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

communicate silently.
    â€œHe called first,” Mom assured me. “To say he was coming, so I had him come for dinner.” June Cleaver had just invaded my mother’s body. I couldn’t help but feel that I was missing something.
    Rudy was being himself. He was genuinely entertained by Brooke. Rudy could not see beyond the surface of the dust on the mantel, much less the surface of people. Had they all forgotten my ill feelings for the sheriff? Had they all forgotten that this man threw me in jail when I was trying to get a pregnant woman to a hospital?
    â€œForgive my wife,” Rudy said. “Hormones.”
    I swatted Rudy a good one on the side of his head. “I don’t have hormones, dear. Not any! I don’t have any!”
    Obviously, they all believed me.
    Mary took that opportune time to fling her sauerkraut across the table, hitting Sheriff Brooke in the head. I wanted to yell, “Good shot!” but I played the part of mother and reprimanded her. Even if it was done with a smile.
    â€œSo, Sheriff,” I said, “what brings you to my house?”
    â€œIt can wait until we are finished eating,” he said.
    â€œWell, you’ll be waiting forever, because my mother makes sure everybody is stuffed, and then she serves dessert. It’s quite an ordeal,” I said.
    â€œOne that I’m suffering through quite nicely,” he answered.
    Was he flirting with my mother? No, surely not. She was at least twelve years older than he.
    Sheriff Brooke never spoke another word as to why he was at my house until we were completely finished with dinner. It was dusk now, but still light enough to see. Lavender was the primary color in the evening sky and the smell of grass and fresh rain had coiled themselves together. It had stopped raining about five that evening, but the local news assured us of more.
    My backyard is large. We are on a two-acre lot. Over half of it is in the back of the house. Sheriff Brooke and I walked along the brick path that was lined with impatiens. All was calm and serene.
    Suddenly Bob came squawking across the backyard. Bob is our rooster. He never hesitated as he headed straight for Sheriff Brooke’s ankles. He pecked and squawked, and pecked some more. Sheriff Brooke tried desperately to get away from Bob without actually kicking him. He jumped on one foot, then on the other. He skipped along the sidewalk into the yard, back onto the sidewalk and then back into the yard, all the while throwing his feet out away from Bob. He looked like Michael Jackson doing a hoedown.
    â€œSorry,” I muttered. “The chicken coop isn’t quite finished.” I swatted at Bob and then stomped my foot. “Go on, Bob, get.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. And then I giggled. And then before I knew it, I was laughing heartily. “He has this thing about strange males. It’s a dominance thing.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said, cautious of every step he took. After all, there were a lot of things one could step into in my backyard. “I’m surprised Bill hasn’t made you get rid of the chickens. And the rooster,” he said.
    â€œYou know the mayor?”
    â€œYeah.”
    He didn’t say how or where from, just “Yeah.” “He’s tried,” I said, “but we’re not breaking any laws. I suppose you know that he hates anything furry or feathery.”
    â€œYeah,” he said as he shoved his hands in his jeans. “I didn’t want you to have to come to the station so I could talk with you,” he finally said. “I thought this would be better.”
    Something was bothering him. I don’t think I have ever seen him quite so reflective. At least not around me.
    â€œDid you know she was divorced?” he said.
    â€œYes,” I said. “Have you talked to him?”
    â€œYesterday. He’s a strange sort. Lives in Ladue. Recluse.”
    â€œOh,”