Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret by Rett MacPherson Page A

Shenk, and the same city and state.
    There were four Shenks living in Washington and I printed them all. They were all men and one could have been Louise’s husband.
    I went back to the history and genealogy room, scanned the wall that had the books on Missouri, and pulled out a copy of Ste. Genevieve County Marriages 1870–1900. Eugene’s mother was born in 1899, so I assumed that her parents were married sometime between 1870 and 1899. Sure enough, they were married in 1896. So I filled that blank in on Norah’s chart and went to make a copy of the page.
    Next I pulled out the census index for Missouri for the year 1870. I assumed that Ellenore and Gaston were born before 1870. If I could find them in the census, then I’d know who their parents were. The index gave me the households in Ste. Genevieve County with the last names Chappuis and Rousson. I copied the page numbers and headed down to the microfiche and microfilm room.
    I found them both, and thus added their birth years, and their parents’ names and birth years, to Norah’s chart. This is how the majority of the day went.
    Six hours later I walked out of there with red eyes and a tense neck. But I had also nearly filled in Norah’s five-generation chart. All in all it was a good day, except for having to run up and down all of those steps to feed the parking meter. It’s no wonder people don’t go to the library. It is too much work.
    When I reached New Kassel, it was nearly time for dinner. I drove down Stuckmeyer Road and passed the Old Mill Stream, which is a restaurant now. It used to be a mill, hence the name. It still has its big wheel that took water from Kassel Creek. Mayor Castlereagh owns it now, and it was packed with customers.
    I turned left and passed the three streets until I came to my driveway. There was a strange car parked in it, which was not all that unusual, but I wasn’t expecting anybody, and I didn’t recognize it. Somehow, I always feel on the defensive when I enter my own home with a stranger awaiting my arrival.
    My house is white with green shutters, with a large front and back porch. Once I was inside my house, the aroma of my mother’s sauerkraut, sausage, potato cakes, and baked beans sent my stomach into fits. I tripped over Mary’s rocking horse, and let out a few expletives. The television blared, Dark Wing something or other, and that aggravated the heck out of me. One big rule in my house is no television during meals. Nobody talks to each other if the TV’s on.
    I turned it off with my thigh—yes, I’m one of the few cavemen without a remote control—and stopped dead in the doorway.
    Sheriff Colin Brooke sat at my table, with my family, eating what was assuredly my dinner. He was charming the socks off of my mother, and even had Rudy laughing and pounding his hand on the table at something that was just “too funny.”
    Before I could utter something completely rude and justified, my mother interceded. “Victory, Sheriff Brooke…”
    â€œMs. Keith, call me Colin,” he said, smiling at her.
    â€œOh, pah-leeze!” I said. “What is this?”
    â€œWe have a guest,” Mom said.
    â€œMom,” Rachel said. “Mom,” she repeated, like all six-year-olds do when you don’t answer them at the speed of light. My kids expect me to answer them before they ask the question!
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe has a gun,” she said, her black eyes huge.
    As if I needed to hear that.
    â€œMother,” I began, “you should be more careful who you invite to our house,” I said. She glared at me.
    â€œWhat do you want?” I asked him. I wouldn’t get any prizes for being subtle. Sometimes subtlety only causes confusion.
    We have only four kitchen chairs, so I grabbed a chair from the dining room as I picked up a potato cake and ate it. Sheriff Brooke watched me, his eyes trying desperately to