When I reached the second floor, I realized that I had trapped myself.
“Why didn’t you leave it alone? After I’d warned you,” he said. “She didn’t deserve to live. She was weak.”
I could hear him as he found the stairs, and I knew that I had nowhere to hide. He’d find me in a closet, as I knew from experience, so I stood in the middle of the room and waited for him. It was dark, and only a vague outline of anything was visible.
“The woman never stood up to anything in her life. Never. She let her children walk all over her. She wouldn’t marry me. She was always the diplomat.” He came into view just then, what I could make of him.
“You killed her for that?” I asked. I thought if I asked him enough questions, I’d buy some time. For what I didn’t know. A rescue? My heart pounded over and over—I could feel it in my throat. I was dizzy, either from the bleeding on my scalp, or from the rush of blood from my heart pounding.
“She changed. Who would have guessed that she would grow a backbone?” he said. “I thought if I screwed her little girl enough times that I’d get a reaction from her. I’d force her to make a decision.”
“Only you didn’t bargain for the decision she gave you.”
“She became enraged. Said she was going to leave me for good.”
“So if you couldn’t have her nobody else could either?”
“Yes. I’d spent years with that woman. I suffered through those wacked-out children of hers, all her hang-ups, and in the end … she was going to dump me.”
He was holding something in his right hand. It was a good ten inches long, and I assumed that it was a knife. I knew that my letter opener was greatly inferior.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “This wasn’t about love or adoration. This was about money. You can pretend that it was some higher reason, but it was just the money. You thought eventually she’d marry you, and then you’d have her money. Or you’d kill her then and inherit the money.”
“Very good, Mrs. O’Shea,” he said.
“What about the dog? Are you the one that gave Rita the dog?”
He took a few steps closer to me, and I stiffened instinctively.
“That dog was carrying on like it was rabid. All I could think to do with it was take it with me,” he said, “just so it would shut up. I didn’t need the neighborhood alerted. I mean, I hadn’t actually intended to kill her. I just got so angry.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.”
He came at me with a force full of hatred and vengeance. I stepped back and screamed. I gripped the letter opener. My palms sweated so badly that I nearly dropped it. I raised the opener as high as I could, shaking all the while. I shoved it into his shoulder. It shocked him more than it hurt him, but it bought me a precious few seconds. I went for the window, realizing that the water would break my fall. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
I heard a whish by my ear. It was his knife. He missed and I stepped farther away from him. He lunged for me, and grabbed my hurt ankle. It stung more than it actually hurt. The force of him falling to the floor was more than the rotted wood could take. It split and we fell to the first floor with such force, it took my breath away for a few seconds, the water stinging my back.
Each of us was splashing, trying to be the first to stand. I still hadn’t gotten my breathing back to normal from the fall, and I felt fairly ragged. He grabbed me from behind, and I rolled to my back and saw the letter opener still lodged in his shoulder. I broke a foot free and kicked it, sending new pain racing through him.
This time, he punched me in the face, and I cried out in pain. The room spun. I felt a tooth pop and tasted blood, mixed with disgusting river water. He must have lost his knife somewhere in the fall, because he was intent upon drowning me. And he would have succeeded.
I tried to get to my feet to get away from him. He pushed me down into the water, his hands around my throat. I fought him with every ounce of energy I could muster. My feet kicked, my hands were on his face. I dug what fingernails I had into his face, hoping to hit an eye.
I pushed up with my stomach muscles, my body shaking from the strain. It was enough to get my face out of the water, but I still couldn’t get a breath. I had shifted positions enough that I could bring my knee up. I shoved it into his groin as hard as I could. His hands came loose, and I breathed too soon, sucking in river water.
I choked and sputtered on the water caught in my windpipe. I was sitting up now. There was no way that I could fight a grown man and win, and I knew it. Instinctively I scooted away from him. I felt a board crack beneath me. When he lunged this time, I leaned back on the board. It popped from my weight, the end of it shooting up out of the water. And right into the stomach of John Murphy.
NEW KASSEL GAZETTE
THE NEWS YOU MIGHT MISS
by Eleanore Murdoch
Tobias Thorley wants everybody to know that he takes his garden seriously. Now his statue of General Custer is missing. He plans to install motion detectors. This is a warning.
The New Kassel Bowlers did terribly poorly this year in the regional tournament. We will not even say where they placed. Bowlers are needed! Please sign up to replace the ones we have.
Also, the most exciting piece of news … Torie O’Shea has become our resident Terminator. She not only solved the murder of Norah Zumwalt, but actually fought the murderer and lost a tooth! It’s like the movies!
Good news. The floodwater has receded by two feet. It is going down! Let’s hope that it doesn’t deter the people from attending the opening of our new museum, which has already been put off a week.
Until next time. Torie, I await anxiously your next adventure.
Eleanore
Twenty-two
Somewhere, an accordion played.
It was the opening of the museum, which had been put off a week so that I could recuperate.
I stood in the New Kassel Museum, which was a two-hundred-year-old cabin relocated on the Gaheimer House grounds. I was in a re-created gown of 1889. It was a purple paisley gown with a slim skirt and smocking. It had a high neck, with wide lapels and slightly puffed sleeves. I even had an open lace parasol and large hat that Carmen Miranda would have died for except it was topped with flowers and feathers instead of fruit.
I had finished the flood display, complete with photographs of then and now. Wilma thought it was in dreadful taste, but Sylvia thought it most enlightening.
Sylvia stood next to me as I watched the first of the patrons file through the front door. I had said nothing to her about my discovery of Gaheimer’s will, and so far she hadn’t asked.
“Did you get all the information from the newspaper filing cabinet?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did you happen to look in the other filing cabinet on the opposite side of the room?” she asked. Her eyes narrowed. She wore a huckleberry silk dress, and pearl earrings. She looked quite lovely. Except for the suspicious look on her face.
“If I did, Sylvia, I would never tell anybody anything that I had seen.”
She blushed. “Did I say that I was worried about that? I simply want to know if you were snooping where you weren’t supposed to be.”
She was determined to make me give her a straight answer.
“Yes. I looked.”
“And what did you see?” she asked me.
“Nothing of importance.”
“You’ve ruined everything, you know.” She didn’t look at me now; she looked around the room. “Hermann did not want me to be scarred by the scandal. I can’t expect you to understand,” she said finally.
“I understand that you were very young and in love. I don’t think Mr. Gaheimer was as worried as you think. He would not have written his will with such affection.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“‘My beloved Sylvia,’” I said. “I think you were the one more concerned with what people would think. It’s okay, Sylvia. I won’t tell a soul. And
for what it’s worth, I don’t condemn you in the least.” In fact, it had actually shown me that Sylvia had been human. She had felt the most human of all emotions.
“You can’t possibly know,” was all she said. Evidently there was much more to it than I knew, or would ever know.
Just then Sheriff Brooke came in the building with my mother, my husband, and my daughters. I was relieved that nobody had been hurt in this adventure. All of my family and friends were safe. John Murphy, however, was very much dead.
I had listened to the sheriff give me a forty-minute lecture on the dangers of crime fighting. If I didn’t know better, I would swear that he was reading off of cue cards written by my mother and Rudy. He was right, of course. But I had also caught a murderer. I felt … well, I’m not sure how I felt.
The state was building a case against Michael Ortlander, at this moment, for the murders of Gwen Geise, Stella McClellan, Dorothy Davis, and the real Eugene Counts. It was quite possible that due to the age of these cases, he would never even go to trial. The case was old, and the trail cold. And I was going to have to appear in court to testify as to how I figured out his true identity. If this went to court, I would be needing the advice of my friend Colette more than ever.
I took great pride in telling Louise Shenk that her brother had not abandoned them. I wasn’t very thrilled to tell her that he’d been murdered by his friend. But the knowledge that he had not betrayed them made up for it. John Murphy had actually gone through with signing over the insurance money to Louise, I’m sure in an effort to proclaim his innocence all the more. Part of the money that she received was going to move Eugene Counts’s body to rest next to his mother, and for the first time in fifty years, put his correct name on the tombstone. When I visited her she cried, and was able to truly mourn her brother.
I had received a call from the Hill Top Nursing Home in yet another twist to this tale. Florence Ortlander had died in her sleep, at peace. The shocking thing was that she had left me that beautiful mauve Lone Star quilt that she had made. It now graces my bed, as it should, in a home full of love. I said a silent thank-you to God that I didn’t have to face her. She would have been able to read my face, and I just couldn’t destroy the fantasy of her only son.
My father walked in the door behind the rest of my family, looked around the room, and smiled at me. They all descended on me at the same time.
“Mom, you look so pretty,” Rachel said.
“Well, thank you.”
Dad came up next to me and hit me on the chin as he usually does, only this time, it hurt, thanks to the molar that I lost in the struggle with John Murphy.
“So,” he said. “Haven’t talked to you in a while. What’s new?”
Rudy laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “You need to come out of your shell a little more, Pop.”
Mary tried to hug my leg through all of the skirts and undergarments. I hugged her back as best as I could.
“Sheriff,” I said. “Have you spoken to Rita?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What did she say?” I asked. I had been wondering why she had not said anything about seeing John Murphy on Friday when he had dropped off Sparky.
“She said that it never occurred to her that anything was suspicious because John did take the dog to the groomers and to the vet once in a while, if Jeff was busy. It wasn’t until much later, when she realized that John was supposed to be out of town from Thursday night through the whole weekend, that she realized something wasn’t right. She mentioned it to her brother Jeff and never gave it any more thought,” he said. “I believe her. It never occurred to her that John would be capable of murder. So she just dismissed it.”
It would be a horrible thing to know that you’d been sleeping with a man capable of murder. Capable of murdering your mother. Maybe that would be punishment enough for her sins.
Jeff, on the other hand, had not dismissed it. He confronted John Murphy with the discrepancy in time. John passed him some lie, but he knew if Jeff could figure out the discrepancy it would only be a matter of time until I did. Which was why he came after me when he did. Jeff had actually called to thank me for everything and even called his newfound aunt Louise to see if she needed anything. I suppose people can change.
“Victory,” my mother said. “Sheriff Brooke has exciting news.”
“Really?” I asked. I looked from her to him. “What is it?”
“I bought Norah’s antique shop,” the sheriff said.
“You’re kidding?”
“No, really.”
“Are you hanging up your badge?” I asked.
“No. I just always wanted to own an antique shop. Besides, I like this town. I think I’m going to keep the name, though.”
Norah’s Antiques. Poor Norah.
Her life had not been her own. It was a nightmare from day one. Jeff insisted that his mother had spoken to Michael Ortlander, under the illusion that he was Eugene Counts. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had taken one look at him and known the truth.
She led a very sad life. Controlled by her husband, her children, and in a way, by the father she never knew. I was reminded of the words of one of my favorite authors, Henry James: “Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.”
If only somebody had shown some kindness to her.
Sheriff Brooke leaned close to my ear then, and whispered, “Now I can be closer to your mother.”
Read on for an exciting installment of A VEILED ANTIQUITY, the next Victory O’Shea Mystery by Rett MacPherson
One
I marched across the street still in my vintage clothing from the tour I had just finished. I wore a pink paisley-print gown with wide lapels, a high neck, puffed sleeves, and straight skirt. On my head was a large flowered hat that matched the dress. In one hand I carried a lace-trimmed parasol. In the other hand was a copy of the town newspaper.
I was a woman on a mission.
My mission was to find and strangle Eleanore Murdoch, the town gossip and inkslinger. She and her husband Oscar owned the Murdoch Inn, which sported a glorious view of the Mississippi River. Eleanore also had a teeny-weeny column in the New Kassel Gazette that caused more trouble than it did good. She fancied herself a writer of the highest degree. Nobody in town agreed with her, except maybe Oscar.
I walked determinedly down River Point Road, watching Old Man River roll along with the enthusiasm of a languid mule and noting in the air the faint evidence of the changing of the seasons.
It was September in New Kassel, Missouri. September in Missouri is usually one of two things: extremely hot or extremely cold. Missouri is never down the middle of anything except the continent. Today, however, was extremely nice.
The shops and houses bordered the street on my right, the river ran on my left, and the Murdoch Inn sat directly ahead at the end of the street. It was not the oldest building in New Kassel, but it was definitely the most delightful. Alexander Queen had it built in the 1880s. A porch with particularly delicate lattice and spiral works wrapped around the large, two-story Victorian building. The building was white with two turrets and an attic that had been renovated for use as guest rooms in addition to the rooms on the second floor.
I marched up the front steps of the inn with a copy of the last issue of the New Kassel Gazette under my left arm. I opened the door, found several guests lounging in the cozy, peach-colored living room, and couldn’t help but think how ridiculous I must look. A few guests waved, recognizing me.
I am the tour guide for the historic buildings in New Kassel. I deck out in vintage clothing, even the shoes. I’m also a member of the Historical Society, and as a result, I’m often recognized by the tourists. I waved back at the guests seated on the ecru-colored sofa, sipping tea from a silver tea set that sat on a mahogany table.
Shoes clopping on the wooden floor, I walked on until I found the hallway that led to the small office where
the customers checked in. Gilt-colored mirrors hung on cream-colored walls, with the doorways and woodwork trimmed in stark white. I entered the office, rang the tinny-sounding bell on the desk, and tapped my foot while I waited.
Out came Eleanor Murdoch from another door in the room. Now, I will give her some credit. Her column, until the last few months, had never been vicious. Inquiring to the point of invading privacy perhaps, but never vicious. She was overstepping ethical boundaries now. At least, my ethical boundaries.
She’s about forty-five, top-heavy, with a pretty face but terrible taste in jewelry. Big, bulky costume jewelry was all she ever wore, and it seemed as though she wore every piece she had all at one time.
She knew exactly why I was there, but still she smiled and said, “Hello, Torie. What can I do for you?”
Almost everybody calls me Torie. Not even my husband Rudy calls me Victory. My two daughters of course call me Mom, except when my oldest tried for a time to get by with calling me Victory. The only people who call me that are my mother and Sylvia Pershing. Both are women of consequence.
Eleanore stood with her hands clasped on the desk of the office, waiting for me to return her socially correct behavior, which I couldn’t do even if I hadn’t been completely furious with her. Most people who go by the laws of etiquette are actually as rude as the rest of us. They just disguise it.
I took a deep breath and swore I wouldn’t call her any names. I wouldn’t call her anything like hypocritical, vainglorious, snotty, gossiping battle-ax. No, nothing like that.
“Eleanore,” I began as I spread the newspaper out on the counter for her. “Perhaps you’d like to explain the meaning of this,” I said.
Her brown eyes barely flicked down to the newspaper. “I was hoping you could explain it a little more to me,” she said as she pulled a pencil and paper out of the top drawer. She was actually preparing to take notes. “I’m missing the finer points that are required to form the illiterate details of good writing.”
Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret Page 18