Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret (10 page)

Two hours later, my eyes were crossed and my neck was stiff, but I had found several references to a private named Mike Ortlander. I jotted the name on the cover of her file, in big black letters, so that I could do some checking on him later.

Right now I smelled something cooking downstairs and I just had to go see what it was. If my nose was correct it was German chocolate cake.

I passed the kitchen and noticed a Jane Austen novel on the table. Mother was reading nineteenth-century literature. This could mean only one thing: She was disturbed.

The photos from Louise Shenk were on the table as well. I had debated taking them over to Rita, but somehow couldn't part with them just yet.

“Mom,” Rachel said. “Will you read me a story?”

I started to say no, and realized that I had told the girls no on several occasions recently. The marriage records, the chicken coop, sandbagging, all had taken my time away from them. They wanted Mommy to pay special attention to them and it made me feel good.

“Certainly. Get your sister, and bring me a really good book.”

“Which one?” she asked, eyes all lit up.

“You pick.”

I cut three small pieces of cake and poured three large glasses of milk. Mary came running into the kitchen.

“I want some cake, Mommy. Mommy, I want some cake,” she said.

“Don't worry. One of these pieces has your name on it.”

She smiled from ear to ear. It's a contagious smile. I can never be in the same room with her when she smiles, and not smile myself.

Rachel came back in the kitchen, out of breath. “Here,” she said, and handed me the book.
The Secret Garden.
I should have known. It was the old standby, and even Mary would sit and listen, completely enthralled.

“I'll read it as soon as we have our snack. Then you have to go to bed.”

I received crestfallen faces and a huge sad sigh. Children know that they have to go to bed every night, so I never have been able to understand why they are so upset when they find out that they have to go to bed.

“Where's Dad?” Rachel said.

“Bowling. He should be home in a few minutes.”

Mother came into the kitchen then. She had paint splatters on her face, which was a good indication that she had been out on the porch creating her latest masterpiece. She began painting a few years back, and was quite good at it. Sometimes, though, the canvas ends up in the trash can. I've told her that a temper tantrum is the true sign of genius. She just glares at me.

“Did you check out the names?” she asked.

“What names?”

“On the picture,” she answered, pointing to the photographs from Louise Shenk on the table. One photo was of Eugene Counts as a small boy, standing by the outhouse, with no shoes, holding something in his hands. Another was a typical mid-western country-school photo with all fifteen students and the teacher lined up on the schoolhouse steps. He was about thirteen, so it was about 1936. Another photo was of his parents sitting in the front yard, and yet another of the whole family down by the creek, the boys in just their underwear, holding makeshift fishing poles, while the girls waded in the water with their dresses tied between their knees. The last two photos had been sent from Europe during the war.

I was touched when I realized that Louise had given such a wonderful collection to Rita. Each part of Eugene Count's life was represented in those few photographs.

The war photos were classic war photos. About ten men stood half-dressed in front of army tents. Each had his dog tags hanging on his sweaty chest, and some had cigarettes in their mouths. They were probably the closest of buddies that looked after each other and saved each other's lives a thousand times. They probably even had a secret handshake.

The last photo was of Eugene and another man. They were sitting on top of a tank, but it was a fairly close-up photo.

“Right there.” Mom pointed.

I looked at her, dumbfounded. When I looked at the photo, I saw two faces. Somehow my mother saw two names that had been sewn on their shirts. One read
E. COUNTS
, and the other simply said
ORTLANDER
.

I could hit her when she does stuff like that. She always makes me feel completely inadequate in the brain department for not catching the same thing she did.

“Ortlander,” I said. “This is the same guy that Eugene speaks of in his letters to Viola,” I said. “This has got to be the friend that Louise was talking about.”

“Probably,” she said.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I know,” she said.

“What's all of this loving stuff?” Rudy asked from behind me. He had just come in the door with his bowling bag in one hand and daisies in the other hand.

“Can I get in on this?” he asked. He kissed me on the lips and handed me the flowers.

“Certainly,” I said. I kissed him back, rather enthusiastically.

“Yuck,” Rachel said.

“Yuck,” Mary echoed her big sister.

 

 

NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

T
HE
N
EWS
Y
OU
M
IGHT
M
ISS

by Eleanore Murdoch

Thank you, all you sandbaggers! God bless your generous souls! You've saved our inn, for now.

And a special thank you to Wilma Pershing for that terribly stinky, but very effective, conglomeration of
stuff
that I put on Oscar's back. It worked!

Also, Tobias Thorley would like to thank whoever it was that returned his statue of Abraham Lincoln. He is very glad that he appealed to your conscience, because he was going to resort to violence next.

Father Bingham said that church attendance is down. He knows that nobody here in New Kassel is without sin, and he urges you to come and spill your guts to him. He's reading the
National Enquirer
in the confessional, if that gives you any idea of what business is like. He would especially like to speak to the couple that he saw on the wharf last Friday night.

I just have one thing to say to that: What was Father Bingham doing on the wharf on Friday night?

Oh, and congratulations to Rudy O'Shea for finally getting your chicken coop finished.

Until next time.

Eleanore

Ten

I wanted to see Eugene Counts. I could think of no reason other than that I was nosy as hell, and I hoped that he would spill his guts and tell me just why he had never contacted his family. I wanted to know the answer to that more than anything. Why come back to Missouri and spend the majority of your life without contacting your own mother? I also wanted to know if he knew that Viola was pregnant when he marched off to war. I wanted to see his face when I asked these questions, but something told me to wait. I didn't think he would appreciate being told he had a daughter by the woman he abandoned, if in fact he didn't already know it. The nagging notion of him being a psychopathic killer kept me at bay somewhat, too.

So I checked the directories for 1939, for Ortlanders. I found a Walt Ortlander, who lived in Pine Branch, the same place that the Counts family had lived. In 1946, there was no listing for a Michael Ortlander and I could only presume that Louise had been correct when she said that Eugene's friend had died in the service. There was also no listing for Eugene Counts. He must have still been in Europe or living elsewhere.

I called information and there was no Walt Ortlander listed for this year. He'd probably be dead by now. I was striking out. But there was a listing for a Florence Ortlander in the Hill Top Nursing Home in Progress. I would almost bet that she was Michael's mother. I called the Hill Top Nursing Home and told them that I was a friend of the family and had lost contact with the Ortlanders, and asked if the Florence Ortlander that they had in residence was the wife of Walt. Yes, she was.

I was in the car and headed to Progress in nothing flat. Progress was located about nine or ten miles west of Pine Branch, thus putting it in Partut County.

The dirt roads weren't dusty. The rains had seen to that problem. I felt the tension leave my body the farther into the country that I drove. People consider New Kassel in the country, but it's a town. Wisteria, Meyersville, Vitzland, they are all towns, but they are connected by just two- or four-lane roads and cornfields. I suppose to a real city dweller that is the country.

But on the drive to Progress there were no skyscrapers to interfere with sky and earth, and the smell of cow manure floated heavily through the air. Aaah! It was good to be alive.

It took so little to make me happy.

Why did I bother with this? I couldn't help but think that somewhere, hidden in all of Norah's family skeletons, I might be able to find something that would help the sheriff out. He wouldn't be looking in the same places I'd be looking. And I wanted justice done to the monster that left Norah in the shape that I found her in.

In all probability, though, Harold Zumwalt killed Norah. Money was about as good a motive as any. There was always the possibility that Eugene Counts had killed his own daughter. But why? It lacked motive.

So why did I care about Michael Ortlander? I suppose I was going to go talk with Florence for other reasons. I wanted to know what had changed Eugene Counts. To me, that was more important right now than anything else. I felt as if I somehow owed Norah that much.

I couldn't help but feel as if I were missing something in all of this. If Zumwalt was going to kill his ex-wife for the insurance money, why so violently? There were a thousand other ways to do it.

Her murder had been an act of passion.

Saying a silent prayer that I would never know what drove people to do things like that, I pulled off the interstate at the Progress exit. It had taken me forty minutes to get to Progress, but the time flew by thanks to my mind, which would not stop analyzing everything. I made a few turns and then turned into the nursing-home drive. I knew it well. I'd driven by it many times, and my great-grandmother had been here her last six months.

The woman behind the counter was Doris, and I could tell by looking that she could tell me all of the bedpan bylaws and codes, in complete detail and numerical order.

I hadn't exactly dressed for a visit. I was in my black Reeboks, blue jeans, and St. Louis Blues hockey jersey, with Brendan Shanahan's name and player number. Number nineteen. Hopefully Mrs. Ortlander would be a hockey fan.

Doris decided to pretend as though she couldn't see me. There is nothing more aggravating than to stand at a counter and be ignored. Doris knew I was standing there, but she was determined to make me say “Excuse me” in that meek little voice that throws you right back to second grade. I was just as determined not to say it. Why should I? What other reason could I possibly have for standing at her counter, other than that I needed her assistance?

I rolled my eyes, shifted my feet, and sighed as loudly as I could sigh, at least thirteen times. She finally looked up and with this droll attitude said, “Yes?”

I waited. I was half-inclined to make her wait for my request as she had made me wait for her assistance.

“What room is Florence Ortlander in, please?” I asked.

“Are you a relative?”

I didn't have to be a relative to see her—I knew that much. Doris was just being nosy. “I'm her niece,” I said.

“She never mentioned you,” she said, unimpressed.

Her eyes were hazel, although I could hardly tell for all of the makeup she wore. She was about fifty, and her hair looked like it had been teased back in 1965, and hadn't been brushed since then.

“She's around the corner, room one-seventeen,” she said. She eyed me suspiciously.

“Thank you.”

Rounding the corner, I became acutely aware of the smells of alcohol and pine cleaner. And urine. How come elderly people can live at home and you never smell those things? As soon as they go to a nursing home, the cherry pie, facial powder, and mothballs get replaced with urine and pine cleaner. It was sad and it made me nervous to meet Mrs. Ortlander. I hadn't thought of what kind of shape she would be in.

Luckily, Florence Ortlander was sitting in a chair crocheting, and other than being obviously well into her years, was the picture of health. I noticed the popcorn stitch immediately, as Mom uses it often. She glanced up and didn't seem the least bit concerned that a stranger had come to see her. She was small, with rosy cheeks and the clearest blue eyes I believed I had ever seen.

“Mrs. Ortlander, my name is Victory O'Shea,” I said.

“Nice to meet you. Have a seat,” she said.

I sat in the seat on the opposite side of the round table that she was sitting at. Before I could say anything else to her, she picked up the conversation.

“Where did you get a name like Victory?” she asked.

I hate answering that question. “Two reasons. One, I was a victory. My mother was told she'd never have children. She was victorious. Two, I was also named after a ghost.” Most people are named after grandmothers or maiden aunts; I was named after a ghost.

“Victory LeBreau.”

“Yes,” I said, amazed. “The woman who burned to death in the old mill.”

“I grew up in Avon. Moved to Pine Branch in the early thirties. Everybody knows the story of the ghost that haunts the mill very well. I saw her once, you know. I was about sixteen years old,” she said. “I was coming home from a dance at the church. It was dark already, and me and my sister were going to get the tanning of our lives for being so late.”

I was totally engrossed in what Mrs. Ortlander said. It didn't seem the least bit odd for her to talk to me as if she'd known me her entire life. That's how natural this story flowed out of her.

“Well, we came up on the bridge and Trula stopped in her tracks. She didn't have to tell me what was wrong, I could feel the gooseflesh on her arm. Then I heard it. The sobbing of a woman in the distance. It was a woeful cry. Then I heard her screaming, ‘No! No!' Then we saw her. She flung herself at the window of the mill. Second floor, third window from the left. I'll never forget it.”