Bloodline Page 26

  Unlike most small towns, however, 11 Lilydale residents, all direct descendants of the town’s founders and all with homes on once-bucolic Mill Street, are under indictment for rape, kidnapping and arson in a scandal that spans generations. The Lilydale police chief is one of those accused. One of the 11 died as a result of arson before charges were filed. The surviving Mill Street denizens deny all charges.

  The opening trial, that of Barbara Schmidt, is coming to a close. Mrs. Schmidt, 56, is charged with abetting the 1944 kidnapping of Paulie Anna Aandeg, the recently uncovered 1946 kidnapping of Hector Ramirez, whom she raised as her son along with her recently deceased husband, Ronald Schmidt, and the 1968 kidnapping of Angel Gomez.

  Ronald Schmidt, who died in a house fire believed to be started by him to gain insurance money, has been posthumously accused of the rape of Hector Ramirez’s mother, Maria Ramirez, orchestrating all three kidnappings, as well as insurance fraud. The child he helped abduct and raised as his own child, Deck Schmidt (formerly Hector Ramirez), has also been charged with insurance fraud.

  District Judge Stephen L. Miller of Stearns County is presiding over the case. Earlier, the prosecutor, M. Elizabeth Klaphake, rested her case. She had called 13 witnesses, including the town physician, the editor and owner of the Lilydale Gazette and Grover Tucker, the now-retired county sheriff who oversaw the search for Paulie Anna Aandeg in 1944. The defense begins its case tomorrow and is expected to conclude within the week.

  “A Dark History”

  Lilydale was platted by Johann E. Lily and his wife, Minna, in 1857. They were German immigrants as well as brother and sister. Like many early settlers, they created an enclave built around their native language, customs and religion. Fred Munro, director of the Stearns County Historical Society, said Johann and Minna took it even further.

  According to church records, the brother and sister had 12 children, only two of whom lived to adulthood, a son and a daughter. The rest were born horribly deformed; those who survived childbirth were kept hidden until their deaths days or weeks later. To guarantee their Germanic bloodline and keep their wealth intact and in the family, Johann impregnated other women in town, and Minna raised the children as her own. In exchange for providing half-Lily children, these women and their families got to live in Lilydale under the patronage of the Lilys.

  The town grew and gained a reputation as a safe haven, an escape from the world. Johann and Minna formed a society called the Fathers and Mothers to ensure the town grew in line with their vision.

  “Once settled, they only allowed marriage within the immediate family, creating one of the shallowest gene pools in the region. It’s a dark history in an otherwise beautiful part of the state,” said Munro.

  Dr. Sebastian Krause, Lilydale physician and witness for the prosecution at Barbara Schmidt’s hearing, testified that intergenerational inbreeding at that level could be responsible for a low fertility rate and a high occurrence of genetic deformity among future generations. He also confirmed that 14 full-blood Lily children live in a facility in Lilydale and are adequately cared for.

  “They couldn’t have their own children, not healthy ones, not with each other,” said Dennis Roth, Lilydale Gazette editor, who was offered a plea deal in exchange for his cooperation. “But they wanted to keep the Lily pedigree alive. So the current Lily men looked outside their marriages, just as Johann Lily had.”

  Paulie Anna Aandeg, now a mother herself, has been informed of her likely provenance. She’s chosen not to comment for this article and has requested privacy. Angel Gomez was returned to his family, physically unharmed, less than two months after he first disappeared. The Gomez family has since moved out of Lilydale, and their whereabouts are unknown.

  “That’s Not Us”

  Locals are painfully aware of the town’s image on the national stage.

  At the Ben Franklin, Kristine Ruprecht said: “Lilydale is a town full of heart, though you’d never know it watching the television or reading the papers. I’m sure the country is wondering if we’re all incestuous animals, but believe you me: this was just a few bad apples. Most of us are decent. Those Mill Streeters? That’s not us.”

  Locals are left asking themselves how such a tragedy could have happened under their noses. “You get busy with your life, feeding your family and the like,” said William Carstens. “We just figured the people in charge knew what they were doing.”

  They Kept Records

  Several documents seized from Schmidt Insurance indicate a pattern of the Mill Street families, who still called themselves the Fathers and Mothers. While their beneficence ensured no one they approved of ever went hungry, sick or homeless in Lilydale, they also used their influence to control the local population, harass those who stepped out of line and create a culture of fear that had neighbors telling on neighbors. In addition, documents indicate that the Mill Street families forcibly took over the home insurance payments of some locals in the poorer part of town and then burned their houses and chased them out of Lilydale, reaping the payouts for themselves through an elaborate insurance scam.

  “I hope they go away for a long time, all of them,” said Peggy Warren, a waitress at Tuck’s Cafe. “If they did half the things they’re accused of, they don’t deserve to be free.”

  When asked if he felt satisfaction to finally find out what happened to Paulie Anna Aandeg, retired Sheriff Grover Tucker had this to say: “I was as pleased as punch when I found out she’s alive, and I wish her all the best.”

  With a lengthy prison sentence likely for all the Mill Street families, there is a palpable feeling of relief in the town to be, finally, free of the Lily influence.

  Mayor Oleson said, “We let them run the show for too long. It was easier than any one of us sticking our neck out, we figured. Well, not anymore. We’ll survive this. There’s good people here, and we’ll build something better than what we had.”

  CHAPTER 70

  The sun sparkles across the undulating ocean, dropping toward the water, the surrounding sky lavender and tangerine. The air smells briny and alive, tropical, full of potential. It’s nearing nighttime, and the beach is nearly deserted except for the three of us resting beneath a palm tree. “It looks like a goddamned postcard here,” Regina says, taking a pull on her beer.

  She says this every time we come to the beach, and it makes me smile. Every time.

  “Sure does,” I say, digging my feet into the sand. My big toe pokes out, and I wiggle it. Frances, now a deliciously chubby toddler, giggles. I drink up the sound. She is healthy and dimpled and safe.

  We’d driven all night. I don’t remember most of it—bits of Regina stopping at gas stations, bringing me sandwiches and water and helping to clean up me and Frances in bathrooms, looking over her shoulder the whole time, and then leading us back to the car and driving some more. I let my baby out of my sight only when I had to—to sleep, to use the bathroom.

  When the three of us hit Siesta Key, we rented a cheap room at a long-stay hotel. It had a kitchenette, two beds, a crib, a bathroom. Regina got a bartending job right away. I traded housekeeping services for a used typewriter the motel owner didn’t need, made some calls, verified some facts, and hammered out a story for the biggest newspaper in the country.

  I’ve sold two more stories since.

  The three of us settled into a routine, one that has carried us for months. I clean rooms and write during the day, never more than a few feet from Frances. Regina slings drinks. We pool our money to pay bills and even started a college fund for Frances. It has only twenty dollars in it, but it’s a start.

  On Regina’s one night off, we stroll two blocks to the beach, chase crabs with good-natured Frances, try to keep her from stuffing sand into her mouth, and splash with her in the ocean.

  I love it so much it hurts.

  “How long do you want to stay?” Regina asks.

  The question gives me a pang. I’ve been waiting for it, of course. Regina’s young, childless.
She’s been kind to stay as long as she has. Well, Frances Grover Harken and I can make it on our own. My own mother taught me how to live that life.

  I’m scared to tell Regina the truth, though, which is that I could stay here forever. Lying might buy me a little more time with her, stretch out the reprieve before I have to do it all alone.

  But I’m done lying. I square my shoulders. “I never want to leave,” I say.

  Frances rolls off my lap and waddles over to inspect a seashell. Her diaper is covered in sand, and her sweet bare feet are filthy. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  Regina is quiet, and I’m holding my breath, waiting for her response. She doesn’t want to hurt me, I’m sure of it. Well, I’m going to let her off the hook. She’s already been a better friend than I have any right to expect. She’s given up a year of her life and all her savings to get Frances and me on our feet. I didn’t even know there were people like that in the world.

  I finally get the courage to look at her. “Regina—”

  She’s smiling so broadly that I momentarily forget what I was about to say.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  She sweeps the air with her free arm, indicating the sun setting between two palm trees, the jewel-colored sky, the golden sand, the baby. “It’s paradise, that’s what it is. If you’re staying, I’m staying, too.”

  A warmth grows in my chest, expands until it reaches my eyes. I realize I’m crying. Regina throws her arms around me, and that makes Frances giggle, a rolling melody of pure joy.

  I join in the laughter, I can’t help it, and then so does Regina.

  We’re still laughing when the sun drops into the water.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Bloodline is my eighteenth published novel. (I have a couple more, but they’re crappers that deserve to live in a drawer.) My kids, friends, family, editors, publicist, agent, and the person who built my computer all helped in this endeavor, but here’s the truth: this book wouldn’t have been written without you. I would have given up long ago if not for readers who take time out of their busy lives—and often money out of their pockets—to buy and read my books. (If you checked this out from the library, I’m okay with that, too. I love libraries.)

  Thank you, particularly those of you who have followed me across genres. It is your attention that turns this pile of words from a doorstop into a book, and for that, you have my gratitude. May your kindness find its way back to you ten times over.

  A special thanks to Jessica Tribble, editor extraordinaire, for all the time and talent she dedicated to helping me structure and refine this book. It looked much different when it first landed on her desk, and it’s a better book for her efforts. Charlotte Herscher, your patience and guidance took it to the next level; Jon Ford, you are an incredible copyeditor, somehow managing to be surgical, kind, and funny all at once; Kellie Osborne, your sorceress-level proofreading, particularly when it comes to verb tense and continuity, is breathtaking and appreciated; and Sarah Shaw, your support and sunniness make me feel like I’m heard and part of something bigger, and I cannot thank you enough. I am grateful that I get to work with all of you, and everyone at Thomas & Mercer who works hard to get books into the world.

  Jill Marsal, thank you for the guidance, both with my stories and my career. I won the lottery when I landed you as an agent. Jessica Morrell, I believe you have freelance edited every single one of my published novels, and your work has made me a better writer. Thank you.

  Zoë and Xander, thanks for growing up into amazing humans whom I no longer have to pay to read my books. (That’s not true—I still pay you, but at least you follow through on it now.) Carolyn Crane, you are my writing rock. Your wisdom means the world to me, and you’re so generous with it. Lori Rader-Day, Susanna Calkins, Catriona McPherson, Shannon Baker, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Johnny Shaw, I love your writing almost as much as I love you; thank you for being on my squad. You too, Terri Bischoff. Cindy, Christine, Tony, and Suzanna, you’re the family I choose.

  We all come together in story.

  FROM UNSPEAKABLE THINGS

  PROLOGUE

  The lonely-scream smell of that dirt basement lived inside me.

  Mostly it kept to a shadow corner of my brain, but the second I’d think Lilydale, it’d scuttle over and smother me. The smell was a predatory cave stink, the suffocating funk of a great somnolent monster that was all mouth and hunger. It had canning jars for teeth, a single string hanging off a light bulb its uvula. It waited placidly, eternally, for country kids to stumble down its backbone stairs.

  It let us swing blindly for that uvula string.

  Our fingers would brush against it.

  light!

  The relief was candy and sun and silver dollars and the last good thing we felt before the beast swallowed us whole, digesting us for a thousand years.

  But that’s not right.

  My imagination, I’d been told, was quite a thing.

  The basement wasn’t the monster.

  The man was.

  And he wasn’t passive. He hunted.

  I hadn’t returned to Lilydale since that evening. The police and then Mom had asked if I wanted anything from my bedroom, and I’d said no. I’d been thirteen, not stupid, though a lot of people confuse the two.

  Now that his funeral had called me home, that cellar stink doubled back with a vengeance, settling like a fishhook way deep in my face where my nose met my brain. The smell crept into my sleep, even, convinced me that I was trapped in that gravedirt basement all over again. I’d thrash and yell, wake up my husband.

  He’d hold me. He knew the story.

  At least he thought he did.

  I’d made it famous in my first novel, shared its inspiration on my cross-country book tour. Except somehow I’d never mentioned the necklace, not to anyone, not even Noah. Maybe that piece felt too precious.

  Or maybe it just made me look dumb.

  I could close my eyes and picture it. The chain would be considered too heavy now but was the height of fashion in 1983, gold, same metal as the paper airplane charm hanging off it.

  I’d believed that airplane necklace was my ticket out of Lilydale.

  I didn’t actually think I could fly it. Big duh, as we said back then. But the boy who wore the necklace? Gabriel? I was convinced he would change everything.

  And I guess he did.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair for six.” Sephie beamed.

  Dad matched her smile across the table. “Nice hand. Cass?”

  I laid down my cards, trying to keep the gloat off my face and failing. “Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and a run for ten!”

  Mom moved our peg. “We win.”

  I shoulder-danced. “I can give you lessons if you want, Sephie.”

  She rolled her eyes. “In being a poor sport?”

  I laughed and dug into the popcorn. Mom had made a huge batch, super salty and doused in brewer’s yeast. That had been an hour earlier, when we’d started game night. The bowl was getting down to the old maids. I dug around for the ones showing a peek of white. Part-popped old maids are worth their weight in gold, taste-wise.

  “Need a refill?” Dad stood, pointing at Mom’s half-full glass sweating in the sticky May air. Summer was coming early this year—at least that’s what my biology teacher, Mr. Patterson, had said. Was really going to mess with crops.

  He’d seemed bothered by this, but I bet I wasn’t the only kid looking forward to a hot break. Sephie and I planned to turn as brown as baked beans and bleach our dark hair blonde. She’d heard from a friend of a friend that baby oil on our skin and vinegar water spritzed in our hair would work as well as those expensive coconut-scented tanning oils and Sun In. We’d even whispered about finding a spot at the edge of our property, where the woods broke for the drainage ditch, to lay out naked. The thought made me shiver. Boys liked no tan lines. I’d learned that watching Little Darlings.

 
Mom lifted her drink and emptied it before offering it to Dad. “Thanks, love.”

  He strode over to her side of the table, leaning in for a deep kiss before taking her glass. Now I was rolling my eyes right along with Sephie. Mom and Dad, mostly Dad, regularly tried to convince us that we were lucky they were still so in love, but gross.

  Dad pulled away from kissing Mom and caught our expressions. He laughed his air-only heh heh laugh, setting down both glasses so he was free to massage Mom’s shoulders. They were an attractive couple, people said it all the time. Mom had been beautiful, every cloudy picture taken of her proved that, and she still had the glossy brown hair and wide eyes, though incubating Sephie and me had padded her hips and belly. Dad was handsome, too, with a Charles Bronson thing going on. You could see how they’d ended up together, especially after Mom downed a glass of wine, and she’d let spill how she’d always been drawn to the bad boys, even back in high school.

  My immediate family was small: just Mom and Aunt Jin; my big sister, Persephone (my parents had a thing for Greek names); and Dad. I didn’t know my dad’s side of the family. They wouldn’t be worth sweeping into a dustpan, at least that’s what my grandpa on Mom’s side swore to my grandma the winter he died of a massive heart attack. My grandma hadn’t argued. She’d been a docile lady who always smelled of fresh-baked bread no matter the season. A few weeks after Grandpa passed, she died of a stroke, which sounds like a swim move but is not.

  They’d lost a son, my mom’s parents, when I was three years old. He’d been a wild one, I guess. Died playing chicken in a ’79 Camaro, probably drinking, people said. I could only remember one thing about Uncle Richard. It was at his funeral. Jin was crying, but Mom was crying louder, and she went up to Grandpa for a hug. He turned away from her, and she stood there, looking sadder than a lost baby.

  I asked her about it once, about why Grandpa wouldn’t hug her. She said I was too young to remember anything from Rich’s funeral, and besides, the past should stay in the past.