In Sheep's Clothing (22 page)

“Oh, jeez,” I said. “She's definitely ambitious enough to do that. From what I hear.”

“And then some,” Dicey said.

“My gosh,” I said. “If our suspicions are correct, that means she and Roberta are cousins.”

Dicey gave me a bizarre look.

“If we're right and they are both descended from Isabelle Lansdowne, then they're cousins.”

“That's right,” Dicey said.

“Of course,” I said, “Kimberly may not be descended from Isabelle. We could be totally wrong.” I thought of the two of them in the historical society together, that day that I had come in. Something had passed between them. They definitely knew each other.

“So, how did Brian Bloomquist end up with lakefront property? He's descended from Sven. Sven wouldn't have had any claim to it.”

“Well,” Dicey said, “I think his grandfather bought it. See, eventually the lakefront land got split up.”

“I'm assuming by one of Isabelle's children or grandchildren.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“And/or Emelie's,” Aunt Sissy added.

“Brian's grandfather probably just purchased land like everybody else.”

“Or Emelie willed part of it to her cousin John. Sven's son,” I said.

“Oooh, I never thought of that,” Aunt Sissy said.

I thought for a moment. Twisting my hair around my finger, I let out a long sigh.

“There's a map of the lake in one of these books,” Dicey said.

“There is?”

“Yeah, there's a map of it from about 1900, and then we just did a map of it a few years back for the one-hundred-and-fortieth anniversary of the founding of Olin,” she said.

“Where?” I asked, nearly jumping out of the chair.

Dicey pulled a book down off of the shelf, a thin book that looked as if it had been run off by a Xerox copier rather than published. It was about a forty-page book on the history of Olin. And the lake was the central part of its history. I hadn't thought to ask Roberta for a history of Olin. I had asked her for a history of the county and for biographical sketches. But not a history of Olin. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

The map from 1900 showed the lake and the parcels of land blocked off all around it, each one with a coordinating number that listed the name of the owner on a key below it. In 1900, a huge section, probably close to half of the land surrounding the lake, belonged to Hans and Emelie Schwartz. “That has to be Emelie Bloomquist's married name.”

“Yeah, probably,” Aunt Sissy agreed.

A small part next to it belonged to John Bloomquist. “Looks like she either sold a small piece to her cousin or she gave it to him. That's probably the same piece of land the marina sits on right now.”

Then there were three large pieces of land. One lot was owned by Theodore Lansdowne, one by Frederick Lansdowne, and the last one by Conrad Lansdowne. I couldn't help but notice the anglicized version of Konrad to Conrad. Next to Theodore's land were two small lots that I assumed Theodore or one of his brothers sold because they needed the money. It was the begining of people outside of the Nagel descendants or relatives possessing the lakefront property.

The 1994 map was a completely different story. A great many of the people who owned lakefront property in 1994 could very well have been descendants of Konrad Nagel, but it was hard to say, since Isabelle and Emelie probably had some female descendants who married, and thus a different last name went on the land record. In fact, I didn't see the Schwartz name anywhere on the map, so I deduced that Emelie and Hans had either had only daughters or no children at all. I doubted that Emelie was childless, though, because in that case, her cousin, John Bloomquist, and descendants would most likely have had a larger chunk of the lake.

“When did Kimberly Canton start buying the lakefront property?”

“Few years back,” Aunt Sissy said.

“At least. Maybe even ten years,” Dicey said.

“Well, here's her property in 1994,” I said and pointed to the map. “Look, there's a Lansdowne. Barely owns twenty acres,” I said.

“There's Sheriff Aberg's property,” Dicey said. “He bought his. He is not a descendant as far as I know.”

The map did not show me which lots had been bought up by Kimberly Canton, though, because she had done most of her purchasing since this map was made. I tapped my chin and thought a minute. What was I missing?

Then it smacked me right between the eyes. I felt so stupid. So … so
blind.
The lots. B-12. The words that Brian Bloomquist had spoken to Colin. He had said B-12. And no, it wasn't a vitamin. It was a lot of land. I quickly traced the lots until it came to B-12. The lot right next to Brian's marina. The lot that had been so rundown that it stuck out like a sore thumb that day I was in the boat with Rudy and Colin.

Lot B-12 of Olin Lake belonged to Roberta Flagg.

“Ladies, I think we need to get out of here,” I said.

“Why?” Dicey asked.

“Quickly, do you have … um, in New Kassel we have a file of the townsfolk. You know, where they put their five generation charts on file. And then if anybody writes in and asks about those people, we put them in contact with somebody who has already researched that particular branch of a family or what have you. Do you have anything similar to that?”

“Yes,” Dicey said. “Most genealogical societies and historical societies have something similar to that.”

“I need to see Roberta's and I'm hoping like hell there is one for Kimberly Canton,” I said.

“I'll have to access the computer,” she said. “We put everything on the computer this past spring. I don't think Kimberly Canton has one on file, because I'm not sure she's ever filed one. I don't even know if she's from Olin. I know she was born in this county, but beyond that, I don't have a clue.”

“Well, we can hope.”

Dicey sat down in the chair, typed in a few words, moved the mouse around, and then tapped the desk with her fingers. “Hurry up,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder at the clock. “Okay, here's Roberta's.”

She pushed the print button and printed out a piece of paper. Then more paper and more paper.

“Sorry, it's printing the whole file. Not just that one chart.”

“Great,” I said.

At that moment the front door to the historical society opened.

In all the excitement Dicey had left her watching post, and neither Aunt Sissy nor I had even noticed. Roberta Flagg stood in the doorway with the most quizzical look on her face. She was happy to see Aunt Sissy, but when her eyes landed on me, it was a different story. A stubborn, almost hateful look shimmered in her eyes, and then she spoke.

“You've got some nerve,” she said.

“We were just leaving,” I said. “Right, Aunt Sissy?”

“Right.”

Roberta's gaze flicked from Aunt Sissy to Dicey. We were all flushed and looked as if we had just been caught doing something we weren't supposed to be doing. Which was sort of the truth, but not entirely. Anybody was entitled to access to the records in a historical society, and don't let anybody ever tell you otherwise. Either way, only a complete numbskull couldn't have figured out that something was going on.

Roberta crossed her arms. I couldn't help but notice that she was blocking the entrance. The only entrance, which meant the only exit, as well. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Trying to prove your lies?” she hissed.

“Well, if I can prove them, then they wouldn't be lies, now would they?”

Aunt Sissy jabbed me. Not exactly the most brilliant thing for me to say to the woman whom we suspected of murder, I suppose.

“Get out!” she said.

“We're on our way.”

“Were you helping them, Dicey?” Roberta asked.

“I … uh … I just found the books they needed. I have no idea what they were working on,” she said. Dicey slipped the pieces of paper into a manila folder.

“See you later, Dicey,” Aunt Sissy said.

“Yeah, oh wait. You forgot your copies,” she said and ran over to hand us the folder.

“Give me that,” Roberta said.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“You can't have that!” Roberta screeched.

“Ever hear of a little thing called the Freedom of Information Act?” I asked.

I glanced over at Dicey, hoping like heck that she understood what I was trying to convey to her telepathically.
Get out quickly. Don't tell her anything. Cover our tracks.
I had no idea whether Dicey would understand what I meant, because I don't think Dicey fully understood what was going on. She had heard us talking about Emelie Bloomquist, but she had no idea about the story behind her. And what I represented to Roberta. Dicey had no clue to the significance of B-12. Not a clue.

Still, I noticed as I looked over my shoulder that her fingers moved to the computer and she escaped out of whatever screen she was in so that Roberta wouldn't know what she had printed for us on the computer. I hadn't had a chance to find out if there was a file for Kimberly Canton. I doubted it. Kimberly didn't seem like the type of person who would take the time to put her five-generation chart on file at the local historical society.

Aunt Sissy and I stepped out into the sunshine and just looked at each other. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” I said. “If this is your idea of fun, you'd fit right into my world. You oughta move back to Missouri.”

“Not on your life.”

Twenty-three

Aunt Sissy and I were about to get in her truck when the sheriff's car pulled up next to us. Sheriff Aberg got out of his car, the sun making his blond hair look like spun gold. “Ladies,” he said and nodded.

“Sheriff,” Aunt Sissy said. “There a problem?”

“No,” he said. “At least I hope not.”

Aunt Sissy and I both just stood there, waiting for the bomb to drop. I just knew he was there to tell me that he was going to rearrest my stepfather. What he actually said floored me. “Roberta wants me to get a restraining order against Mrs. O'Shea,” he said.

“What? She's the one who decked me!” I said rather hotly.

He held his hands up as if he really didn't want to hear it and on days like this he'd rather have a different job. “She just called my cell phone like thirty seconds ago claiming that you and your aunt here are threatening violence against her and she wants to bar you from the historical society property.”

“Your cell phone?” I asked.

“I golf with her husband.”

“Oh.”

“Wait, you said she wants Torie kept from the historical society? Not away from her? Doesn't sound like she's too worried about violence or she would want the restraining order to be for her, not the historical society,” Aunt Sissy said.

“Yeah,” I said and crossed my arms. “Sounds to me like she just doesn't want me at the historical society. Afraid of what I'll find out.”

“And what would that be?” Sheriff Aberg asked.

“B-12,” I said. “Do you remember how my stepfather told you that the last thing Brian Bloomquist said was B-12?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well, B-12 is a lot of land at the lake. And B-12 was owned by Roberta Flagg,” I said.

“You're kidding.”

“No, I'm not.”

He paused for a moment and I found myself clenching my fists in anticipation. “Now don't repeat that to anybody and don't go getting all fired up about this. Could be a logical explanation,” he said. “And I also want to request that you not go back to the historical society. I'm not saying that you can't get Dicey to look something up for you, but I don't want you going back there. Even though you're not doing anything wrong, you have to admit that your very presence is like a plague.”

“I've been told that before,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Just stay at your aunt's, enjoy the May Fest. Go home. All right? Because if I catch you over there again, I will bring you in for disobeying an officer.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” I said under my breath.

“What?”

“I'll stay away,” I said.

“Great, now you and Sissy go on and do something fun. Go watch the races.”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Aunt Sissy said.

He nodded and got back in his squad car. Aunt Sissy and I pulled out and headed back to the boat races. I flipped through the pages of the file that Dicey had printed out for us. “Dicey probably thinks we're loony,” I said.

“Well, she wouldn't be too far off,” Aunt Sissy said. “So what's in the file?”

“Five-generation charts. Roberta is descended from Konrad Nagel through his daughter Isabelle Nagel Lansdowne, through her son Frederick, through his daughter Grace.” I stopped and flipped the page to another five-generation chart. “Through her daughter Isabelle, through her son Neville,” I said taking a deep breath. “Through Neville's son Terrence, through his daughter Catherine, and finally to Roberta.”

“Nothing spectacular there,” Aunt Sissy said.

“No, but maybe there's something else. There are family group sheets galore in here, too.”

“What are those?”

“Family group sheets are a record of a family. Like, I have a family group sheet for my family with Rudy. It lists Rudy's name, along with mine, dates and places of birth, dates and places of death, if applicable, marriage date and place, and then all of our children. Some group sheets have room for notes. Some charts even have a place for the cemetery that the person is buried in and who performed the wedding ceremony. Pretty cool. Anyway, then I have one for my mother and father and then their parents and so on. A good genealogist will try and fill out family group sheets on everybody. In other words, I have one on you and Uncle Joe and all of my dad's and mom's siblings. I have them for my grandparents' siblings and so on. The point is to try and document as many of a specific person's descendants as possible. I have one ancestor for whom I've documented and recorded over four thousand descendants.”