“I don’t know. It’s not like he witnessed the perp walking into the house. Now that we know how the perp was getting in, there’s no way Mr. Walker could have known about it.”
“You said Eleanore knew about Mr. Walker?”
“Yes,” he said. “Are you suggesting Eleanore is the perp?”
“No. She’s all bark, no bite. But she could have told somebody else in town.”
“Like, maybe she told the wrong somebody?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll ask her who she told,” he said. “And I’ll make it official business.”
I took a bite of a vegetable egg roll. “Okay, here’s what I think about the tunnel.” I pulled a few pieces of paper out of a file and a book. “Hermann Gaheimer built this house in late 1861. He didn’t actually move into it until about 1862. The exact date is sketchy, and so we’ve always just told the tourists that the house was built in the mid-1860s to be on the safe side. I am convinced that he built the stairwell and the tunnel when he built the house.”
“Why?” Colin asked.
“Because, if you look at the house, there are no additions. Nothing’s been changed. He had to have this space allocated from the get-go,” I said. “I haven’t been able to find original blueprints of the house or anything. I do have Hermann’s diaries, which I read several years back. That’s when I learned that he and Sylvia had had their torrid affair.”
“She was about twenty and he was how old?” Colin asked and then shoved his mouth full of food.
“Old enough to be her grandfather,” I said. “He never mentioned the tunnel or any clandestine activity that went on.”
“Did you expect him to?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Maybe. At any rate, the house was built at the start of the Civil War. I know that Hermann Gaheimer was completely antislavery. He was a total abolitionist.”
“Okay? So?”
“Colin, what do you know about the Underground Railroad?”
“Mmmm, that’s how the slaves escaped to the North,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “but they didn’t actually ride on a railroad, and they didn’t just walk to Canada or the northern states without help. The white people along the way, the safe houses, were the Underground Railroad. Many of these abolitionists lived in slave states, and they hid the slaves in cellars or compartments in the walls. You get where I’m going with this?”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “You think Hermann was one of the contacts on the Underground Railroad?”
“Yes,” I said. “It makes perfect sense. Even the poem carved in the wall of the tunnel. ‘Out of this shelter … my life be born.’ It’s even dated 1862.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Well, contrary to what most people think, Missouri was a slave state.”
“It was?”
“Yes. It was brought into the union as a slave state. The government added the state of Maine to the Union to bring balance back in.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maine was not a slave state. The government didn’t want one or the other to get the upper hand,” I said. “It was called the Missouri Compromise.”
“Oh, I remember that,” he said.
“So the secrecy was because if anybody found out, Hermann’s life would have been endangered. Antiabolitionist sentiments ran pretty high for a while, long after the emancipation. If Hermann ever told Sylvia, she probably chose not to tell anybody just because Sylvia was weird like that. She was always so secretive. But I don’t think she knew.”
“But still, if this is all true, what Hermann did was not only brave, it was very humanitarian. He should get some recognition for it.”
“I have a feeling that Hermann wasn’t about recognition, Colin. Here’s his ledger,” I said. “All through the years between 1862 and 1865 he has several entries for the amount of five dollars. Quite a bit of money back then. The only clue he gives as to who it went to was the letter S. I think this was the money he gave to the slaves to get the rest of the way out of the state.”
“You just have his ledgers sitting around?” Colin asked with an incredulous look.
“No, they’re on a shelf in Sylvia’s old office. I grabbed them when I came up from the basement. Along with his diary. But there’s no need for me to read that. I’ve already read it. It does make me want to read through all of his correspondence now.”
Colin thought a moment. A contemplative silence filled the room. Finally, “Weren’t the slaves freed before 1865, though?”
“Well, the Emancipation Proclamation was issued in the fall of 1862, but it didn’t go into effect until January first of 1863. Even then, there was really no way for the government to enforce this proclamation. Basically, the slaves were freed as the Union took more territory. Some, obviously, weren’t freed until the very end of the war. So throughout the war, there were slaves running to freedom.”
“So now we know who built the tunnel and why.”
“Yes. In fact, Hermann owned the land and the shack where the tunnel empties out. That was his fishing shack,” I said and handed Colin a piece of paper showing the survey map.
“All right, so that mystery is solved. Now all we need to know is who, in the present day, figured out it was there and has been using it,” Colin said.
“That’s going to be a wee bit trickier,” I said. “It could be anybody. It could be somebody from twenty miles away who happened upon it one day when he was hunting or fishing.”
“True,” he said. “But what would somebody like that have to gain from scaring you and your sister?”
“Nothing,” I said. The hair stood up on my arms. I had forgotten this was personal. Suddenly I didn’t want my Chinese food. I set my container down out of the way.
“Eat,” he said. “You’re losing weight.”
“If I were trying to lose weight, people would say that with a lilt in their voices. ‘Hey, girl, you’re losing weight. Looking good.’ But if I’m not trying it’s like, ‘Oh, you look awful. You need to eat.’ Makes no sense.”
“Your mother’s worried.”
“She’s a mother.”
“I guess you don’t have a clue as to who is doing this?” he asked.
“Have you checked out Sylvia’s family? They are the only ones who would stand to gain if something happened to me. They are the only people who might hold a grievance against me. Well, other than the mayor.”
“I’ve spoken with them,” Colin said. “Most of them couldn’t care less. Only one of them, really, thought that they were entitled to something.”
“Well, that’s what they’re saying, anyway. That doesn’t mean that’s how they really feel.”
“True,” Colin said. “I’ll check out their alibis for the Strawberry Festival and today when Mr. Walker was attacked.”
“And for all the times Steph or I reported a disturbance.”
“Right,” he said.
“There’s just one thing that bothers me, Colin.”
“Only one?”
“It’s Sylvia. Sylvia heard noises, and we have reason to believe it was the perp who was standing at the foot of her bed one night,” I said. “Somebody was stalking her before she died. That doesn’t sound like a disgruntled heir. How could her family have known before she died that they weren’t going to get anything? Would the whole thing even have occurred to them? And how would stalking her make her change her will?”
Colin stopped chewing.
“No, this is about something else, Colin. I feel it. I don’t think this is about money at all.”
“Unless there’s somebody out there who wants revenge for something,” he said.
“Exactly. But what? And why would I inherit the grudge, too?”
He put his chicken chow mein down on the desk. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I need to take you home and call it a night.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let me just grab some things. I can do some research from my home computer.
”
“Can you access the records here from home?” he asked.
“Some of them. At least, everything I need tonight.”
Twenty-Five
When I finally arrived home it was well after nine and the kids were in bed already. I opened the door and took in the aroma of my house. Every house has a signature smell—whether it’s a pleasant odor or not—and when I smelled my house I immediately began to relax. It was home. Refuge.
Fritz trotted up to me, and I reached down and scratched the back of his ears. He plopped over on his back and bared his belly to me. “You have no shame,” I said to him.
“If I recall, I behave just like him when you scratch behind my ears,” Rudy said from the doorway of the kitchen.
“Hi,” I said. “Where’s your mom?”
“She decided to spend the night at her sister’s house.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
He shrugged.
“Look, Rudy,” I said, “I’m really sorry about … everything. I’ve been behaving, well, repulsively, actually.”
“I’m not totally blameless,” he said.
“No, I know,” I said. “You should have asked me if she could stay here. Regardless of what my answer would have been or how big the fight would have been, you should have asked.”
“I know,” he said.
“When my mother moved in, I specifically remember running it by you first.”
“I know,” he said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve been such a jerk,” I said. “I really need to speak to your mother.”
“She’ll be back in a few days. You didn’t think you would scare her off, did you?”
“No,” I said and laughed. I flopped down on the couch, and Rudy came over and sat next to me. He took my hand in his, and I leaned in and kissed him. “We can move if you want.”
“Not on your life!” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not yourself right now. You’re saying this based on the whole thing that happened with the historical society. If I took you up on it, within six months you’d want to come back,” he said.
“So are you saying you would move if I wanted to?”
“No.”
“Are you unhappy here?”
“No. This is my home,” he said. He paused for a moment. “Well, I’m not saying I wouldn’t like a new house. But I love New Kassel.”
“Good,” I said. “Let’s not discuss it again.”
“Fine with me,” he said.
I laid my head on his shoulder and just sat there like that for the longest time. Finally I started getting sleepy and decided it was time to go to bed.
I slept like a baby for about three hours, and then something woke me up. I hate that feeling. It’s almost like an invasion of my soul. I’m going along fine, sleeping, dreaming, doing that whole REM thing, and then, for no apparent reason at all, I’m awake, staring at the ceiling or the shadow puppets made by the tree branches outside my window.
When this happens, I usually strain my ears to pick up the faintest noises from downstairs. Is one of the kids up? Of course, I still have a baby monitor in the room for Matthew, so that helps to magnify whatever’s going on down in the rest of the house. Tonight, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The usual soft whispers of Matthew’s breathing and the occasional creak that most houses make were apparent. My mother always said, “The house is settling,” any time there was an unexplained noise.
But there were no unexplained noises. In one of those unsolved mysteries of the human psyche, I was simply awake. Why would one deliberately wake up if one didn’t have to?
I snuggled into Rudy’s back and pulled the covers up to my chin.
Hermann Gaheimer had been a conductor on the Underground Railroad.
How cool was that? In all the excitement earlier in the day, I hadn’t really had time to digest this news. This, of course, made me think of Sylvia. What would she have thought about this discovery? Of course, if Sylvia were alive I would never have discovered this, so there was no way, even in my greatest fantasy, that she could have found out. Still, I think she would be proud of him.
My mind raced with the idea. How many African slaves had he helped escape? I had found twelve entries in his ledgers where he’d given five dollars to S. But that didn’t mean S was one person. It could have been a whole family each time. There was simply no way I would ever know. There was also the possibility that S didn’t mean slave at all. Still, it was exciting just knowing that he’d been a part of the Underground Railroad, and that the Gaheimer House had such an honorable thing to add to its history. There was no mistaking the engraving on the wall.
Now I couldn’t sleep. I’d gotten my mind thinking and working, and now I was wide awake. It wasn’t fair.
I threw back the covers and went to my office adjacent to the bedroom. I booted up the computer and checked my mail. Laura James from the Iowa page had answered me.
Torie,
Thank you so much for the info. It’s at least a lead that I can follow now. How’s it going with the O’Shaughnessys?
Laura
I jotted a response and went to Google to begin my search for Wayne Junction. Within half an hour I knew where the photograph of Millie O’Shaughnessy had been taken: on the corner of Wayne Junction and Germantown Avenue in Germantown, Pennsylvania. Germantown is no longer separate from Philadelphia, but at one time it was its own city. It was made part of Philadelphia sometime in the 1850s. I knew this because I actually had a few ancestors—Mennonites—from Germantown. They left in the early seventeen hundreds, though, so I’d had no reason to do any research on the modern-day city.
I rubbed my eyes and yawned. All right, now I knew where the photograph had been taken, but it didn’t really get me any closer to knowing who the girl was or how Sylvia had known her or how she fit into Sylvia’s life. And why the heck did I care?
I think you have forgotten your promise.
That was why.
Well, whatever the promise had been, I wasn’t going to figure it out tonight. I went to the window and looked out at the river. The moon glinted off of the water like frosting on a deep blue cake. I reached for the phone and dialed Wisteria General Hospital. I asked for the ICU, and the nurse answered. It was after midnight, but there’s always somebody awake in a hospital. “Yes, I was wondering if you could tell me how Mike Walker is doing?”
“Are you a member of the family?”
Why do they always ask that? It makes me think the worst. “No, I’m just a friend.”
“He’s doing pretty good,” she said. “He’s stabilized. He’s in a lot of pain, but I think he’s out of the woods.”
“That’s good,” I said. “When can he have visitors?”
“As long as it’s only for a few minutes, you can come tomorrow,” the nurse said.
“Thanks,” I said.
I hung up the phone and went back to staring out at the river. I needed to pop in a movie—a boring one—and try to fall asleep. But watching the water was hypnotic, too, and if I stared at it long enough I would fall asleep standing right there. I love big bodies of water. They are so soothing. I have never lived in a place that is landlocked. No water for fifty miles in any direction—I can’t imagine what that’s like. If for no other reason, the Mississippi is great because it always gives you a sense of direction. If you’re headed toward the river, you’re headed east, at least in Granite County. But I love the sound of the water more than anything, and since the only things separating my house and the river were my yard, River Pointe Road, and the railroad tracks, I was close enough to hear it.
Just then I saw a silhouette walking along the river. It was human, as opposed to animal. The person was walking head down, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Then, almost as if he knew I was watching, he stopped and turned right toward my house. A full minute must have passed as the silhouette stared up at my house. Just s
tanding there.
I shivered all the way to my toes. “Rudy!” I ran to the bed. “Rudy, wake up.”
“I don’t care where the dog pooped, I’m fishing.”
“Rudy!” I said and shook him.
“What?” he screeched. “What? What?”
“There’s somebody outside.”
In the moonlight I could see the confusion on his face. His eyes crossed and he rubbed them. “Are you telling me you woke me up to tell me somebody is outside?”
“Yes.”
“He’s outside, we’re inside. What’s the problem?”
“Rudy, come and look!” I tugged on his arm.
He scratched his armpit and yawned. “You know, I only married you because I want to be beatified when I die.”
“Great, come here!” I said, still tugging on his arm.
He made his way around the pile of dirty clothes, managed to step on Fritz—who went scurrying under the bed—and stumbled over a pile of books. When his toe hit a box, he’d had his fill. “Dammit, Torie! If you want me to walk in the dark, you better make sure the path is clear! Oh, my toe!”
“Sorry,” I said.
“This better be good.”
“Right there,” I said and hid behind the curtains. “Out there by the river.”
Rudy said nothing as he looked out.
“Do you see him?”
“Torie,” he said, “it’s one of the homeless. You know, they walk the railroad tracks all the time.”
“No, no,” I said. “They don’t usually stare at you through the window and look menacing.”
“Maybe he’s wishing he had this house. You know, maybe he’s thinking back to his former life.”
I smacked myself in the head. “Ugh. He was staring right at me.”
“Well, when I saw him, he turned and walked away. He’s probably just dreaming of life in a real house,” Rudy said. “I can’t believe you actually woke me up for this.” He walked back to our bedroom and hit the same box with his toe on the way back. This time he let out a string of expletives a mile long. My name was attached to a few of them.
I looked back out the window and the person was gone.
Just as I turned to go I saw him standing under the tree in our front yard.
Thicker than Water Page 15