The residences were old, pretty, and rich in architectural extravagance. Camille’s residence was no different. Her house was, at one time, a building with several residences in it.
She bought the building, gutted it except for the original wood molding and wood floors, and made it one very large, enviable piece of property. It even had a courtyard with fountains and statues, all surrounded by a brick wall that was about eight feet tall, over which vines of every sort climbed.
I was seated in the courtyard somewhere in between a statue of the Venus de Milo and a fountain of a cherub with water squirting out of some fairly ingenious places. Camille, seated next to me, was a native of France, although she hadn’t lived there in at least forty years. She had taught French at one of the universities in Atlanta for nearly thirty years and then retired to St. Louis.
I had gotten her name and address from Marie Dijon a while back. I had French documents from my family tree that I needed translated, and Marie said Camille would translate for twenty dollars an hour. Eventually Camille and I became friends, and we get together every now and then for lunch for the sheer enjoyment of each other’s company.
“Torie,” she began. “I would think by now that you had found the majority of your French ancestors.”
She barely had an accent anymore, but it was still lingering in her r’s, especially when she got angry or excited. She was very wrinkled for her age, about sixty. She was also very charming, as I tend to think most Europeans are. Gray hair framed Camille’s dark eyes and she was blessed with a small pert nose.
“This isn’t for my family tree. These documents were … found in an old bureau that a friend of mine bought at an auction. They’re very old. I made out the date on one of them to be April 1756.”
Her eyebrows shot up on that one. I handed her the envelope.
“I don’t know if they are written by anybody famous or worth any money, but we are very interested to hear what somebody from 1756 had to say.”
“Well, I should say so. I am interested myself,” she said. She carefully took the papers out of the envelope.
“I managed to make out a few things. One of them is written to a countess, but no name is given, only her title.”
“Let’s take these into my office. It looks like rain, no?”
Yes, it did look like rain. Dark clouds were moving in from the west at a fairly fast pace. A slight wind kicked up some leaves around the patio.
I didn’t have to tell her that she held photocopies. She could tell that the paper was not old. It had taken me hours to copy them because the papers were so fragile and I was afraid that they would get torn.
“Maybe you have found the correspondence of a dangerous liaison,” she said with a smile.
We entered her den, which looked like something right out of a French château; vanilla-colored walls with dark cherry trim, large settees everywhere, and a marble fireplace were the highlights of the room. The den included bookshelves that went from floor to ceiling on two walls. I found this quite impressive because she had twelve-foot ceilings. She had a table set up in the middle of the room, complete with fluorescent lamps and magnifiers.
She sat down, grabbed her glasses from the end of the table, and began scanning the papers. “Get me a piece of paper from my desk,” she said without looking up. “And a pencil.”
I obliged. After a few minutes she looked up at me, with a disturbed look on her face. “Torie, I may need a few days to work on these.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just think they are going to be a little difficult to translate. They are in two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old French. The handwriting is not that great.”
I suppose I didn’t look completely convinced.
“At the least it’s going to take me twelve hours. Do you have twelve hours to sit in my den and watch me?”
“Well, no. But … well, not to insult you, Camille, but I’m not real thrilled about—”
“Leaving them with me.”
“No. It’s not you. I’m just really impatient. Not to mention generally paranoid. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Well, some of them may never be translated.”
“Why?”
“Look at this one,” she said. “It’s nothing but numbers.”
“Like an accounting report or something?”
“No. It’s in a code.”
The implications of that rocked me to my feet. In code? What in the heck had I found? What the heck did Marie Dijon have? I swallowed nervously.
“It would have to be decoded first, and then translated. But here’s the tricky part. The numbers are written in French, as in quatre onze vingt. But who’s to say that the words that they spell out will be in French? They could spell out words in English, Dutch, Russian. Any number of languages and even then the words could be purely allegorical. It just depends on how far the author tried to go to keep this information safe.”
I felt the blood run from my face. Surely if it was something from the 1700s it wouldn’t be pertinent to this century’s events.
“Of course, who’s to say they are even authentic? Whatever they say will have to be authenticated. You know, the originals will have to be dated?” she said. That was the only indication she gave that she was aware I had the originals elsewhere. They were in my safety deposit box, to which only Rudy and I had keys.
“Yes, I know.”
“Even if they are dated at the eighteenth century, the author could have been writing a novel, or could have written false truths. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Why was she trying so hard to convince me? She had barely glanced at the documents and yet she was acting as if she already knew that they contained earthshaking news. I didn’t feel as though I could leave these documents with her. And yet, if I didn’t? Who could I get to translate them without putting me in debt? I didn’t know anybody else.
“I’m not all that concerned about their value or authenticity,” I said. “I was just curious as to what they said.”
“I will keep them in my safe. Yes? Will that make you feel better?”
No, not really. But it’s not like they were the originals. Right? I suppose in my paranoid head I just had this awful feeling that the copies would be destroyed by a spilled cup of coffee or something equally bizarre, and then my originals would burn in a fire and then I’d never know what they said. Is that not the working of a truly paranoid mind?
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll pick them up, say tomorrow around three?”
“That should give me plenty of time. I don’t really have much else to do. I will give them my full attention. And I’ll take good care of them.”
“I know you will. Call me if you need anything.”
* * *
I kicked the soda machine that was located in the hall outside of my office, an hour after I had left Camille. A Dr Pepper costs fifty cents. So, for some reason, this machine will not give me a Dr Pepper unless I put in sixty cents or more. It’s like it forgets that I already gave it a dime. Sylvia got the proceeds from the machine, though. That should tell me something.
I went back into my little claustrophobic office and found Eleanore Murdoch seated in the chair across from mine. She didn’t hide the fact that she was reading the documents on my desk. I suppose I shouldn’t get too angry with her for being as nosy as I am.
She turned them back around once I came in the room and smiled at me.
“What can I do for you, Eleanore?” It was difficult for me to be civil. I hoped she had come to tell me that she was going to print a retraction about Sylvia.
“Oh, you know, I wanted to see if Rudy could help Oscar paint the porch on the inn next month.”
“In November,” I said, deciding to temporarily forget about the retraction.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t there some rule about not painting when it’s cold or something?”
She shrugged her shoulders. It was clear that was not
why she was here. Then she pointed to the documents she had been peeking at. “I noticed the Dijon name on those papers.”
“Yes.”
I popped the lid on my can of Dr Pepper, taking solace in hearing the fizz of the carbonation. Eleanore evoked very unpleasant thoughts in me.
“Is that what you’re supposed to be working on? I mean, doesn’t Sylvia have some tax or land records she wanted done last August that you still don’t have finished?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” My blood pressure had just gone up a noticeable amount. My temples hurt.
Her eyes got really big and darted around the room. She pressed her very red lips together, fingered her necklace, and acted innocent.
“Eleanore … I’m not sure how you even know about the land records incident, but it’s none of your business what I’m working on and what I’m not. But, for the record, I will say that I was working on the history of New Kassel, right over there,” I said, and pointed to the computer in the corner. “These just happen to be on my desk because…”
“Because?”
“Because I was going over them earlier in the day. I’m not sure what it is that you want or what you’re driving at, Eleanore … but while you’re here there’s something I’d like to talk with you about—”
“There was nothing that I wanted, Torie. I truly wanted to know if you thought Rudy would help Oscar with the porch. Oscar wanted to get a group of guys and have a cookout and paint the porch. Really, Torie. You are so sensitive these days.”
With that she stood up and walked out of my office. I took a very long, much needed drink of my cold Dr Pepper. Then I took a deep breath and made myself go to the computer.
I stopped just as my fingers reached the keys. She managed to get out of my office without me saying a word to her about the article she had written. My head hurt worse.
Seven
Six hours later, my phone was ringing at the same time that my doorbell was buzzing. Mother answered the phone as I answered the door.
The mayor of New Kassel, Bill Castlereagh, stood on my front porch.
“Hello, Bill,” I said as cheerfully as I could. He looked as angry as my rooster does when he gets caught out in the rain. Bill is bald, short, and has a huge belly. He is one of those middle-aged men who are not overweight anywhere except in the midsection. His stomach could rival a midterm pregnancy.
“Torie, for God’s sake! What have you done?”
I stood there with a pair of scissors in my hands, and assumed that he was referring to them. “I’m making a banner for the Octoberfest,” I said.
“Torie!” my mother yelled. “It’s Colin. He wants to speak to you.”
Colin? I couldn’t get used to my mother calling Sheriff Brooke by his first name. I couldn’t treat him like an outsider if everybody was on a first-name basis with him. Rudy had capitulated about two weeks ago.
“Bill, would you come in? I have a phone call. Just for a minute,” I said. He stood just inside the door with his fingers linked just below his belly, waiting impatiently.
“Hello, Sheriff,” I said into the phone. I smiled at Bill.
“Torie, I don’t know what to say,” Colin said.
“About what?”
“You had better not be responsible for this … this atrocity or I swear, I will kill you with my own bare hands.”
“Jeez, all I’m doing is making one little ole banner.”
“Really, Torie, you’ve gone too far,” Bill said to me, unable to keep quiet any longer. “I’m going to have the sheriff arrest you.”
“Torie, you have gone too far,” the sheriff said.
“Okay, would somebody please shut the heck up and tell me what it is that they think I have done?” I yelled.
Bill shut up with a quick flap of his lower jaw, and surprisingly the sheriff did as well. Finally, after a few seconds of blissful silence, Sheriff Brooke began again in a calm voice.
“Somebody dug up Marie Dijon’s grave, and it had better not have been you.”
“What?” I felt sick. I felt sick because the thought of somebody digging up that poor woman’s grave gave me the creeps. I also felt sick because the sheriff thought I had done it. “Do you really think that I could do something like that?”
“Well, no, not really,” Sheriff Brooke said into the phone.
“Then why are you treating me like I did? What made you think such a horrible thing?” I asked.
Both men simultaneously answered, “Eleanore Murdoch.”
“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” I stomped my feet a few times and took a deep breath.
“I bet you can tell me why her grave was dug up,” the sheriff said.
“Why would somebody dig up her grave?” Bill asked. He was beginning to panic.
“Bill! Take a pill,” I said. “Why would either one of you think that I would be able to tell you something about a person digging up Marie’s body?”
“Because,” the sheriff began, “I think the night you were in her house, you found something that you didn’t tell me about. Remember how you told me to listen with an open mind? You gave me your nice little well-thought-out, hokey bunch of bullshit!” he yelled. I pulled the phone away from my ear.
“You don’t have to yell at me,” I said. “Where are you?”
“I’m standing in the middle of the godforsaken rectory, for Christ’s sake—oh, excuse me, Father—and I’m thinking to myself: This smells like Torie O’Shea.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“No! Don’t you dare come down—”
I hung up on him. “Bill, you can either drive yourself or you can ride with me,” I said to him. He decided to drive.
* * *
I pulled my station wagon in behind the mayor’s car at the Santa Lucia Cemetery on Jefferson Street and New Bavaria Boulevard. It was dark by now, about eight-thirty in the evening. The mayor didn’t want to ride in my car, which was fine with me, because I talked to myself the whole way there and he wouldn’t have appreciated anything that I had to say.
The mayor’s property backs up to mine, and I have every animal known to mankind living back there. Chickens, rabbits, cats, fifteen species of birds, squirrels. Therefore, he hates me. He’s tried to create a city ordinance to get rid of my chickens, but so far he hasn’t succeeded. He fancies himself King of New Kassel, not just mayor. When election times roll around his slogan is “Bill Kasselreagh for Mayor of New Kassel.” It didn’t help our relationship too much when Eleanore Murdoch had a poll one week as to who was New Kassel’s most recognized face and I won.
I jumped out of my car almost before it stopped. Sheriff Brooke was standing next to his Festiva with his hands on his hips, looking menacing as hell. Deputy Duran was there as well, including several other CSU personnel.
“If you touch one thing, these men have orders to arrest you on the spot.”
“Nice to see you, too, Sheriff. So, you gonna get up to Marie’s house and start looking at this like it was a homicide now?” I asked.
“That’s none of your business.”
I walked over to where Marie’s grave was just as the clouds broke into a downpour. I was careful not to step where the yellow police tape was that revealed where the evidence was. The dirt was in a pile off to the right. Her casket was open, her body all humped at one end of the casket, as if the perpetrator had moved her body, searching for something.
“Oh, my God,” I said.
“It’s not pretty, is it?” Sheriff Brooke said from behind me.
“No,” I said. The rain dripped off of my nose. I didn’t wipe at it.
“Get a tarp over here,” Sheriff Brooke yelled out to the CSU. “The evidence is getting soaked, you morons.”
“What did Eleanore Murdoch say about me?”
“She and Bill were both in the library, as was I, when Duran came in and said that somebody had dug up Marie’s grave. Your Aunt Bethany asked who could have done such a thing and Eleanore said you seemed
obsessed with Marie and that she had reason to believe—”
“So you just believed her? You didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt?”
“If I had stopped and thought about it, I would have realized that it was just Eleanore being vicious. But after you going in Marie’s house the other night, well, I just jumped the gun.”
“As did the mayor,” I added.
Sheriff Brooke nodded.
I noticed where the footsteps of the perpetrator were. The person had dug from the foot of the grave, toes pointed toward the place where the headstone would eventually go. I stood there and tried to mimic what their actions would have been.
“What the heck are you doing?” Sheriff Brooke said.
“Digging a grave.” In went my imaginary shovel, feet in the same position.
“Well, when you’re finished, get home. You’ve got no business being out here,” he said. “Duran, get over to the Dijon house and get it taped. I don’t want anybody in there,” he yelled over the roar of the rain.
Duran nodded, got in his patrol car, and took off.
“I think you should check the guest list at her funeral,” I said.
“What?”
“There were six or seven people there that were not New Kasselonians. I think those are your suspects. It was one of those people.”
“Does Rudy hate it when you act like you know everything?” Sheriff Brooke asked me.
“Despises it. Look, anybody that lives around here for any length of time would know better than to dig up a grave at Santa Lucia at … what time was it exactly that this occurred?”
“About seven forty-five. Father Bingham interrupted him.”
“Exactly. Seven forty-five on a Wednesday evening. Father Bingham is playing bingo at the bowling alley, which always lets out at seven-thirty. After he cashes in his chips—he always wins something—and after he blesses everybody, he pulls into the rectory at seven forty-five. Everybody knows that,” I said.
That shut him up. It was a wonderful sight to behold. So, while I was at it, I thought I’d just go for the jugular and get it over with.
A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) Page 5