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

by Rett MacPherson

“She’s lost a whole file or something,” he said as he rested his chin on the back of the chair.

  “Oh, she probably just doesn’t remember where she put it. I’ll go over in the morning and help her find it,” I said.

  Kurt laughed. It was a sneaky sort of laugh, the kind that teenage boys give in the classroom when the teacher has chalk dust on her nose or something. “She’s pretty peeved at you,” he said. “If you go over there, you better go with a broadsword and shield.”

  “I’ll be careful. I’ve fought off Sylvia more than once,” I said. Looking at Sheriff Brooke, I noticed he seemed a little agitated and had a death grip on the file. “Uh, Kurt. We’ll have the special. Make it a large, extra cheese.”

  “Okay, whatcha want to drink?”

  “The usual.”

  “Be right back,” he said. He stood up and returned the chair to the other table.

  “All right, do not repeat this,” Brooke said. “Any of it.” He glanced around the room, eyes landing on the jukebox. Velasco’s can be very diversionary, as it is decorated with James Dean and Elvis Presley. The entire theme is 1950s. Chuck even went so far as to hang some of his old 45 records on the walls.

  Sheriff Brooke gulped down half of his beer as I waited for him to begin.

  “Gwen Geise was number three.”

  “What?”

  “She was the third girl that year to be killed in the exact same manner. Except that she was the only one in Partut County. One took place just across the river, in southern Illinois, and the other in eastern Tennessee, which is just across the river as well.”

  “So they were all within what? An hour from Ortlander’s home?”

  “Yup,” he said. “They were also raped.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “The authorities were very successful about keeping the details out of the papers. For one reason, the Tennessee woman was the governor’s daughter. He paid big money to keep the rape part quiet,” he said. “Sergeant Heinze nearly lost it on this one.”

  “I suppose every cop must have a case that haunts him,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “This one, if I don’t nail the bastard,” he said. He drank the last of his beer. Running his fingers through his hair, he sat back against the booth. “I talked to the captain down there who was a rookie when Sergeant Heinze retired. He said that Heinze is dead now, so I can’t even talk to him.”

  “Was Ortlander one of the suspects?” I asked.

  “He was at the top of the list. Ortlander knew the girl well and was seen with her the day she disappeared. Heinze didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him. Ortlander took off for the war and never came back.”

  “So Heinze thought that his suspect got killed and dropped the investigation.”

  “Yup. I have to admit, I never would have made the connection to Eugene Counts if it weren’t for you. And I never would have known that he was actually Ortlander. I’m indebted to you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” I suddenly felt incredibly guilty that I’d been keeping things from him. “So you think that Ortlander killed Norah? She wasn’t raped, nor were the wounds alike.”

  “Well, if he did kill these women, which we can safely assume considering Eugene Counts was killed with the same type of wound, I think it establishes that he is capable of committing Norah’s murder.”

  “Heartbreak Hotel” came blaring from the jukebox. “Have there been any other murders with this modus operandi in the last ten years?”

  “No. But if he’s still killing, he may have changed his MO or just made sure the bodies were never found.”

  Chills went down my spine. This was giving me the heebie-jeebies. “Why get sloppy now?”

  “Sloppy? We have virtually nothing in the way of physical evidence. Granted, if I can get the okay to have him arrested, I might be able to match some fibers or something up to him. But I wouldn’t say he was sloppy.”

  “Well, why not get rid of her body? Why not abduct her, kill her somewhere else, and dump the body? It doesn’t seem like his style.”

  “Maybe he was frantic. Maybe she made the connection that he wasn’t Eugene and confronted him, and he wanted her silenced immediately. Maybe he got interrupted and couldn’t get rid of the body. There are all sorts of possibilities.”

  Kurt brought us our pizza. Mushroom, pepperoni, sausage, and onions. That was the Velasco Special, and it was the best pizza in a hundred miles.

  “It’s hot,” Kurt said.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes. Sheriff Brooke seemed to enjoy the pizza thoroughly.

  “Okay, all right. I confess,” I said.

  “What to?” he asked. “Damn, this pizza’s good.”

  “I had lunch with Zumwalt. Don’t look at me like that. He invited me.”

  “Did he confess to the murder of his ex-wife?”

  “Don’t give me that condescending attitude, Sheriff. Of course he didn’t confess.”

  “Well, John Murphy confessed to you but not to us, that he was having an affair. I just thought maybe Zumwalt might follow his example.”

  “Murphy told me he was having an affair so that I could lay my own demons to rest. He had no intentions of any of you finding out. He told me he’d deny it if it got to police level.”

  “So? What did Zumwalt say?”

  “He said we were investigating the wrong family member.”

  “Who does he want investigated? Jeff and Rita?”

  “I can only assume,” I said through a piece of pizza. “He alluded to a lot. And he told me everything with the risk of being exposed wholeheartedly as a pervert.”

  “They don’t put you to death for being a pervert,” he said.

  “They should.”

  “Well, they don’t. But they do put you to death for coldblooded murder. I think I would choose the same way he did.”

  He always finds the string to unravel my carefully crafted theory.

  “I’d like to talk to some of her employees at the antique shop,” I said.

  “We already did that.”

  “Yeah, but did you ask them about Jeff and Rita?”

  “What do you know?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Something just doesn’t feel right, that’s all.”

  Kurt came back to the table then, smiling his contagious smile. “Need anything else?”

  “You can refill this soda for me. Otherwise we’re okay,” I said.

  “Sure. Just leave when you’re finished. You know your money isn’t any good here.”

  Sheriff Brooke raised an eyebrow at that statement. I smiled sweetly. See? Some people like me.

  “You tell that gorgeous mama of yours that I said hello,” Kurt said as he walked away.

  “I will.”

  Sheriff Brooke gave me a strange look. It was as if he had seen me for the first time.

  “What?”

  “Is there nobody in this town that looks at you the least bit objectively?”

  “What the heck do you mean by that?”

  “I think they should make you honorary mayor. You have the entire town eating out of your hand.”

  “I do not.”

  Do I?

  After several moments of silent contemplation he finally said, “So, how is that gorgeous mother of yours?”

  “Too old for you.” Oh God, I couldn’t believe I actually said that. I turned a deep red; I could tell by how hot my face suddenly became.

  “You’re so protective of her.”

  “Look, can we get back to the investigation here?”

  “Hey, don’t get any bright ideas. The only reason I shared this part about the girls with you was to show you how dangerous Ortlander is. I want you to promise you’ll stay away from him.”

  “I have no intentions of ever going back to see him,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “’Cause this is my investigation. You are a civilian and I could throw you in jail for interference.”

  “You won’t,” I said, and smiled. He did
not smile at me. Instead he gave me the scowl that is his trademark.

  I get the funny feeling that he hates me.

  NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

  THE NEWS YOU MIGHT MISS

  by Eleanore Murdoch

  My deepest sympathies to Mayor Bill Castlereagh, whose restaurant, the Old Mill Stream, finally succumbed to Mother Nature. It is such a calamity. But thanks to our own Torie O’Shea, Elaine Dinwiddie, Chuck Velasco, and others, the Castlereaghs were able to save most of the contents within the building. The museum is opening soon. Volunteers are needed. Sign up at the Gaheimer House.

  Ricky Reaves, owner of the Birk/Zeis Home, is pleased to announce that his wife gave birth to a darling little girl that looks just like him. He is particularly pleased that she looks nothing like his mother-in-law. After sixteen hours of labor, the beautiful girl weighed in at seven pounds and 14 ounces. They named her Katherine Rose. Until next time.

  Eleanore

  Eighteen

  It was Friday morning and I was at my office at the historical society. It was too early for the Pershings, I was hoping. I thought I’d find Sylvia’s missing file and catch up on some work before they came in, and maybe that would make up for my slacking off lately. Besides, my father and his buddies were coming for the jam session that night, and I wouldn’t get anything done all weekend.

  The Midwest had made the covers of every major news magazine that there was, because of the flood. Our levee was still holding, and it actually seemed like the water had gone down a few inches.

  I thought I would do a flood theme for the museum opening. Surely there had been a flood in the past that made the news, and that would tie in quite interestingly. Sylvia kept all of the newspapers on file downstairs in the basement, so I headed down there to see what I could find.

  It’s not a basement, really. It’s more of a cellar. The steps are just unfinished boards, and the floor and walls are concrete, resulting in a musty odor. A lightbulb hangs from the ceiling, exposing wires. I have no idea how Sylvia can stand to come down here.

  Filing cabinet number one: nothing of interest. Filing cabinet number two: newspapers. I opened the drawer and inside was every page of every copy of the New Kassel Gazette that had ever been printed. Each one had been laminated so that it wouldn’t tear or yellow, and was filed according to year.

  Well, I didn’t know what year a flood had occurred, so I would be there all day or I’d have to ask Wilma when she came in. But I was hoping to be finished before they came in. I glanced around the room, and my eyes landed on the filing cabinet on the other side of the room, which I had never looked in. It was the one filing cabinet that had no tags to tell me what was inside, and the one cabinet that was usually locked. Only this time, the top drawer was open by about an inch.

  I opened the drawer and inside were files, with no headers, but neat, as all of Sylvia’s records are.

  Every file seemed to pertain to Hermann Gaheimer or the Gaheimer family in some way. One file even contained old photographs, one of which I recognized as being of Hermann Gaheimer.

  Then I found it.

  I, Hermann Gaheimer, being of sound body and mind, do hereby declare this, my last will and testament.

  Cool. This would make a great display under glass at the museum. My eyes flicked down the page, and my heart caught in my throat.

  I do hereby bequeath all of my worldly possessions, and the sum of one million, six hundred forty dollars, to my beloved Sylvia Pershing.

  Holy cow. I dropped the piece of paper back into the file and slammed the drawer shut so fast, I barely got my hand out of the damn drawer. Sylvia Pershing! He left everything to Sylvia. Why the hell would he do that? What was it I was saying a while back about Sylvia couldn’t possibly have known him that well?

  Jesus, what had I found?

  Just then I heard the door shut upstairs and couldn’t believe my misfortune that one of the Pershing sisters, if not both, had come to work this early.

  “Victory!” Sylvia shrilled. “Victory, are you here? If you don’t answer, I’m going to get my gun and shoot whoever is driving your car, pretending to be you.”

  “Yes, Sylvia. I’m down here.”

  She descended the steps with more agility than I could muster. Her silver gaze scraped me from head to toe. “Whatever are you doing down here?”

  Could she tell that I knew something that I wasn’t supposed to know? Because it seemed like she knew what I was thinking.

  “Uh, the flood. I thought I’d do a display under glass of the flood, and I wanted to tie in a flood from before, only I didn’t know what year there was a flood before, or even if there was one. A flood, I mean. Was there one? I wonder. I mean you would know, wouldn’t you? Being so old and everything. Not that I think you’re terribly old. Just partially old.”

  “Victory, are you all right?” she asked me.

  “Of course, never been better. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re acting like you’re on some of those street drugs that I saw on 20/20 the other night.”

  “Huh, fancy that.”

  Her perusal of me became more intense. If I didn’t get out of the basement soon, I would die.

  “Victory, are you pregnant?”

  “God, no,” I said, giggling. “I mean, not that I couldn’t be, because I could be. But rather that I’m not, because I know I’m not. At least, the last time I checked I wasn’t.”

  “Nineteen forty-two,” she said. “That was the last big flood. The mill and the Birk/Zeis Home had four feet of water in them. And the Murdoch Inn, which was a private residence I believe in 1942, had about the same. We didn’t have a levee back then,” she said, and headed back up the steps.

  She stopped, looking at the filing cabinet on the other side of the room for what seemed like an eternity. It was as if she suddenly remembered that she had left it open or unlocked. And now it was shut. I finally got the guts to look her in the eye. She did not say a word, but rather communicated in silence.

  The problem was, I was not certain what those silver eyes were trying to say to me.

  Nineteen

  It is impossible to sleep when a jam session is going on on the first floor of your home. At least, if you’re over thirty. My children didn’t seem to be the least bit deterred from their sleep and were actually snoring. Rudy had found that if he took his pillow and blanket out to the back porch he could get a few winks.

  My father and his musical companions had pounded out six different versions of “Waltz across Texas.” I was getting no sleep at all and couldn’t see any in the near future. So if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Which is what I always did as a child anyway. I pulled on my sweats and headed downstairs.

  What the heck, I’d even have a beer.

  Dad was situated on a kitchen chair that he had pulled into the living room, playing the guitar. I remember when I was a child, when Dad would sit on the couch and play, I would lie on his lap, between him and the guitar and feel the vibrations of the instrument. Eventually I would go to sleep. It is one of my most cherished memories.

  Dad had his faults, but he had a good side, too. His bad side was that he liked to chase women, even when he was married. When he wasn’t chasing women, he would disappear without a word, only to return in a week. He had usually been at a jam session. If he was home, he was having a jam session. Am I repeating myself here?

  He’s also a slob. I washed his coffee cup one time, quite by accident, and I had a crazed lunatic on my hands. I actually thought he was going to cry, because now it would take six months to get that much grime back in his mug. In the meantime, his coffee just wouldn’t taste the same.

  The good side of Dad was that he was a damn good musician. Could have been professional, but why he didn’t would take up more time than I have to explain it. Let it suffice to say that it was his own doing.

  He always provided for us. He has a wicked sense of humor and always taught me to be true to myself because I was who I had to
face every morning in the mirror.

  His brother, Uncle Melvin, played lead guitar. Uncle Melvin was the heartthrob of the family. In his younger days he had sandy brown hair that lay in perfect waves and ocean green eyes. No matter how much he ages, he will always have those gorgeous eyes.

  Bob Gussey was nearly four hundred pounds and played the drums. I can never figure out how that little drummer’s stool actually holds him. Pete Ramey played the bass. He was your suit-and-tie kind of guy with a needle nose that my grandmother could quilt with. Josh Rizzoni was on violin and occasional piano. He had—are you ready?—twelve children. He wasn’t sure if they were all his, but he loved them all just the same.

  All they were missing was a slightly woozy female with a halfway decent alto voice. Tonight, I filled the position for them.

  I have no idea how many Patsy Cline songs I managed to butcher. I stopped counting at four. But I know I did a respectable version of Dinah Washington’s “What a Difference a Day Makes.”

  Rudy stumbled in sometime around 3 A.M., long enough to be dutifully ashamed and embarrassed for me. I’d let him carry the brunt of shame because I was having entirely too much fun. I’d even brought my own lampshade. I was having so much fun, I wasn’t thinking about Norah or Sylvia, none of it. I also wasn’t keeping track of how many beers that I was drinking, which is dangerous because two will make me forget my name.

  It was in this diversionary frolic that I lost myself completely. Until I heard it.

  I was leaned over the arm of the couch watching the hair on Uncle Melvin grow, and listening to my dad moan out the words to a George Jones song. Something about a woman and a Corvette. Something like a man was complimenting another man on his car, and he really meant the woman in the front seat. A woman. A Corvette. Red Corvette. Red. Red. Red. Rita Schmidt.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t made the connection before. It took the words of that song to bring it together in my properly pickled brain. Rita drove a red sports car. Cora had said that a woman in a red car had almost run them over in the parking lot.

  I sat up on the couch as straight as I could without pitching myself forward. Rita was having an affair with her mother’s boyfriend. I’d bet on it. That would certainly explain Norah’s obvious obsession with confirming the identity of the other woman. I had a definite feeling that she knew who it was. She knew it was her daughter. It all made sense.