Deadly Descent (7 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I started a new file, printed off Herman and Emily’s birth announcements, copied the story written by Valeria Comstock, and the police report, which I had assured Sam would be for my eyes only as I’d wanted one for cross-checking.

I reread Comstock’s account, then I pulled the earlier reel of microfilm off the machine and rethreaded it with the film from 1949.

Swenson Murder

There would have been no laws to protect this man back then. No Miranda rights read. Damn sure no CSI teams. I checked the police report. As Sam said, they never looked for anyone else.

My mind buzzed with unanswered questions. Had Rebecca Champlin ever married? Been courted? Loved? If not, why not? Why were there no parents mentioned at the funeral in Comstock’s story? Were both sets of parents dead?

I forwarded two weeks to the sale bills. Rebecca’s notice featured a prosperous homestead. Herman’s displayed the devastating cruelty of sheriff sales from a time when every county had a Poor Commissioner and a literal Poor Farm. A time when every last penny paid to each person from the Poor Fund was listed in the paper with their name and dollar amount: Such staggering sums as $1.30 or $1.52 per month.

A sheriff’s sale listed and described every single item a family owned. He counted each fence post, pot or pan, dish towel, toy, wash tub, harness, tool, canning jar, knife, and spoon. The Swenson’s contained an entire separate column for needlework: embroidered and crocheted linens and towels, tablecloths, and bedspreads.

Rebecca’s billing listed prime cattle, sleek horses, mahogany furniture. All the trappings of a flourishing and well-appointed farmstead.

In fair weather, the dual sale would have been well attended. I made a note to check historic weather records although I knew the intrepid and gossipy Valeria Comstock would surely comment. I forwarded to the day following the sale. Valeria gushed over the amounts paid for Rebecca’s possessions, but she stated Miss Champlin had declined an interview.

She had managed to get a photo, however. Like most of the women in the background, Rebecca wore club-heeled, laced shoes. The neighboring women were in rayon prints; she was in full formal mourning, heavy veil and all.

A week later, there was another article, which answered one of my questions. Herman’s parents were alive.

“My boy didn’t do it,” swears Albert Swenson. “He’s a good boy. He loved his wife and son.”

According to Comstock, Sheriff Morrow had telegraphed Swenson’s family in California, immediately following the murders. They had moved there in 1930 after the stock market crash.

My eyes burned. Why had they moved? Why was Herman Swenson still living in Carlton County after his parents moved to California? One account of the Swenson murder referred to the Old Champlin estate. Emily’s parents. Had Herman married into money? Did his parents lose money in the crash? Why was he farming Emily’s parents’ land?

I stopped and rubbed the muscles in my neck. They ached miserably and it would be impossible to read all the papers from 1920 on in one day. But the questions kept buzzing. Deciding I wasn’t starting early enough yet, I stopped, put a sign on the door that I would be back in twenty minutes, and ran up the stairs to see Minerva.

She glanced up from her computer.

“Can you wait a minute, Lottie? I’m just a couple of minutes away from finishing this spreadsheet.”

“Sure.” I glanced around her Spartan office. Women held most of the courthouse positions. Family photos and sunny little mottos plastered their walls and bulletin boards, forming an odd collage with the obligatory government posters.

Minerva’s office was strictly utilitarian, the domicile of a lady who knew how to work efficiently. The county commissioners were crazy about her because she ran a cheap office. High level computer skills, one permanent part-time assistant and a couple of ladies who pitched in during busy times. The whole county teems with computer nerds as bankers love to see farmers adopt management software.

Due to Minerva’s expertise and the sheer volume of her specialized entries, I often depended on her to do a search. Margaret Atkinson said Minerva managed to wheedle the latest and greatest technology out of the county budget because of her willingness to act as a kind of mini-trainer for other departments.

I owned my office computer personally, of course, as well as the Nikon camera I used and all of the other electronic equipment. What the county commissioners furnished me was light and heat and a hard time.

“Done,” Minerva said.

“I need to know the marriage dates of two couples,” I said. “Old, old marriages. Does your information go back to year 1890?”

Clogs clattered on the marble stairs before she had a chance to answer. Judy St. John came through the door. “Hi, Lottie. Inez said she saw you heading up here. She told me all about your moonlighting too.”

“Moonlighting?” Minerva asked.

“You mean you haven’t heard? I thought everyone in town knew. Lottie’s our newest deputy sheriff. Our own Annie Oakley.”

My mouth quirked into a self-conscious smile. Somehow, seeing myself through their eyes, it couldn’t have seemed more bizarre than if someone had announced my intention to become a rock star. Half the town would die laughing.

“So whatcha up to?” Judy tried to peer at the papers I was holding, but I shielded them with my hand.

“The old Swenson murder, actually,” I mumbled.

“So this information you’re after now, is it official business? As a deputy?” Minerva asked, her voice suddenly stiff.

“Of course not,” I said. “Well, maybe in a way. I wanted to see if I can find some new information for Sam Abbott.”

“Doesn’t make any difference why you want it, I guess,” Minerva said. “It’s all public record, and you’re entitled to see it. Your reasons are really nobody’s business. Just give me a minute.”

She typed in the maiden name of Herman’s mother and his father’s name, retrieved the date of that couple’s marriage and then did the same for Emily and Rebecca Champlin’s parents. Both marriages were scandal-free, taking place well before the birth of children.

Minerva handed me my printout and I walked downstairs with Judy. My problem child. Obviously, she had meant it literally when she’d said she was going to help me.

“I’ve been going through some of Mom’s things, and I came across a note written less than six weeks ago.”

“How do you know that?”

“It was written on the back on an envelope. I’m going by the postmark. It’s a list of things that don’t make sense, but Fiona’s name is on it.”

“Okay, Judy, but things have changed now. Changed a lot.”

“Changed how?”

“I’m a deputy now,” I said sternly. “An officer of the law. New rules.” I inhaled deeply. “What I mean to say is, you can’t help, can’t ask questions. Can’t nothing.”

She stopped midway down the stairs. “But I took off work, Lottie. For two whole weeks. And it didn’t set well with my boss.”

“Judy, this is not my rule. Not my call. I’m under strict standards for confidentiality, and until the new wears off of me being a deputy, half the town is going to be watching every move I make.”

I’m embarrassed by persons who can’t hide their feelings just a little. Tears quivered in her sensitive blue eyes. “I want to help, Lottie. Help find the person who murdered my mother.”

Chapter Fifteen

We rounded the corner of the staircase and I stopped dead. The door to my office was open. I knew I had locked up. My key was in my pocket. I peered through the door. There sat William. His hands rested on his bony knees, and he skewered me with his eyes.

“Knocked. No answer. Knew no one was manning the fort,” he said sharply. “Called Margaret. She came down and let me in. She called around for you. We couldn’t imagine where you’d gone. Then we heard about your new job, and we figured you was gallavanting around sheriffing. She like to had a fit, of course, because you weren’t here working on the books. Sam Abbott said you was looking into old murders. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out which one. Sounds important. Murder. Got a nice ring to it. Old murders. But your job is here. You had this one first. Looks bad to have this place closed in the middle of the day. Looks bad. Is bad. No doubt about it.”

“Well, I’m back now, and I
intend
to put this job first. You needn’t trouble yourself with ‘manning the fort’ any longer.”

I looked pointedly at the growing pile of cedar shavings at his feet. He stood, and I marched over to the whisk broom and dust pan I had hanging on a nail on the back wall. He tugged at the front of his old fedora.

“No trouble,” he said. “Part of my duties as a member of the board of directors. Old word, duty. Don’t hear it much nowadays.”

“I’ve heard the word before, William. I know what it means. For your information, this is only the third time I can remember when this place has been closed in the middle of the day. Three times! We’re open year in, year out. If I’m not here, I always have a volunteer here. I wasn’t gone over twenty minutes.” I stopped myself before I added that for this faithfulness I was paid a paltry, laughable eight dollars an hour and that was only so the county could have matching funds from the state.

“Three times is three times. Old word, duty. Like I said, not many even know what it means.” He walked away then paused in the doorway. “You had a call. From the Hadleys. Said you’d probably call back. If you ever showed back up, that is.”

Josie, sometimes. My mother, often. William, always. The only people who could turn me into a snarling wolverine. But William was the only one who did it on purpose, and he had to work at it, as I prided myself on self-control. Surely, he studied ways to get me. Stayed up nights dreaming up the right words.

“I can help, Lottie,” Judy said eagerly. “Let me be here. Why not? You’re going to be…”

“Gallavanting around sheriffing?”

“Whatever.” She blinked rapidly. “There will be things here I can do, and it would help me. Right now, I’m just a receptionist. Think what it would mean to me to be able to show a few research skills on my resumé. Like it would move me clear up to a whole new level. Please?”

She was wearing me down. I had to have reliable help at the historical society whenever I worked for Sam. But would Judy be the right person?

“I’ll be out of your hair and back at my real job in a couple of weeks. With me helping, you could really concentrate on finding Mom’s murderer. Please?”

I recalled her insistence on seeing the original story her mother had written, her noticing the shadow of a rose on back of the page. She paid attention to detail.

“Okay. I can’t ask William or Margaret or any of the other volunteers to be here every day. But there are going to be ground rules, Judy. You break a single one, and you’re outta here. Got that?”

She nodded eagerly.

“First off, just because you see it, just because you know it, doesn’t mean you have to say it. In fact, I could tell people things about their families they don’t know and don’t need to know.”

“You think I don’t understand
that
?” Her eyes clouded. “You don’t think I wouldn’t have given my left breast if this town had shown me a little compassion when I needed it? Do you know what I would have given not to be torn down, gossiped about. Ripped to shreds?”

I knew then how good she would be. Hard times can work both ways.

“Deal.” I stuck out my hand, changing her from pest to employee. “I want you here every day. On time.”

“No problem,” she said, her face transformed with joy.

“You know the importance of keeping your mouth shut. The old Swenson murder is a good example. It’s all over town now that I’m working on it for Sam Abbott. The walls have ears in this courthouse. This is the last time that people will know about anything connected with the Sheriff’s office through the historical society office, unless it really overlaps. I’ve got to keep the two jobs separate.”

“You can trust me, I swear.”

“Can you type?”

“Sure.”

“Use a computer? Do you know Microsoft Office?”

“You bet.”

“Okay. Then you can enter information on Access. Mainly you’ll answer the phone. As to the mail, just sort it. Don’t open it. I’ll take care of that when I’m in. Don’t retrieve phone messages either. Once in a while there’s things intended for only my eyes and ears.” I glanced at my watch. “Eleven o’clock, and I haven’t even started on my column for the county paper yet. If you don’t mind a tight fit I’ll set my laptop on a card table and you can enter old school records.”

For the next few minutes we were busy arranging the room.

“This is going to be a good deal for both of us, Judy.”
Perfect, in fact
. What better way to keep her under control than having her right beside me every day? “Now, I’d better return the Hadleys’ call.”

“Brian? I didn’t know you were home. I was expecting Fiona or Edgar to answer. I thought you were back in Wichita.”

“We have a favor to ask, Lottie. Mom has a story, a submission, ready for your book and we wondered if you could come to the house and pick it up?”

“Well…” I stammered.

“My fault, Lottie. Not Mom’s. I just don’t want to be seen in town. I can’t stand the thought of one more reporter asking me a question. There’s got to be somewhere,
somewhere
on this planet, where I can have a moment’s peace.”

“Of course, Brian. I do understand.”
As long as Fiona isn’t planning an attack.

“Can you come over today?”

“Uh, yes.”

I looked wistfully at my microfilm machine. Now that I had all the copies of the Swenson/Champlin birth announcements, marriage licenses, and death certificates I wanted to research from 1920 forward. I sighed. It would wait.

I looked gratefully at my new assistant. “In fact, I can come right away.”

***

On the drive over, I tried to zero in on a topic for my column. I loved doing it. Kept short and peppy, with short quiz’s about Carlton County history, the column informed people about the book’s progress and coaxed them to write stories. My readers didn’t hesitate to set me straight from time to time.

Once I had a column entitled “Tiny Babies,” challenging the notion of premature babies born in dug-outs or soddies who lived before the days of incubators. I was flooded with accounts of babies kept in shoe boxes on top of the stove or strapped next to their mother’s bodies. After I received proof of a baby born in a soddy whose arm could be slipped through her mother’s wedding ring, I changed my mind. In fact, I was preparing a journal article based on just this subject.

I caught sight of the Hadley’s massive Tudor house. Edgar owned seven sections of land, which was a God’s plenty by anyone’s standards.

A white, three-board fence ran along the road on either side of the lane leading to the house. In Western Kansas this is a strikingly silly arrangement if you don’t have horses. Unless, of course, you are trying to impress folks, which the Hadleys usually were. Such fences weren’t nearly as good as barbed wire for containing cattle, and electrical fences did a better job of keeping out people.

When Brian got serious about politics, the barbed wire came down and the white boards went up.

No amount of finagling on Fiona’s part, however, could concoct a tree in proportion to their house, although she had given it her best shot. The massive balled oaks trucked in and planted by the most skilled nursery people in Denver, died, defeated by our unpredictable weather. Mostly, they froze out before they took root.

Our house is bordered on three sides by our cedar windbreak, and our trees are cottonwoods, which can’t be fooled by Mother Nature. Uncannily wise, they lay dormant through false springs. They bloom heartily and late and shed leaves early in the fall. They break easily and grow at crazy angles. Landscape artists hate them. I like them because they live.

I turned up the lane. The Hadley house sprawled. Ideal for Fiona’s elaborate parties, with broken, steeply sloped roof lines and an array of dormers, it fit in quite well with the larger farm houses in the area. The foyer was set in a round, two-story brick turret.

I was now close enough to see Brian’s wife in the backyard playing catch with their two sons. Jenny Hadley was miserably unhappy with political life. We decided early on to keep her in the background.

Fiona had ruined Jenny’s chances of being an asset to her husband at the beginning of his career. Because Fiona didn’t think the real Jenny was good enough, she had “helped” the poor woman come up with a public image and settled on Jackie O. Inspired, no doubt, by Jenny’s wide-set eyes and dark hair. The press jeered at her fake whisper and avowed love of fine arts. Fiona backed off. The only part of Jacqueline Kennedy’s persona that actually modeled Jenny was her daughter-in-law’s genuine love of home and children.

She waved when she saw me but stayed outside with little Troy and Eric. Brian answered the door at the first ring.

“Lottie, good to see you. Mom, Lottie’s here.”

She ushered me in with a dazzling smile. “Good to see you, Lottie. Let’s go into the living room where we can be comfortable.”

No one would be very comfortable in Fiona’s living room, but I went along with the charade.

“Tea? Coffee?” she asked, the epitome of Miss Manners.

“Coffee. Black, please.”

She returned with a handsome silver Georgian tea set and placed it on the coffee table. Although everyone knew her living room had been “done” by a decorator from Denver, Fiona could have done as well on her own. She had that kind of eye. The room was formal, lovely in elegant brocades and velvet, accented with fine antiques. Hard to imagine kicking back with a good book in that room.

I waited. Something was coming.