is exactly, because I have no title. But I give the tours, which I get paid for, and I take care of records and transcribe original documents in the archives and courthouses. I’ve even hired out my genealogical services and traced family trees, including my own.
The lineage we get is completely random, by the way. There’s nothing grand or glorious, there’s no divine reason that one person has a better family tree than the next. I am a descendant of a Revolutionary War soldier who was at Valley Forge. I can lay claim to the Dukes of Abercorn, and Robert the Bruce. I also have a private in the Union Army of the Civil War, and a Confederate private as well, so I suppose that means that I’m at war with myself. I even have an Indian, and no, she isn’t a Cherokee princess.
I also have my share of deserters, illegitimates, and even a murderer. No kidding, I have an ancestor who beat his wife to death with a piece of firewood because his dinner wasn’t cooked right. They lynched him. Finding out who I am was so much fun.
I’m basically of Scottish and French stock, with a little English thrown in for good measure. But the French is the blood that comes through the most. I’m short, with green eyes, and I tan easily. I did not, however, inherit my French ancestors’ dark hair. Mine can’t decide if it wants to be blond or brown and thus changes with the seasons.
Sylvia came into the office, glared at me, and sat down. I didn’t think anything of it. Sylvia always glares at me.
“Yes, Sylvia, what can I do for you?”
“That Sheriff Brooke of yours has cornered the Dijon market.”
“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “First off, Sheriff Brooke is not mine. He’s your great stepnephew. Secondly, what the heck is a Dijon market?”
Sylvia wears her hair in twisted braids on top of her head, just as Wilma does. She’s very thin, has silver gray eyes and entirely too much energy for somebody sixty-something years my senior.
“Marie Dijon. There will be an estate sale, and I’ve heard the sheriff is going to make a bid for everything in the woman’s house. Nobody else in New Kassel can counter that offer.”
“Well, since he bought Norah’s Antiques, he’s been throwing everything he has into it. He’s trying to set it up for his retirement,” I explained. Sylvia said nothing. She could more than afford to counter any offer that Sheriff Brooke wanted to make. I happen to know personally that Hermann Gaheimer left Sylvia a million and something dollars when he died in the 1930s.
It is knowledge that I should not possess.
Sylvia was single-handedly responsible for renovating the town and had loaned many people money to start businesses, interest free. She could counter his offer if she wanted. But she didn’t want to draw too much attention to just how much money she was sitting on. She even made the town hold fundraisers for the historical society. Part of that was to cover up her wealth. The other was because she wanted the people of New Kassel to have to work for things. I understood that train of thought. Sylvia was such a complex person.
“Well, Sylvia,” I began diplomatically, “if Sheriff Brooke wants to ‘corner the market,’ so to speak, he certainly has his inalienable rights.”
“Oh, pooh,” she said. She narrowed her gray eyes on me. “I know for a fact that Marie Dijon had some very rare and expensive pieces in her possession. I think that the people who have a little knowledge of antiques and a respect for historical items should be allowed to at least view what she had and have a chance to bid on them,” she said. She was very serious.
It felt suddenly stuffy in the office. It is small and has only one window covered by a lace curtain. One wall has an antique rose of Sharon quilt hanging on it. It is a beautiful quilt with pink appliquéd roses and a swirling green vine. No matter how beautiful it is, it makes the room more confining. And Sylvia did not help my
The lineage we get is completely random, by the way. There’s nothing grand or glorious, there’s no divine reason that one person has a better family tree than the next. I am a descendant of a Revolutionary War soldier who was at Valley Forge. I can lay claim to the Dukes of Abercorn, and Robert the Bruce. I also have a private in the Union Army of the Civil War, and a Confederate private as well, so I suppose that means that I’m at war with myself. I even have an Indian, and no, she isn’t a Cherokee princess.
I also have my share of deserters, illegitimates, and even a murderer. No kidding, I have an ancestor who beat his wife to death with a piece of firewood because his dinner wasn’t cooked right. They lynched him. Finding out who I am was so much fun.
I’m basically of Scottish and French stock, with a little English thrown in for good measure. But the French is the blood that comes through the most. I’m short, with green eyes, and I tan easily. I did not, however, inherit my French ancestors’ dark hair. Mine can’t decide if it wants to be blond or brown and thus changes with the seasons.
Sylvia came into the office, glared at me, and sat down. I didn’t think anything of it. Sylvia always glares at me.
“Yes, Sylvia, what can I do for you?”
“That Sheriff Brooke of yours has cornered the Dijon market.”
“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “First off, Sheriff Brooke is not mine. He’s your great stepnephew. Secondly, what the heck is a Dijon market?”
Sylvia wears her hair in twisted braids on top of her head, just as Wilma does. She’s very thin, has silver gray eyes and entirely too much energy for somebody sixty-something years my senior.
“Marie Dijon. There will be an estate sale, and I’ve heard the sheriff is going to make a bid for everything in the woman’s house. Nobody else in New Kassel can counter that offer.”
“Well, since he bought Norah’s Antiques, he’s been throwing everything he has into it. He’s trying to set it up for his retirement,” I explained. Sylvia said nothing. She could more than afford to counter any offer that Sheriff Brooke wanted to make. I happen to know personally that Hermann Gaheimer left Sylvia a million and something dollars when he died in the 1930s.
It is knowledge that I should not possess.
Sylvia was single-handedly responsible for renovating the town and had loaned many people money to start businesses, interest free. She could counter his offer if she wanted. But she didn’t want to draw too much attention to just how much money she was sitting on. She even made the town hold fundraisers for the historical society. Part of that was to cover up her wealth. The other was because she wanted the people of New Kassel to have to work for things. I understood that train of thought. Sylvia was such a complex person.
“Well, Sylvia,” I began diplomatically, “if Sheriff Brooke wants to ‘corner the market,’ so to speak, he certainly has his inalienable rights.”
“Oh, pooh,” she said. She narrowed her gray eyes on me. “I know for a fact that Marie Dijon had some very rare and expensive pieces in her possession. I think that the people who have a little knowledge of antiques and a respect for historical items should be allowed to at least view what she had and have a chance to bid on them,” she said. She was very serious.
It felt suddenly stuffy in the office. It is small and has only one window covered by a lace curtain. One wall has an antique rose of Sharon quilt hanging on it. It is a beautiful quilt with pink appliquéd roses and a swirling green vine. No matter how beautiful it is, it makes the room more confining. And Sylvia did not help my
Similar Books
Conan the Barbarian
L. Sprague de Camp, Lin Carter
The Tome of Bill (Book 7): The Wicked Dead
Rick Gualtieri
No Strings (Broken Strings)
Jo Briggs
The Secrets Women Keep
Fanny Blake
A Bear Goal
Anya Nowlan
The Dark Defiles
Richard K. Morgan
Beach House Memories
Mary Alice Monroe
Chase You To The Sun
Jocelyn Han
The New Girl
Ana Vela
The Rhesus Chart
Charles Stross