In Sheep's Clothing (12 page)

“So?”

“Well, James Rogers had to have either rebuilt the house or made major repairs to it or something, or his large family couldn't have lived there for nearly seventeen years.”

“So?”

“It's nothing,” I said. “It's just that any time there's a discrepency in the story, it sort of calls out to me. Aunt Sissy's real estate agent or whoever it was who told her the history of the house could have easily gotten things confused.”

I went back to reading. Rogers Logging became a successful company, and then one day he sold his company and moved out West. I turned the pages. “They have a picture of the house!” I said.

“What?” she asked.

“They have a picture of the house he lived in. Oh, that is too cool.”

“What are you looking for now?” Roberta asked. “Sissy told me you two found out who the girl was.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We did. But now I'm trying to find out more about the family and a little about the area that she lived in. Help me fill in the blanks more. And I want to see if I can find a member of her family who would like to have the manuscript.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes growing wide. “You could donate it here, to the historical society. We'd love to have it.”

“I know,” I said. “Believe me, I'm considering it. I just want to make an offer to the family first. If they're not interested, then it will probably go to you.”

She smiled from ear to ear. “What else can I do to help?”

“Have you read the novel, the diary, that my aunt has?”

“No,” she said.

“Well, I was really hoping to find out who the parson or preacher was at the Lutheran church in about 1858. Is there a shortcut to find that out?”

She laughed and then covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh, you're not from around here.”

“No,” I said. “What's so funny?”

“Well, there's no shortcut needed,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Well, because most everybody knows who that was. The kids are taught that in school, when they're taught local history,” she said.

I was confused. “Why? I mean, why would that one person be plucked out of the past to be taught to the school kids?”

“Because Nagel's the founder of Olin. The one you were asking about. He's a hero around here.”

“A hero.”

“Yes,” she said. “And my ancestor. One of the reasons he's actually getting a monument is because his great-great-great-granddaughter is the president of the historical society. Me.”

I was too stunned to speak.

“He was a German immigrant to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. You know, those Pennsylvania Dutch,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, trying to act as if I hadn't just had the socks shocked off of me. “My husband has an ancestor who actually founded Germantown. I'm familiar with the Pennsylvania Dutch. But I thought they were usually Mennonites or Amish or Quakers. My husband's were Mennonites.”

“Well, sure. But evidently Konrad Nagel decided that wasn't the religion for him. He headed West, founded Olin, and started the Olin Lutheran Church,” she said.

My head hurt. I sort of listened to her titter on about Mr. Nagel, the hero, without really paying attention. This couldn't be right. They were going to erect a monument to the man who had murdered Anna's lover?

“Wait,” I said. “You're sure he was the preacher during the year 1858?”

“He was the head of the church, right over there on Sixth Street, from 1854 until 1861, when he was murdered.”

“Murdered. Did you say murdered? You have an ancestor who was murdered?”

“Oh, yes. Terrible thing it was. Some stranger came to town during a blizzard and needed a place to stay. Konrad opened his doors to him and told him he could stay as long as he needed. The man killed him in the middle of the night.”

“You're sure? How can you be sure?”

“Everybody knows that story. I mean, it's known for three counties. The founder of a city, and a man of the cloth, can't be butchered in the middle of the night by some stranger—whom he opened his doors to—and it not become known.
That
is the stuff of legends, for Pete's sake. Besides, my grandma used to tell me stories about it. When it's in the family, it sort of gets handed down.”

“Of course,” I said. I swiped at my brow and ran my fingers through my hair. I knew the book I held would have a nice big biography on Mr. Nagel. And it would most likely have a picture of him. I wasn't so sure I wanted to look at his face. But, at the same time, what if the bio mentioned his apprentice?

Roberta went on. “Especially since his son had been brutally murdered as well. Two murders in a county with a population of maybe twelve hundred people, in the mid-nineteenth century … Well, that's not only what legends are made of, but it's headlines, too. I think the story was printed all the way down in the cities.”

His son. He had killed his own son? “So … he became a martyr, that son-of-a—”

“Mrs. O'Shea?” Roberta asked. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “So, obviously, Mr. Nagel had to have had more than one child. Right? Or are you descended from the son who was murdered?”

“No,” she said. I sighed with relief. “I'm descended from his daughter, Isabelle. She was already married and had moved out by the time Konrad moved here with Isaac.”

“Isaac?”

“His son. The one who was murdered.”

Oh, Lord. The lover's name was Isaac. I had discovered the lover's name!

“For some reason there are eleven years between Isabelle and Isaac,” she said. “Isabelle lived over in Cedar Springs. My grandma moved here, to Olin, in the 1920s. I was born here,” she said.

I just nodded my head. What could I say?

“So, why were you so interested in who the parson was over at the Lutheran church? Does Anna Bloomquist mention him in her diary?” she asked, her eyes full of stars. I knew what that was all about. I can't tell you how many times I've fantasized that somebody, somewhere, had left a written record of a particular ancestor and how I would just happen to stumble upon it one day. Unfortunately, most of the time on the frontier, the people left nothing as personal as a diary or letters or a history. I found it a miracle if one could actually find a Bible record. Back East was a different story. Out on the frontier, the prairie, they were just too worried about surviving.

The seconds seemed to stretch out to minutes as I tried to think of what to say to her. I didn't want to lie to her. But obviously she wasn't prepared for the truth. Neither was the town, for that matter. And I couldn't give her the diary. Not now. Once she read it she would know who it was. Especially since I'd been inquiring about him.

“Uh…”

“Well?” she asked.

“I'm not sure. I'll have to read more of it.”

“Maybe I could read it,” she said. “I would recognize him if she wrote about him.”

“Oh. No. That's … okay. I'm going to go make copies of these real quickly. All right? I'll be right back,” I said and got the heck out of there. Holy cow, how do I get myself into these predicaments?

The grocery store was on the opposite side of town. I had to pass the Lutheran church as I walked over to make the copies. I just stared at the church as I walked by. I wanted to go inside. I wanted to walk to the cemetery. But first I had to make copies.

The grocery store was an old white brick building, with a silver metal awning that hung out over the sidewalk. There were decals on the windows advertising all the credit cards that they took, bread that was forty-nine cents a loaf, and Zest that was buy one, get one free. I went to the counter and asked where the copy machine was and the woman pointed me toward the back of the store, where the post office was. I made my copies, staring into the room with the postal clerk and the little rows of brass mail boxes. I wondered if this was one of those towns where the residents had a rural route address, plus a box at the post office. New Kassel used to be like that until about ten years ago, and now we just get our mail delivered to the house. Before that, everybody had to go to the post office to get their mail.

I had to have one of the cashiers make change for my five-dollar bill, because the copier only took dimes and nickels. When I finished, I turned to leave and found Roberta standing behind me with her hands on her hips.

“Hi, Roberta. I was just on my way back with the books,” I said.

She put one hand out, palm up. I put the books in her hand. Honest, I wasn't going to keep them.

“Is there a problem?”

She stepped up close to me. “I don't know who you think you are, or what you think you're up to. But I remembered Sissy telling us all at a prayer meeting one time that the novel she was reading—the one you both determined to be a diary—had a minister in it who was mean and abusive.”

I hung my head. What could I say?

“And now you're suddenly all interested in Konrad Nagel. I'm not stupid. I may not come from a
fancy
historical society, where I get to wear big poofy dresses and give tours in big gigantic houses, but I can put two and two together. And if you think for one minute—no, make that one second—that my ancestor is the man Anna wrote about in her diary … you are
so, so, so, so, so
mistaken.”

People were gathered now, looking over the rack of Hostess Cupcakes and from behind the display of Doritos.

“I … Roberta…”

“That's Mrs. Flagg, to you,” she said.

“I don't know what to say. The evidence is there,” I said.

“Don't you evidence me!”

“But—”

“How would you feel if it were your ancestor?”

“Well, actually, I had a similar thing happen in my family,” I said. “We are who we are, Roberta. I mean, Mrs. Flagg. What came before us is before us. You have no bearing on Konrad Nagel's behavior. You can't be held responsible for his actions. I mean, you wouldn't be who you are if you weren't descended from him. A good him or a bad him. You're still you because of him. So, you just have to accept it.”

She just stood there with her mouth open, staring at me as if I had just said the most preposterous thing ever uttered on the earth.

But I understood this reaction. Just as some people think they are better than everybody else because they're descended from some Revolutionary War hero, or the king of England, so it must mean that they are somehow worse than everybody else if they are descended from horse thieves, indentured servants, and ax murderers. Which is silly, of course. Especially if you didn't even know those people were your ancestors to begin with. So how can your status be elevated or lowered once you find it out? It was really silly, but a common reaction nonetheless.

“Look, Mrs. O'Shea, the only thing I've ever had going for me in this godforsaken existence that I call my life is that I have a great pedigree! I've got nothing else. I've got a two-timing husband, children who don't respect me, a nonexistent career, and a mother who despises the ground I walk on. You will not take Konrad Nagel from me. Do I make myself clear?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Perfectly.”

“Now, you just take yourself right on back to your aunt's house and stay there until it's time for you to go back to your fancy little historical society,” she said. “We don't need outsiders meddling in our affairs and rewriting history.”

“Even if it needs rewriting?” I asked.

The next thing I knew her fist had slammed square in my eye and I was looking at the water-stained ceiling from flat on my back.

Thirteen

“I can't believe that bitch hit you!” Aunt Sissy said. She handed me a steak. “Here, put this on your eye.”

“I will not!” I said. “That's gross. You put a dead carcass on
your
eye. Get me some ice.”

“Well, aren't we in a bad mood,” Aunt Sissy said. She proceeded to get me some ice out of her freezer and place it in a Ziploc bag.

“I just got punched in the eye and now you're trying to put a dead cow on my face. Why wouldn't I be in a bad mood?” I laid the ice next to my eye and nearly screamed, it hurt so bad.

Uncle Joe came into the kitchen about that time, walked over to the gun case, and got out his shotgun. He came back into the kitchen and loaded it. “Uncle Joe, she just hit me, that's all.”

“Who hit you?” he said. When he looked up he did a double take. “What the hell happened to your eye?”

“Roberta Flagg punched her,” Aunt Sissy said. “Can you believe it? That woman sure takes her genealogy seriously.”

I sighed with relief. The gun was not for Roberta. “Uncle Joe, why are you getting out your twelve-gauge?”

“Found another … well, what's left of another animal,” he said.

“So you're going to shoot it?” I asked.

“No, we think it might be a wolf that's killing the livestock.”

“A wolf!” I screeched. “No!”

Uncle Joe and Aunt Sissy gave me pretty much identical stares of disbelief. Like I had lost my mind, along with my eyesight and the teeny-weeny trace of beauty I'd had to begin with. “It can't be a wolf.”

“Why not?” Uncle Joe asked.

“Th-they don't come this far south.
National Geographic
said so.”

Uncle Joe waved a hand at me. “Torie, I don't think
National Geographic
has ever done a special on Minnesota gray wolves,” he said. “But I can tell you, the wolves have been moving farther and farther south lately. They're getting much bolder.”

“Well, what do you expect?” I asked before I could stop myself. “I mean, you're dangling their food source out in front of them and then getting mad when they eat it. How are they supposed to know the difference? They're just dumb animals, right?”