Thicker than Water (22 page)

Time was up. I couldn't do this one second longer. We said good-bye and wished her well. At the elevator, Rudy pushed the button. Neither one of us said a word for the longest time. Finally, Rudy said, “Why did we come to visit her, again?”

“Rudy.”

“That was God-awful, Torie. Absolutely horrible.”

“With my position in town, and especially with our new inheritance—not to mention we're her landlords—it's sort of expected of us.”

“Are you serious?”

“It comes with the territory, Rudy. Get used to it.”

*   *   *

Rudy pulled the car in at the Methodist church, which is actually almost to Meyersville and not in New Kassel at all. But there isn't a Methodist church in New Kassel, so anybody who lives in New Kassel who's a Methodist would attend church here.

The day was warm, probably at least ninety degrees—a little too warm for my taste—and the sky was a brilliant deep blue. The church was stark white, and it hurt my eyes to look at it for long against the bold azure. I was grateful for the display Mother Nature was giving, because what I'd seen in the hospital was too depressing for words. I walked into a door on one side of the building that said
OFFICE
and found Nathan Tate sitting behind the desk. I went to school with Nathan years ago. I didn't want to think about or admit just how many years ago it had been. He had moved to Meyersville right after high school, so I only saw him at special events and in the occasional restaurant.

“Nathan,” I said. “Nice to see you.”

“Well, hello, Torie,” he said.

“You remember Rudy?”

“Yes,” he said and held out his hand, which my husband shook. “We've met a few times. What can I do for you? I thought our cemetery had already been recorded by the historical society.”

“Oh, it has,” I said. “I'm actually here to get a copy of your directory.”

“You thinking about joining?” he said and moved around his desk to a box that sat on the floor.

“No,” I said. “I'm compiling a list of the churches in the area, thought it would be good to have a directory from each one. You never know when that information might be needed.”

“Well, I don't have this year's back from the printers,” he said. He handed me a small booklet of maybe ten pages printed on front and back. “So last year's will have to do.”

“Not a problem,” I said.

“I can tell you the Assembly of God church out on Highway P doesn't make a directory,” he said.

“Oh, no?”

“No,” he said. “I asked them who their printer was when I was thinking about doing this one, and they said they didn't print a directory.”

“Oh,” I said, simply because I wasn't sure what else I was supposed to say.

“How are the kids?” he asked.

“Doing great.”

“I heard you had another one. Is this four?”

“No, three,” I said. “He's actually almost two now.”

“Wow, time flies.”

“I know.”

There was a silence between all of us, the kind of silence that follows when people who really have nothing to say to each other finally run out of small talk. “Well, I'll see you, Nathan.”

“Sure, come by any time,” he said.

As we walked out of the church office, Rudy shot me a look that I wasn't sure I could decipher. “What?”

“You lie really good,” he said.

“I know.”

“It's scary.”

“Well, I don't lie to you.”

“Never?”

“I'm not saying never,” I said. “But if I do, it's only to keep you safe.”

“Ha!”

We got in the car, and I started thumbing through the directory.

“That poor guy,” Rudy said.

“Who?”

“Mr. Tate in there. Nathan Tate. Do you realize his nickname would have been—”

“Nate Tate. I know,” I said. “I went to school with him. Remember?”

“Parents can be cruel.”

“So can playground children.”

“So, where to next?”

“The Gaheimer House,” I said.

“Are you going to eat anytime soon? I'm hungry.”

“Why don't you drop me off at my office and then you go get us something to eat?”

“From where?” he asked.

“Surprise me.”

“Oh, last time I did that, you wouldn't speak to me for days.”

I just smiled at him.

*   *   *

I stepped into the Gaheimer House and took a deep breath. Afternoon sun glistened off the marble floor I knew so well—the marble floor that Sylvia and I had walked across a thousand and one times giving tours. I loved the marble floors in the sitting room. They were so much easier to clean than the hardwood floors throughout the rest of the house. Speaking of cleaning, the house needed to be cleaned.

As I walked through the room, I straightened a lace doily on the back of the divan. I had seen Sylvia do that exact same thing at least twice a day, whether it was crooked or not. Now I had began the tradition. The doily hadn't needed straightening. It was just something I felt I needed to do.

“What have you done to me, Sylvia?” I asked the air. Which did not respond, by the way. I considered that a good thing.

I went to the kitchen first and looked at the boxes on the table. I carried three of them out to the back porch for the Vincentians to pick up. There were two left. The phone rang, and I jumped. “This is Torie,” I said.

“Hey, Miller's coming over to house-sit with you,” Colin's voice said.

“Why?”

“Well, just to be on the safe side. In case somebody comes back through that tunnel. Especially after last night. We've placed a guy at the entrance by the creek, but still, just in case the perp would slip by,” he said.

“All right,” I said.

“I woulda sent Duran. He's been hurting for cash lately … but…”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, remembering Leigh's pale face and sunken eyes.

“So, anyway, Miller won't be in uniform. This is on my dime.”

“Colin—”

“It's not in the budget, but I really feel you should have somebody there.”

“I'll be watching for him, then.”

I carried a box into my office and then went back and got the other one, because there was no way I could carry two boxes at once. Even if I hadn't still been a little sore from last Saturday, my arms weren't long enough to wrap around two boxes. Short people are at a distinct disadvantage in this world.

The phone rang again, and I answered it. “Torie,” I said.

“Hello, it's Tobias Thorley.”

“Oh, Tobias, what can I do for you?”

“Do you have the list of bands for this weekend?”

“Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, one of them is supposed to come by today and see what the stage looks like.”

“Do you mind if I come get the list?”

“No, come on by,” I said.

“See you in a bit,” he said.

I pulled a pile of papers out of one of the boxes and sat down to begin deciphering what was what. I have no idea why sitting at my desk and going through piles of old papers comforts me, but it does. I didn't want to just come by and “check on things” like I'd told Rudy. I wanted to be surrounded by the familiar. That can be a stronger drug than any medicine.

I booted up the computer, and the phone rang again. “This is Torie.”

“Torie, it's Stephanie,” she said. “Do you need help with the Strawberry Festival this weekend? Because if you don't, I think we're going to go shopping for the baby. Especially since all I have are girl things and this one is a boy.”

“No, sure, you go ahead and go shopping.”

“Well, I don't need to go both days. Which one do you think you'd need me the most for?”

“No, Steph, you've done a lot. If you want to come down over the weekend, you pick the day.”

“All right,” she said. “I'll probably see you Sunday.”

“Good,” I said.

“Are you guys all right?” Her voice turned serious.

“I've been better,” I said. Then I sighed. “I was really scared, Steph. I don't think I've ever been that scared. It's one thing when I'm in danger, but it's a whole different ball game when it's my family.”

“I can't even imagine.”

My hands started to shake just thinking about it.

“Well, I hate to hit you with anything else,” she said.

“What?”

“Have you seen the
Post
today?”

“Honey, I haven't seen a paper in a week.”

“Rossini's article made it.”

“Whose article?” I stopped. “Oh, the one about me?”

“Yup,” she said. “I'll save it for you if you can't get one.”

“Do I want to read this article?”

“I don't know.”

“If it were about you, would you be happy?”

She was quiet on the other end.

“Say no more,” I said. There was a knock on the door. “Steph, I've gotta go. Somebody's here.”

“Okay, I'll see you Sunday.”

I answered the door, half expecting it to be Rudy, but instead it was Deputy Miller. “Hey, Deputy, come on in.”

He took off his hat and said, “Mrs. O'Shea.”

“Make yourself comfortable. I mean, I don't think you have to stand on guard. Believe it or not, there's a television in the kitchen if you want to watch it. There might even be something in the fridge.”

“All right,” he said. “That television doesn't get cable, does it?”

“No,” I said and smiled. I headed back to my office, and he went to the kitchen and turned on the television. I thumbed through more of Sylvia's personal papers. Some of them were from as far back as 1918. I don't think she ever threw anything away. One letter in particular caught my attention. The return address was Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. With trembling fingers I pulled the single-page handwritten letter from the yellowed envelope. It read:

13th August 1928

Miss Sylvia Pershing,

With genuine respect, I write to you on this day to inquire

whether or not you intend to honor your previous agreement with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. Write to me straightaway or I

shall make other arrangements.

With sincerity,

Father Riley Kincaid

To say the least, I was stunned. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had to be none other than Millie's mother. Well, I suppose she could have been her grandmother. The year on the letter would be about when the photograph of Millie had been taken at the Wayne Junction sign. In fact, I could probably safely assume that the photograph arrived in this letter. Somehow I got the feeling that this wasn't the first letter they sent to Sylvia. It certainly wasn't the last, because sometime later a postcard arrived reminding her of her promise.

I pulled the postcard out of my purse—I still carried it with me everywhere—and flipped it over. The handwriting was the same. Father Riley Kincaid had sent this postcard to Sylvia.

“You've got mail,” my computer said.

I had quite a bit of mail, actually, but ignored the things that would require me to sit down and write in response for half an hour. I clicked on the mail from Laura James.

Torie,

I have a lead for you. I have been doing some research for two members of our historical society. Their parents had been orphan train riders, and this is somewhat my area of expertise. In so doing, I have been scouring the orphanage records. Guess whose name I found at the Sisters of Notre Dame House of Mercy in Dubuque? You betcha. Millie O'Shaughnessy. She was there from 1929 to late 1933. The records only state that her mother's name was Lucille, that she was Catholic, and that she was born in New York City in 1924. The really bad news is, she was never adopted. She ran away. She disappeared into the streets like so many others. In fact, in the 1850s it was estimated that some 30,000 children were living on the streets of New York, without parents or shelter. The numbers of homeless children were at epidemic highs later, after the influx of immigrants at the turn of the century. On one hand, I suppose this helps you. On the other—since she disappeared— I can't imagine that this comes as good news. Let me know if you need anything else. If she indeed arrived on an orphan train (the Catholic orphan trains were called “mercy trains,” by the way), I might be able to help you with more complete records.

Sincerely,

Laura James

If I thought I was stunned before, now my mouth was literally gaping open. I dashed off a quick response to Laura thanking her and telling her that she succeeded in causing quite a jaw-dropping experience for me. Then I told her that anything else she could provide would be helpful but that I didn't know whether Millie was on the “mercy trains” or not. I did have reason to believe she had been, at one time, under the care of one Father Riley Kincaid.

Who was Millie O'Shaughnessy? How did she know Sylvia? Could it be that Sylvia had promised to take Millie in? But if she had, how had she known Millie's mother, who lived in New York? Sylvia never seemed like the type to even consider taking a child in. She could barely tolerate children. Based on what I knew of Sylvia, the notion of her taking Millie to raise seemed utterly preposterous.

Of course, I had to remind myself that Sylvia was an iceberg. I only knew the last thirty years of Sylvia's life, the years on the surface. Another seventy years lay beneath the water.

There was a knock on the door, and Miller ran by my office. “I'll get it.”

A few moments later, Rudy walked into my office with turkey sandwiches from the Smells Good Cafe. “Oh, that smells really good,” I said.

“Thus the name. I bought extras,” he said. “Let me give one to Miller.”

He went to give the deputy his sandwich, and I continued staring at Father Kincaid's letter. Rudy came back in and emptied the bag, producing three extra sandwiches. He shrugged. “You never know who might come by,” he said.