Bloodline(45)

The house is a cozy Cape Cod with a well-kept lawn. I park and walk up the granite walkway. A soft breeze murmurs through the neighborhood trees, making the honey-scented pink rosebushes on each side of Mr. Tucker’s front porch wave. I knock on his door.

He answers immediately.

My jaw drops.

He laughs, a wheezy sound. “Not what you expected?”





CHAPTER 32

“Thank you for the coffee.”

He’d brought me to the sunroom on the back of his house, where I’d tried to hide my surprise as he poured me a cup. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen Negroes before, of course. Of course. Mom and I had lived in the South. It’s just that in my wildest imagination, I never pictured a black sheriff in Stearns County in 1944.

“There weren’t a lot of us,” he says.

My embarrassment doubles. “You’re reading my mind.”

He laughs. It’s a friendly sound. “Your face, anyhow. You haven’t recovered from the shock.”

“I’m so sorry. It’s just that . . . I haven’t lived in Lilydale long, but in the short time I’ve been there, I haven’t seen a single Negro.”

“And you probably won’t. It was the same when I was elected—thanks to a mix of blacks in Saint Cloud back from the war and the fact that I ran unopposed—and it’ll likely be the same for a while. Didn’t make my job any easier, but then again, the only people who ever like a sheriff are the innocent. I didn’t run across much of those in the execution of my duty. Are those doughnuts for me?”

I had set the box down but had failed to open it. I lift the lid. “Yes. I bought some plain ones, but also frosted. For me.”

He smiles. “All right, then. I might as well try those, too. Now, you didn’t drive all this way to watch an old man eat, did you?”

He moves slowly, as if his bones are made of glass.

“Do you mind me asking how old you are?”

He throws back his head and guffaws. “That’s right. You mentioned you were a reporter. Not afraid to ask the hard questions, are you? Well, I’m glad to have lived as long as I have, and I don’t mind telling you about it. I’m seventy-seven.”

“I hope I’m half as sharp as you at that age.” His face is leathered, a newsboy cap pulled over his white hair, but his mind is quick. “I’m here about the Paulie Aandeg case. Do you remember it?”

He stops halfway in the middle of pouring himself a cup of coffee. “The boy disappeared on September 5, 1944. Can’t ever forget that. His mother’s face will follow me to my grave. Broke my heart we couldn’t find her boy for her.”

“What if I told you he’s shown up?”

Mr. Tucker tugs his hat off and fans himself. “You don’t say.”

“I do. I met with him yesterday.” I open my portfolio and remove the photos I’ve taken of Kris. “This is what he looks like now. Do you think it’s Paulie?”

Mr. Tucker handles the pictures, examining each. He sips his coffee. He takes a bite of his doughnut, and then another. Finally, he says, “Could be. Age is about right. Coloring. Paulie had brown hair and eyes. It’s hard to know for certain.”

“Did Paulie’s mother mention anything about him having a scar?” I pull up my cap sleeve. I chose the dress for this reason. “Like this one?”

Mr. Tucker grabs his reading glasses off the table. Beyond the sunroom are more plants than I’ve seen outside of a park.

“Smallpox?” he asks.

“Yes, but shaped like mine. A figure eight.”

He sits back. “Can’t say that I remember. I can get my hands on the old file, though. Maybe.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Would I be able to see it?”

“Not if there’s any sensitive information. But if I can call in a favor—and that’s a big if—and if I come across anything that might make up your mind about this man claiming to be Paulie—a littler if—I’ll call you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tucker.”

“Grover.”

“Thank you, Grover. Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”

“As long as there’s doughnuts, you may ask questions.”

I yank the article copies from my portfolio. “My research says Virginia Aandeg’s—Paulie’s mother’s—house burned down five days after he went missing, and she was never seen again. Do you have any theories about who started the fire?”

Grover squints into the past. “That’s right. There was a kerfuffle around that. An insurance fraud investigation, if I remember correctly.”

My pulse picks up. “They think it was arson?”

“Something like that. All I remember is that the town of Lilydale received the insurance payment for Mrs. Aandeg’s house burning, and that was enough to draw some attention.”

I turn the fire article to face him. “This fire?”

He skims it. “Yes, that’s right.” He taps his finger over Ronald’s name. “That man. Ronald Schmidt. He still around?”

“He is,” I say cautiously.

“Always thought that one knew more than he let on.”

“He’s my boyfriend’s father.”