Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret by Rett MacPherson
Authors: Rett MacPherson
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city dweller that is the country.
But on the drive to Progress there were no skyscrapers to interfere with sky and earth, and the smell of cow manure floated heavily through the air. Aaah! It was good to be alive.
It took so little to make me happy.
Why did I bother with this? I couldnât help but think that somewhere, hidden in all of Norahâs family skeletons, I might be able to find something that would help the sheriff out. He wouldnât be looking in the same places Iâd be looking. And I wanted justice done to the monster that left Norah in the shape that I found her in.
In all probability, though, Harold Zumwalt killed Norah. Money was about as good a motive as any. There was always the possibility that Eugene Counts had killed his own daughter. But why? It lacked motive.
So why did I care about Michael Ortlander? I suppose I was going to go talk with Florence for other reasons. I wanted to know what had changed Eugene Counts. To me, that was more important right now than anything else. I felt as if I somehow owed Norah that much.
I couldnât help but feel as if I were missing something in all of this. If Zumwalt was going to kill his ex-wife for the insurance money, why so violently? There were a thousand other ways to do it.
Her murder had been an act of passion.
Saying a silent prayer that I would never know what drove people to do things like that, I pulled off the interstate at the Progress exit. It had taken me forty minutes to get to Progress, but the time flew by thanks to my mind, which would not stop analyzing everything. I made a few turns and then turned into the nursing-home drive. I knew it well. Iâd driven by it many times, and my great-grandmother had been here her last six months.
The woman behind the counter was Doris, and I could tell by looking that she could tell me all of the bedpan bylaws and codes, in complete detail and numerical order.
I hadnât exactly dressed for a visit. I was in my black Reeboks, blue jeans, and St. Louis Blues hockey jersey, with Brendan Shanahanâs name and player number. Number nineteen. Hopefully Mrs. Ortlander would be a hockey fan.
Doris decided to pretend as though she couldnât see me. There is nothing more aggravating than to stand at a counter and be ignored. Doris knew I was standing there, but she was determined to make me say âExcuse meâ in that meek little voice that throws you right back to second grade. I was just as determined not to say it. Why should I? What other reason could I possibly have for standing at her counter, other than that I needed her assistance?
I rolled my eyes, shifted my feet, and sighed as loudly as I could sigh, at least thirteen times. She finally looked up and with this droll attitude said, âYes?â
I waited. I was half-inclined to make her wait for my request as she had made me wait for her assistance.
âWhat room is Florence Ortlander in, please?â I asked.
âAre you a relative?â
I didnât have to be a relative to see herâI knew that much. Doris was just being nosy. âIâm her niece,â I said.
âShe never mentioned you,â she said, unimpressed.
Her eyes were hazel, although I could hardly tell for all of the makeup she wore. She was about fifty, and her hair looked like it had been teased back in 1965, and hadnât been brushed since then.
âSheâs around the corner, room one-seventeen,â she said. She eyed me suspiciously.
âThank you.â
Rounding the corner, I became acutely aware of the smells of alcohol and pine cleaner. And urine. How come elderly people can live at home and you never smell those things? As soon as they go to a nursing home, the cherry pie, facial powder, and mothballs get replaced with urine and pine cleaner. It was sad and it made me nervous to meet Mrs. Ortlander. I hadnât thought of what kind of shape she would be in.
Luckily, Florence Ortlander was sitting
But on the drive to Progress there were no skyscrapers to interfere with sky and earth, and the smell of cow manure floated heavily through the air. Aaah! It was good to be alive.
It took so little to make me happy.
Why did I bother with this? I couldnât help but think that somewhere, hidden in all of Norahâs family skeletons, I might be able to find something that would help the sheriff out. He wouldnât be looking in the same places Iâd be looking. And I wanted justice done to the monster that left Norah in the shape that I found her in.
In all probability, though, Harold Zumwalt killed Norah. Money was about as good a motive as any. There was always the possibility that Eugene Counts had killed his own daughter. But why? It lacked motive.
So why did I care about Michael Ortlander? I suppose I was going to go talk with Florence for other reasons. I wanted to know what had changed Eugene Counts. To me, that was more important right now than anything else. I felt as if I somehow owed Norah that much.
I couldnât help but feel as if I were missing something in all of this. If Zumwalt was going to kill his ex-wife for the insurance money, why so violently? There were a thousand other ways to do it.
Her murder had been an act of passion.
Saying a silent prayer that I would never know what drove people to do things like that, I pulled off the interstate at the Progress exit. It had taken me forty minutes to get to Progress, but the time flew by thanks to my mind, which would not stop analyzing everything. I made a few turns and then turned into the nursing-home drive. I knew it well. Iâd driven by it many times, and my great-grandmother had been here her last six months.
The woman behind the counter was Doris, and I could tell by looking that she could tell me all of the bedpan bylaws and codes, in complete detail and numerical order.
I hadnât exactly dressed for a visit. I was in my black Reeboks, blue jeans, and St. Louis Blues hockey jersey, with Brendan Shanahanâs name and player number. Number nineteen. Hopefully Mrs. Ortlander would be a hockey fan.
Doris decided to pretend as though she couldnât see me. There is nothing more aggravating than to stand at a counter and be ignored. Doris knew I was standing there, but she was determined to make me say âExcuse meâ in that meek little voice that throws you right back to second grade. I was just as determined not to say it. Why should I? What other reason could I possibly have for standing at her counter, other than that I needed her assistance?
I rolled my eyes, shifted my feet, and sighed as loudly as I could sigh, at least thirteen times. She finally looked up and with this droll attitude said, âYes?â
I waited. I was half-inclined to make her wait for my request as she had made me wait for her assistance.
âWhat room is Florence Ortlander in, please?â I asked.
âAre you a relative?â
I didnât have to be a relative to see herâI knew that much. Doris was just being nosy. âIâm her niece,â I said.
âShe never mentioned you,â she said, unimpressed.
Her eyes were hazel, although I could hardly tell for all of the makeup she wore. She was about fifty, and her hair looked like it had been teased back in 1965, and hadnât been brushed since then.
âSheâs around the corner, room one-seventeen,â she said. She eyed me suspiciously.
âThank you.â
Rounding the corner, I became acutely aware of the smells of alcohol and pine cleaner. And urine. How come elderly people can live at home and you never smell those things? As soon as they go to a nursing home, the cherry pie, facial powder, and mothballs get replaced with urine and pine cleaner. It was sad and it made me nervous to meet Mrs. Ortlander. I hadnât thought of what kind of shape she would be in.
Luckily, Florence Ortlander was sitting
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