Thicker than Water

by Rett MacPherson

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Also by Rett MacPherson

  Copyright

  TO ALTERNATE HISTORIAN

  Mark Sumner

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to thank the following people: Everybody at St. Martin’s Press, especially my editor, Kelley Ragland, and her assistant, Carly Einstein. My agent, Merrilee Heifetz, and all the people at Writers House. You guys have been wonderful.

  My writer’s group, the Alternate Historians: Tom Drennan, Laurell K. Hamilton, Martha Kneib, Debbie Millitello, Sharon Shinn, and Mark Sumner for all of their endless support and help, both professional and personal.

  To Evelyn Tucker, D.R.E., Sister Florence Wesselmann, SSND, and Father Edward Ramatowski of Assumption Parish, for leading the way and turning on the light. Also, thanks to all of the umpteen doctors who fixed me. (Well, okay, I’m a work in progress!) And Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Green for immeasurable support and help this year.

  And a special thank you to my husband, Joe, and to my kids for all of their love and inspiration.

  One

  I think you have forgotten your promise.

  I stared at the words on the postcard, all curved and fancy, in ink that at one time must have been black but now had turned a very nice Vandyke brown. The words were written about eighty years ago, according to the nearly illegibly smeared postmark. On the front of the postcard was a photograph.

  A great many postcards from the first quarter of the twentieth century were photographs. I have a few in my possession, sent by my great-grandmother Bridie to a cousin of hers in California. On the front of them usually were photographs of my great-grandmother, and on the back, just a few words—sometimes just a simple Compliments of Bridie, Panther Run, West Virginia.

  One such postcard had a photograph of the Panther Run boardinghouse with all the workers and occupants standing out front. Another was a photograph of Bridie with two neighbors and a cousin, looking simply en vogue in their big hats, lace-up boots, and hemlines that had crept up to their ankles.

  This postcard was different. For one thing, it didn’t belong to me. Well, at least not until a few weeks ago. I am Torie O’Shea, certified genealogist, which sounds much more important than it really is. Basically, it means I know how to dig around dusty old papers and records and find what people are looking for—and, more often than not, a boatload of things they’re not. I’m also a tour guide for the historical society in a little German river town on the Mississippi in east-central Missouri, giving tours in its headquarters, the Gaheimer House.

  At least that is who I used to be. Now I am the sole owner of the Gaheimer House and all its contents. I am nearly a millionaire if you count all of the money, property, and houses that my former boss Sylvia Pershing left me. Yes, me. Why, you ask? Hell if I know. I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.

  Sylvia died suddenly a few weeks ago while I was on vacation with my husband, Rudy, and my stepfather, Colin. I say “suddenly,” but Sylvia was 102 years old and some change. I didn’t know exactly how old she was until after she was dead. I can’t express how much it bothered me that her hundredth birthday had come and gone and nobody had a big celebration. How could we? Nobody had known how old she was, and even if we had, Sylvia would not have liked a big fuss made over her. Still, her death had been unexpected. At least I had been unprepared, since I had been convinced that she would live forever.

  The phone rang in my office, a room that seemed terribly cramped and quiet since I had come home from Minnesota. I used to think it was cozy and quaint. Now only the hum of the soda machine could be heard in this ancient two-story house. I answered, “This is Torie.”

  “It’s your mother.”

  “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  “I made fried chicken. Too much even for Colin to eat. You and Rudy and the kids want to come by and eat dinner with us?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Tor-ie,” she said in her best motherly voice. “You’re not hungry? You’re always hungry. Especially for food you don’t have to cook.”

  “Haven’t been hungry in weeks,” I said, ignoring the last remark.

  “You’re depressed.”

  “I’m not depressed,” I said. “I’m just…”

  “Yes?”

  “Distracted. And … and busy. Do you know how much stuff has to be done here? Way too much to take time out to eat,” I said. Which was a lie. Normally I could eat at any time, any place. I’d just order a pizza, eat, and do my work. But since I had watched them put Sylvia in the ground … Well, I’m just not hungry.

  “Distracted, my butt,” Mom said.

  “I’ll send Rudy and the kids over to eat. I wouldn’t have time anyway.”

  “If I may be so bold,” my mother said.

  “I thought that was my line. You’re never bold. You’re always the perfect lady.”

  “You need some help going through Sylvia’s belongings,” she said. “Why don’t you call somebody to help you?”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “And Rudy won’t stop and ask for directions,” she said. “That’s how frustrating it is watching you do this by yourself. I know you need help, but you just won’t stop and ask for directions.”

  “Mom—”

  “Get some help.”

  “Who? Helen has her own business to run, Charity’s babysitting her brother’s twins, Collette is busy with her own career—everybody I can think of is too busy,” I said.

  “How about your sister?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Stephanie had found out she was pregnant and decided to take a leave of absence from her teaching job. Maybe she would be available for a few weeks. “I’ll call her.”

  “Good,” she said. “You shouldn’t be in that stuffy home all by yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.” I guess she was proof that once a mother, always a mother. I actually found a bit of joy in that thought. I would get to drive my children crazy until I was old and shuffled off this mortal coil. Something to look forward to.

  “I’ll send home leftovers with Rudy.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  We said our good-byes, and I hung up the phone and fingered the postcard in my hand. It was addressed to Sylvia, but there were no words on the postcard other than I think you have
forgotten your promise.

  No signature. Nothing. Just those seven words. I couldn’t explain why that bothered me so much. I couldn’t help but think about what the promise could have been and why she hadn’t kept it. Or maybe she had kept the promise once she received this gentle reminder. Had this postcard made her spring into action? Or had she just left the promise unfulfilled?

  I found it difficult to believe that Sylvia would not have kept her word.

  Sylvia was a hateful, cantankerous spitfire, but she was an honorable person. Maybe that’s why this bothered me so much. I didn’t want to believe that Sylvia hadn’t kept her word. And there was nobody to ask about this mystery. Her sister, Wilma, had died about two years ago, and her brother had died years and years ago. The only people left would have been her brother’s descendants and most of them were entirely too angry at the fact she didn’t leave them anything in her will to speak to me.

  So I supposed I would never know. And for me, that’s just not acceptable. There are tons of things that I don’t know in this world, but I am unaware that I don’t know them, and therefore don’t care. But this—well, this would drive me crazy.

  To make matters worse, the image on the front of the postcard was of a small child, about three or four years old, dressed in a tattered winter coat, striped leggings, and shoes with a big hole in the toe of the left one. I assumed the child was a girl because of the leggings and the hat—and the fact that she had a doll, with only one eye, tucked under her arm. The girl stared back at the photographer with contempt and … defiance.

  I stood and stretched, grabbed some change out of a bowl on my desk, and stepped into the hallway for a soda. I automatically looked to my right, nearly expecting to see Sylvia standing in the kitchen, steeping tea. She wasn’t there, of course. She would never be there. I was surprised by how much I missed her. Or maybe it was guilt. All those times I spewed venom about her, and here she left me the Gaheimer House, everything in it, three hundred thousand in cash plus a life insurance policy, and several homes throughout town and even out of town.

  The Dr Pepper was sitting in the bottom of the machine, waiting for me to pick it up. I didn’t remember hearing it drop. I went back to my office with the soda in hand and picked up the phone and dialed my sister.

  “Hey, Steph,” I said, popping the can open. “It’s Torie. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  Two

  New Kassel, Missouri, is my favorite place in the whole world. All that I hold dear resides within its boundaries. It’s hard to explain, really, but for me, New Kassel is almost a person. She has her own personality, her own moods, her own rhythms, and definitely her own voice. She speaks to me quite often. I love the Mississippi that rolls along and, for the most part, gently caresses the edges of town. The Mississippi can, however, remind us who’s boss, and has on a few occasions. From my bedroom window I can see the tugboats and barges coming and going along the river. I wait eagerly every spring for the lilacs to come into bloom, and for Tobias Thorley’s prizewinning roses to make an appearance every June.

  I walked along River Pointe Road and entered the Lick-a-Pot Candy Shoppe, where Helen Wickland—another lifelong resident—was scoring her latest batch of fudge. The smell of sugar was so heavy it made my mouth water. I felt like an experiment by that Pavlov guy.

  “What kind did you make?” I asked.

  Helen looked up and over the rim of her glasses. “Torie, hey,” she said. “Peanut butter.”

  “Oooh, give me a pound,” I said. It sounded good. It smelled good. Now, if only I could remember to actually eat it.

  “You look like you’re losing some weight,” Helen said.

  “Really?” I asked and looked down at myself. “Burning the candle at both ends.”

  “A lot to do?” she said and gestured in the general direction of the Gaheimer House.

  “Tons,” I said.

  Helen was a decade or so older than I was, with heavily frosted short hair and a pleasant smile. She was usually the person who filled in for me at the Gaheimer House and, indeed, had been doing my tours when Sylvia died.

  “Maybe when I get this fudge done for the Strawberry Festival, I can help,” she said.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “My sister’s coming down to help for a while.”

  “Well, that’s good,” she said.

  “Actually, I was here to talk to you about the Strawberry Festival,” I said.

  “Oh, sure,” she said, and wiped her hands on a towel sitting on the counter.

  “You’ve got somebody to run the store those weekends, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Scott’s going to forgo the car show up in St. Charles and man the store.”

  “So, I can count on you at booth number four on Saturday from seven to three and”—I fished a piece of paper out of my pants pocket—“and booth number two on Sunday from noon to four.”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “Great,” I said.

  “Have you inspected this year’s batch yet?” Helen asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “I’m on my way over there now.”

  “I hear it’s the best yet,” Helen said.

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Torie, are you all right?” Helen asked.

  “Fine. Just tired,” I said and started to go.

  “Oh, you forgot your fudge,” Helen said, laying the slab on the counter. She went to the cash register and punched in some numbers. “It’s—”

  I handed her a twenty. “Keep the change.”

  It was June in New Kassel. Quite frankly, May, June, and October are the best months in central Missouri. May and June are warm but not too humid, and everything is green. The past few years have been really dry, so by the time July gets here, the trees and grass are turning brown. But June—well, June is warm, green, and lush. I walked along, making the turns where I needed to, without really paying attention to what street I was on. I didn’t need to. I knew the town that well. Within a few minutes, I found myself at Virginia Burgermeister’s door.

  I knocked and waited. A round, gregarious, pink woman answered the door, wearing a chartreuse apron over a very old peach paisley dress. Close to seventy, Virgie Burgermeister, the mother-in-law of Charity Burgermeister, was one of the nicest people in the world. Her cooking could rival even my mother’s.

  She was our Head Jam Maker. In this town, that was a very important title.

  “Virgie, good to see you,” I said.

  “Come on in, Torie.” She swung the door open. “I was expectin’ you to come by soon. You wanna taste this year’s batch?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  I walked through her small and very claustrophobic two-bedroom house. Much of the claustrophobia was due to the gold shag carpeting on the living room walls. True, it made the house quite soundproof, and it hadn’t kept her from hanging a large gilt mirror on one wall and a family portrait on the other. But walls should not be furry.

  The kitchen, thank goodness, was not furry. Down the steps and into the basement we went. There I was greeted with what seemed like a thousand pressure cookers, four stoves, and a million jars of strawberry jam. This year’s batch. Okay, maybe not a million jars, but damn, it was a lot of jam.

  “Pick a jar,” she said with a wave of her arm, like one of those six-foot-tall models on The Price Is Right. She smiled brightly at all of this year’s hard work.

  I walked over and picked a jar at random, opened it, and looked around for a spoon, which she miraculously produced from thin air. I tasted it, and it was delicious. Just tart enough, but with lots of sweet to go with it. Smooth and fruity.

  “Now try the preserves,” she said and pointed to a small stack in the corner. She never made as much preserves as she did jam. I tried a jar of preserves, and it tasted very much like the jam, only with chunks of fruit in it.

  “And the jelly?” I asked.

  Virgie gave me a disgruntled look. “I’m afra
id Krista had to do the jelly. My jelly-making fingers just weren’t workin’ this year.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering how different her jelly-making fingers were from her jam-making fingers. “Well, I’m sure that’s fine.”

  Why hadn’t I known Krista was making the jelly? It wasn’t like me to miss out on that kind of detail.

  “Delia made fifty pies, I heard,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. “Are those to sell or for the pie-eating contest?”

  “Delia would not waste her time on pies somebody was going to shove their face into. No, those pies were made by Mrs. Castlereagh.”

  The mayor’s wife.

  “All right,” I said. “Well, it looks like everything’s ready to go. Bands will be here on time. Booths have people to work them. I’ll see you all this weekend.”

  “Here,” Virgie said. She handed me the open jars of jam and preserves and then handed me two more of each, unopened. “You look like you’re losin’ weight.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said.

  I headed up the steps, with Virgie close behind. When we were at the top of the stairs, she retrieved the jars from me long enough to put them in a plastic bag. “Rudy coming by the usual time to load up the jars?”

  “He should be by with the truck about five in the morning on Saturday.”

  “Good,” she said. “Take care now.”

  “Right,” I said and was escorted out the door.

  * * *

  By the time I arrived home I was weighted down with fudge, jam, preserves, and a half dozen of Tobias’s prizewinning roses. Before I could open the door, Rudy opened it for me. “Hi, honey!” He smiled and hugged me while I still stood on the threshold.

  “What did you do?” I asked. Normally he stays snug in his recliner. He never meets me at the door.

  “I didn’t do a blasted thing, for once,” he said.

  “What did the kids do?”

  “Well…” he said and ushered me inside. “Nothing, really. I mean, Rachel passed out at band camp, but since some cute trumpet player caught her it isn’t nearly as much of a tragedy as it would have been.”

  “What? Is she okay?”