A Quandary in Quarantine

Chapter Six

Watching the clock slowly tick closer to 4:00 pm made me feel like I was back in elementary school, eagerly awaiting the last bell of the day to ring. At 3:55, I gathered my things and powered down my computer. I stole a glance at Irene’s closed office door. An urge to go in overtook me, and I gave in, opening the door with my spare key. As I pushed open the door, a sudden wave of guilt passed over me. Don’t be silly, I chided myself. There was absolutely no reason I shouldn’t be in Irene’s office. Glancing over the surfaces of her desk and filing cabinet, I saw that little had been disturbed since the previous day. Again, that made sense - who else would have been in here? The police clearly had not deemed any of the papers strewn across her desk to be of interest in the case. But, as I looked them over, I saw that the genealogical research I had seen the other day was all still there. I glanced over my shoulder quickly before making the split second decision to take the papers. I needed to be able to cross reference them with the letter I had found, and I needed to do that in the privacy of my home, lest someone see what I was doing and think I was trying to cover something up. I quickly grabbed an unused manilla folder from the box on the top of Irene’s filling cabinet and hurriedly gathered the papers, jamming them in my tote bag. 


Just then, Luce walked up behind me. “Ready to go?” She said, her voice its usual upbeat timbre.

“Yes, let’s get out of here,” I said, still feeling very guilty. But the key to Irene’s death might be in these papers, I told myself - I am the only one who recognized these for what they are.

Luce and I walked quickly to my car. Luckily I had driven today, since the early spring thaw had made the sidewalks and roads so slushy, I was worried about getting my shoes and pants covered in that unique combination of slush and road salt which seemed to permanently stain any fabric grayish white immediately upon contact.

The drive to Wisconsin State Historical Society, which was located in Madison, would take us about an hour and half. Once we made it to the highway, I felt it was time to give Luce and update.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what we’re doing… huh?” I said as I shot a sideways glance at Luce, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

“I am wondering a bit, but I trust you!” Luce smiled back at me. “But really, are we going sleuthing?”

“Luce!” I cried, “How did you figure it out?”

“It’s what I do. I read and I notice things,” Luce quipped, riffing on Tyrion Lannister’s famous line. We both loved good high fantasy.

“Well, I guess it’s good I have you on my side then, huh?” I laughed. “Okay, then, you probably already know, but we’re going to do some research at the State Historical Society archives. When I was setting up for my program the other day, I found part of a letter. I think it was originally taken from the archive, so I’m hoping we can find the rest of it. I want to return it, too, of course. I know Irene was doing research on a family from Elsewhere called Martinnen. I found a huge stack of printouts on that family name from our ancestry databases in her office after she died. I can not quite figure out the connect yet, but I think that’s why she was killed. I’m hoping the other half of the letter will shed some light.”

Luce was quiet for a moment, then said, “What could have been so bad in the family’s history that someone now - a hundred years later - would kill over it?” She looked so sad.

“I do not know,” I conceded. “I also found a scan of a deed of transfer for some land, but I’m not sure how that’s connected yet either. Maybe we can look up the location on old plat maps while we’re there, too.”


We rode in silence for most of the trip, each lost in our own thoughts.

*****

Luckily, the roads were good and we made it to the Historical Society with enough time to spare. Luce and I entered the grand reading room, a bright and airy space which boasted ceilings two-stories high. I knew originally there had been stained glass sky lights illuminating the space, but relatively recent renovations had unfortunately necessitated replacing them with plain glass. We walked to the service desk in the center of the space, and I gave the librarians a set of call numbers I felt were most likely to contain the other half of the letter I had in my possession.

“Oh, yes, the Finnish Family Papers,” said the librarian, referring to the official name of the collection. The collection actually contained papers from a few families of Finnish descent, that all settled in and around Elsewhere. I recalled in the collection description I’d read online that it was loosely curated by the same group of grad student from UW Madison that were trying to document and track the families in our area that still spoke primarily Finnish, too. She was a diminutive woman, with light brown hair she wore cut bluntly at her shoulders. Her navy blue cardigan, wool pants and loafers were pretty typical librarian wardrobe, especially in the colder months.

“These have been popular lately, we just had another researcher call this same archival box, actually just last week.”

As the librarian walked away to retrieve the archive box I’d requested, I leaned in close to Luce’s ear so no other patrons would hear me. “That must have been Irene, don’t you think?” I said.

“Probably, yeah,” she agreed. “It’s too bad we can’t just ask - but I know the Historical Society has strict patron privacy policies. I do think it’s a good sign though!”

When the librarian returned with the archival box, we took it to one of the reading room tables to begin our work. I carefully took out the first folder, which seem to contain correspondence. Luce grabbed the next one, which contained legal documents related to the FAMILY’S business holdings, according to the finding aid. Archives worked a bit differently than the popular collections we were used to dealing with in the public library. Archives were all about original order - the archivist’s job was to ensure we as the user experienced the materials in the order it was left by the original owner, rather than reorganized into something new.

As I started to leaf through the letters in my file folder, I was immediately drawn in again by the beautiful script. It seemed that most of the letters in the beginning of the file were written by Mirja, and addressed to a man named Daniel. It appeared from the letters that Daniel was likely Mirja’s husband, and he had traveled to America first to establish the family. About half way through the stack, I hit pay dirt. I found the other half of the letter.

I glanced back towards the public service desk; both the librarians had their backs to me, helping other patrons. I quickly pulled the first page of the letter out of my bag. I slipped it onto the table in front of me. I scanned the words again:

My dearest Mirja,

I know you refuse to let this transgression against our good family name sully your beautiful soul, but I am not as strong as you are, my love. I have to take action! I cannot sit idly by while their fortunes increase, and ours stay stagnant. We came to this country for opportunity.

How can you expect me to let it slip through my fingers, now, when we were so close? I hope you can forgive me my actions, but this is the only way I can see

I moved to the second page and continued reading.

a way forward. I must take action. I will avenge our family’s true name.

At this, there was a clear break in the writing. Scribbled along the bottom of the page, almost as a post script, I read the chilling words:

Please forgive me, but it is done. -Daniel

I gripped the side of the table, and reread the letter I had found.

“Luce! Oh my goodness, I think I just found an admission of another murder!”

“What do you mean, another murder?” She looked at the pages I had laid out in front of me.

“Look at this,” I said, and pointed at those last few chilling lines.

“Yikes, I think you might be right! But, this letter had to be a hundred years old! How could it be connected to Irene’s death?”

“Well, if I’ve put these few clues together correctly, I think that these letters are between the original Marttinen’s here in America. I think that Daniel, he’s the one writing this letter to his wife Mirja, came to the United States ahead of the rest of the family. I know many Fins worked as laborers first, until they had saved enough money to purchase their own land, I would guess that something shady happened with the land deal, and Daniel took revenge on whoever he thought was responsible. Hey!”

Just then, I recalled the deed of land transfer I’d found a scan of in Irene’s office. I reached into my bag to pull out the copy.

“This is the land, I’ll bet!” I held my finger up to stave off Luce’s questions, “Luce, hold on a second, I have a hunch…” I took the scanned document back to the librarian.

“Could you please pull the plat map for this address?”

“Of course, I would be happy to! Just one moment, please.” She smiled and took the page with her back into the stacks.

She returned shortly with a huge bound set of plat maps. I guessed they covered much of the county. We thanked the librarian and began to pour over the maps.

We finally found the maps that covered the area we believed the the address on the deed of transfer referred to.

“Here it is, Libby!” Luce leaned over the map and pointed to the location. “It’s Morton Farms.”

*****

“Let’s grab dinner before we drive back home,” I suggested. I needed some time to go over what we had found. 


“State Street Brats, or Dotty Dumplings?” Luce had spent a lot more time in Madison than I had, since she attended library school at the University of Wisconsin, but I knew these names! 


“Ooooh, Dotty’s for sure!” I said as I started to cut across Library Mall and head up State Street. State Street is a pedestrian only street, a bit over half a mile long, that stretches from Library Mall up to the Capitol building. It is jam-packed with small boutique stores, restaurants, and bars. Of course there were bars - Wisconsinites, especially the college students, loved a good bar. Dotty Dumpling’s Dowry was located a few blocks off State Street, but the short walk was worth it. We entered the cozy space and opted for a booth in the back corner of the main dining area. After quickly ordering burgers; a Heart Throb for me, which was a beautifully spicy combination of Pepper Jack cheese, bacon and Dotty’s Heart Throb sauce, and an Alumni for Luce - a simple burger topped with steak sauce, onions and cheddar; a huge order of deep fried cheese curds with ranch to share, and a Spotted Cow for each of us, Luce and I reviewed all we had learned.

“So, to recap, we know Irene was doing genealogical research on a family named Martinnen that settled in Elsewhere around the turn of the century. I’m pretty confident that Daniel Martinnen came to the US ahead of his family, worked to earn money and eventually bought land outside of town to farm. During the course of land transfer, the assessor screwed up and put everything under the name Morton. Daniel felt personally slighted by this to a great degree, and he did something in retaliation. Possibly killing the county assessor at the time, or something he felt very guilty for at any rate. He basically confesses this to his wife Mirja in the letter Irene had stolen from the State Historical Society - which luckily, we found and returned before anyone noticed. So, why did Irene end up dead?”

“What if, whoever killed her was a descendent of the land assessor that Daniel took his revenge on?”

“That’s a distinct possibility. I wish we had the name of the assessor at the time. But, that does not explain why they targeted Irene. She’s not a Martinnen.”

“No, she’s not. Hmm,” Luce puzzled while she took another bite of her burger.

“Maybe we’re missing something in Daniel’s story.”

“I think you’re right, Luce.”

We finished our food, and paid our tab. We walked back to the State Street parking ramp, and started the trek back to Elsewhere.

“We should talk to my mom,” Luce’s voice cut through my reverie.

“Your mom? Why?”

“Well, before she retired, she worked in the county executor’s office, I wonder if she might be able to shed some light on this.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea, Luce! Let’s give her a call.”

Luce dialed her mother’s phone number and put her on speaker.

“Hi there, Annie Bea!” I said brightly into the phone. “I have a question for you,” I started.

“Of course, dear, what is it?” She replied.

“Luce reminded me that you worked for the county assessor’s office before you retired. We found a deed of land transfer today, while researching something for a patron” I hoped the little white lie would not cost me too much.

“We looked up the address on the plat maps at the State Historical Society, and we think that it’s what’s now called Morton Farms. But, looking at the signature on the transfer, it almost looks like the name Martinnen. What do you make of that?”

“Well, without seeing the deed of transfer, or doing any other verification, I would guess the buyer’s name was Martinnen, but the assessor wrote Morton. Really, they should have corrected that, but you know how things were a hundred years ago, spelling of folks’ names were changed left and right by immigration officials and other record keepers - they just did not take the time with the foreign sounding names like they should.”

“What would happen to that family then, would they be forced to use the new name?” I asked.

“Sometimes people did not even realize the records were wrong until something like this happened - someone tried to apply for a loan from a bank, or buy some land, and the records showed a different spelling. I imagine a lot of families felt powerless to do anything about it and accepted the new Anglicized spellings without much fuss. I’m sure some were more upset about it though - can you imagine? Going through what they had just to get to this country, only to have one of the few things that tied them to their home and history ripped away? I would be upset myself, to be honest. I’m not sure exactly what I would do.”

Luce and I shared a glance over the fence. My thoughts were confirmed by what Annie Bea had said. It was entirely possible that someone would get angry, and take revenge on the person they saw as responsible.

“One more question for you, Annie Bea,” I said as we heard Deputy Drew’s police cruiser pull into the driveway. “Do you know how to tell the name of the assessor from this document?” 


“Yes,” she said, “there should be a line in the upper corner that lists the assessor’s name.”

“Thank you so much,” I said and Luce hung up the phone. She dug the scan out of my bag, which rested at her feet. Indicating a faded line of text in the upper corner of the scan, she said, “It looks like the assessor’s last name was Savela.”

I could not believe I had missed Irene’s own last name on the document when I had looked at it before. This put the research we’d done so far into an entirely different light.