right by Mom is killing me. What kind of son am I, putting my career before my mother’s health?”
“It’s not you, Brian. It’s the media. How many good men aren’t running for office because of this kind of scrutiny? You’ve worked so hard. So terribly hard.”
“And my wife. People don’t realize the toll this campaign has taken on Jenny. She’s shy. She hates the whole charade. It’s ironic that Mom just loves politics and she might be the one who brings us all down.”
***
When I walked into the office, Judy pointed proudly to a new stack of Rolodex cards.
“You’ve done all that?”
I had left her with a whole stack of early school records. We make hard copies of everything, and these cross-indexed cards were the delight of the growing number of genealogy sleuths who found their way into our office. I picked up the first one. It was correctly formatted and printed.
“This is super, Judy. Flawless, in fact.”
Her huge blue eyes shone before she lowered them and studied the ties on her shoes as though they were of intense interest.
Then I, who normally weighed words and actions as carefully as blind justice, surprised myself and made a very impulsive decision. One I would come to regret so profoundly it would haunt me the rest of my life.
“Would you like to work here, Judy? For me, I mean? Full-time, as my assistant?”
It was my right. I could hire anyone I wanted to, pay her anything I liked out of my own pocket. I needed her. Needed someone I could trust to run the office when I worked for Sam.
I turned away, burdened by her vulnerability, unable to stand her sudden bright joy. Her trust. Trust, that most fragile of all emotions, which seems to rise pitifully, again and again, in some persons. Never mind what’s said about the strength of love and hope. It is the constant emergence of trust, with its accompanying cycle of betrayal, that breaks our hearts.
“The same rules apply in triplicate,” I said, turning to face her again. “Keep your mouth shut and remember I’m running the show, not you. All mail, all stories are to be opened by me. And don’t listen to messages.”
She nodded, but she clearly had not heard a word since I asked her to work for me.
“I want to call Dad,” she sniffed. Then she grinned. “And my boss. My former boss.”
She placed her hands together between her knees and squeezed as though she had to keep herself from shooting off the chair.
“I’ll get to be with Dad from now on,” she said. “We’ll have each other. We won’t have Mom, but we’ll have each other.”
I smiled, and she flew over to the phone. I left the room to give her some privacy. When I came back, she had resumed work on the school records.
“It’s going to be crowded in here. Until I have time to come up with a permanent place for you, I’ll set up a spot where you can plop down with my lap-top. But, I don’t have time to reorganize today. I have to get cracking on my column.”
I hadn’t settled on a subject and although I wanted to get back to reading microfilm, the column for the Gateway Gazette had to come first. Our county newspaper had started in the 1880s, survived the depression years, and was still going in the twenty-first century. One thing that never changed was its dependency on local organizations for news.
“Any mail?”
“I put it on your desk.”
I sorted it quickly. There were two requests for family information. I rose and went to the Rolodex, then realized this was a job my new assistant could handle. It was a good feeling.
I opened a letter with an Iowa postmark. It was printed on plain white copy paper with no date, no heading.
What if you don’t have fancy family records? What if your family isn’t important enough to be in the book?
Two sentences. That was all. No date, no signature, no closing. How did the sender expect me to reply? I date-stamped it and put it and the envelope in the correspondence file. Inspired, I knew what this week’s column would be about.
Who’s Who?
You don’t have to be somebody to submit a family story to the Carlton County History Book. All that “counts” as a qualification is that Carlton County affected you or your family’s life in some way. We don’t care if you’re living on welfare or have lived here only six weeks. Write about your experiences in Carlton County.
I went on in that vein for another two pages and made an appeal for articles in addition to family stories. I was certain that whoever had sent the letter read the Gateway Gazette. We receive many out-of-state submissions from persons who moved away years ago and still subscribe to the local paper. I sent Judy to the newspaper office with the finished column.
It was three o’ clock before I got back to my microfilm. It’s often difficult to get a handle on a family’s finances. Even so, I found clear evidence that both the Champlins and the
Swensons were quite prosperous. Emily’s and Rebecca’s parents farmed and the Swensons were bankers.
I knew Emily’s father had been a good farmer because of the social notices. He had been to this or that sale, bought a horse, sold a cow, picked up a load of lumber.
The Champlins had attended a wedding, and at that time, every single gift was printed in the paper. They had given the bride and groom a complete set of sad irons, including the one for ironing ruffles. They were made of cast iron, heated on coal-fired kitchen stoves, and lugged back to the ironing board. The largest iron weighed five pounds. A whole set was considered extravagant.
The Swensons were equally busy. Mr. Swenson attended banking meetings, and Herman’s mother was president of the Ladies Tuesday Study Club. I watched for any references to illness, as the social column always reported trips to doctors or specialists. No quarrels with neighbors or merchants were mentioned.
The clock chimed. Reluctantly, I stopped working. The commissioners didn’t like anyone in the courthouse after hours. It was a good policy, but I looked longingly at the film.
***
At home, there were two messages waiting for me on my answering machine; one from the library informing me a book was in through interlibrary loan, and one from Bettina.
“Lottie, Dad called this morning and told me about your new job. He doubted you would be home for Opening Day this year. He said you would probably be on duty for the sheriff’s department that weekend. Call me. We need to know.”
The opening day of pheasant season was our high holy day. A family ritual. All of Keith’s children came home and a number of their old friends. Nothing interfered with this in-gathering. It had evolved into more of a mini blue grass festival than a dedicated hunt. Managing meals, housing the hordes of people, involved hours of work. Hours I’d had available, before I acquired my badge.
Chagrined, I realized what Keith had meant when he said my decision to become a deputy affected our marriage, our family, not just me. Of course, Sam would expect me to work that weekend. Hunters descended on our little town like a swarm of locust. I had associated law enforcement with sleuthing and high crimes. Exciting work, not parking a bunch of cars at a pancake feed.
I will work this out, I thought grimly. I didn’t know how, but I would. Nevertheless, my stomach tightened.
Sam would see me as a dabbler if I refused to do routine chores. Keith would be heartbroken if we didn’t honor Opening Day.
I deliberately called Bettina at home, knowing I would get her answering machine. “Of course I’ll be here for Opening Day. Nothing has changed.”
Chapter Eighteen
Judy was waiting outside the door the next morning.
“Aren’t you the early bird?”
“I do have a few virtues.”
“More than a few,” I said, slipping the key into the padlock. “I’m going to read microfilm all day and turn nearly everything else over to you.”
She grinned.
I hung up my jacket and started reading where I had left off the day before.
Finally I came across something new. The Champlins had lost an infant son when he was three months old. There were just two sisters. No male heir to the land.
After a period of years, the Gateway City Gazette started mentioning Rebecca and Emily and Herman as individuals:
> “Miss Emily Champlin gave a recitation at the last day of school exercise, ‘Oh Captain, My Captain.’”
“Herman Swenson received a five year pin for Sunday School attendance at the Presbyterian Church.”
Five years indicated excellent health and parents who cared about his moral development. The Presbyterian Church was mainstream. Herman wouldn’t have been burdened with defending its doctrine.
“Miss Rebecca Champlin played a piano solo at Miss Emma Lou Bascombe’s recital.”
Normal, happy, included children. There was a handkerchief shower for Rebecca on her twelfth birthday. I made a note to look up their school records and grade cards later.
I found all their names on grade school commencement lists. Then Herman began to emerge as a splendid athlete. There were pictures of him on the football team in high school. He cut a dashing figure. The girls’ regularly won prizes at the county fair. Both were expert needlewomen. One year, Rebecca would have an exhibit labeled best of show, and the next year Emily would take the grand prize. They were clearly neck and neck in a number of categories.
Then I spotted a surprising item. Miss Rebecca Champlin and Mr. Herman Swenson were dinner guests at the Laurence Adams residence one summer evening.
Rebecca and Herman.
Not Emily and Herman.
No parents were mentioned at the dinner, so it would have been a date. I found one more reference to Herman and Rebecca as a couple, stopped scanning, and began to read very carefully.
Miss Emily Champlin proceeded to Normal School where she would acquire a teaching certificate. Thinking I had missed something, I searched for information about Rebecca’s plans, but I couldn’t find anything. I zeroed in on the list of fair prizes again and was glad I had gone back. Instead of the girls sharing all the prizes, I found only Emily’s name listed as winning award after award.
What had happened to Rebecca? Why was she not entering her needlework? Had she finished high school? I made a note to check the high school attendance records.
Something was missing. Josie and I used to play I Spy. “If it was a snake it would bite you,” we’d call gleefully when the seeker came close to the hidden object. Doubly true now, I thought. Some connection as plain as the nose on my face, but I just can’t see it.
The phone rang. Judy answered and shook her head when I mouthed, “for me?” Then I was jarred from microfilm to real time at her words.
“The answer is an unequivocal no.” Judy said. “Tell her if she sets foot on the place I’ll sic the dogs on her.” Her face tightened, and her lips quivered, belying the braveness of her words. “Tell her that.” She hung up.
“Trouble, Judy?”
She sat down, fished for a Kleenex and blew her nose. “Fiona had the nerve to call Dad and tell him she was going to go through Mom’s things. Stuff in our attic. Told Daddy. Didn’t ask. Told him.”
“You’re kidding, Judy. Of all the nerve.”
“That’s my aunt.”
“Sounds like you took care of it.”
“Maybe. Dad can’t cope with her.”
“Who can? I’m young and healthy and have all my faculties, and Fiona Hadley is the most difficult person I’ve ever dealt with.”
Knowing this was not the right time to mention Brian’s fears about Alzheimer’s, I turned back to my microfilm.
“May I go home, Lottie? I need to be there just in case she tries it.”
“Sure. I’ll be here the rest of the day.”
***
I looked at the death certificates again, then at Herman’s and Emily’s marriage license. Emily’s parents had died two months after she and Herman were married.
I forwarded to the column reporting on the wedding and searched through the guest list. Both sets of parents were in attendance, but not Rebecca. It clearly had been a prime social occasion, and the list of gifts was long and elaborate. The writer said the gift from Herman’s parents was a lovely house on Maple Street and that the industrious and talented groom would join the staff in his father’s bank.
So Herman had started as a banker, not a farmer.
Then two months later there was the account of a tragic farm accident. One of the Champlins’ cows had gotten out and wandered onto thin ice at the edge of a small pond close to the house. The ice didn’t hold. Mr. Champlin tried to save it. Mrs. Champlin heard his cries and went after him. They both drowned. Miss Rebecca, who had been recovering from a lengthy illness, saw the whole thing from the parlor window and called the sheriff, but he was too late. The sheriff said they froze up right away.
Rebecca had been sick for a long time! That explained the
lack of needlework in the fair, and perhaps even Herman’s dropping her for Emily. Back then, no one could afford to take on the burden of a sick wife. Strong backs in women were prized. It took a lot of physical strength to run a household.
The two sisters were now orphans. Who provided for Miss Rebecca? I rose and poured a cup of coffee, returned and located a photo of the old Champlin homestead. It was a two-story white frame farmhouse, the same house featured in Rebecca’s sale bill after the murder. So she had kept on living on the home place, even after her parents’ deaths.
Then I saw an announcement that the entire Champlin estate was up for sale. Land and all. What had Miss Rebecca planned to do? What was her illness? That was the key to a number of things. Had she wanted to live with Herman and Emily? It couldn’t be too comfortable a situation to be living with your sister and ex-boyfriend. Was she bitter? On the other hand, perhaps I was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps she was the one who had broken everything off with Herman.
I read on through the stock market crash and its accompanying impact on the county. The Swenson bank appeared to weather the collapse, but went under right before the United States entered the war. A run on the bank changed everything for Herman and Emily in a heartbeat. A scant month after this, the senior Swensons left town for their new home in California.
The sale of the Champlin land and homestead was canceled. Herman’s and Emily’s house in town was for sale, and the social items reported that Herman would be taking over the Champlin land and trying his hand at farming.
There were accounts of his buying lumber to build a house on the acreage. Remembering the sale bill, I knew this was a very modest house indeed, but would have been easy to expand. The house of a young couple who had high expectations.
I stopped to stretch my aching back. Why did they do that? It would have made more sense for them to have taken over the big house and build a smaller one for Rebecca.
Then Rebecca Champlin popped up all over. She began raising hogs. Buying and selling them, too. A businesswoman. She couldn’t have been very sick. I needed to check with Minerva, but I suspected Rebecca had fought for the house and farmstead and a very small portion of the land, possibly no more than forty acres. Herman and Emily had settled for the land itself. Normally this would have been a good decision. But I knew what had happened directly afterward. The dust storms.
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