Suddenly Cora gasped. “Here it is!” She spread the newspaper on the table.
I sidled over beside her and saw the now-familiar banner, with the main headline, “High School Thespians to perform Twelfth Night.” The date was May 1, 1896, which would have been the week before the play was to be presented. In bold, beneath that on the right, was the story, “London: Remarkable Photography of Human Bones by Professor Roentgen, First X-Ray Machine Brought to Colorado in February, Remarkable Outcome of Prof. Roentgens’s Discovery in Medicine and Metallurgy.” I followed the words with my finger as I read it silently.
“I don’t think that one has much local influence. Where’s the story about the play?” I asked.
“Down here, under the x-ray article,” Cora said. She turned around and leaned against the edge of the table, lifted the paper closer to her eyes, and began to read.
Under the careful direction of Mr. Thompson Graves and the expert stagecraft of Mrs. Norine Aarnen, the high school Thespian Guild has been practicing the Bard of Avon’s comedy in five acts, Twelfth Night or As You Will. It can be noted with pride that the new auditorium is about to be put to its first public use, and all who have eagerly awaited the opening should be sure to purchase tickets for premiere night, which will be Thursday, May 7, at eight o’clock in the evening.
“Is that building still in use?” I asked
“Yes, the old high school is now the middle school. Rather dismal, I suppose, at this point, but the community was certainly proud back then.”
“It must have been quite something for a small town. Read on.”
For the benefit of anyone in Cherry Hill who has not already heard it from the proud parents, Charles Caulfield, Jr. has been cast as Sebastian, and Edna Heikkinen is to portray Viola. The son of our very own publisher is not unknown to theater-goers. Last year he carried the title role in Uncle Tom’s Cabin with a most convincing performance.
Cora sniffed. “I would hardly expect the paper to say anything less about the scion. However, I didn’t know about Uncle Tom’s Cabin being produced locally, so that’s good for my theater files.”
“Yes,” I said, “but is there anything in there that seems pertinent today? Is Jerry Caulfield worried about his grandfather’s acting talents? That doesn’t seem like it would have anything to do with Cliff, unless Cliff saw the name and wanted to take the paper to Jerry. But, he could have just asked me for the paper in that case—no big secrets to hide in that.”
“We are getting a bit far down the page. From how you described the day the paper was taken, Cliff didn’t have time to read anything extensive. Let’s see what else is here. Your turn.”
Cora graciously handed me the paper. I really appreciated the gesture. With her accompanying smile of understanding, I knew that Cora realized how much this search meant to me. I scanned the rest of the front page. There was only one other major article above the fold. It was on the left, with a smaller, less-bold typeface. I read out loud, “’Local Business Team Develops Promising Product.’ I remember that headline now!”
I began reading the article.
Two local entrepreneurs have officially joined forces this week to patent and market an exciting new product. Some may have already experienced the satisfaction of using this piece of agricultural equipment in its prototype stage, which was built here in Cherry Hill, at the blacksmith shop. We refer, of course, to the Teeter & Sorenson Plow-Disc Combination. Arne Sorenson has applied his engineering expertise to the problems of these combination machines, which have been so poignantly demonstrated to be failures in such states as North Dakota.
Sorenson, in an exclusive interview with the Herald, stated, ‘A successful design is all in the angle of entrance as the blade hits the soil. The front bevel and side rake angle are critical. If these are too steep, the tool will bury itself to the brackets, and no team of horses can pull it free in a forward direction. Conversely, if they are too relaxed, the tool will not cut deeply enough.’
“Wow,” I said. “There’s not much about the Teeter half of this partnership yet. This article is all about that machine that Kevin Teeter has on display.”
“It certainly seems so,” Cora replied.
I read on.
Mr. Sorenson plans to travel this week by train to Washington, D.C., where a patent application will be filed. Meanwhile, the responsibilities of the partnership will be carried out by Albert Teeter, also of Cherry Hill.
Mr. Teeter is well-known in town, as he has been the owner of the smithery since the passing of his uncle, Edward Teeter. Albert has assisted his father’s brother in the shop since youth, and was eager to take the reins, upon the passing of his relative. Mr. Edward Teeter died from consumption in November 1890.
“Let me interrupt you,” Cora said.
“Sure.”
“Why don’t we take this paper to the house, and some of the subsequent ones? We can celebrate with a piece of pie, read the rest of that article, and see if there was any follow-up in later issues.”
“I like that idea,” I said.
It only took a few minutes to finish our sorting of the browned papers. We collected all the ones we could find for the rest of the month of May, and carried them back to Cora’s kitchen.
Chapter 27
We stacked the papers on the table and peeled off the white gloves. Cora put a kettle of water on the stove and pulled out some plates and forks, while I organized the papers on the kitchen table, and scanned the headlines.
As I worked, I thought out loud. “Kevin Teeter is very proud of that machine. He’s got one all painted up and displayed by his sign. I was looking at it just this morning. Yet he didn’t seem very happy to find me doing so.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He escorted me right away from it. Have you seen it?”
“Not yet, but Tom told me about it. He thought there was something odd, because Kevin painted it himself. He usually gives jobs like that to the employees. Kevin Teeter would much rather stay clean.”
“I know why he didn’t delegate the work.”
“Oh?”
“He painted it himself because there is still a nameplate on the top bar that says ‘Teeter & Sorenson.’ At least it used to. The ‘Sorenson’ is scraped nearly down to flat metal. I couldn’t read it this morning, but that must be what it says. I’m thinking that’s not the result of normal wear and tear.”
“I’m sure your observation is correct,” Cora noted primly.
“So all the money that built Teeter implements came as the result of a partnership? I assume... what was his name?” I glanced back at the May 1 paper, “Arne Sorenson, was Cliff’s grandfather.”
“Great-grandfather, I’m pretty sure.”
“Why is... was Cliff so poor, then?”
“I think that’s the reason for his interest in your newspaper. He was probably wondering the same thing himself.”
“He took it so he could find out the answer to that exact question. Maybe he even confronted Kevin Teeter.”
“That wouldn’t have been very wise.” Cora said.
Now it was my turn to say, “Oh?”
“Well, I hate to speak unkindly, but Kevin has always been known as something of a bully. He does a lot for the local economy, and is generous enough, but only when there is some reciprocal benefit for himself.”
The kettle whistled, and Cora’s phone rang, simultaneously. While she answered the phone, I made tea and placed the cups and generous slices of pie on the table. By the tone of Cora’s voice, I gathered she was not really happy to hear from the caller. She turned to me and announced, “It’s for you.”
I pointed to my chest and opened my eyes wide. “Me?”
“Yes, you. It’s Adele Vogel.” Cora sounded huffy.
I had to walk across the kitchen to reach the corded wall phone. “Adele?” I said, taking the receiver.
“Ana, are you there? I’m so glad you told me where you were going to be today,” Adele began
.
I was a little bit annoyed. Of course I was here. It was bad enough that Adele seemed to delight in tracking everyone in the county like a human GPS system, but being called at someone else’s home seemed too pushy. “What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’m so sorry to bother you at Cora’s house.”
I felt confused. Adele was saying all the correct, polite words, but she didn’t sound very sorry at all. She seemed almost triumphant.
Adele continued. “It just came over the scanner. The results are back from the lab on Cliff’s death. You won’t believe it!”
“Try me,” I said.
“It was about 2:15, Justin had just come back from his break and taken over the register from me. I went into my office and turned up the scanner. I don’t have one at my house, you know, but it seems necessary to run a business safely—to know where the police are, since we only have two officers. I always turn it down when I’m not in the room.”
“Adele, come to the point, please.”
“Well, all right. There wasn’t very much information. It just said that Cliff Sorenson had died from carbon monoxide poisoning, but he had been unconscious when he died.”
“Isn’t everyone, who breathes carbon monoxide that long?”
“What? Oh, I see what you mean. No, he was unconscious before that.”
“How on earth do you know?”
“I called Bob, at the station.”
“I see. And he told you more? Should he have done that?”
“Probably not, but who cares? It will all be in the paper tomorrow. Do you want to know this or not?”
I sighed. Of course I wanted to know. I glanced at Cora. She was toying with a bite of pie, trying, unsuccessfully, to look uninterested.
“OK, tell me the whole thing,” I said into the phone.
“Bob explained that Cliff’s system was full of some drug. I can’t pronounce what it’s called. It doesn’t matter. The drug breaks down at a rate they can measure, and the carbon monoxide builds up until it’s lethal. Anyway, they can tell that Cliff had to have been unconscious long before he began to breathe the gas from the exhaust.”
“Are you telling me Cliff didn’t drive to the swamp?” My ear was glued to the phone, but I was watching Cora, and trying to let her know what was going on as much as I could without interrupting Adele.
“Right. Somebody drove there and hooked up that hose, then pulled Cliff into the driver’s seat and left him. Who would do that?”
“Somebody must have thought Cliff was a threat,” I said, trying not to commit myself to a particular suggestion. Cora’s eyes were bright and she was shaking her head vigorously from side to side. I got the hint, but it felt like I had to choose between trusting Adele or Cora. However, I knew Adele had no ability to keep a secret, so for now I sided with Cora.
“Exactly!” Adele barked. “What are you and Cora doing?”
“We’re still sorting old newspapers,” I said. It was almost the truth.
“Let me know if you find something interesting.”
“I will.” That was the truth too, as long as there was no time restriction placed on the promise.
“Your tea is getting cold,” Cora called, loudly enough that Adele surely heard it.
“I should go, Adele. But thanks for the information. I’ll call you later.”
Adele tried to keep me on the line, fishing for more information, but finally I was able to return to the tea, pie, Cora, and the newspapers.
Chapter 28
“So Cliff’s death was definitely a murder?” Cora asked, with a wicked grin. Historians also love gossip; they usually just prefer it to be old gossip.
I explained to her everything Adele had just told me, while we forked up mouthfuls of the rhubarb pie. It was so good that we had seconds, and more tea to wash it down. As we ate, we reasoned out what must have happened to Cliff.
“Cliff must have confronted Kevin with the paper, and asked him why he wasn’t getting any of the proceeds of the business.” I said.
“He probably threatened to take Kevin to court. If Kevin had been forced to pay for three generations of lost profits, it might have bankrupted him.”
“That could be a very powerful motive.”
“Money and love are the big two, they say.”
“But what happened that the Sorensons got shut out? Maybe they sold their half, and they aren’t entitled to anything now.”
Cora pointed at the papers strewn across the other side of the table. “Let’s keep reading. I’ll bet history will reveal at least part of the answer. It often does.”
We washed and put the gloves back on. I read the rest of the original article, but we’d already learned the important parts of the story. Very quickly we decided that it might be difficult to glean enough information just from the papers. We looked at the front pages through May 10, and learned that Twelfth Night had been a great success, and coupled with donations, a total of $132.45 had been paid to the bank for the retirement of the auditorium debt. We read about Torvald Nurmi’s cows getting out, and plans for a new hotel to be built in town, but there was nothing more on the front pages that seemed to connect to this case.
Cora took a deep breath. “We’ll have to look all the way through every edition,” she said.
“I agree. I hope we’ll recognize something important if we see it.”
The afternoon wore on as we turned page after yellow page. Each edition wasn’t very thick, but the typeface was small and fussy, and the dimensions of the sheets were larger than modern newspapers. The small print and darkening paper seemed to become harder and harder to read. There were a couple of missing editions, too. There was no way to know if there was something important in them. My eyes were itchy and burning.
When I got to page six of May 14th, I saw part of our answer. “Listen to this,” I said.
Obituary. Arne Sorenson, 1842-1896. Arrangements being made by Thompson Funeral Parlor. Arne Karl Fredrik Sorenson, aged 54, tragically met his death last week in a train wreck while returning from Washington, D.C. He is survived by his wife, Astrid, and two children, Eugene and Marguerite. Services will be held at three o’clock in the afternoon, Friday, at the Swedish Baptist Church. Interment at Cherry Hill Cemetery to follow.
“Oh my!” was Cora’s response. Then she jumped up from her chair and said, “I have to go back to the barn. One of the archived papers told about that train wreck. I just didn’t know it was connected to this story. I’ll be right back.”
She bustled out the door, and I stood up to stretch my legs. It was already very late in the afternoon. I washed up the plates from our dessert and before I was finished, Cora returned.
“See. It’s right here on the front page.” She showed me the huge headline, “Prominent Citizen Dies in Ohio Train Wreck.”
“The name of the victim isn’t given until the second paragraph, so when I thumbed through the archive the other day I didn’t realize it had anything to do with the Sorenson-Teeter saga.”
She read the whole story out loud; it covered most of the front page, with a huge picture of mangled train cars on their sides, and men in stiff suits posing around it. The details of the wreck had been wired from Columbus, but some local writer had done a good job of telling more about Arne Sorenson. We learned that he had come to the United States from Sweden as a young man, and had met his wife, Astrid, in New York City, while he was attending Maritime Engineering College in Throggs Neck, New York. They had moved to the upper Midwest soon after Cliff’s graduation.
“I’ll bet this is important,” Cora said. “It says Astrid didn’t speak any English.”
“Not at all?” I asked, surprised.
“It wasn’t that unusual, back then,” Cora explained. “She and Arne probably spoke Swedish at home, and if they had hired help, and most everyone of any prominence did, those people could have done the shopping. Even the church services would have been in Swedish. Maybe she didn’t understand what Arne’s trip to
Washington might mean for their future. Maybe she just wasn’t up to the difficulty of following through on the business transaction by means of a translator.”
“I wonder what happened to her. She couldn’t have gone very far away, since Cliff still lived here.”
“I can probably track down some of that when I have time, maybe tomorrow,” Cora offered.
“But the crash was definitely while he was on the way home, right? This had to be the Washington trip mentioned in the first article, which means he had already been to the patent office and registered both of their names.”
“As far as I can tell. It says the train was westbound from Akron.”
We sat back down at the table and continued to scan the rest of the papers we had brought to the house, but we didn’t find anything else that seemed to involve the Sorensons or the Teeters. There were more papers from the month still in the barn, but we were both tired with cramped muscles and aching eyes.
“Let’s have another sandwich and think about what we should do next,” Cora said.
Chapter 29
By seven o’clock we had decided that we needed to let law enforcement know what we had learned. That way we couldn’t be accused of withholding anything. But, we didn’t want to contact someone we didn’t know at the Sheriff’s Department. We decided to fax all the information to Chief Jarvi, and let her pass it along to the proper authorities when she came into work the next day. We both trusted Tracy.
It took a long time to accomplish this goal. Cora had a scanner and fax capabilities in the barn, connected to her computer, but the contrast on the old papers was terrible. After we scanned the articles, I sat at the desk and worked on each one in Cora’s graphics program until it was more readable. Then we had to print the articles out in sections, so they could be run through the fax machine. We thought fax was better than e-mail, because it would go right to the police station. If Tracy didn’t come in first thing in the morning, Bob would find the documents.
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