Blood Relations (4 page)

“Torie works for the Historical Society, and she might be better equipped to answer your questions than I,” the sheriff told the anchorman.

“What can you tell us?” he asked me.

I stared blankly into the camera for a moment, and then I cleared my throat. “Uh, well … in 1919, there was a steamer called
The Phantom
heading to Hannibal from Memphis. There were eighty people on board. We think … um … whatever it was that caused the boat to sink happened a little farther upriver, but the swift current probably brought the boat back south a little ways, until it sunk right there in that small cove.”

“Does anybody know what caused the boat to sink?” the anchorman asked.

I had to think about that a moment, because I didn't really know. There were theories. For once in my life, I actually thought about what to say instead of just saying what I thought. “I'll have to get back to you on that one, if you don't mind. I don't want to give you the wrong information.”

“So you're saying that at this time nobody knows what caused the boat to sink, or you
personally
don't have that knowledge?” he asked. The tone of his voice made me sound so stupid.

“I'm saying I'll need to read the file I have and let you know,” I replied.

“All right,” he said. “So, Mrs. O'Shea, were there any survivors?”

“Oh, yes. Fifty-six people survived and twenty-four died. Seventeen of those twenty-four were unaccounted for, including the Huntleigh heiress.”

“So, did the captain go down with the ship?” the anchorman asked.

“That's the theory,” I said.

“What else can you tell us about the boat?”

“Um…”

It had been so long since I'd thought about
The Phantom
that I couldn't come up with any of the specifics—such as when it left port, or even what it was carrying. Well, other than the rumor that there was a chestful of diamonds on board.

“And what of the heir to the Huntleigh fortune?”

“I just told you that her body was never found, either.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, like he'd just discovered a new planet in the solar system.

“You have to understand,” I said. “This was 1919. They didn't really have deepwater divers and equipment like we have nowadays. I think it's amazing that they recovered as many bodies as they did. Especially when you consider it was just the townsfolk here who pulled people out of the wreckage. It doesn't mean that there was a conspiracy of any sort. Nowadays, we quite possibly could have found all the bodies.”

“Is there anybody else in town who might speak to us about this?” he asked. “Somebody who would have been alive when
The Phantom
actually sunk?”

My boss, Sylvia, would have been about fourteen at the time of the wreck. Wilma was gone now; she could have told about it, too. The only other person in town I could think of who was old enough to remember the wreck would be Harlan Schwartz. He would have been about ten when it happened.

Sylvia wasn't likely to speak to the media. And Harlan … well, he probably would have, but I wasn't so sure I wanted him to. The last thing we needed was a swarm of outsiders to come down here and try to fish souvenirs out of the water. The less mystery, the better for New Kassel. My gaze flicked to where Sheriff Brooke was standing. The expression in his eyes said the same thing I was thinking. No drama. No mystery. Get them out of here.

“No,” I said. “I can't think of anybody.”

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. O'Shea,” the anchorman said.

When the camera was turned off, I was actually sorry to feel the warmth of the lights leave. Just as I was about to turn and walk back up the bank to town, the newsman grabbed my arm. “Can I make an appointment with you?” he asked.

“For what?”

“I'd like it if you'd review your files, or whatever it is you have, and then do another interview. Maybe then you'd be better equipped to answer more of my questions,” he said. “Or maybe you could just turn the files over to me and I can glean what I need.”

“Uh, well…”

“There's a time crunch, here, Mrs. O'Shea,” he said. “I want to be the first one to break an actual in-depth story. Ooo, you wouldn't happen to have photographs of the wreck in 1919?”

He was like a kid on Christmas morning.

“What is today … Wednesday?” I asked. “Come back Friday.”

“Tomorrow would be better,” he said.

“Friday,” I said, and walked up the hill.

I left him standing on the edge of the water, where the sheriff was guarding the wreckage. As I passed Chuck Velasco, I stopped. “If you talk to the reporters, don't tell them about the diamonds,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because, it's pure myth. Ungrounded theory. The last thing we need is people down here in the middle of the night in their scuba gear, looking for diamonds that aren't there, and have somebody end up dead. Plus, you know all the riffraff it would bring into the town,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied, looking down at his boots. “I hadn't thought of that. Besides, the fewer people who know, the less competition.”

He smiled brightly, as if it were all just a joke, but he'd already admitted earlier that he'd at least considered investigating the wreckage. “Chuck, stay away from that boat.”

“I will,” he said. “Jeez.”

I climbed up the hill and saw Deputy Newsome's car pull up. He was here with the crime-scene tape. Sheriff Brooke's car was not around, so he must have been off duty when he found out about the wreckage. I waved to Newsome as I headed back to my office, and he waved back.

Aside from Stephanie Connelly, the one thing that kept niggling at the back of my mind was Eleanore Murdoch, the town gossip and ink-slinger. If the reporters got an interview with her—and she'd all but beg to be put on camera—every tall tale and wild myth in the county would be flushed out.

Sure enough, the next morning the following article appeared:

THE NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

The News You Might Miss

By

Eleanore Murdoch

 

For all of you interested in supporting the local 4-H Club, raffles are being sold at Pierre's. Just two dollars can buy you a chance at winning that beautiful Bears Paw quilt that was donated by Evelyn Walters, and help the 4-H Club at the same time.

Ned Buckholt wanted me to print this: If he had known you were going to cut down every tree in the yard, he would have never sold you his house. His wife went into spasms, fainted, and had to be taken to the hospital to be revived.

Father Bingham is holding a snowman contest after church this coming Sunday. The winner gets a gift certificate to the Lick-a-Pot Candy Shoppe and three free horseback rides out at the Lucas Stables.

And last, but not least, you have all probably heard by now that the Mississippi is low enough that the wreck of
The Phantom
can be seen. The sheriff wanted me to urge each and every one of you not to go investigating on your own. He says the wreckage is unstable and can shift beneath your weight. So, stay away.

Until Next Time,

Eleanore

Four

Thursday evening, I found myself staring off into the distance of my home office. It's actually part of the attic—where our bedroom is—and is not entirely sectioned off, so I could see into the bedroom from my desk. I was supposed to be researching the 1919 wreck of
The Phantom
for Bradley Chapel, the Channel 6 news guy. But sitting on my desk in plain view was the questionnaire that Stephanie Connelly had filled out for me, and I could read the name Dwight Keith written in her perfectly legible cursive.

I hadn't slept much the previous night. Every time I'd get comfortable, I'd see her eyes. And then her face would sort of morph into my father's without the eyes changing at all. Then I'd roll over, thinking that the new position would somehow keep my mind's eye from seeing. It hadn't worked. About four o'clock in the morning, sleep finally won the battle with my rebellious brain, and I dozed off for about two hours.

“Earth to Torie,” Rudy said.

I snapped to attention now, realizing that half of the Tom Waits CD I'd been listening to was over, and I had no memory of hearing three of the songs. “I'm sorry. What?”

“How long have you been staring at our curtains?”

“God, I don't know,” I said, and tossed my pencil at the computer screen.

“What's up?” he asked, crossing his arms and standing in front of my desk. “You're listening to Tom Waits, so it must mean that you're wallowing.”

I just gave him a grave stare, ready to take his head off for just asking. But he didn't know what was troubling me, so there was no use in being angry at him. “I'm … I have to research the 1919 wreck for Channel 6 news.”

“I have never, in all the years I've known you, seen you this distraught over research,” he said. “You thrive on it.”

“I'm just distracted.”

“Why?” he asked.

“It's Rachel—”

“Don't give me the Rachel and the violence spiel. What's really wrong?” he asked. “You skipped breakfast, you picked at dinner, and now you're staring at the curtains. Not to mention that you've barely said five sentences to me all evening. And there're two things I know as sure as the sun comes up tomorrow.”

“What's that?”

“You love food and you love to talk even more.”

I leaned forward and rested my head in my palms. I gave a great sigh and then looked up at him. There was nobody better than Rudy to share this with. I had to tell somebody or my brain was going to melt. “There's this woman,” I began. “Stephanie Connelly.”

He shrugged. “Don't know her.”

“She took a tour of the Gaheimer House the other day. And then she came and asked me if I would trace her family tree,” I said.

“Nothing unusual about that.”

“She claims to be my sister.”

Rudy's forehead seemed to move an inch as his expression dropped. His brown eyes grew serious. “Well … is it … is she … Do you believe her?”

“No,” I said.

“No? Just like that?”

I said nothing for several minutes, and neither did he. He just looked at me, gauging my expression and what it meant. “We know she's not your mother's. So that leaves your father.”

“Oh, she claims to be his daughter all right,” I said.

“Did you ask your father about her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can't.”

“Then you'll never know if she's really your sister.”

“That's fine with me.”

Rudy looked shocked. “It is?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Think how this will hurt my mother.”

“Will it really hurt her? She already knows about his affairs when they were married. She's forgiven him. They're good friends now. I think she's mature enough to handle it,” he said. “Plus, she may already know.”

“No,” I snapped. “My mother would have told me.”

He shrugged. “What's the real reason?”

I took a minute, staring at the
Far Side
cartoon taped on my computer. Could I really answer this? Yes, I could. And it scared me how angry I felt. “Because if I don't ask him, then I'll never have to know that my father has been lying to me for thirty years!” I said. I choked on a sob but then got myself under control quickly. I refused to cry over this. And I had to think: Was this anger, or was it just good old-fashioned hurt and disappointment?

“She's suggesting that Dwight knows about her?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Do you?” I asked. “Do you really understand what this means?”

“I think so,” he said. He stood for a moment longer without moving or speaking. Then finally he came around my desk and knelt in front of me, taking my hands in his. “What does she want? Why did she contact you after all these years?”

“She says she wants to have a relationship with her sis—with me.”

“Have you thought about what that must mean to her?”

“I don't care what it means to her,” I said. I could feel my chin trembling, and it ticked me off. “Her world is still intact. Mine has been shattered.”

“Torie,” he said. “I think—”

“If you tell me I'm overreacting, so help me, I will divorce you right here and now.”

The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile, but he managed not to laugh at me. “I think you should ask your father about her. One way or another, you have to know the truth.”

“Why?”

“So you can deal with it,” he said. “You are the woman who has to know everything. You have to know every single thing that has ever happened, every thought anybody has ever had. And you're telling me you don't want to know if she really is your sister?”

“No, I don't. Just think of what it will do to all of my genealogy charts,” I said.

“Torie,” Rudy said with a smile. “Just
think
what it will do to all of your genealogy charts.”

“Yes, but shouldn't this be something that my father should tell me about? Voluntarily. Should I really have to drag it out of him?” I asked, infuriated at the thought of his cowardice.

“But he didn't tell you.”

“No, he didn't.”

“So, it's up to you.”

“Like it always is,” I said. And that was really what was at the core of it all.

Five

On Friday morning, I decided that one Stephanie Anne Connelly did not exist. She was a figment of my imagination and that was that. I would never think of her again.

I often do that—declare something is so, and then go about living as though it is, even though I know the delusion won't last forever. I am much too practical to be able to fantasize about anything for very long. But if pretending Stephanie Connelly didn't exist could get me through the weekend, then I would be happy with that. I was certain that Monday would roll around and the whole world would look different, and then I'd be in a better position to decide what to do about her.