A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries)

by MacPherson, Rett

  “I’m going to need to find out why the Duc du Guise would be considered a threat to Louis.” I picked up the other letter that Camille had translated for me. It mentioned an heir and the location of something. The only names were Philippe, somebody named Sauniere, and then who the letter was from: Gaston.

  Gaston.

  “Torie, what is it?” Aunt Bethany asked. “You just turned sort of gray.”

  “Gaston?” I asked. I flipped open Hermann Gaheimer’s diary. Sophie’s lover was Gaston Levaldieu. Sophie died in 1922. The letter written to Philippe from Gaston was written in December 1922. “I think that Sophie Gaheimer’s lover is the author of this second letter that Camille translated for me.”

  “That Marie had?”

  “Yes. That might explain why Marie came to live here. Something happened here that connects this whole thing.”

  “In New Kassel?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I walked over to one of my bookcases and took out an atlas. I slammed it down on my desk, on top of all of the other books and papers and candy wrappers already inhabiting it.

  “What?” Aunt Bethany asked. “What are you looking for?”

  “Well, the first time I read this letter from Gaston, something puzzled me. The second line says ‘Indeed it is pertaining to 35–40 and 90–95.’ I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about,” I said. I ran my finger over the page. “Bingo!”

  “What?”

  “Missouri’s location on the globe is between 35 and 40 degrees latitude and 90 and 95 degrees longitude.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t got the foggiest idea what it means. But I’m onto something.”

  Eighteen

  “You’re talking complete Greek,” Sheriff Brooke said.

  We were driving along Highway I-55, headed north to Camille’s house. We were in his squad car and he was decked out in his sheriff’s uniform, for once. A pair of those dark sunglasses so commonly used by the Highway Patrol were perched on his nose. He was a rather imposing figure in complete dress.

  “I know I’m talking Greek.”

  “You really think that something happened at New Kassel seventy-five or so years ago that pertains to Marie’s murder?”

  “I’m positive. But I’ll be darned if I know what it is. I think maybe this Gaston guy came to New Kassel, what for I don’t know. Maybe it was just a small out-of-the-way town, and he thought it would give him anonymity. Anyway, he arrives in New Kassel and he either leaves something here or does something that Marie comes looking for ninety years later.”

  “Only it gets her killed,” he said as he turned on his blinker.

  “Yeah, because she’s not the only one looking for it.”

  “So you think that the documents are what she found?”

  “I have no blooming idea,” I said.

  “Well, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Your Lanny Lockheart drives a red Honda Civic.”

  “So he did see her before she died. He lied to me.”

  “Yeah, and we know Andrew was also in the house before she died because he left the inhaler there.”

  “What about the car that ran me off the road?”

  “We haven’t turned up anything other than that it was stolen. No prints or anything. They must have worn gloves,” Brooke said.

  “Well, I know that the driver wasn’t Lanny Lockheart. The driver wasn’t that big or heavy. Lanny is a bear of a man. He wouldn’t have been able to disappear as quickly as the driver did.”

  We pulled along the street and parked. I rang Camille’s door and waited. Her dark eyes sparkled the minute she saw me. “Torie, Torie, come in.”

  She hugged me and I could feel how thin she was. She looked to Sheriff Brooke.

  “This is Sheriff Brooke,” I said. “He’s a friend of mine and he wouldn’t let me come alone. He’s very worried about me.”

  “Sheriff, please come in.”

  She led us into the dining room, where coffee and muffins waited. I didn’t drink coffee, but I said nothing. I knew Camille, she’d jump up and fix me tea, and I didn’t want her going to any extra trouble for me.

  “Camille, I am so sorry—”

  “Shh. Nonsense,” she said. “You had no idea. It’s all right. See? I am alive.”

  “Barely,” I said. “I just feel so awful.”

  “Well, thank you for the flowers,” she said. “When they arrived at the hospital, it just made my day.”

  She set about pouring coffee and handing out muffins. Real butter sat on a sterling silver tray, with a large silver knife beside it.

  “I hope you like raspberry muffins,” she said.

  “I’ve never had them before,” I said. “But my taste buds like anything that is fattening. Cholesterol and fat must have a certain taste to it, and I love it.”

  The muffins were still warm and they literally fell apart in your mouth. They were scrumptious. The sheriff and I moaned and ooed and moaned some more. Camille was pleased that we liked them.

  “Camille, I was wondering if you could help me with a little bit of French history,” I said.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I figured out that the letter to the countess that you translated for me refers to the island of Sainte Marguerite.”

  “Yes?”

  “The island where the man in the iron mask was kept,” I said.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “That’s correct.”

  “Yes, and it mentions the Duc du Guise.”

  “It does? I don’t recall that.”

  “Well, the Archbishop of Reims at the time of Louis the Fourteenth’s reign was Henri de Lorraine, the Duc du Guise.”

  “I’m impressed, Torie. It would have taken me quite a while to figure that out,” she said.

  “Well, I was wondering if you would know any reason that Henri de Lorraine would be a threat to Louis? Enough for Louis to have him imprisoned?”

  “Are you suggesting that Henri de Lorraine was the identity of the man in the iron mask?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “Maybe. I don’t know, really. That’s why I was wondering if there was a reason that he would have been imprisoned?”

  “I don’t recall,” she said. “But then, I don’t remember my history that well. Some of it is very vivid. But not all of it.”

  “You remember what those documents said, though—the ones you translated?” I asked.

  “Only bits and pieces, Torie. They were very complicated.”

  I was crestfallen. Sheriff Brooke was busy looking around Camille’s dining room. An elegant home is awe-inspiring when you first enter it. She liked to decorate with historic flavor, as her copy of the painting, “Queen Guinevere’s Maying,” by John Collier, showed. So did the medieval engravings on the opposite side of the room, and the tapestry of a knight on horseback that hung behind us.

  “Camille, did you get a look at the guy that grabbed you the other day?” the sheriff asked.

  “No. He was strong, I know that. I turned to run as soon as I heard the door burst open. I tried to run down the hall, but he grabbed me from behind and shoved me through my house and out the back door toward the garage,” she explained. Shivers overtook her at the memory of it. “I was so scared.”

  Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again.

  “Could I get another look at your garage?” Sheriff Brooke cut in.

  “Why, certainly,” Camille said.

  We had finished our muffins and I really wanted another one but wouldn’t embarrass myself by asking for it. Since we were finished, we headed out the back door and toward the garage. She opened it and we filed in.

  The glass was broken out of one of the windows where Camille had tried to get out. Her blue Saturn sat in the middle of the room, with shelves on one wall filled with tools and such. A weed whacker was leaning up against the door frame. I don’t know what I was expecting. I just knew that I was relieved that the
re wasn’t any blood. Don’t ask me where I thought the blood was going to come from. I was just relieved that there wasn’t any.

  Sheriff Brooke walked around the car with much deliberation.

  “Have you driven it since the incident?” he asked. She had been home three days. Her car looked like new, even though I knew that she had owned it for several years. She was retired and she did very little driving. Nearly everything she wanted was within walking distance in the Central West End.

  “My neighbor brought me home from the hospital. I drove it once to the park. I haven’t felt much like going anywhere.”

  “Forest Park?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s only a few blocks,” he said.

  “Correct. I said I haven’t felt like going out much.”

  “What I’m getting at is that your car has half a tank of gas.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your car couldn’t have run out of gas the other day during the attack.”

  She started laughing. “You mean it stalled?” she asked. “It died?” She laughed some more. “You mean because I need a tune-up, I’m alive?”

  I found myself smiling from ear to ear. Sheriff Brooke however was not.

  “Either that,” he began, “or your assailant stuck around.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “Camille,” he said, “about how long did it take you to pass out?”

  “Not long. Just a few minutes after I broke the window.”

  “Do you remember hearing if your attacker left the property?” Sheriff Brooke asked.

  “I couldn’t tell,” she said. “I just assumed he did.”

  “What?” I asked Sheriff Brooke. “What?”

  “Well, I’m wondering if the assailant didn’t stick around, wait till she had passed out but wasn’t dead. Then he came in and turned off her engine.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Maybe he didn’t want to kill her. Just like he might not have intended to kill Marie.”

  “Marie?” Camille asked.

  “So, maybe he only wanted it to look like he wanted Camille dead.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why?” Camille echoed.

  “Maybe to scare you,” he said.

  “I don’t know. That’s pretty far-fetched,” I said. “Besides, the doors were locked. How did he get into the car to turn it off?”

  “Marie who?” Camille asked again.

  “Maybe he had a shim with him to unlock the door,” Sheriff Brooke said. “I suppose the car could have just died.”

  “It seems much more logical,” I said.

  “But I can’t help but speculate—”

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” Camille yelled.

  “Oh,” I said. “The friend who found the documents in the first place. Marie Dijon.”

  “Marie Dijon? I was at her funeral. Nobody said anything about her being murdered. Are you saying she was murdered?” Camille asked, her rising hysteria evident.

  “It looks that way,” Sheriff Brooke said.

  “Juste ciel!” Camille said. She raised her hand to her forehead and then didn’t know what to do with it once it got there. “I don’t feel so well.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. “Let’s go back in the house, Sheriff. We should be going.”

  We walked Camille back to her house. We moved quickly as if each of us were afraid the boogeyman was going to jump out at us. The sheriff and I wasted no time. We headed for the front door and prepared to leave.

  “I am so sorry, again,” I said to Camille. “Please forgive me.”

  “You are forgiven,” she said. “Don’t fret, please.”

  “It’s just that we have been friends for quite some time. I hope that you won’t think I meant you harm.”

  “Of course not,” she said, and meant it. “You and the sheriff be careful.”

  “We will,” I said.

  Nineteen

  I sat in my office at the Gaheimer House. It was heading toward evening and I hadn’t even considered going home yet. Tomorrow was Saturday and I’d have to give four tours instead of the two that I gave on weekdays during the Octoberfest.

  My freshly poured Dr Pepper fizzled in my glass. I could hear myself breathe, it was so quiet. Sylvia and Wilma had gone home. I was alone.

  I thumbed through the tabs on the files in the top drawer of my file cabinet. This cabinet contained the family charts of all the residents of New Kassel, past and present. Unless, of course, someone didn’t want their charts on file.

  I laid Marie’s on the desk and turned back for Hermann Gaheimer’s charts. I wondered if Sylvia knew that Hermann’s three children were not his children at all. Would she have bothered to put a family group chart on file for them if she had known?

  The first chart listed Hermann’s vital statistics as well as his wife’s. Then it listed all three of the children, their marriage information, and their children, the date and places of their births and deaths, if they’d died. The oldest child was John Henry Gaheimer, who married Cynthia Webb, and their two daughters were Elizabeth Mary Gaheimer and Vera Catherine Gaheimer, who married Thomas Dooley and Marvin Hackett. It was amazing. They all had the last name Gaheimer when it should have been Levaldieu.

  Then I realized what it was I had found. Dooley. Elizabeth had married Thomas Dooley. I flipped the page to see her descendants. She had seven children; the first six were girls and the last one was one Ransford Charles Dooley, born 1924.

  Okay, now that I had found it, what exactly did it mean?

  It meant that Marie was flirting with the grandson of Gaston Levaldieu, who just happened to be the author of one of the documents that Marie had. Did she know who Ransford was? Did Ransford know who she was? Just who the hell was Marie Dijon anyway? It was obvious that she had a history that I couldn’t begin to fathom.

  I took a drink of soda and nearly spilled it when the phone rang. I answered it on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry, I have the wrong number,” the person said, and hung up.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said to the phone. “You scared the pee out of me.”

  I had looked at Marie’s family charts before. But, I have to admit, before I was looking at them for the ancestry, not the descendants.

  Marie’s parents were Philippe Jaillard and Henriette Billet. Their children were listed as Jeanne C. Jaillard born 1938, Marie T. Jaillard born 1940, and Dorothee L. Jaillard born 1945. It did not give information on their spouses, but I knew that Marie had married Auguste Dijon. So? What was the catch?

  I flipped the page and went back further. Philippe Jaillard’s mother was a Levaldieu. So, Marie and Ransford were related. But I asked myself again, did she know that? Thinking about it, I was also fairly certain that Marie’s father Philippe Jaillard was the Philippe that Gaston Levaldieu had written to.

  Great. I had it solved. But what in God’s name did it mean?

  Then something occurred to me. I would bet that Yvonne Mezalaine was either related to or a friend of or somehow connected to Ransford Dooley. It would explain how Eleanore Murdoch found out about Sophie Gaheimer’s suicide. Sophie was Ransford’s grandmother, after all.

  Again, what did it mean? Why would Marie die for this?

  I picked up the phone and dialed the sheriff’s office.

  “Sheriff’s office, Wisteria.”

  “Peg,” I said, “gimme Colin.”

  “Just a minute.”

  I had been on hold for just a few seconds when the sheriff came on the phone. “Brooke.”

  “Sheriff,” I said, “it’s Torie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think you should pick up and question Ransford Dooley.”

  “Who?”

  “He works at Pierre’s, which is right across from Marie’s house, I might add. I just figured it out by examining the charts. Ransford and Marie were cousins, removed a few times, but they were cousins. And I think that Ra
nsford was the grandson of the man who wrote one of the letters that Marie had.”

  “That Camille translated?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Marie was in possession of a letter that this Dooley guy’s grandfather wrote,” he said, processing the information.

  “Yes. I think the letter was written to Marie’s father.”

  “But the letter didn’t really say anything all that important,” he said.

  “I know. But combined with all of the other documents and letters, maybe the whole package was worth killing for.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just can’t imagine that somebody dies for a bunch of yellowed, wrinkled pieces of paper. It’s not even money.”

  “Well, whatever. I think you should pick him up and question him. While you’re at it, Yvonne Mezalaine is pretty fishy, too.”

  “Who?”

  I explained.

  “Well, she’s not staying in New Kassel, or even Wisteria for that matter. I don’t know where to find her,” he said.

  “Well, she always manages to be around, somehow.”

  I heard a creak on one of the floorboards in the hallway. “Sylvia?” I asked. No answer.

  “What’s the matter?” Sheriff Brooke asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bull, I can hear it in your voice. What’s wrong?”

  I heard the creak again.

  “Wilma?”

  I never noticed how creepy the Gaheimer House could be when you’re in it all alone, toward dusk.

  “Do you want me to stay on the line while you go check it out?” the sheriff said.

  “What good will that do me?” I asked. I couldn’t help but wonder how he knew that I was hearing something in the house that was scaring me. Could he read my voice that well? “Are you going to shoot somebody over the phone?”

  “No.”

  “Then it won’t do me any good if you stay on the line while I go confront my fears,” I said. I heard the noise again. “Stay on the line anyway. I’ll be right back.”

  I set the phone down gently and stuck my head out into the hallway. I don’t know what I would have done if somebody had been standing there. There was nobody there. But then a frightening thought occurred to me. I would have to walk all the way through the house to get out the door. I suddenly got the creepy sensation that I was being watched.