Read Online Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret by Rett MacPherson - Free Book Online Page A

events.
    If John Murphy had been seeing Norah for years, then why wouldn’t he show up at the funeral? Guilt? Shame? How about the inability to look at his own handiwork? Evidently, Brooke wasn’t ready to comment any further on the subject.
    â€œHow could an entire neighborhood not know that she had a boyfriend? Especially one that she has been seeing for years?” I asked.
    â€œMaybe they never came across as a couple, and therefore when we asked if she had a boyfriend, they said no. I will tell you that she was very private and kept to herself.”
    â€œI’m planning a visit to Louise Shenk. You can come along if you like,” I said. “If you think it will help your investigation.”
    â€œWho?” he asked.
    â€œNorah’s aunt. I’m going to go see her tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat time?” he asked.
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    NEW KASSEL GAZETTE
    T HE N EWS Y OU M IGHT M ISS
    by Eleanore Murdoch
    The local quilters of the River Point Quilting Bee would like to announce that their quilt “Mississippi Heritage” took second place at the Midwest Quilt Fair. Congratulations, ladies! Oops, and Elmer Kolbe—I always forget he quilts. Raffles for two new quilts of theirs can be bought at the Quilt Supply on New Bavaria Boulevard. “Mississippi Heritage” can be seen on display at the Murdoch Inn.
    Also, what’s this I hear? Our sheriff had dinner with the O’Shea’s? I’m open for more information.
    Tobias still hasn’t had his beloved statue of Abraham Lincoln returned. He’s getting hotter than a snake in the Mojave Desert. (His words, not mine.)
    The nuns at the Santa Lucia Catholic Church were presented with trees to plant. The trees were donated by Mrs. Hudsucker’s kindergarten class. The trees came from the Wisteria nursery. Any great news? Write to me in care of the Murdoch Inn. Until next time.
    Eleanore

Seven
    I walked along Jefferson Street in an attempt to get to the Gaheimer House. I passed the lace shop with its low windows full of lace curtains and doilies. The Gaheimer House sits almost right on the sidewalk, its burnt brick overwhelming the passersby. The five windows and one door that are visible from Jefferson Street are painted in a yellow cream, surrounded by forest green shutters. It looks pretty sickening against the burnt-colored brick.
    I stepped up on the wooden steps, and I was eye level with the plaque that reads, “Gaheimer House 1864.” Sylvia Pershing met me at the front door. She didn’t say a word. She only looked at me with her eyebrows knit together.
    â€œHello, Sylvia,” I said as I walked by her. I heard her footsteps behind me as I passed through the parlor and then through the ballroom on my way back to the office. She was ticked about something.
    Wilma waited for me in the office, sitting calmly, ankles and hands crossed. I had no idea what I had done wrong this time.
    â€œVictory!” Sylvia’s shrill voice sounded from ten feet behind me. She shut the door behind her and stood across from the desk. It was quite clear that she thought I had some explaining to do, but I had no idea what it was that I had to explain.
    â€œWhere are the marriage records for Granite County, 1850 to 1865?”
    â€œDamn,” I mumbled.
    â€œDon’t you dare use profanity in the Gaheimer House.”
    â€œIt’s not a church, Sylvia.” Sometimes I think Sylvia has an unhealthy outlook on Hermann Gaheimer. The man died in 1930. Sylvia was in her twenties. She couldn’t possibly have known him well enough to give him the sainthood that she most fervently thinks he deserved. but I figure I should keep such observations to myself.
    â€œIf you think you can answer my question without cursing, please do so,” she said. “I’d love to hear your excuse for this one. Did your chickens eat them? Did Mary stuff them in your fish tank?”
    â€œSylvia, I know you’ll never