I tried to be fast, but Myrtle spotted us in the garage from the back of Nicolai Bled’s 1921 Maybach as Rocco drove in.
So close.
My beloved godmother opened her door and got out, “Where do you think you’re going alone?”
“I’m not alone,” I said and pointed down. When I said us, I meant me and Pickpocket. For the first time in her life, Fats was slow, not to mention a little loopy from the double cream hot chocolate. We’d outrun her.
Myrtle wasn’t satisfied and she asked again, “Where are you and Pick going?”
“St. Seb,” I said. “I’m not fired yet.”
She came over to kiss my cheek. “Fired? How ridiculous. Who would fire you?”
Ann, Shawna, my old temp firm, a couple of doctors’ wives.
“Nobody today,” I said. “So I have to, wait, what’s happening?”
Rocco helped Millicent out of the car and grimaced at me. He usually loved driving the Maybach so something was up.
“Nothing, dear, just getting ready for the party,” said Millicent.
Party?
“Oh, right,” I said as Fats lurched into the garage.
“I’m ready. What are we waiting for?” she said.
Crap on a cracker.
“You, I guess,” I said. “Are you okay? There wasn’t alcohol in that hot chocolate, was there?”
“No, but I haven’t had that much fat in one sitting in…ever.”
The Girls went for Fats, trying to stand on their tiptoes to test her temperature and failing to reach the heights of her forehead.
“My dear, you don’t look well at all,” said Myrtle. “Come back in the house.”
“I’m taking Mercy to St. Seb,” said Fats, leaning down to have her head examined.
“No fever,” announced Millicent. “But we’re not taking any chances with that baby. Back in the house.”
“I can’t,” she said.
The Girls tried to herd Fats toward the house, looking like a couple of sleek birds in their Chanel suits trying to move a building from the Las Vegas strip.
Rocco kept an eye on them as he began pulling packages out of the front seat of the Maybach and whispered to me, “We went shopping”—he had a wild look about him—“for crackers and cheese.”
Well, there you go. The dreaded crackers and cheese.
I smiled at him and whispered, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Maybe. I don’t know what it was,” he said.
“Did you do olive oil and vinegar?”
“I tasted so much oil I feel slippery to the touch,” he said. “Have you done this shopping trip?”
“So many times,” I said, leaning over. “What party?”
“Christmas for the staff.”
“Holy crap. I forgot. Enjoy the arranging.”
“Arranging?” Rocco asked, his eyes wide.
“You have to figure out which oils go with which breads.” I went for the exit, but he snagged me. “Hey, Millicent!”
“Yes, Rocco?” The Girls turned back and Fats attempted to dart around them, but Myrtle had a lot better reflexes than you’d think and blocked her.
“My sister looks like he— bad. I think I should go with Mercy and Fats should take it easy and do the arranging,” he said, dripping with brotherly concern.
“Beat it, Skinny MacSwizzle Stick,” said Fats. “That’s my gig. This is yours.”
“How are you going to protect Mercy? You can’t even stand up straight.”
“I’m standing up straight right now.”
She wasn’t. Fats was bent to the side like she was trying to form a question mark.
“No, you’re not, dear,” said Millicent. “Come inside.”
“Mercy?” pleaded Fats. I’d never seen her at a loss before. It took little old ladies with netting on their hats to take her down. “You need me.”
“I do, but”—I took a gamble—“Ernst is coming.”
“Oh, yes,” said Myrtle. “We have an hour.”
“Ernst?” Fats asked like he might be another guy who would make her eat fat.
“Their manicurist,” I said with a smile.
“Manicure you say?” Her eyebrows went up.
“And pedicures,” said Millicent. “We haven’t had them in a month.”
The fight showed on Fats’ face. She felt like hell as Rocco nearly said, but she’d never admit it and she’d never give in, unless…
“Do you think Ernst could bring Tammy with him?” I asked.
“She doesn’t do manicures or pedicures,” said Myrtle and then her face lit up. “I’ll call right now.” She began patting Fats on the elbow. It was meant to be a smack to get her going, but it probably felt more like a feather duster.
“What a good idea,” said Millicent. “It’s all settled. Rocco will go to St. Seb with Mercy—oh, Mercy, what about you? We always do our preparty ritual together.”
“I’m happy to have Fats enjoy it. She is a mother-to-be.”
“Who’s Tammy?” Rocco asked, looking as though a Tammy might be his style.
“She does prenatal massage and she’s supposed to be great,” I said. “She’s been doing them for twenty-five years.”
“Never mind,” he said.
“I thought so.”
“I’ve never had a prenatal massage,” said Fats.
Success!
“I have to go.” I waved. “Have fun.”
I grabbed Rocco.
“What about the cheese?” he asked.
“Joy’ll get it.”
And we were out, ready to drive to St. Seb barf-stop free.
“Thanks for this,” said Rocco. “I owe you.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Sure. I love The Girls and this is the best job ever, but the shopping? Man, that’s rough.”
“You didn’t bring your knitting then?”
“I did,” he patted the pocket of his coat, “but I couldn’t get a moment. I tried so much blue cheese and it all tastes bad.”
We laughed until we got to Fats’ truck.
“I forgot,” I said. “We need the keys.”
Rocco dangled a set in front of my face. “Amateur.”
“I’m a professional now, I’ll have you know.”
“Not pro enough to copy Fats’ keys, just in case,” he said.
“Your family is really weird.”
“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” said Rocco. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
I looked around the truck and saw no one.
“Inside. For crying out loud, you’re the great detective? I don’t think so.”
I still didn’t see him until I got to the passenger side. Aaron, in the back seat, scribbling on a little notebook he kept for recipe ideas.
“I thought you were in the kitchen,” I said, getting in.
“Yeah.”
“How’d you get in Fats’ truck? I know she locked it.”
Nothing. Typical.
Rocco fired up the truck and changed the radio from Fats’ chosen rap to country.
“You’re full of surprises,” I said.
“It relaxes me. My dad likes show tunes.”
“Do you know who Lea Salonga is?”
He grinned at me. “Miss Saigon.”
“Oh, well, then Kimberly must’ve been amazing,” I said.
“She probably still is.”
A dad kind of feeling came over me, not the usual something wasn’t right feeling, but more of something’s going to happen and I hoped Holt was ready for it.
The drive went fast and I hung up with Spidermonkey just as we pulled into the Great Missouri Shoe Company parking lot, but instead of Tank waiting, it was his wife, Mallory. Not a lot of people scare me, but Mallory Tancredi was one of the few. She was a tiny redhead who did not give half a crap. She went after her own brother, the former St. Seb police chief, and he’s lucky she didn’t beat him to death over his part in letting a serial killer slide and nearly getting her husband killed.
“Are you sure this is it?” Rocco asked.
“Their old building blew up,” I said.
“Looks like this one did, too.”
“The accounting section’s okay.”
“Why does that make me nervous?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but it makes me nervous, too.”
Mallory waved and pointed at a spot with less rubbish than the rest of the parking lot and by that, I mean it only had beer cans and a dead rat.
“Who’s the redhead?” Rocco asked.
“Tank’s wife,” I said. “Don’t piss her off.”
“Don’t worry. I know my way around a redhead even when they’re fake.”
“How many redheads do you know?” I asked.
“Three and they are feisty. When Fats went red, it was rough.”
We got out. Aaron looked confused when I grabbed Pick off the back seat. I hadn’t thought to put on his booties yet and I didn’t want to risk his pads getting cut up. “Fats was a redhead? I can’t see it.”
“She did it to look like our mom. Talk about a wrong turn.”
“What happened?”
“Two fakes don’t make something real,” said Rocco.
Two fakes. Real. Hmm.
Before I could respond, Mallory got to me, giving both Pick and I a big hug. “How are you? Don’t tell me. You have a headache. I have Tylenol, Motrin, Advil, and some of the hard stuff, if you need it.”
Moms. They come packing a pharmacy.
“Advil will do it,” I said. “This is Rocco, Fats’ brother. He’s filling in.”
“Another Licata. How many of you are there? I feel I need to be aware. Your sister is a lot,” said Mallory.
“Only two.”
“I bet that’s plenty.”
He grinned at her. “More than enough.”
“Speaking of siblings,” I said, “how’s Will?”
“Still in rehab. I’m amazed that he stayed, but his kids told him if he didn’t, they wouldn’t come for the summer, so there’s hope for him yet.”
“I’m glad some good’s coming out of that debacle.”
Mallory opened the door for me. “A lot of good came out of it, a lot of truth anyway. Tank said you’re coming to look into the Thoofts.”
“I am.”
Aaron trotted in past Mallory and disappeared into the depths of the abandoned shoe factory.
“Where’s Aaron going?” Mallory asked.
“To the kitchen,” I said.
“We don’t have one.”
“Then your guess is as good as mine.”
We walked into the accounting section and it was empty. “Where is everyone?”
“They already put tomorrow’s edition to bed.” Tank came in, wearing his usual two flannel shirts, but holding two puppies. “It’s all ours.”
Pick lost his mind and I dropped his giant butt. The poodle dashed over to Tank, yipping and wagging.
“We thought you might like to meet our new family members,” said Mallory, getting a little tearful. What Bertram Stott did to her dogs years ago was still at the forefront.
“I didn’t think you were ready.”
“We had to move on. I wasn’t going to let that bastard keep winning in our house.”
Tank fended off Pick by turning a hip to him. “Do you think I can put them down?”
“If you don’t mind him licking them to death,” I said.
Tank put the pups down and a chase ensued, sort of. Pick didn’t know what to make of those puppies. They were adorable, but not a breed you see every day.
“What are they?” Rocco asked.
“We’ve decided on long-haired American goofballs,” said Tank.
That fit them to a tee, but they were probably corgis mixed with some kind of Shepherd. They had long bodies and short legs with a Shepherd’s face and ears. I want one.
“Chuck would fall in love,” I said.
“Everyone does,” said Mallory fondly, “and we got them at the Humane Society. Abandoned at a truck stop, if you can believe it.”
“People continue to surprise me,” I said, looking at Rocco, who sat down and pulled out a couple of yarn balls and four knitting needles.
Mallory stretched and asked, “I helped recover the files from the old basement after it got bombed, so tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll tell you if I’ve seen it.”
I had no plan as usual, but what popped out of my mouth sounded like I did. “Advertising.”
“I didn’t expect that,” said Tank.
“What did you expect?” I asked.
“With you, who knows. Certainly nothing so prosaic.”
“Hey!”
They laughed and Rocco smiled up from the beginnings of what I assumed was going to be baby booties.
“You all suck,” I said with a pout. “I’m good at this, you know.”
“We’ll see,” said Tank.
“You sound like my father.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t. He’s a pain.”
“Alright. Alright,” said Mallory and she went to pour us some coffee. “What kind of advertising?”
“The Thoofts kind,” I said. “They do advertise with you, don’t they?”
They did. Tank pulled out the latest edition and showed me Heritage Hog Farm’s ad on the third page. A standard ad, saying who they were, where, and how to buy direct. The Thoofts had deals with several grocery store chains and those were listed as well.
Mallory assessed an ad and said, “Pretty boring copy. Does it work?”
Tank shrugged. “They keep running it, so I assume so. Why do we care?”
“We don’t,” I said. “But my computer guy just told me that Heritage Hog used to be Thooft Family Farm.”
“So?”
“So they changed the name in the summer between Anton’s eighth grade and freshman year. Why’d they change it?”
“You could ask Holt,” said Rocco from his spot, clicking away.
“I will, but I’m guessing he won’t have a clue.”
“Holt’s coming?” Mallory asked with a frown. “Not Kimberly?”
I told them about our conversation and Tank nodded, “I’m with Holt. Nobody controls my wife, except me.”
Mallory snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“I dare to dream, my dear,” he said with a laugh. “But seriously, what is up with Ann?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to see if there were any interviews with the family prior to that summer, too.”
Mallory started yanking open filing cabinets. Tank was a modern guy, but only to a point. The summer of 1980 was past that point. He and Rocco pulled out an eight-foot folding table and we started arranging copy on it, starting when the Sentinel went digital and going back. No interviews and the ad copy were basically the same.
“Anything before 1985 is probably in the second storage room,” said Mallory.
“Please don’t say on Microfiche,” I said.
“Sorry.”
Dammit.
I winced. “Is it better organized now?”
“By organized do you mean in piles on the floor?” Tank asked.
“Why is this my life?”
“The eternal question,” said Mallory.
The outside door opened and Aaron came in, loaded down with two boxes and bags emblazoned with St. Sebastian Family Market.
“When did you leave?” I asked.
“I left.”
“That’s been established.”
“Table.”
Tank and Rocco found another eight-foot table and set it up as directed next to a bank of outlets.
“You hungry?” Aaron asked. “I’m making Mallory’s Italian beef dogs.”
“Um…I could eat,” I said.
Nothing.
“I’m starving.”
The little guy turned around and started unpacking. There was a meat grinder.
“So about that microfiche?” I asked.
“Yeah…about that,” said Tank.
“What?”
“That area’s not part of accounting.”
“Super. Let’s go.”
Tank and Mallory stood there and their mouths sort of twisted to the right.
“Oh,” I said. “Fine. Who’s in there? The ghost of a fired cobbler?”
“It’s more like a what,” said Mallory.
I tried to think of something totally off the wall. “A floating severed ear?”
“Not bad,” said Tank. “But that’s at The Landing Bar and Grill and it doesn’t float. It just kinda lies there.”
Rocco made a gagging sound and I said, “Ew. Are you serious?”
“We had a town drunk back in the day. He was in love with a waitress, who he insisted was a prostitute because she brought him beer and he was a big fan of Gauguin. You do the math.”
“You mean Van Gogh?” I asked.
“We’re talking about the town drunk.”
“Oh,” I said. “So there’s an ear at the bar and there’s something else in your storage room?”
“You still want to go?” Tank asked.
No.
“Are you going to do the microfiche?” I asked hopefully.
“We got new machines.” He grinned at me. “I’ll take one. You can have the other.”
I looked at Rocco and he shook his head. “I deal with the living. For the dead, you want my Uncle Tuna.”
“Er…priest?” I asked.
“Mortician.”
We all waited, but no other information was forthcoming about the mortician named Tuna.
“Alright then,” I said. “Mallory?”
“It doesn’t like me,” she said. “I’ll call around and see if anyone remembers that summer as unusual.”
Swell.
I would’ve asked Aaron. I was that desperate, but he was grinding meat and sautéing veggies, so no help there. “Lead on.”
Tank led me into the depths of the shoe factory, entering a huge open area with broken down machinery. We skirted the main floor, going all the way around to a rusty door on the other side.
“Couldn’t we just cut straight through?” I asked.
“I don’t feel like dealing with it.” Tank didn’t elaborate and I was kinda glad. The ear was enough. “Here we go.” He opened the door and a stench rolled out and I mean that. It rolled out like a heavy fog and it was green. I swear to God. Green fog.
“What the crap is that?” I backed up and ran into an iron pillar supporting the roof.
“We’re not sure. There was a gas leak in 1912 and it was a bad scene. Lost fifteen workers on the night shift. Or it could be related to a fire in 1949. Lost three in that.”
“This place was a death trap,” I said.
“Don’t get me started on the lost limbs.”
“I won’t.”
Tank waved at the fog, but it didn’t move. You could see through it, but it seemed solid. “It’s fine. It won’t hurt you.”
“It doesn’t like Mallory,” I pointed out.
“Oh, that’s not the fog,” he said. “Come on. We’ll know in a minute.”
Tank went and switched on the light. I had no choice but to follow him into a room that could’ve been easily mistaken for the old Sentinel basement, only without the shelving.
“Wow,” I said.
“Remember, we’ve only been here for a few weeks.” He squatted by a stack of microfiche boxes and started going through them. “Come on. I don’t want the fog to get worse.”
It was pretty bad, but I could see the labels on the boxes. That was the only upside to the situation. We were in there for a half hour before finding the eighties and another fifteen before 1980 was discovered under a pile of debris someone inexplicably brought over from the blown-up basement. I took June and Tank took July and August.
The microfiche movement made me sick as expected, but I hit pay dirt immediately. “Can I print?”
“Sure.” He reached out and pressed a couple of keys. “What’d you find?”
“Ads.”
“Me, too, and an interview with the parents,” he said.
“Really?”
“They sponsored a fair queen contestant and had a prize pig at the Kansas fair. August was a busy month.”
“Please print that,” I requested.
“I’m printing everything.” He grinned at me. “Gotta earn that interview.”
I rolled my eyes and we worked our way through the rest of the summer months’ papers. There really wasn’t a need to go onto October, so we went back to May, April, and March. There was a lot happening in little St. Seb in the spring, but, after we got done, I had a pretty good handle on the situation. The Thooft ads changed between July and August. Whatever happened happened in July. The Thooft Family Farm Queen contestant, Lisa Larrabie, won the big prize in August. There were pictures of the other winners and their sponsors, second, third, and Miss Congeniality, but Queen Lisa stood alone with her fabulous feathered hair and a slightly confused smile on her super shiny lips.
Tank’s phone buzzed and he took it off the clip on his belt. “Holt’s here and he’s alone.”
“Are you surprised?”
“I am a bit,” he said. “I’ve asked around. The Thoofts are tight, unusually tight.”
“People think they’re weird?” I asked.
“They didn’t until Anton pitched you into his trunk. Now all bets are off. Every little thing is getting magnified.”
I stood up and retrieved a stack of paper from the brand new printer and asked, “Like what?”
“Like how Kimberly and Holt live on the farm instead of having their own land. Kimberly doesn’t really do anything with people outside the family. Gregory and Kevin do, but not Kimberly. She and Ann are always together.”
“What are people making of that?”
“They don’t know. It was accepted before. Good church-going family. No problems, but now they’re weird. Irene and Lefty know them. Irene says Ann was stuck to that child like glue.”
“Not the boys?”
“No, not the boys, but Irene always thought it was because she was a girl. Favorite child and all that. Now she worries that Ann was afraid for Kimberly to be alone. With what Anton did, maybe he hurt her or something.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get that vibe at all.”
“I hope you’re right and we didn’t have a pedophile running around Whiskey Ridge.”
“Let’s see what Holt has to say,” I said.
Tank turned off the machines and said, “Success. It likes you.”
“And what would’ve happened if it didn’t?”
He hustled out and threw over his shoulder, “A little mild shock.”
I chased him around the big floor. “It would’ve electrocuted me?”
“Just a little. Mallory’s fine. I suspect it doesn’t like redheads.”
“Finally, being a blonde pays off.”
Tank snorted. “Like that’s the first time. Please, Mercy, give me a break.”
“You don’t know,” I said in a huff.
“Everybody knows.”
We went back into the accounting section to the fab smell of frying meat and Holt Stackhouse staring at Aaron like he was an exhibit at the zoo. He was frying flatbread, stuffing more sausages, frying sausages, chopping veggies, frying veggies, and making what looked like his gourmet ketchup all at the same time. There was also a drinks table with punch. In a punchbowl. Who knows where that came from.
“Hi, Holt,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Did you bring a caterer?”
“I didn’t bring him. He just came.”
With that, Aaron trotted over. He gave Holt a plate and instructions on how to properly eat a Mallory Italian beef hotdog with sautéed onions and peppers because there’s a wrong way, I guess.
Holt stood there in astonishment. “Should I eat it?”
“I would, unless you want him to bother you senseless.”
“Eat it,” said Mallory talking with her mouth full and she was not a mouth full kind of girl. “It’s amazing.”
Rocco didn’t say anything. He’d abandoned his knitting to double fist hotdogs. His face was not remotely clean.
Holt took a tentative bite. “Oh, my…wow.”
Aaron ran over with a plate for me and I had to taste it in front of him. “Unbelievable, Aaron, really. The best.” I felt a whole lot better about almost getting shocked and that green fog. Nothing seems quite so bad when you’ve got delicious spicy grease running down your arm.
Holt finished his plate in record time and pointed at a stack of albums on the table next to our pseudo timeline. “What are you doing with the ads?”
“We’ve figured out that something happened with Anton between eighth grade and his freshman year. There weren’t any crimes and the family didn’t mention anything,” I said. “I think whatever that was is connected to why he kidnapped me.”
“Why?” he asked.
“It stands out. Anton was one person and suddenly he was another. Very similar to what happened with me. Everyone thought he was great and then he attacked me. Anton wasn’t born a murderer. He was made and I think he was made in the summer of 1980.”
“So what happened?” Mallory asked.
“Let’s see.”
I laid out the ad copy from 1980, June, July, and August. In June and July, the ads were for Thooft Family Farm and the ad was a homespun one. A photo of the family, Anthony, Ann, Anthony’s parents, Maude and Marvin, and the young boys, Anton, Gregory, and Kevin. It was lovely, a bunch of smiling blonds in front of a barn, wholesome, happy. If I was going to buy half a hog, I’d totally buy it from them.
The ad in August lost all that. The name changed to Heritage Hog Farm, no picture, and a rather cold, businesslike description.
“Why’d they change the name?” I asked.
Holt shook his head. “I didn’t know they did. It’s always been Heritage or, at least, I thought it was.”
I pointed at the picture. “Anything strike you?”
“No, but I’ve seen this picture a million times. It’s in the hallway at the house.”
Tank said between mouthfuls of hotdog, “When was it taken? The boys are pretty young.”
He was right about that. Ann had Farrah Fawcett hair and the boys wore plaid flared pants. “Has to be earlier. In the mid-seventies maybe.”
Mallory leaned over. “Where’s Kimberly?”
“She wasn’t born yet.”
Ding. Ding. Ding.
“When was she born?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“1980,” said Holt slowly. “July seventeenth.”
“You shoulda caught that,” said Rocco through a mouthful of peppers.
“I did catch it.” I pounced on the stack of papers. “Birth announcements. I saw birth announcements.”
Mallory and I shuffled through what we had and found six total, two girls and three boys, none were Kimberly.
“We have to look for her announcement,” I said.
“Why?” Holt asked. “Kim couldn’t have done anything to Anton. She was a newborn, for crying out loud.”
“That’s it,” I said. “It has to be.”
Holt looked at me like I had a big loose screw hanging out of the side of my head and said slowly, “It can’t be.”
“Oh, that’s it,” said Tank, taking off with a dog in hand. “I’ll get that announcement.”
“Thank goodness,” said Mallory. “I thought he was going to ask me to do it.”
“Nobody wants you electrocuted,” I said.
“Electrocuted?” Rocco asked.
“Yeah, storage room two zaps me,” said Mallory.
“A ghost zaps you?”
“No. Just the room.”
Rocco set aside his knitting and cracked his knuckles. “No dead people?”
“Just fog and electrocution,” said Mallory.
“I gotta check that out.” He took off and Holt watched in confusion.
“Who is that guy?” he asked. “He looks like he should be an extra in The Godfather.”
“He’s my bodyguard’s brother,” I said, looking through the stack of paper to find the fair sponsor interview.
“The giant girl?”
“The one and only,” I said. “Here it is.”
The three of us bent over and read the interview with Ann and Anthony on July 1, 1980. It was pretty average when I compared it to the other interviews on the page. All the queen contestant sponsors did an interview on who they were, why they sponsored, and who they chose. Ann and Anthony owned Thooft Family Farm, specializing in hogs, and had sponsored contestants since the very first queen contest. They were expecting their fourth child, a girl, and very much hoped she would be healthy and happy. A girl was very important for the Thoofts, much as it was for Fats. The accompanying picture showed a very pregnant Ann and joyful Anthony with their contestant Lisa in front of the farm’s sign.
“Does the family still do the queen thing?” I asked Holt.
“No.” Holt had read the article and gotten quiet.
Mallory put a gentle hand on his arm. “What? Did you think of something?”
“No, not really,” he said. “It’s just that I suggested sponsoring and I was shot down pretty hard.”
“Who shot you down?” I asked.
“I almost said the whole family, but now that I think about it…”
“Mainly Ann?”
“And Anton,” he said. “It was at Christmas a few years ago. Kim was all for it and I think Kim’s brothers liked the idea. Anthony was going to say something, but Ann talked over him about what a lot of trouble it was and Anton said it sexualized women. He thought it was debasing and the fair committee should dump the contest altogether.”
“Interesting considering he was supposed to have been on Incel sites and they are all about debasing women,” I said.
“We all think that’s BS. It wasn’t Anton,” said Holt. “Maybe the cops planted that stuff.”
“I’m looking into it.” I turned to Mallory, but she was already calling Tank and asking him to look up the queen sponsors for 1981. I seriously doubted the Thoofts sponsored again, but it was good to double check.
Holt pulled up a chair and accepted a cup of punch from Aaron, who didn’t spike it but should have. Holt needed a shot of something. The earth was moving beneath his feet and we still didn’t know why.
“This is crazy. Kim was born and they didn’t sponsor fair queens again. What in the world would those two things have to do with each other?”
I found the photo spread of Queen Lisa Larrabie standing alone and handed it to him. “Check that out.”
Holt tossed the photo back on the table. “She’s pretty. So what?”
I gave him the spread again. “The other sponsors took photos with their winners. The runners-up and Miss Congeniality.” I pointed at Mallory.
“On it,” she said.
“What?” Holt asked.
“Me again,” said Mallory into her phone. “Can you check and see if the Thoofts had any other fair queen winners before 1980?”
She told him where she thought the early seventies microfiche boxes were and I grabbed some paper, writing, “Kimberly born July 17, 1980” in big black letters.
“I don’t get it,” said Holt. “I just don’t.”
“Where was Kimberly born?” I asked.
“Same as everyone else. Right here in St. Seb at the hospital.”
“She was okay?”
“Sure,” he said. “Doesn’t she seem okay?”
I softened my tone. This was hard and it was going to get harder. That much I knew. “She seems great. I liked her immediately and that’s saying something considering what her brother put me through.”
Holt blinked rapidly. “She was so relieved. She thought you’d yell or blame her, but you didn’t. You were kind. I’m grateful for that. You didn’t have to be.”
“It’s not her fault. It was Anton’s, although I’m starting to question that,” I said and Holt looked startled. “He did it. I don’t mean the facts are changing, but the circumstances might be.”
“Because of Kim?”
“Yes. Were there any stories about her birth?”
“Like what?” he asked.
“Complications maybe. Was Kimberly premature? Or did Ann have a hard time with healing?”
“She was a preemie,” said Holt, “but she was fine.”
“How early?” Mallory asked.
“Two weeks. Ann doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Mallory and I exchanged a look. One thing moms like to do is tell their birth stories, easy, hard, terrifying, they can’t wait to share. Sometimes they overshare. Moms were always trying to convince me I should have lots and lots of babies. I get hung up on the “lots” part and when they see I’m not convinced they think it’s about birth and proceed to tell me their story. If I had to hear one more “I pooped on the table story” I’d seriously consider getting my tubes tied.
“Why not?” Mallory asked. “Having my kids were the best days of my life.”
“I think because Kim was so small. Ann was thrilled to have a girl, but she was terrified of losing her.”
So small?
“Two weeks isn’t that early,” I said. “Thirty-eight weeks isn’t even considered preterm. How big was she?”
“I don’t remember,” said Holt. “Anthony talks about how Kim could fit in the palm of his hand.”
Mallory looked at me, her freckled forehead wrinkling. “That doesn’t sound like thirty-eight weeks.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said, but I wasn’t willing to say what I really thought with Holt sitting there hanging onto the arms of his chair like he might float off it, “but sometimes they get the due date wrong. Women often don’t know when they conceived and ultrasounds aren’t perfect. It depends on who’s doing the scan and the equipment.”
Holt took a breath. “Oh, right. Of course.”
I went over to Aaron to refill my punch and Mallory followed me. “Palm of the hand isn’t a couple of weeks off,” she whispered.
“No, but there’s no use in upsetting him until we know more.”
Mallory bit her lip and then said, “You think Ann might’ve…”
“Fudged the date to match when she should’ve gotten pregnant?” I shrugged.
“And Anton knew.”
It made a bit of sense. Anton knew his sister was his half-sister and the secret changed who he was, but it just didn’t feel right. It wasn’t enough to put me in that trunk so many years later. Why would it?
“What are you two talking about?” Holt asked with an edge to his voice.
“The albums,” I said. “Let’s take a look and see how small Kimberly was. Anthony’s a big man.”
Holt relaxed and said, “Yes, he is. When he was younger, farmers used to ask him to come over to pull a calf. Didn’t need a calf puller, just Anthony.”
We went back to the table and started going through the albums. Holt had managed to nab six from his in-laws, including one that was from the early eighties. We found the Fourth of July easily enough. There was Ann, pregnant and wearing what I would describe as a flowered tent. Maternity clothes had come a long way, thank goodness. The enormous white sailor collar looked like she thought she needed a bib. Nightmare.
The rest of the family looked happy and normal. Anton was beaming, right out front in every picture he was in, and there were a lot of pictures. The Thoofts had a big party on the farm with fireworks and a suckling pig on a spit. I kept scanning those photos for some hint of something, but I found nothing unusual. Smiling. Burgers. Fireworks. It was every American Fourth, including mine.
“Let’s find Kim’s birth photos,” said Mallory.
I flipped the page and said, “Wait a minute. When was this taken?”
The photo was a typical first day of school shot. The three boys were lined up next to a station wagon with faux wood on the side. The younger ones, Gregory and Kevin, were grinning from ear to ear and holding up brand new lunchboxes with pride, Dukes of Hazzard and Pac-Man. Anton wasn’t smiling. He held a book bag in front of his chest like a shield and stared glumly at the camera.
“Must be first day of school,” said Mallory. “We always started the week before Labor Day.”
“I’m from St. Clair,” said Holt. “We started on the Tuesday after Labor Day.”
“That makes more sense. I hated going for three days and then having a three day weekend.”
“That would suck. You couldn’t take a long trip or anything,” said Holt.
“We went camping, but for only two days.”
“What’s the point? You get there, set up, and then have to break down again.”
Mallory put her hands on her hips. “I know, right?”
I waved a hand between them. “Focus, people.”
“We’re focused,” said Mallory with an adorable pout.
“Oh, really? Where’s Kimberly?” I asked. “They had a baby and no pictures?”
“Right,” said Holt. “That pisses Kim off something fierce. Fourth kid. There’s almost no photos of her.”
“No hospital picture?” Mallory asked.
“Oh, yeah, but it’s up on the wall at the house.”
I need to see that picture.
I turned the page again and there Kimberly was swaddled on Anthony’s lap at another barbecue, asleep and sucking on a pacifier. After that shot, there were more, mostly of Anton holding Kimberly, but there weren’t a lot.
“You’d think with the only girl there’d be a ton of pictures,” I said.
“Well, they had four kids and a farm,” said Holt. “They were pretty busy. Gregory and Heather have hardly any of their second and third.”
“They managed to go to Kansas for a pig contest.” I held up the pig article. “You’d think they could take a picture of Kimberly.”
“That’s business,” said Mallory. “Farmers have to prioritize and Holt’s right. You take less pictures the more kids you have.”
I put the pig winner with the fair queen stuff and went through the albums, noting all the kid pictures. They were right. Anton got a ridiculous amount of photos. Four whole pages were dedicated to his first birthday. Gregory got two. Kevin got one page and poor Kimberly got five pictures total. She was adorable, dressed up in a frilly dress and bonnet, grinning toothless at the camera. Kimberly looked normal although on the small side. She was standing in one picture, clinging to Ann’s leg for support and smiling up at her mother. Ann was tenderly touching her head and it was the sweetest photo.
Did it make sense? Maybe I wasn’t a good judge. I was an only child. Mom documented me like I might need an alibi later. Everything was labeled and preserved for the future generations I was supposed to provide.
I went back to that first picture of Kimberly with Anthony and popped the photo out of its black triangle holders. The back was annotated. “Anthony and Kimmy Labor Day 1980.”
Labor Day.
“She was six weeks old here,” I said with a glance at Mallory who attempted to look guileless but she knew. That was one small baby girl. I wondered what was going on in late 1979, because Kimberly wasn’t thirty-eight weeks. She couldn’t have been. I turned to Anton’s photos, since there were so many. “Here’s Anton at six weeks.”
“What a porker,” laughed Holt, missing the point entirely.
“Those boys were big and fat,” said Mallory.
And full term.
“I love a fat baby.” I checked the other two boys and they were also porkers. Anton, who was also born in the summer spent a lot of time in only his diaper, so we got a good view of his plump arms and rounded belly on his first Labor Day. Whereas Kimberly was bundled up in what looked like two receiving blankets.
“Our boys were fat ones, too,” said Holt. “They could not stop eating. They’d squawk if you slowed down the food.”
“Who was a fat kid?” Tank asked as he and Rocco came in. Aaron raised his hand and then ate his fourth dog. Not a shock there.
“Not me,” I said. “Too busy screaming to eat. My dad could only say ‘have mercy’ hence the name.”
They laughed and Rocco said, “Fat boy here, but Mom started me on rice cereal on day three, so it’s no wonder.”
That prompted a discussion of infant feeding that I had to interrupt, “Did you find it?”
“Yeah, we did. That fog is insane,” said Rocco. “There’s no source. I looked.”
“Of course there’s no source,” I said. “It’s St. Seb. Do you have the birth announcement and whatnot?”
Tank triumphantly slapped a slim sheath of paper down and plucked a single sheet out. “Here you go.”
Kimberly’s announcement wasn’t in the paper until August fifth and it was pretty plain Jane. Proud to announce blah blah blah, but no picture. I went and found the other baby announcements. Four had photos. Two didn’t.
“I’m way ahead of you,” said Tank and he gave me Anton’s, Gregory’s, and Kevin’s announcements. All three had photos of wrinkly newborns and were in the paper five days after birth.
“Do people usually do photos?” I asked.
“They do now, but back then, I’d say fifty-fifty. But since the Thoofts did it the first three times around, I’d say it’s unusual.”
Holt was on guard again and said, “They were busy. Four kids and a farm.”
Tank started to say something and I gave him a look. He instantly agreed and gave me four other sheets. “The Thoofts had other winners at the fair. Four in the seventies, two queens and two first runners-up.”
And they all had pictures in the Sentinel smiling with their sponsors, Ann and Anthony. Holt took the photos and peered at them in consternation. “It is weird that they didn’t take a photo with the 1980 winner, but if Kim was more of a preemie than we thought, maybe they weren’t up to going. She might’ve been too delicate to leave.”
“That’s true,” said Mallory, giving Tank her own look. “I wouldn’t want to leave a newborn preemie for a picture.”
Rocco had gone back to his knitting, but had been waylaid by Aaron, who wanted him to taste test a new sausage, one with a core of onions and peppers. He dutifully tried the dog but kept his eyes on us. Like Fats, he didn’t miss much.
“Any other queen contestants after 1980?” I asked.
“Nope. They never participated again.”
We looked at Holt and his worried look intensified. “I don’t know what to say. Should I ask Ann and Anthony about the fair queens?”
“No,” I said. “Don’t ask Ann anything. Will Anthony talk to you alone?”
“Sure, but he’ll tell Ann. They tell each other everything.”
Not everything.
“Alright. Will Gregory and Kevin tell their parents, if you ask them questions?”
Holt laughed. “I doubt it. There’s still plenty of push and pull going on with the farm. They don’t say much for fear of kicking something up.”
“I thought Kevin and Stephanie were pharmacists,” said Tank. “They work on the farm?”
“Stephanie doesn’t. She’s a townie, but Kevin’s out a lot, especially during breeding season.”
“What about Kimberly?” I asked.
“She’d try to stay quiet but keeping things from her mother isn’t her style.”
Tank made a face. “I wouldn’t like that.”
“Kimberly was worth it and I got used to their relationship.” He went to his coat on the rack and dug something out of his pocket. “You got a computer I can use?”
Tank took him to one of the reporters’ desks and he plugged in a thumb drive.
“We had all the home movies transferred to digital for Ann a couple of years ago.” Holt clicked through a couple screens and then selected Kimmy Singing. An eleven-year-old Kimberly filled the screen. She was a pretty child with her dark hair back in a French braid, giggling and then asking, “Are you ready, Anton? I’m not waiting all day.” It could’ve been petulant or whiny, but when Kimberly said it, you smiled.
“Alright, fancy pants,” said a deep adult voice and my chest got tight. His voice. Anton’s. I’d have known it anywhere. His few words of anger and frustration were imprinted on me forever.
Mallory put an arm around me and squeezed.
Breathe. He can’t hurt you. It’s over.
Then Kimberly struck a pose and sunk to the floor. What came out of that child was beyond compare. She sang “I Dreamed a Dream” with such beauty and despair tears came to my eyes. Mallory quaked beside me and Rocco came up and whispered, “Wow.”
The last note hung in the air with Kimberly’s face pained yet wistful as a tear rolled down her cheek. The video cut out and I breathed again.
Ann, how could you?