Map Skills Murder Page 4

  Sheriff Ed Carnack met us the next day. Rex called in to the police station and told them he was taking a vacation day, which was fine because he was between cases at the moment, and aside from a shoplifting at the gas station and the breakup of a teenage kegger party, nothing much was going on.

  "That's a famous case. I always wondered if it really was an accident." The sheriff was a big man with an easy smile. I'd had to work with him (sort of) on a case the past spring.

  Who's There was the county seat, and so the sheriff's department was located in town.

  "We have files that go back to the late 1800s. It might take a day to find them, but why not?"

  He promised to call us the minute he knew anything. That was when I thought about the library.

  "They would have old newspaper records, right?"

  Rex frowned. "They should. If the town newspaper doesn't go back that far, I'll bet the Des Moines Register does."

  * * *

  Microfiche. Why did it have to be microfiche? I hate microfiche. I thought these thoughts as a blonde, buxom librarian named Genevieve (at least, that was the name on her tag) set us up in the back of the library with a box of the little films.

  I never understood the allure of microfiche. I never was able to scan them quickly on those machines. In the movies and on TV, they race through them, the screen a blur, until the hero stops at just the right spot. I never knew a spy who could do that, and I knew some pretty talented secret agents.

  Microfilm was the spy trick du jour during the Cold War. We had to train in its use at the Farm, and I hated it. These days we can take pictures with our phones and text them to the powers that be way faster than developing film and hiding it in a hollowed-out shoe heel.

  Rex loaded the machine and started scrolling at the date of Mehitable's death. He was right. The local paper didn't even exist back then. The paper in the big city of Des Moines, thirty miles away, covered rural news.

  "Here it is." Rex stopped on a page. "The date is two days after the murder. But I suspect that's because it took a while to report these things."

  Mehitable, or Mimi Peters, filled the screen. This photo was different from the one I had. It must've been taken in her early twenties. She looked serene in a white lace blouse, with her hair pinned up in the style of that time.

  And she looked a lot like me.

  "Are you sure you aren't related?" Rex asked. "You could be twins."

  "Grandma Wrath never mentioned it. And I didn't know Dad's parents. He never was one for genealogy. I'm sure Mom or Dad would've known if we were Peters descendants."

  "Must be a fluke." Rex squinted at the screen as he brought up the news story.

  PETERSTOWN HEIRESS DIES IN FREAK ACCIDENT

  July 1, 1911, Peterstown, IA. Mehitable Peters, or Mimi, as she was known, was found on June 29th, dead in her home. The inquest determined that the heiress to the Peters fortune had slipped and fallen on an axe in her dining room. Cause of death—blunt force trauma to the head. Neighbors seemed relieved and sad at the woman's passing.

  I leaned over Rex's shoulder, "That's it? That's all they have?"

  "That's some shoddy police work," my fiancé said. "I guess it's possible to trip and land on an axe, but why would anyone have an axe in their dining room?"

  I shrugged. "She was considered very eccentric. Don't you think it's sad, and odd that the neighbors were relieved?"

  "The mentally ill, back in those days, if they had money, were allowed to live in their own homes. Who knows what she got up to? Maybe her llama had terrorized the neighborhood?"

  "If she was so famous, why didn't they write more in the paper?" It seemed sad that this woman's whole life was summed up in one bizarre accident. Or murder.

  Rex scanned the rest of the front page. "There was a lot of news that day. Look here—a horse-theft ring was captured, a group of vigilantes kidnapped a suspected murderer and strung him up outside the courthouse, and some cow gave birth to two two-headed calves. They wouldn't have had much room to write about an accident."

  "Vigilantes?" My right brow went up.

  Rex nodded. "Oh sure. It was still kind of the Wild West out here. And even though there were lawmen, it wasn't uncommon for a mob to take the law into their own hands before a jury ever saw the case."

  My mouth dropped open. "You're joking."

  He shook his head. "Nope. And when it came time to find the vigilantes, people went face blind. They wouldn't turn their neighbors in. In fact, they often thanked them for their service to the community."

  "Huh," I mumbled. "I never thought of Iowa as the Wild West before."

  "Look." Rex pointed at the screen.

  A week later there was a story about Eustace Peters moving into his sister's house. He stood beside the building, looking stern.

  "The house looks the same," I mused.

  Rex nodded. "My sisters renovated the outside for authenticity."

  "So what do you think, Detective? Accident or murder?"

  Rex leaned back in his chair and stared into space. "I'm going to go with murder. And I'm going to guess that the marshal called it an accident just to avoid dealing with an investigation."

  Edna Lou would like that. She hoped it was a murder so the Historical Society could make something big out of it. I understood that. Besides the world's second-largest snail collection, there wasn't much else of interest in this town.

  We spent the afternoon going through the rest of the microfiche files but found nothing more. By the time we got back to my house, I was starving.

  Rex ran over and grabbed a couple of steaks from his fridge, and I opened a bottle of wine. As the meat sizzled on the grill, I remembered the map.

  We laid it out on the table.

  "Do you really think there's a treasure?" Rex asked.

  "I don't know. I don't even know how it got into this yard."

  "Show me where you found it."

  We studied the hole but found nothing unusual. I still had the decaying wooden box, but that led nowhere. As Rex turned the steaks, I ran my hands over it. There weren't any identifying features. Nothing that said this box belonged to anyone in particular.

  "We should ask Edna Lou about the history of this neighborhood," Rex offered. "That should tell us something."

  "That's an excellent idea." I turned the map over and showed him the drawing of the llama. It was a decent job. Mad Mimi had some talent.

  "I've never seen a map without a treasure before. And the last word in her diary before she went mad, that is, was wubble. What do you think it means?" I asked.

  Rex stared at them for a while before getting the steaks off the grill. As we ate, I couldn't help wonder what had really happened, all those years ago, that made Mehitable crazy. Granted, there was a lot of lead poisoning, medicines were a dicey prospect at best, and sometimes people just lost their minds. But still, what changed in one day when she was twenty-six Why did she write about dull household chores one day and Wubble the next?

  Grabbing my cell, I looked up the meaning of the word Wubble. There was only one definition. The Urban Dictionary said: To insert a tentacled appendage into the ocular oriface of a victim, impregnating their skull with squid eggs.

  I shared this information with Rex. He choked on his steak. After a hard pat on the back, he was better.

  "What did you say?" He coughed and downed a glass of water.

  "It's just like it says," I repeated. "An octopus or squid sticks a tentacle into something's eye socket, knocking up its skull."

  My fiancé stared at me.

  "Saying it out loud doesn't make it sound any better, I guess." I toyed with the idea that maybe Randi and Ronni would know what this means. But decided not to mention it to Rex.

  "And they didn't have the Urban Dictionary back then," I said. "It most likely meant nothing…a nonsense word."

  "Not necessarily," Rex countered. "It could be code. Or a nickname. It could mean something we haven't thought of."

 
That was the detective talking.

  "What do we do now?" I said after polishing off my steak. "We've hit the sheriff for records and the library and the newspaper."

  Rex shrugged. "She died more than 100 years ago, so there probably aren't any witnesses or suspects living."

  I picked up the diary. "We have this. I'll keep reading and see if there is anything."

  We finished our dinner in silence. Not an uncomfortable or awkward silence, but the kind of silence brought about by too much thinking. Even though we hadn't found anything conclusive, we'd made a pretty serious start. And that was something.

  "You know what?" Rex pulled me against him as we cleared the table. "I like investigating with you."

  "Of course you do. I'm amazing." I pushed him back playfully.

  "Not so fast." Rex pulled me back into his arms and held me tight. "I don't know if it's the squid tentacles, but this case has given me all sorts of ideas."

  His lips pressed against mine. This was an unexpected perk of investigating together. The dishes never did get done as we explored a new avenue of investigation on the couch.

  After a while, I kissed him good night, and sadly, he headed home. I ignored the dishes again and brought the diary to bed with me. Maybe somewhere between butter churning and llama husbandry, I'd find something that provided a clue, other than skull-impregnating squid tentacles.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I'd like to say that Mehitable's diary was riveting reading that kept me up all night. I'd like to say that—but it wouldn't be true. The woman's life, or at least her record of it, was boringly mundane, peppered with a few things here or there that made me wonder if her madness hadn't started a little earlier.

  She wrote at length about each and every household chore, from hand washing the family's laundry, to hanging it on the line, to feeding the chickens, to sewing. And the strange thing was, they were wealthy enough to have at least two maids.

  Perhaps Mimi found comfort in the little things. Maybe doing all this stuff when she didn't need to was what drove her mad. All I know was, it made me fall asleep.

  The alarm on my cell woke me up at noon. A couple of weeks ago, I'd had mind-crushing insomnia. Now I slept for hours. Originally, planning the wedding had made me a nervous wreck. But now that almost everything was organized, I felt comfortable enough to sleep.

  Philby looked up, still wearing the hatchet-through-the-head gag. Fat and sassy, with her uncomfortable resemblance to Hitler, this cat made my life interesting. And that was saying something.

  I found Martini in the hallway, on her back, legs splayed and fast asleep. Maybe I should get her into the vet. But then, I'd read somewhere that cats spend 80 percent of their day sleeping, so perhaps I should leave it alone.

  After a quick shower and a couple of Pop-Tarts, I decided to head back to the historical society's cabin for another chat with Edna Lou. I wasn't finished with the diary yet, but maybe my visit had jogged her memory and she'd have some more insights for me.

  It was a beautiful day, unseasonably cool for July. Usually we were sizzling at this point, but not today. I wasn't complaining. At the park, I got out of the car and headed for the little log cabin.

  When I was a kid, the log cabin had been closed. It was such a fixture in the city park, I barely noticed it. Had the historical society been using it back then? That was a possibility. I probably should've shown an interest before now, but it was more likely I was too busy spinning on the merry-go-round until I threw up.

  Looking toward that bit of equipment, I saw that a familiar patch of ground near it was devoid of grass. I must not have been the only one.

  Edna Lou knew my grandmother and mother. How did I not know her? Murphy…it was a popular name in town. We'd had a lot of Irish settlers back in the nineteenth century. I knew of at least three Murphy families. She and her cousin must belong to at least one of them.

  I tested the doorknob, wondering if it was open, and it gave way. I stepped inside and was immediately assailed with the smell of copper. I knew that smell. That was a bad smell.

  The lights were off, so I switched them on. I wished I hadn't.

  A pair of legs stuck out from under the table, and there were bloodstains on the far wall. I suppressed a shudder. I'd seen a number of bodies over the years, but what if this was Edna? I liked Edna.

  "Edna Lou? Are you okay?" I asked. Because of what I'd found, why did I think this person would answer?

  Taking my cell out of my pocket, I dialed 9-1-1 and told the dispatcher what was going on. Then I walked around the table.

  A very old man lay there, unmoving. An axe lay on the floor next to him. Just to make sure he wasn't still alive, I reached down and checked his pulse. Nope. This guy was gone. Murdered. And I was the one who found the body. Some things never changed.

  The door opened, and I saw Edna Lou's silhouette in the doorway. I lunged for her, dragging the woman outside, and closing the door behind us.

  "What is going on?" the woman asked. "Where's Ike?"

  "Ike?" I asked in a poor attempt to stall. The sirens were already closing in.

  "My cousin." Edna's eyes were glued to the door. "We're supposed to meet here. He wants to talk to me about something."

  The fact that she talked about him in present tense demonstrated that she thought he was alive. I didn't want to be the one who broke it to her that he wasn't. Being the bearer of bad news wasn't in my skill set. I preferred delivering happy news, like I found your dog or You dropped ten dollars or Hey, your lawn is on fire.

  "Why can't I go in there?" the woman pressed.

  "I think we should wait for the police," I said quickly.

  "Why?" She turned fearful eyes back to the door.

  "Because we don't want to contaminate the crime scene," I answered.

  Edna didn't respond, but her face grew pale. For a few moments we stood there in silence. I was worried she was going to demand to know what was happening, but she didn't. From the look on her face, I was fairly certain she didn't really want to know.

  Rex arrived at the same time as the ambulance. I nodded toward the door, and he gave me a look that said I knew you couldn't go one month without a dead body in your wake. He came back out a moment later, shoving his cell into his pocket.

  "This is Edna Lou Murphy," I said quickly before he could speak. "The woman I told you about. She's supposed to meet her cousin Ike here." I wiggled my eyebrows to clue him in.

  "Ms. Murphy"—Rex shook her hand—"I'm Detective Ferguson. Can you describe your cousin? Ike, was it?"

  The elderly woman nodded. "That's right. Ike Murphy. Well, he's old. Skinny and old, like me."

  Rex led us to a park bench as Dr. Soo Jin Body—the town coroner—pulled up.

  "Will someone tell me what is going on?" Edna watched as the beautiful medical examiner walked into the cabin and shut the door.

  Rex put his hand on her back. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but I think your cousin has been murdered."

  Edna's mouth opened and closed three times without speaking. Then she laughed.

  "This is a prank! Ike always was a prankster." She smiled at me.

  Her smile faded when I slowly shook my head.

  "I'm so sorry, Edna Lou. I found his body inside. He's gone."

  "That can't be true. I just saw him at the gas station an hour ago. He was fit as a fiddle."

  I didn't tell her that "fit as a fiddle" didn't often include an axe in your head.

  "Ms. Wrath…" Rex looked at me. "Could you excuse us for a moment?"

  I got up and walked away. As unhappy as I was that he was kicking me out of this case, I couldn't argue with him in front of the old lady who'd just lost her cousin. I wandered over to the merry-go-round and sat down.

  Officer Kevin Dooley arrived in a squad car. He was wrist deep in a bag of little donuts and had powdered sugar all over his uniform. Yeesh. Kevin and I went all the way back to our childhood. He was a mouth breather then and was a mouth breather now. The
only difference was that he didn't eat paste anymore, and for reasons I've never been able to understand, now had a gun.

  From a short distance away, I could hear Rex mumbling softly to Edna, who stared at him as if he were a lowland gorilla who spoke perfect French. She wasn't crying or screaming. She looked kind of like she didn't believe him.

  This was murder. Axe murder. Like what happened to Mehitable over a century ago. It certainly couldn't be the same murderer. The killer would have to be more than one hundred years old. No, that made no sense. A centenarian wouldn't be able to hold an axe, let alone raise it above his head.

  It was possible that the murder wasn't even connected to the past. But then again, it took place in the local historical society's vintage log cabin, so my thoughts ran to it being connected.

  I pictured the layout in my mind. It had been dark when I'd entered. The killer probably had the lights out, or Ike didn't know where the switch was, and waited in darkness. Was it possible the killer was after something in the cabin?

  Or someone?

  My eyes snapped back to Edna Lou. Was she the target? I hoped not. I really liked her.

  The park had filled up with people who'd seen the emergency vehicles and showed up to see what happened. It was a small town where most people knew everyone. How many of these people knew Ike and Edna?

  I didn't recognize many faces—just a few from the businesses nearby.

  It had surprised me when Edna mentioned my grandmother. Wrath was not a common name, but no one I'd met here ever asked about my connection. Maybe that was because Rex and Dr. Body were new here, so they thought I was too.

  Kelly and Kevin knew who I was. At least, I thought Kevin did. You never knew what was going through that brain.

  My thoughts drifted back to Adelaide Wrath. When it came to my family history, on both sides, she was the only ancestor I knew. That seemed like a shame. I didn't know Dad's parents or Mom's father because they'd all passed away before I was born.

  Why didn't I ask more questions about family history? Mehitable's face popped into my head, and I pulled the photo of normal Mimi, that I'd printed from the microfiche, out of my pocket. She really did look like me. Or…I looked like her.