Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret

by Rett MacPherson

  “Yup.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “An aqua-colored Toyota.”

  He was smiling. “What?” I asked, trying to get him to let me in on his secret.

  “There was an aqua-colored Toyota parked across the street from Eug—Michael Ortlander’s house.”

  “What?” I asked, flabbergasted. “Was it Ortlander’s?”

  “Don’t think so. Ortlander’s car was in the driveway, maybe even one in the garage.”

  “So why are you smiling?” I asked.

  “Because it could have been somebody visiting Ortlander.”

  Of course. The male voice I had heard from the hallway when the sheriff and I were in the living room. “Well, did you—”

  “Got the license plate number,” he said with a broad smile as he paid the attendant and pulled out of the gas station. He then headed up Hermann Avenue to New Kassel.

  * * *

  When I finally got home, there was a message on the phone table in the foyer for me to call John Murphy. What could he possibly want with me? Had I given him my phone number? I was still pretty shaken from earlier and wasn’t sure that I wanted to talk with anybody. Still, it pricked my conscience until I called him back. He answered, sounding tired and depressed.

  “This is Murphy.”

  “Hi, this is Victory O’Shea.”

  “Mrs. O’Shea, I’m glad that you called. I don’t know how to say this, but what would you like for me to do with this money?”

  “What money?”

  “The money from Norah’s … policy. I can’t keep it.”

  Why was he asking me? But then again, who else would he ask? Jeff and Rita? I couldn’t think of an appropriate person for him to give it to. “I don’t know. How about giving it to a charity that she was fond of?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I might give it to the symphony or something.”

  “She also has an aunt that lives in Washington, Missouri. She could probably use it.” The memory of Louise Shenk came to me. Her house was modest and comfortable. But it was her labored breathing that I thought of. The woman’s health was not the greatest. That money might come in handy for medical reasons. Besides, Norah probably would have left her something, if she had known about her. “Her name is Louise Shenk, and now that I think about it, I think that would be your best bet.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “Yes.” He was quiet on the other end. “Is there something else on your mind?”

  “Yes. I want to somehow explain myself.”

  “There is no need. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Yes, I do. Besides, I need to say this.” He sighed heavily and jumped in. “I was having an affair because I felt my relationship with Norah was a dead end. It was going nowhere, and I needed more.”

  I always wonder what is going on in a person’s head when he is in the middle of a confession. Was he telling me everything that he felt? Or was he telling me a very carefully thought-out confession, omitting certain details, adding other? I can remember confessing to going to a carnival once when I was a teenager and had been told I couldn’t go. But I very carefully left out the part about the boy that I went with. It was a confession, but a very limited confession. I wondered if this is what I was getting from John Murphy.

  “I loved Norah too much to let her go completely,” he said. “She wouldn’t marry me because her first marriage caused her too much grief. The reason she wouldn’t live with me was because of her children.”

  Believe it or not, I could understand that logic. I didn’t necessarily agree with it, but I could understand it.

  “Her life was not her own, Mrs. O’Shea. You’ll never know. Not one minute of her life was ever her own.”

  He didn’t say good-bye; he just hung up, leaving me with a sadness. I didn’t agree with his affair. Although they weren’t married, there must have been some sort of verbal agreement between them, of their loyalties, or he wouldn’t have felt so guilty about his affair. But I couldn’t point fingers at him quite as easily as I normally would have.

  Fifteen

  Water finally claimed the Old Mill Stream. It sat between the Mississippi River and Kassel Creek, and the water was even too much for the sandbags. It was the only place in town that had flooded so far. I was in the second floor of the Old Mill Stream helping the mayor and his wife carry out dining chairs and tables, along with china and linens. I could not believe that I had had dinner there with Colette just a week before.

  “Did you see that farmhouse on television this morning?” Zella Castlereagh asked me.

  “Yes,” I said. “I can’t believe a house stood for ninety years, and the water just took it away.” I flashed back in my mind to that morning, when I was watching the television. A levee broke in Illinois and washed away a two-story farmhouse as if it were made out of Popsicle sticks. I cried. I think everybody within two states cried.

  Zella is a kind woman. She has sparkling blue eyes with auburn hair, now turned slightly gray. I never could figure out why she married Bill. Our mayor is primarily concerned with monetary things. Zella is the furthest thing from that. They bought the Old Mill Stream about twenty years ago, and it was one of my favorite places to eat.

  “The house didn’t bother me so much,” Bill said. “It was the dead bodies.”

  Yes the dead bodies were enough to send a chill down H. P. Lovecraft’s spine. The water had not only destroyed crops and people’s property; it had flooded cemeteries as well. Dead bodies were floating in the floodwaters of west-central Missouri. Empty caskets floated down the river. I would rather bullfight in a closet than have to round up those bodies and identify them. I thanked God that I didn’t have to.

  “I agree, Bill,” I said. “The bodies were … indescribable.”

  Bill and I carried a table down the steps. I volunteered to go down backward, since I was a good thirty years younger than he was. Elmer Kolbe and Chuck Velasco were downstairs taking out paintings and other valuables that were not affected by the water. There was about a foot and a half of water on the main level. We were taking things out in case the water got any higher.

  My foot hit the water with a splash. I had worn thongs so that I could just toss them in the trash when this was over. Floodwater is disgusting. It felt like little “things” were nibbling at my ankles. God only knew what was in the water. I’m sure the “nibbling” was my overactive imagination.

  It was still early in the day. I had started helping the Castlereaghs around eight in the morning. I was getting hungry.

  Bill guided me out the front door and we put the table in the parking lot, along with everything else we had taken out of the mill so far. He was going to store as much of it as he could in Wisteria at the U-Store.

  “Well, Bill. I’m hungry. If you don’t mind, I’m going to head on home, get a shower, and eat some lunch,” I said.

  “That’s fine, Torie,” he said. The sweat gleamed off of his bald head. “We really appreciate the help.”

  “No problem. I’ll be back some time later today.”

  I arrived home, aggravated, hot, and madder than a hornet. My anger could only be directed at Mother Nature. As I stepped up onto my front porch, I turned and looked back out over the swollen Mississippi. I had such a great view because I was on a hill. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where all of the water would go once this was all over. Where does it all go?

  I wiped at a tear I hadn’t even realized I had shed.

  Once I was inside, the house was quiet. Mom was on the back porch painting. The kids were in the yard playing on the swing set.

  Elk graced the canvas in front of Mom, along with a mountain peak and a forest of trees.

  “Looks good,” I said as I kissed her on top of her head.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Your dad called yesterday while you were out with Sheriff Brooke.”

  “Really?” I asked. I hadn’t heard from him in a while and was thinking about calling him. “What
did he want?”

  “Wanted to know if he could borrow your house.”

  “What for?”

  “Jam session,” she said. She put gold highlights on her trees with a small round brush.

  “Jam session?” My dad is a musician from the early sixties, and although he hasn’t played for money in twenty years, he and his buddies like to get together once in a while. It’s great fun, and I encourage anyone who has never sat in on a jam session to do so. Especially if the people jamming are old farts who like to add a blues touch to songs like “Red Red Wine.”

  Dad’s house is in the city and he can’t do it there because everybody calls the police on him.

  “Sure, I don’t care,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’ll barbecue for all of them.”

  I was up to listening to some George Jones and Patsy Cline. I love all music.

  Mom said nothing as she added a stroke to her painting. When she was finished with that particular tree branch, she said, “How come Sheriff Brooke took you to see Eugene Counts?” Her tongue went to her upper lip. Somehow, her tongue made her paint better.

  “I’m not sure. He says it’s because I see things differently than he does. You know, a different angle,” I said as the cat rubbed my leg.

  “I agree with that. Your angle is completely different than his, and it just may be the angle he needs to solve the case.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “I think Sheriff Brooke is very relieved to have stumbled on you in this case. ’Course, he probably rues the day at the same time,” she said. “You have that effect upon people.”

  I wasn’t insulted. It was the truth. Why get all bent out of shape over something that’s so obviously the truth? “I must get that from my father’s side of the family.”

  She smiled. “So, how was your visit with Eugene Counts?”

  “Turned out to be Michael Ortlander.”

  “Figured as much.”

  “What?” I screamed. “What do you mean you figured as much? Are you saying that you knew Eugene Counts was really Michael Ortlander all along? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, not that specifically. But I knew something wasn’t right. And as soon as you said it, it seemed to make perfect sense.”

  “Well move over, Miss Marple,” I said.

  Mom was genuinely surprised at my irritation with her. But before she could give me a rebuttal, the phone rang.

  I hurried into the kitchen from the porch, expecting the call to be from either Rudy or Sheriff Brooke. I was wrong.

  “Mrs. O’Shea?” a voice asked.

  “This is she.”

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you. This is Harold Zumwalt.” Somebody could have driven a dump truck through my mouth. It was certainly open wide enough.

  “Norah’s ex-husband…”

  “I know who you are,” I said. “What do you want?” My heart rate doubled, and I tried to sound as normal as I could. I failed miserably.

  “I was wondering if I could speak with you,” he said as if this were the most normal of invitations.

  “Why me? Why don’t you call Sheriff Brooke?” I asked.

  “Because you found her. Please, I just want to talk. Can you come to my home? I don’t eat in public places.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re inviting me to lunch?”

  I know, I should have said no. But it was so tempting. I found myself asking for directions. As soon as I had agreed to meet him, I felt funny about it. After all, I really knew nothing about him. What did I really know about any of them? But I’d already told him yes, and I was going.

  I took a quick shower, threw on a pair of light cotton dress pants and a shirt, and my brown sandals. Putting on some blush and mascara, I tried to think of what I’d say to him. Should I ask him about the family’s therapy sessions? Maybe he’d bring that up on his own. It was doubtful, but I couldn’t think of what he wanted to talk to me about.

  I brushed my teeth and grabbed my purse, pausing at the stairs. What if he was the person who broke into my house? Maybe he wanted to kill me and shove me down the garbage disposal. Who would ever know?

  Finding a piece of paper, I wrote in big black marker: “Went to Harold Zumwalt’s. If not back by 5:00, call Brooke.”

  Taping it on the screen of my computer, I grabbed my letter opener at the same time and shoved it in my purse. Just in case. I don’t own a gun and don’t want to. But one would have sure come in handy right about then. No it wouldn’t, I told myself. I’d probably shoot myself in the foot. I really wasn’t worried for my safety. If I had been truly concerned about it, I wouldn’t have gone.

  All I told my mother was that I’d be back by five. I kissed the girls and headed out to the car. I was on northbound Highway 55 in no time, waiting anxiously for the exit to 270 West, so that I could find my way to Ladue.

  I arrived at his house, completely unprepared for what I saw. His house would sell for a couple of million on the market. This wasn’t a house, it was an estate. The grounds were surrounded by a stone fence, and contained many large trees. Wonder what it would be like to have grounds instead of a yard. The gate that I passed through even had an attendant on duty.

  The house was a massive white structure with pillars in the front, reminding me of what the library at Alexandria would have looked like. Tennis courts were in the back; I caught a peek as I drove up. He had a stable and all sorts of outer buildings that he had to hunt for reasons to use. He probably hired somebody to think of reasons to use things. What would his position be called anyway?

  I had no idea where to park, so I just stopped somewhere out front. My very dirty, ten-year-old station wagon was now rubbing bumpers with a blue BMW and a white Stingray.

  I got the distinct feeling that I had probably underdressed.

  I rang the doorbell and thought of how catastrophic it would be if it quit working. Nobody would ever hear a knock on a door in a place this large.

  A butler answered. What else? Did I really expect anything else? He was young and bland. I called him James for lack of anything else to call him, and he didn’t find me the least bit amusing.

  I was led into the dining room, where I was left for several minutes. The dining room was in a classic baroque style, looking more like a church from the old country. I expected the table to be about forty feet long, but in truth it was only about twenty. There were two places set in an exquisite bone china, trimmed in gold. All of this for lunch. I’d love to see what he did for dinner.

  The contrast to what Norah Zumwalt had lived in was striking. I found it hard to imagine her ever living here. Her home, granted, was no dump, but it paled seriously in comparison.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  I spun around to find, I assumed, Harold Zumwalt standing in the entryway. He was in a white suit with a strawberry red tie. He had a heavy but perfectly cut beard. He was average height and weight, but had extraordinary silver eyes surrounded by thick, short lashes.

  “No problem,” I said. I didn’t mind waiting alone. It gave me a chance to gawk in private.

  He never offered to shake my hand. He only waved for me to sit down, and like magic, our soup arrived. I have no idea what kind of soup it was, but it was delicious. I kept waiting for him to make some sort of effort at small talk, but he did not. He said nothing. We ate in silence. I couldn’t stand it. I mean, he’d asked me here for a reason, hadn’t he? Maybe I should ask him if he had a garbage disposal.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but I can’t believe that Norah ever lived here.”

  “She didn’t. We had a much smaller home in Webster Groves. She never knew the extent of my wealth.”

  “Why did you keep it a secret?” I questioned.

  “Because I didn’t want her to marry me for the money. If money was the motive, I never could have trusted her. After we were married, I kept it from her because then I would be vulnerable to her. I would have a chink in my armor.” He wiped his mouth wit
h the linen napkin. “I gave her the house, with the agreement that she would not take me to court for any more, and that she would not touch my personal accounts. I paid her alimony, of course.”

  “Of course,” I echoed sarcastically. I couldn’t help but think that good old-fashioned greed was what drove him to keep his wealth a secret from her. “What a slap in the face that was to her, when she found out,” I said.

  “Until you’ve lived in our world, Mrs. O’Shea, don’t be so quick to judge.”

  I looked down at my soup, dutifully chastised. Why was it that he and Jeff could make me feel so little? One thing was for sure: The old kill-your-wife-for-the-insurance motive seemed pretty ridiculous at the moment.

  Our lunch arrived: veal, which I didn’t touch. A pasta with a clam sauce and a steamed vegetable made up the rest of the entrée. I picked at my food, not really eating but a few bites. Zumwalt was upsetting me. The muscles around my stomach were getting tighter and tighter.

  I watched Zumwalt as he ate, meticulously raising his fork to his mouth with the greatest concentration. He chewed each bite at least twenty times, and ate with proper etiquette, knife in the right hand, fork in the left and upside down.

  This man was, without a doubt, the most anal-retentive human being I had ever met. He probably slept in ironed pajamas, with slippers next to the bed, not one millimeter out of sync with each other.

  “So why did you call me here? Surely not to show me how wealthy and influential you are.”

  “On the contrary,” he began.

  Does anybody ever really say “on the contrary”?

  Zumwalt looked to the ceiling for divine guidance. “I invited you over to ask you to—how do you say it in river language—lay off?”

  River language? “Are you suggesting that I’m from a different social class, Mr. Zumwalt?”

  “I just want to make sure that you can understand what I’m about to say. I want no misunderstandings.”

  I felt a tingle on the back of my neck. Was he about to threaten me? “What? What do you want me to understand?”

  “Your private crusade, Mrs. O’Shea. End it. You and Sheriff Brooke are causing great waves on my peaceful ocean,” he said.