Blood Relations

by Rett MacPherson

  “That happened to you, too?” I asked. “I had always wanted a sibling, but it was almost painful not having siblings once I had my own kids and I watched how they interacted. Of course, Rachel and Mary swear they hate each other right now. That’s been going on for about two years, but I have faith that it will pass. But, at any rate, there wasn’t much I could do about not having siblings. I couldn’t just waltz out and create a sibling for myself.”

  “Yeah, and I have people say to me, ‘Oh, you were an only child? I bet you got whatever you wanted.’ They have no idea.”

  “Well, for some people, being an only child is probably the best gig in the world. But not for me. Not only was I not spoiled but I was lonely, too. What good is your own room if all you want is somebody to be in it with you?”

  She just shook her head. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  “The world’s a big place,” I said.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in it.”

  I couldn’t have said it better myself. I am surrounded by people all the time. I know the entire town, for pete’s sake. But there are times when it’s as if I’m the only one of my kind in it.

  Krista appeared at our table, beaming down at me. I think my mother had told everybody in town that I was meeting with Stephanie today. “Torie,” she said. “What would you and your … friend like to drink?”

  “Krista, this is my sister, Stephanie Connelly. Stephanie, this is Fraulein Krista,” I said.

  “It is so nice to meet you!” Krista exclaimed, and shook Stephanie’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “I mean, it is really nice to meet you,” she said. “We all love Torie. I just want you to know that if you’re anything like your sister, we’ll all love you, too.”

  Stephanie laughed at Krista’s remarks. And then she said, “I’ll have a Dr Pepper.”

  I just stared at her, blinking. “Yeah, me, too.” Krista winked at me and went back to the kitchen to get our drinks.

  “So,” I began. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  “Really? What do you teach?”

  “History.”

  “History. Of course you do,” I said.

  “I have a daughter, she’s three and a half. I live in St. Louis right now, but I grew up in Arnold.”

  “That close,” I said. “Jesus.”

  “I know,” she said, and looked at her hands. “Oh, I brought some pictures to show you. I bore everybody to tears with pictures. But I love them.”

  “Funny, I brought pictures, too.”

  And that was that. We laughed and started showing each other pictures, both of us talking about a million miles per second, and that was the way it went for close to two hours. We talked about our differences, too. Her favorite color is blue, whereas mine is purple. She loves to ski, and I’ve never even tried it. Our biggest difference is that she actually understood high school algebra and passed it in college. Okay, I passed it, too, but I hadn’t understood it.

  It seemed everybody and their uncle was just stopping by Fraulein Krista’s for coffee or tea or some other little parcel of good-tasting things. It was probably because everybody wanted to see what Stephanie was like and if we were getting along. It’s a shame to admit it, but I guess there just wasn’t anything else better to do on a Wednesday afternoon than to snoop on me. I made a mental note to berate my mother and her big mouth.

  But there was one guest I doubted was here for the sideshow. Bradley Chapel and his cameraman, Kyle, came in and sat down in the booth catercorner from us. Stephanie noticed my attention shift, and she turned and looked.

  “Somebody else that you know?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Although not all that well.”

  Stephanie’s attention seemed to fixate on her empty glass. In a matter of seconds, it was as if she were someplace else.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “Not at all. A personal matter that keeps popping up in my mind.”

  “Oh,” I said. I would have offered to hear what was on her mind, but I wasn’t sure if that would be appropriate, considering we were still in the early stages of our relationship.

  “Well, it’s been great,” she said suddenly. “We had today off for grade day at my district. I’ve got to get home and actually do some grades.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll have copies made of the pictures you asked for.”

  “And I’ll have some made for you,” she said, and smiled. She hesitated a moment. “You are exactly like I thought you would be.”

  “Is that a good thing?” I asked, laughing.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a good thing.”

  “So…” I began, unsure of what to say. “Are we going to see each other again?”

  She nodded her head. “I hope so! I want my daughter to meet her cousins,” she said.

  “Great, maybe you and your family could come down for dinner sometime?”

  “We’d love to,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

  With that, she picked up her package of pictures and exited. Mr. Chapel happened to see her as she walked by, and he glanced up from his menu and saw me staring at him. I couldn’t help myself—I looked at his shoes. They were expensive shoes and looked as though they’d never been worn before. What did he do—wash them?

  “Can I help you with something, Mrs. O’Shea?” he asked. Kyle, who had a ketchup-dripping french fry hanging out of his mouth, turned around and waved.

  “You’re still in town?” I asked. “Don’t you have a life?”

  “I’m leaving Friday,” he said. “But I’ll still be around until I get everything I need for the story.”

  “It wouldn’t be because the sheriff has asked you to stick close by, would it?”

  His expression turned from piety to distaste in a millisecond. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and finished my soda. I stood up to leave.

  “Mr. Ketchum had some interesting things to say about exactly what Professor Lahrs uncovered when he was diving,” he said.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Well, now that’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  I was more angry with myself for walking into that than I was at Mr. Chapel for being such an arrogant twit. I grabbed my crutches.

  “Good day, Mrs. O’Shea,” he said as I walked by.

  What I wouldn’t have given just to whop him with one of my crutches. But what would that solve? Nothing. “Yeah, whatever.”

  Nineteen

  I went to my office after having lunch with my newfound sister. I had a few things to look up, but I could not stop thinking about Mr. Chapel’s last words to me at Fraulein Krista’s. I tried pushing them to the back of my mind and began opening the mail that had arrived while I was at lunch. I logged on to the Internet to check my e-mail. There was a response from Ian in Tennessee.

  Torie,

  Took me several hours to find the records, but I eventually found them in a private collection of a man who collects all things dealing with the Mississippi and the steamboat era! I was beginning to think that I would have to tell you that I’d found nothing. Your girl, Jessica E. Huntleigh, was on board a ship called the Louisiana Purchase and switched boats after a two-day layover. However, there was nothing wrong with the Louisiana Purchase. It simply docked to let off passengers and then went on its way to St. Louis, and eventually Minnesota—I’m assuming to Minneapolis. So not sure where you got your info or why you think the Purchase had broken down, but she didn’t. Let me know if I can get anything else for you.

  Ian

  I jotted off a quick thank-you, telling him that I owed him big-time, and then put lots of exclamation marks and several smiley faces to drive the point home of just how indebted I was. Then I turned off the computer and thought about what it could mean. Jessica Huntleigh had not switched boats because of engine trouble or anything el
se to do with the Purchase. She had switched boats because she wanted to. But why? And why would her cousin have lied about the reason they switched boats?

  After a few more hours of distracted work, I finally decided that it was time to call it a day. I stopped by the Murdoch Inn on the way home. Now, granted, Mr. Chapel could have said those mysterious words to me at Fraulein Krista’s just to see how easily I could be manipulated. Well, he would have been happy to know that it worked. But I didn’t care.

  “Torie! How is your foot?” Eleanore asked as I went into her office.

  “It’s getting better,” I said. “I was wondering if you could tell me what room Jeremiah Ketchum is in?”

  “Oh, he’s leaving today,” she said. “That Jones fella left yesterday. Guess there’s no reason to stay if the leader is dead.”

  “They’re all from around here, though, right?” I asked.

  “Well, on their registration slips they filled out, I believe they all said they were from around here. Let me check.” She pulled out a big book and flipped through it. “Yes, Professor Lahrs was from Hillsboro. That’s what—thirty miles from here? Mr. Jones is from Arnold, and Mr. Ketchum is from Sainte Genevieve. So, all within an hour’s drive, give or take.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now what room is Mr. Ketchum in?”

  “Oh, he’s up on the third floor, room Three B.”

  “Thank you.”

  As I turned to leave, Eleanore stopped me. “How are you going to get up the steps?” she asked.

  “Oh, I can hop,” I said. “My foot is much better.”

  “Oh dear,” she said.

  And so I hopped up the steps, made my way to room 3B, and knocked. Mr. Ketchum answered after maybe sixty seconds. He looked at me as if he didn’t remember who I was, and maybe he didn’t. I’d only met him twice, and they were both fairly brief encounters. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Ketchum, I’m Torie O’Shea. I was wondering if I could have a word with you?”

  “Oh, Mrs. O’Shea,” he said. “I … you look different. Come in.”

  “I guess it’s the crutches,” I said. I entered his room and noticed that he was indeed in the middle of packing. A large baby blue suitcase was open on his bed, with clothes tucked neatly inside. More clothes were laid out on the large four-poster bed, and on the table by the window was his briefcase, files, and papers.

  Eleanore had done this room in sort of Early American style, although the bed was a little too Victorian to fit completely into Early American decor. I love antiques, but I’m not so sure I could own a bed like that. I’d need a ladder just to get into it.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Oh, I was wondering if Professor Lahrs had said anything to you about … well, maybe that he was receiving threats of some kind?”

  He smiled at me, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Playing detective, are we, Mrs. O’Shea?”

  “Well, the sheriff is married to my mother.”

  “So however I react, regardless of my guilt or innocence, it will be reported back to him,” Mr. Ketchum said.

  “Something like that,” I replied. “Look, this really has nothing to do with you. Although I do find it interesting that you assumed I was trying to come to a verdict on your guilt or innocence, when, in fact, all I want to know is if Professor Lahrs received any threats on his life.”

  He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Eventually, though, he decided to talk. “Well, I certainly have nothing to hide,” he said.

  Yeah, that’s what they all say.

  “So talking with you won’t hurt anything,” he said. “To answer your question … no. Okay, you can leave now.”

  I laughed at his quip but ignored it. “Did he act bizarre?”

  “When didn’t he act bizarre?” Jeremiah said, shoving some socks into the side compartment of the already-bulging suitcase.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he was either stoned or drunk most of the time,” he said. “Therefore, he acted pretty bizarre on most days.”

  “Even in class?” I asked.

  “Definitely in class,” he answered. “Jacob didn’t want to be a schoolteacher. He wanted to be Jacques Cousteau. Teaching biology at a junior college wasn’t exactly the road to National Geographic.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with teaching at a junior college,” I said.

  “Not unless your dream is to be a microbiologist studying life in the sea for National Geographic,” he said, folding a pair of pants.

  “Oh,” I said. “So why didn’t he become a microbiologist and follow his dream?”

  He shrugged. “That, I don’t know. But he didn’t. This thing with his great-grandfather was supposed to give him his big break.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Danny Jones was documenting as we went,” he said. “I guess Jacob thought he could make a documentary out of it, and of course make some major discovery, submit it to whoever it is you submit those types of things to, and he’d be on his way.”

  “Oh” was all I said. I thought for a moment. “What do you mean ‘major discovery’?”

  He hesitated.

  “Oh, don’t tell me the diamonds,” I said.

  He said nothing.

  “How major would that be?” I asked. “Everybody already believes they’re down there anyway. I mean, that’s not much of a ‘discovery.’”

  A noise came from outside. It sounded like a car crashing. I gave Mr. Ketchum a signal to wait just a minute while I looked out the window. I pulled the curtain aside and saw that a car had backed into a parked car down in the lot below. “Oh man, somebody backed into a blue Cavalier.”

  “Blue Cavalier?” he said. He moved to the window. “That’s my car!”

  He all but ran out of the room, leaving me standing above the table with his briefcase sitting on it. Okay, I told myself that I would not go through the man’s briefcase. That would be a complete and utter violation of his personal rights, and I would not do that. Not to mention that Colin would have my butt in a sling, and I wasn’t sure I could walk on crutches with my butt in a sling. But I could look at the papers that were already out on the table.

  I glanced down, perusing the papers quickly.

  And I was amazed at what I saw. Letters and documents, dated from 1919 to 1922 or so. And signed by the captain of The Phantom.

  A few moments later, I was down the steps and on the front porch of the Murdoch Inn. Mr. Ketchum stood beside his car, rubbing his head in disbelief. I didn’t recognize the car or the woman who had backed into him, so I assumed she was a tourist. She was a small woman, in her mid-forties, and she kept apologizing over and over.

  “I know. I heard you say you didn’t see the car,” Jeremiah said. “But really, lady, it’s a big blue thing in the middle of all of this white stuff. How could you not see it?”

  I carefully walked over to the car and the steadily growing crowd. “You need me to call the sheriff?” I asked.

  Mr. Ketchum rolled his eyes heavenward. “Yes, please,” he said. “Great. Just great. First my wallet was stolen … now this. How am I gonna explain this to the deputy?”

  Walking around the front of his car, I viewed the damage from the driver’s side. His entire back bumper had been shoved up into the trunk. The woman hadn’t just hit the car; she’d walloped it. She must have been doing fifteen miles an hour in reverse to do that much damage.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and leaned on the hood of the car for support. My foot was better, but there was no point in deliberately putting weight on it if I didn’t have to. Something caught my eye on the dashboard. Deputy Miller’s voice came on the line.

  “Yeah, this is Torie,” I said, peering closer to the dash for a better look. “We’ve got a fender bender out here at the Murdoch Inn.”

  “Okay, we’ll send somebody out,” he said.

  Thrown haphazardly on the dashboard was a speeding ticket. It wasn’t a Granite County
speeding ticket—ours don’t look like that. And trust me, being the stepdaughter of the sheriff does not make me exempt from tickets, so I would have known one of ours when I saw it. I leaned a little closer to the glass and saw that it had been issued a few days ago. I stood up straight and thought a moment. Then I leaned in for a closer look. It had been issued the same day that Jacob Lahrs was killed. And it looked as if it was Jefferson County issue. That was just to the north of New Kassel.

  “Well, Mrs. O’Shea, are the police coming?”

  “Yes,” I said, pulling my attention away from the dash. “They’re on their way.”

  Twenty

  On Thursday morning, I paid a visit to Sheriff Brooke.

  “How stupid do you think I am?” the sheriff asked.

  “You know, my mother always told me never to ask questions that I didn’t want to hear the answers to,” I said. “You might consider her advice.”

  He sat behind his desk in his brown-paneled and thoroughly depressing office at the Granite County Sheriff’s Department. Next to the phone sat a photograph of my mother, taken on their honeymoon, and one of my kids sat off to the right on his desk. On the wall hung one of those posters with all the NFL helmets on it. Indoor-outdoor carpeting just sort of added to the aura of “built in great haste.”

  “Look—”

  “No, you look,” I said. “I don’t have access to everything you do, so I don’t know what you found in Jacob Lahrs’s room and what you didn’t, but I’m telling you, I saw what I saw.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose; he was getting one of his Torie headaches. At least that was what he called them. In my opinion, his headaches were brought on because his sphincter muscle was too tight. He sighed and then spoke finally. “We didn’t find much. His room hadn’t been wiped clean exactly, but the only thing we found was a neatly packed suitcase. Contents of which were clothing, toothpaste, toothbrush, a box of condoms—”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Young, single, male. You never leave home without them,” he explained. “His cell phone was in the front pocket. That was it.”

  “Nothing related to the wreck? I mean, he brought no papers, no nothing?”