Gone crazy, p.15
Gone Crazy, page 15
He laid a hand on her arm. “You like the story, and you don’t like James Sheehan.”
“Am I that obvious? I don’t trust him and can’t figure out what he’s after. She left everything to the college and the library. What can he hope to gain by holding up probate and trying to replace me as executor?”
Rory had no idea. But James was after something. If only he knew what.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rory slipped away at midmorning, leaving Esther and Marilyn to manage while he went to the apartment to study his lists. Dead—Phoebe Sheehan, alkaloid poisoning. Under her name in no particular order, he’d listed the suspects, James Sheehan, Nina Mahala, Lillie Anderson, and Perry Benson.
James seemed the most likely and therefore his first choice. Arriving unannounced after his aunt’s collapse at the ceremony, in Rory’s mind he had the most to gain from her death—the Sheehan inheritance. He scratched his forehead. What was the inheritance, not the rambling old mansion. The place might tempt some, but the upkeep alone would put it beyond most means. James seemed comfortable enough, but a salesman always had to hustle, making his own opportunities. Could it be that the nephew saw this as an opportunity to supplement his wealth. Or did he know there was an item more valuable than the house and the grounds. Then there was the poison—typically a woman’s choice in weapons. Did James have the cunning to administer the lethal dose? Rory hadn’t seen him at the ceremony, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
He pictured the pretty dog sitter. Nina Mahala lived at the mansion. Evidence tying her to the Sheehan family through her grandmother’s employment as nanny was problematic. Records didn’t substantiate birth or death for the Native American woman called Nani. If she bore a child from Michael Sheehan, Rory was hard pressed to prove it. Yet the dog sitter had a contract that granted her permission to live on the estate with or without Phoebe. An odd arrangement. He wondered why the librarian would agree to the stipulation. Unfortunately, since Nina wasn’t willing to explain there wasn’t anyone to ask, and rumor didn’t solve his dilemma. Crouching Bear confirmed Nina’s obsession with natural remedies. The poison could have easily been given to the unsuspecting poet before she went to the Old Orchard ceremony.
What had Petey said about the toxin? Likely to kill any time in a window spanning thirty minutes to thirty hours. Leaving the possibility Esther administered the poison at the scene, but equally supported the theory Nina had done it earlier in the day. If so, what motive did the girl have? Revenge? The rightful heir seemed the only other explanation, and he wasn’t convinced. A sulky and contrary girl, she didn’t display animosity toward Phoebe.
On the other hand, Lillie Anderson held a huge grudge against the entire Sheehan household, though her actions were based on an old grievance. He was sure she had harbored a love for Michael Sheehan—a feeling he hadn’t reciprocated. Lover spurned, blinded by her emotions, and heartbroken when they were exposed. It was all speculation on his part. Mixed up with it all was the jealousy she must have felt when his novel published, and she was passed over for tenure. And the Ho-chunk Nation? Where did they fit into the local librarian’s death?
The third candidate for Winterset Poet Laureate was also a contender. Perry Benson seemed to touch everyone. First, he was the gardener at the estate. Second, he was a poet like Phoebe and Lillie. Third, he and Nina shared a secret. And last, and most disturbing, was the fact he was tied to the hardware store. But without means, opportunity, and motive, Rory couldn’t pin that crime on him either. At this point the murderer could be anyone except Esther.
Getting nowhere, Rory decided to take the document packet found in the deep freeze to the college. Someone out there was bound to recognize the language it was written in. Lillie Anderson was his best hope for labeling the writings as rambling prose or poetry.
When he arrived, Professor Anderson was delivering a lecture. He stepped into the hall, took a seat in the back row, and listened. “A writer who is as much at home on the stage as the page.” Paper rustled, and muted laughter toward the front. A single overhead light highlighted the speaker. All other lighting had been dimmed to focus the students’ attention on the slide presentation behind her. Lillie ignored both, laughter, and restlessness.
“She takes poetry to audiences that poetry doesn’t usually reach. Starting out as a guerrilla poet, pasting poems onto lamp posts, and handing them out on free postcards. We can learn from her determination.” Lillie had warmed to her subject and Rory felt his eyelids droop. The heat in the crowded hall made it almost impossible to stay awake.
Sudden overhead lights woke him. He’d slouched low enough in the padded lecture hall seat to rest his head on the seat back and apparently gone to sleep. Straightening up, he realized he was the only one left in the gigantic room. He rubbed his hand over his jaw and gave himself permission for a good yawn. Focusing his eyes, they found Professor Anderson behind the podium watching him. “I wondered how long it would take.”
“I didn’t disrupt your lecture?”
“Not at all, detective. Not that much would, I can deliver this particular lecture series with my eyes closed. Are you here to see me?”
“I am.” He made his way down to the front and fished the paper from an inside pocket. “You mentioned that you worked with the reservation school.” She shot him a quick glance, then continued to collect her papers. “I have a document here”—he unfolded it—“it’s written by hand. I can’t identify the script. I wonder if you can tell me if it’s Sioux.”
“Sioux?” She took it from him. Her face clouded, and the wrinkles between her brows grew more defined. “What makes you think this is native?”
It was clear the paper, or what was written on the paper bothered her. The hand holding it trembled.
“I hoped you’d recognize it. I need a translator.”
She thought it over, chewing on her lower lip. “Where’d it come from? Is it Ho-Chunk, is that what you’re asking.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m trying to entrap you.” She looked up suddenly; he went on, taking the sheet from her hands. “There were a dozen documents tied together in a packet and hidden at the Sheehan mansion.” He paused to let her think. She still stared at the spot where the paper had been. “Should we go to your office? I’d like to understand what you know.”
Raising her head, she spoke too quickly. “I know nothing.”
Rory swallowed a quick retort. He’d watched too many late-night reruns. Instead, he said, “I’ve found people know more than they think.”
Well aware that in allowing the conversation to move from the lecture hall to Professor Anderson’s office, he had given her ample time to concoct a story. He wanted her to be comfortable before he asked the next question. He intended to gauge her reaction carefully. And as he expected, she had regained her composure once they’d stepped onto her protective turf. She settled in the chair behind the desk.
He took a moment to look at the plaques, pictures, and awards displayed on the walls. “You’ve had a distinguished career at WCC. Is this you with the Dean?”
She placed her finger-laced hands on the desktop. “Do you think we could wrap this up, detective? I could use some time to prep for my next class.”
“Sure.” He moved to the opposite wall, and a picture he’d noticed on his first visit. “When was this taken?” Using the document, he tapped a framed photograph where a much younger Lillie Anderson, in native dress, posed with tribal elders. Among those pictured a young woman in a ribbon adorned skirt, a native shawl draped over her shoulders echoed a passage from Sheehan’s novel—She wore a ribbon embroidery skirt and one as a shawl. A heavily beaded binding decorated the braid that hung down her back. The woman’s face radiated strength and tribal pride. He noted an uncanny resemblance to Nina Mahala. Could this be the woman they called Nani? “It must have been during your undergraduate days. Can you name those present?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Surely, righting social injustice, being honored by the tribal council, and being a dedicated scholar would warrant a remembered occasion.” She didn’t answer. “And this man”—he pointed at an unmistakable Michael Sheehan—“this Irish scholar, with his arm around the native girl? Would this be the novelist, Michael Sheehan?” He paused, prepared to observe her slightest twitch. “Would the princess be his Native American nanny and housekeeper?”
The professor paled. Satisfied, he crossed to her desk and laid the document in the center by her folded hands. “Look closely, Professor Anderson. Is this Michael Sheehan’s handwriting?”
After a lengthy pause, she said, “If you want them translated, you should leave the documents. I have friends on the native council who might oblige me. I doubt they would extend the favor to you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rory headed home, convinced more than ever Professor Anderson had been in love with novelist Michael Sheehan. Furthermore, she had known Sheehan and the native girl were involved, feeding the detective’s suspicion a child resulted from their union. By his reckoning, jealousy led Lillie to cast doubt on his novel’s origin and fueled the plagiarism rumors—which she continued to stoke. If Michael and the Winnebago girl had a child, it could be Aponi—making Nina Mahala, the Sheehan live-in dog sitter, his granddaughter.
Furthermore, facts could prove Nina is among the heirs to the Sheehan property and any treasure hidden there. This, unfortunately, was purely an assumption, or a series of assumptions, for which he had no real evidence. And if there were proof, he’d need to keep his discovery from James Sheehan until the details were substantiated. It in no way removed him or the girl from his suspect list.
Rory reversed directions, driving straight for the reservation. He passed new family dwellings, neat one-story homes, the lawns gray from the recent snows visible. The Ho-Chunk Nation had made strides to improve reservation housing in recent years. However, the Crouching Bears still lived in an older apartment building, freshly painted but with decaying litter laying ignored by the entryway. If unemployment ran high on the reservation, a working bus driver married to a Bingo Hall cook found it hard to raise their living standard. He knocked politely on the door.
Locks tumbled, and the door opened three inches, allowing a heavy security chain to stretch between them. “Aponi Crouching Bear?” he asked. She lowered her head. Behind her, the room sat quiet, the odors of boiled cabbage and rancid grease souring the air. “Detective Rory Naysmith, WPD. I have some questions.”
She looked up, startled.
He cleared his throat. “No one is in trouble,” he said, taking off his fedora. “Mrs. Crouching Bear, is your husband home?”
She abruptly closed the door. Rory heard the chain rattle, then the door reopened. “No,” she said as she moved back to allow him entry. “He will not be happy to hear you were here.”
He stepped into the apartment and glanced around. The small living room contained a sagging recliner, a lopsided TV tray, and a worn sofa. Aponi looked fit in dark slacks and a rose-colored sweater which did more for her appearance than the casino uniform had the last time he’d seen her. Her face was round and blemish free, her smile welcoming.
“What do you want to ask me?” she said, taking a woven blanket from the sofa and gesturing for him to sit. “I can speak freely while Crouching Bear is away.”
He wondered if speaking to him put her in jeopardy, yet she looked unruffled. “Your husband would forbid you to answer?”
“No,” she said. “But shamed at your need to speak directly with me. He insists on being a protector and provider but has lost his direction and refuses to recognize mine. He doesn’t understand why the ruling council declares the Winnebago tribe the Ho-Chunk Nation.” She fingered a glass bead and shell necklace at her neck. “Here, there is much idle time. My husband fills the hours with unsavory thoughts and suspicions.”
He could see where Crouching Bear liked to push his weight around, yet Aponi had let him into the home they shared. “I’d like to hear about your mother.”
She tentatively sat on the recliner’s edge, glancing around as if she usually sat elsewhere and might get caught trespassing. “An odd request, Detective Naysmith. Surely, my family holds no importance for you.”
He smoothed the fedora’s brim. “Your mother served as housekeeper to the Sheehan household in the seventies. I’d like to hear how a Winnebago maiden influenced Professor Sheehan. How she ended up in his household.”
“Influenced how?”
“I’ve read Michael’s novel, Willow Creek Woman. A feminine mind doesn’t cover the territory like a man. If we agree he wrote the novel, his thoughts were influenced by someone else. Let’s say his muse was a woman.”
She bristled. “It does not chronicle my mother’s journey.”
“But perhaps was it a story passed down to her by her mother?”
She went wide-eyed, then slowly lowered her gaze to study the hands folded in her lap. He waited while she gathered her thoughts.
Aponi began in a whisper. “Ho-Chunk men were hunters. The women were farmers, cooks, and caregivers to their children. Traditional chiefs were men, but there were a few female peace chiefs in the Ho-Chunk tribe.” She raised her head, and locked him with a stare, her voice gaining strength. “Ho-poe-kaw, Glory in the Morning, was such a chief. Professor Sheehan traced TiKa’s lineage back to her.”
“TiKa was your mother, and Glory in the Morning was your grandmother?”
She covered a smile behind a delicate hand. “Yes. TiKa was my mother. I turn fifty-four this year. Glory in the Morning’s soul went to the wind village in 1832. One-hundred-eighty years have passed.” Her face lit with humor. “I carry her blood and call her Gaga, grandmother, but there are many generations between us.”
“Oh,” he said, confused.
“Being chief is a great responsibility. Leading the People is hard, and then she married a Frenchman, who eventually took their daughter to raise in the East, away from the Ho-Chunk.”
He ran a hand over his balding head. “Yet, you are here, her descendant, and she became part of the Sheehan household.”
“One longs to be among their people.” She rose. “I will make herbal tea, and we will discuss these matters.”
As she went into the kitchen, a shiver ran up his spine. He heard the water run, then the whoosh from the gas burner lighting. He pictured Nina offering tea made from…who knew what? He wondered if he’d forever be wary when accepting a drink without knowing its origin. From the other room, Aponi took up her story.
“The Ho-Chunk people come from here. They have always lived in this place along the river. TiKa reunited with the People of the Big Voice, renounced her French family and embraced her native name. Sadly, her blood claim was no longer strong enough to live on the Ho-Chunk lands. When Professor Sheehan discovered this, he took her in, and in exchange, she cared for his children.”
“So, it was charity?”
She appeared in the doorway holding two mugs and a face filled with displeasure. “The seventies were difficult for the Ho-Chunk, Detective. Harder for those with mixed blood. Professor Sheehan wanted to help. I would not say charity, pity, or even compassion. TiKa learned the tribal traditions, became familiar with the fauna and flora in the area, and listened to the stories the older tribal members told. She hungered to understand her cultural heritage. All that she learned, she taught to the professor. In return, he saw she had a place to live.” She handed him a mug.
He eyed it dubiously.
“Elderberry,” she said.
He’d seen Michael Sheehan and the Native princess together in the photograph hanging in Lillie Anderson’s office. There was more than an employer-employee relationship going on between them. “And along the way, their closeness led to romance,” he said.
“She was a beautiful woman, Detective. But no, my mother wanted only to know her people.”
He searched for a place to set the mug. Not finding a convenient spot, he pointed it at her instead. “But then you were born.”
Unaffected by his argument, she said, “Is Michael Sheehan my father? Is that what you have come to ask?”
He shrugged. “If you were in line to inherit the Sheehan estate, it would make my job easier.”
“And give me a motive for murder?” She looked him square in the eye. “I do not want the estate land. My family is the Thunder Clan and is recognized as belonging to the Nebraska Winnebago and the Wisconsin Ho-Chunk Tribes. Like many tribal members, my mother and I did not live on the reservation. We still consider it our sacred home.” She said it with pride like Nina had defiantly claimed her family the night they’d met.
“Do you deny being born on the estate?”
“No. I lived there for many years, and my mother has a place among the trees.”
“All right, you admit a history with the place,” he said. “Tell me about your mother’s position in the household.”
“Let’s see, what can I tell you?” She looked into the middle distance, then said, “TiKa was much younger than Michael Sheehan. I did not question why we lived on the estate, although sometimes I resented the closeness between her and the children. The professor, Jamison, and Phoebe always treated me with kindness.”
He allowed himself a terse nod. “Not Gregory?”
“No, he died before I arrived, a war casualty.”
“So, before you were born.”
She gave him a weak smile, then sipped from her mug while he mulled it over. Nina strongly resembled the princess in Anderson’s photograph—did he see Sheehan in Aponi’s features?
When he lifted his cup, the tea had gone tepid. “I have to ask,” he said. “If not the professor, then who was your father?”
She seemed not to hear, rising from the chair to take his mug. “My husband will return soon, detective. I must prepare for work.”
Her avoidance felt abrupt. Had she lied about Professor Sheehan’s relationship with her mother? While her demeanor remained pleasant, he wondered how much she hadn’t said.
