Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret Read Free Page A

the letters were neatly placed on top of it. Had I really just promised to trace her family tree? Good Lord, it had been at least a year since I had hired out my services.
    There was something about Norah Zumwalt and the photograph of her father that rested peculiarly in my consciousness. Now that she was gone, it was as if she had been a mirage or a dream. Why did she follow me through my tour just to ask me this? Why didn’t she call me at home or catch me some other time in the office? Why now? Why not five years ago?

Two
    Sunlight filtered through my lavender curtains. It had taken me quite a while to fall asleep the night before because over and over I had read the letters that were written by Norah’s father. My eyes were matted shut, my shoulders were sore, and my stomach rumbled.
    Our bedroom, along with my office and a bathroom, is located on the second floor of my eighty-five-year-old home. I heard the shower running, and I knew that it was after seven and Rudy was getting ready for work. I got up slowly, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and looked out my window.
    The Mississippi River wound in front of my house ever so slowly. A barge crept up the river and the morning sun gleamed off of the ripples it left as it went to its destination somewhere north.
    New Kassel is far enough south of St. Louis that we are not bothered by the problems that plague a big city, yet we are still close enough for convenience. My house is on the northeast side of town, away from the shops and tourism, and is perched just right, on a cliff that overlooks Old Man River.
    Our property, which is roughly two acres, is bordered by woods on the north side, and Charity Bergermeister’s property on the south. River Point Road, and of course the river, are on the east. On the west side of our property, or our backyard, is Mayor Castlereagh’s property and home. He owns about eight acres, all fenced, and I can barely see the top of his roof from Rachel’s bedroom window.
    â€œAve Mariiiiia,” Rudy sang from the shower. The shower seems to be the only place that he remembers his Catholic upbringing. Unless you want a horror story about one of the saints or martyrs. He is very good at telling stories. He’s Irish, and they tell tales with a lot of zeal.
    I snuggled back in bed and smelled the Downy on the pillowcases. The girls were up. The aroma of the pancakes that my mother was cooking for them soon smothered out the Downy. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to eat or sleep. Finally, my stomach won out, and I headed downstairs.
    Rachel was dressed for school. Mary stood on her chair drinking a glass of apple juice. She made gurgling noises in her cup, but stopped after I had given her the evil eye two times.
    â€œMommy,” she said.
    â€œGood morning, girls,” I said, and kissed each one of them on the top of the head.
    â€œMom,” Rachel began. She stopped putting “-my” on the end of Mom when she started kindergarten.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDo you know that there are people in this world that don’t have arms?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œThat’s terrible.”
    â€œYes, it is. Did you discuss this in class or something?” I asked, wondering why she had brought up the subject. Every morning it’s something different.
    â€œNo. There was a man at the park yesterday that didn’t have any arms.”
    â€œOh.”
    She looked at me wide-eyed, as if I couldn’t possibly leave the conversation with just an “Oh.”
    â€œThat’s terrible, honey.”
    â€œMommy,” Mary said. “I want a tootie.”
    â€œNo cookies for breakfast. Finish your pancakes.”
    I found my mother, who is fifty-two, sitting out on the porch just off from the kitchen. She drank her coffee and watched the river in silence. My parents have been divorced for fifteen years, and after several years of living alone, she moved in with us. She is confined to