“What’s the furthest back you’ve gone?” Clovis Fleming asked, brushing invisible crumbs from her lap. “In researching a family tree, I mean.” She glanced around the group as if to say, Let’s get things back on track, shall we?
In September, Clovis had written to Anna, inviting her to speak to the Elk Valley Historical Society on genealogical research. Some of the members were researching pioneers of the Elk Valley, Clovis wrote, and some might even want to hire Anna to research their personal family trees. “Of course,” she’d added, “we’re all captivated by the past.” It was only after Anna accepted the invitation and the two met for coffee at the Buffalo Café that Anna discovered the society had only seven members. And only five of them had shown up tonight.
“In my own family tree I’ve been able to trace several lines to the early seventeenth century,” Anna said. “And two lines to the mid-sixteenth.”
Clovis frowned slightly and pulled in her chin, as though she were struggling to believe what she had just heard. “I never would have guessed.”
“I know genealogists who have gone back further than that,” Anna said. “It depends on your origins. One of my family lines traces back to Ireland, to landed gentry in Roscommon and Sligo—the sort of people who kept extensive family records. That makes it easier.”
“What about those of us who aren’t descended from royalty?” Maddy asked.
Anna grinned. “They weren’t royalty.” She left it at that. No use explaining the difference between landed gentry and royalty—or that her landed gentry had left Ireland on a potato-famine ship in 1849. Anyway, she was far from either estate, royalty or gentry, as her very presence in the Root living room reminded her. She had agreed to talk to the group in hopes of scaring up a job or two. That had been a mistake. The members had sat through her talk politely enough, but it was clear they felt they had done their duty by making an appearance and now wanted to go home. Clovis aside, the lack of enthusiasm in the room was palpable. Forge ahead, she thought. You never know.
“There are so many resources these days,” she continued. “The Swedes and Norwegians have census and parish records online, there are numerous websites that list emigration records and ship registers, and countries like Finland, Italy, and France are making more and more information available online, often for free. In many cases, all you have to do is a simple search for a place or a name and you’ll be steered to various websites. It can be time-consuming, but it’s doable and a lot of fun.”
Anna paused, searching their faces for any signs of interest, mentally running through her list of Fascinating Genealogical Facts. Clovis checked her watch and Anna’s heart sank.
“I was hoping Russell would show,” Clovis explained. “He was so looking forward to hearing you speak.”
Zoey turned from the window to Anna. “Russell is the one who suggested we bring you in as a speaker,” she said, putting distance between herself and the foolish decision to invite a genealogist in one short, harmless sentence. “So where is he, Clovis?”
Clovis shrugged. “Our little group continues to shrink.” She crossed her legs and tugged at the frayed denim hem of one pant leg.
“Is that a shot?” Paul asked.
“Dear . . .” Maddy began. She put a pale pink hand on her husband’s arm and patted it gently, her eyes never leaving Clovis’s face.
“It’s a reasonable question,” Paul said. “If people want to leave the group and move on to other things in their lives, how am I responsible for that?”
“They seemed quite happy to me,” Alex said.
“What?” Clovis looked from Paul to Alex, wondering what on earth they could be talking about.
“You’ve got your wires crossed,” Zoey said, gesturing first at Alex and then at Paul on the sofa opposite. “Clovis is talking about Esther and the involuntary historical designation. You two are talking about the two members who quit when Paul joined.”
Paul stared straight ahead, his hand stroking the close-cropped beard at his jawline. “Thank you, Zoey.”
Maddy gave her husband’s arm another pat.
Zoey slumped back in her seat. “I’m only saying.”
“Only saying what?” Maddy asked. “Why do people say ‘I’m only saying’ and then say nothing at all?”
Zoey scowled as though she were in the company of unbearable idiocy. “Because it’s obvious—”
“It’s not important,” Clovis said, waving a hand to still the conversation. “Anna, when we met I told you there were seven members. There were at the time. Briefly. Esther Vance quit three days ago, and I don’t know where Russell Thurman is.” She was embarrassed by the meeting’s skimpy attendance and by the brewing argument between Zoey and the Gilmartins.
Smiling to ease the tension, Anna decided a question of her own might grease the afternoon’s rusty wheels. If she could only keep it from sounding like a plea for work. “Have any of you researched your own family history?”
“I have,” Alex said, looking pleased with himself. “I became interested in my family history years ago, when I discovered my grandfather was the head honey honcho at the Morgan-Sadler House.”
“And made a surprising amount of money doing it,” Paul said, a grin on his face. “We want to restore the hives as well as the house, Anna. They’re a large part of the Morgan-Sadler history.”
“Didn’t some preservation group purchase the house a few months ago from the last family that lived there?” Anna said.
“A Colorado organization called the Corporation for Historical Preservation,” Paul said, “and thanks to Clovis, the Elk Valley Historical Society was put in charge of restoring the house and all the hives.”
From the corner of her eye, Anna saw Zoey mime a yawn.
“She’s done yeoman’s work,” Alex added.
Clovis gave a nod, her thin lips pursed in appreciation.
Alex squinted at Zoey. He hadn’t missed her yawn. “There’s always the obligatory moan from the peanut gallery. I thought that house captivated your imagination, Zoey.”
“It does. I’m just not thrilled with the hives, which is all we ever talk about.”
“Zoey is helping us keep to the authenticity of the period,” Clovis said. “She’s a design student at Colorado State.”
“Master’s program,” Zoey said. “With a focus on historical interiors. Some undergraduates are assisting me.”
“Which period are you going for?” Anna asked. “Wasn’t the house owned by Morgan for a few decades before Sadler?”
“Ah, you’re up on the house,” Alex said. His wide mouth broke into a grin and he shifted on his loveseat to face Anna directly, relishing the change to a more interesting topic. His white, nearly translucent sideburns, in stark contrast to his brown hair, made it look as though he were wearing a toupee, his hair perched atop his head like the hide of a small animal. “Morgan was a biscuit or two before Sadler, true. But the house came into its own during the Sadler period.”
“Exactly.” Paul nodded vigorously. “A major addition to the house was made shortly after Sadler bought it in 1948, so it’s that postwar period we’re focusing on. After all, we can’t undo what Sadler did.”
Maddy ceased fingering the rim of her coffee mug and gave Paul a sidelong glance, her lips parting slightly, thoughtfully, as though her husband had unknowingly stumbled onto something of significance.
“How do you know about the house?” Maddy asked Anna.
“She’s a genealogist,” Zoey said.
“Simply restating her occupation doesn’t answer the question,” Paul said.
“Once again, it’s obvious,” Zoey said. “But then you and the obvious . . .” She trailed off, her sentence punctuated with a dismissive snort.
Paul bristled. He uncrossed his long legs and sat straight, making his spine rigid. “Me and the obvious what?”
“For goodness’ sake,” Clovis said. “Remember when we used to talk about history and the Elk Valley? And have a good time d
oing it?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s all changed since I got here,” Zoey said, a petulant tone entering her voice. “It was unicorns and rainbows before me.”
“No, it wasn’t!” Clovis said, her words loud and sharp. Alex’s head jerked and Maddy’s mouth dropped open. It was clear Clovis Fleming didn’t lose her temper—or if she did, she didn’t often let it show. The group was spellbound by her sudden transformation. “But we enjoyed what we did. We enjoyed each other’s company.” She shoved a hand into her ash-gray bangs and pushed them from her forehead. “And we never hurt anyone or took what belongs to them.”
Paul exhaled loudly. Whatever this was, he’d heard it before.
“Here we go,” Alex said.
Clovis’s head snapped around. “Yes, here we go, Alex. And here we’ll continue to go if I have anything to say about it.”
“I don’t think you will,” Paul said. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think you will.”
It was a peculiar thing for Paul to say, thought Anna, and stranger still, Clovis, a bright woman with a ready tongue, gave no response. Instead, her narrow shoulders sagged as though in recognition of an inevitable truth, and her eyes wandered briefly about the living room, coming to rest on Anna. She smiled weakly. Not knowing what else to do, Anna smiled back. This was not a happy group. And why they voluntarily remained a group was a twisted knot of a puzzle—one Anna had no intention of untangling. Now she wanted to go home.
“Oh, my,” Maddy said. She laughed sheepishly, and the others, except for Clovis, joined in. “What you must think of us, Anna.”
“We haven’t been very welcoming, have we?” Paul said.
“Yes, you have,” Anna said, knowing as the words left her mouth that she was falsely brightening an unpleasant Saturday. But Clovis, whom Anna had liked on first meeting her at the Buffalo, looked stricken, and Anna felt for her. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Paul grunted. “Got a call,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his navy-blue suit jacket. “Excuse me.” He stood and walked to the far side of the living room before answering the phone.
Alex looked confused. “Am I going deaf?”
“He set it on vibrate,” Maddy said, explaining the lack of ring tone.
“Anna.” Clovis folded her arms and leaned forward in her chair. “Can you take me on as a client at this time? I have a family brick wall I’d like to break through.”
“Yes, of course. Absolutely.” In her eagerness to take on new work, had she replied too hastily? Another genealogist, one who made a handsome living as a freelancer, had told Anna she should always check her appointment book before answering such a question—or at least appear to check it. But nonsense, she thought. She needed the work and had no patience for games. And she had the feeling Clovis didn’t play games either.
“The wall is on my father’s side of the family,” Clovis said. “I get lost in England about 1840. Can’t find a thing before then. I can bring what facts I have to your office.”
“Sounds good.”
“Would later this afternoon be all right?”
Clovis was eager too, it seemed. “Yes, I’ll be home the rest of the afternoon.”
“You’re joking.” Paul’s voice boomed and all eyes turned his way. Alex threw an arm over the back of his loveseat and craned his neck for a look.
Phone to his ear, Paul abruptly pivoted and pressed his back to the wall, almost knocking a photo frame from its nail. “How? Where?” He glanced at Maddy then quickly away. He winced and turned his back to the group, and Anna heard him mutter the words “ridiculous” and “bizarre.”
Maddy rose from the couch but stood in place, her hands outstretched, floating in front of her belly. She seemed to be waiting for her husband to look at her again before she moved.
Paul swung back. “Russell,” he said, slipping the phone into his jacket.
Clovis’s hands flew to the arms of her chair. “What is it?”
Paul made his way to his seat and touched Maddy’s shoulder, gently lowering her to the sofa. “He’s dead.” He sat and took Maddy’s hand in his.
“What do you mean dead?” Zoey said.
Paul turned a scathing eye toward Zoey, but before he could open his mouth to answer, Maddy spoke. “She means how, Paul. How did he die? What happened?”
He released his hold on Maddy’s hand. “Someone stabbed him to death.”
Clovis cried out. “Why?”
Paul lifted one shoulder and shook his head sadly.
“Who were you talking to?” Alex asked.
“The groundskeeper at the Morgan-Sadler House. He was putting insulation panels in the hives, he said. I’d given him my number. He called me after calling the police.”
“Russell was at the house?” Alex said.
“The grounds, yes.”
Clovis rubbed her forehead, trying to take it all in. “You mean he was found near the hives?”
“Sitting with his back to one of them.”
“Stabbed and sitting with his back to a hive?” Zoey said.
Paul didn’t respond.
Anna couldn’t intrude—she had never met Russell Thurman—but neither could she, at this precise moment, pack up her things and leave. So she sat silently.
“Who would do such a horrible thing?” Maddy said.
“I can’t imagine,” Paul said. “But that isn’t all.” He was wincing again, having trouble conveying the rest of what the groundskeeper had told him. Taking a deep breath, he plunged ahead. “Whoever did this hollowed out a pumpkin and put it on Russell’s head.”
Clovis gasped and reared back in her chair, and Zoey heaved a cross between a laugh and a gut-punched breath.
“That’s funny?” Clovis said, turning angrily on her. “Is it?”
“I’m not laughing,” Zoey said. She reached out, beseeching Clovis to understand. “I’m not. It just came out.”
Alex clucked in sympathy, trying to calm Clovis. “It’s not funny,” he said gently. “No one thinks it’s funny. It’s just appalling and . . . unexpected.”
“But with a pumpkin on his head,” Maddy said, “how did the groundskeeper know it’s Russell?”
“He had no idea who it was until he took the pumpkin off. He thought it was a prank—one of those stuffed figures you see at Halloween—and pulled the pumpkin off Russell’s head before he called the police.”
Anna noticed that Zoey had put a hand to her mouth, and judging by her raised cheekbones and squinty eyes, she was fighting to keep a straight face. Alex looked at Clovis, and seeing that she was staring down at the area rug in front of her chair, he quickly scolded Zoey, giving her a small shake of his head.
It was understandable, in the shock of the moment, that Zoey might want to laugh, Anna thought. But the absurdity of Russell’s death—or rather, the staging of his body after death—did not make his death any less sacred. Or frightening. Maybe in the movies killers put pumpkins on their victims’ heads, but in real life? Only a very sick mind would take a life then make a joke of that taking.
“The opposition is withering, isn’t it?” Clovis said quietly, her gaze rising from the rug to the sofa where Paul sat.
Maddy gaped. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
“Totally uncalled for,” Paul said.
Chastened, Clovis wrapped her arms about her chest and mumbled a halfhearted apology before proceeding. “But does no one else see how this group is rapidly changing? People who have been members for years are leaving—and now dying. I’m the only original member left.”
“It’s just a group, Clovis,” Zoey said warmly. Her face was lined with concern, her smile had vanished. She again reached out for Clovis’s arm but stopped short. “It’s not important. What matters is your friend.”
“The two are connected,” Clovis said, a defiant glint in her blue eyes. “Russell loved this group, and he saw something happening to it. You can all try to pretend nothing’s going on, but I see it too.”
“In what way is Russell’s death connected to our group?” Paul asked, bewildered.
Clovis sat bolt upright. “Did Russell have anything with him?”
“Like what?” Paul said.
“I don’t know—that’s why I’m asking you.”
“You have to be a lot clearer than that.”
“Did he have anything he wouldn’t normally be carrying?” Clovis gestured with her hands, frustrated that she couldn’t erase the blank stare on Paul’s face. “Did the groundskeeper mention finding something with him?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“Why would I? What are you talking about, Clovis?”
2
“Going to loaf about, are you?” Gene Westfall dug into the toolbox on Anna’s kitchen counter and extracted a red-handled pipe wrench. “While I work on your leaky kitchen pipe?”
“That’s the plan,” Anna said with a grin. She opened the refrigerator door, searching for something to eat. The sight of pumpkin bread stopped her cold. Poor Russell Thurman. She shut the door and leaned against it. “What a day it’s been.”
“You just said the talk went well.”
“It did. It was the question period afterward that didn’t.” The argument between Clovis and Paul, growing stranger by the moment, had been Anna’s signal to leave Alex Root’s house. She doubted anyone had even noticed her shoving papers into her messenger bag and slipping out the front door. “I think I’ll make some coffee. Want some?”
“Too late in the day for me.”
He squatted in front of the sink’s open cabinet doors, gave his golden retriever, Riley, a scratch atop his head, and slid a casserole pan under the pipe’s trap. “What’s got you drinking coffee so late? You usually don’t touch it after eleven.”
“Someone named Russell Thurman was murdered in Elk Park today. Or maybe last night. It hasn’t been determined yet.”
Gene looked up from his work. “Did you know him?”
“No, but he was a member of the Elk Valley Historical Society.” Anna took a mug and a bag of coffee from a cabinet, got the coffee brewing, and spent the next several minutes telling Gene about the group’s members and their petty arguments. When she told him about the pumpkin the murderer set on Thurman’s head, Gene grimaced and stood.
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