Picture Them Dead (10 page)

I heard pounding footfalls in the rooms downstairs as we each latched onto the banister and started down the staircase to the first floor. Just as we got near the bottom, a young man came streaking through the entry hall, his clothing rumpled and his blond hair sticking out in every which way. He didn't even look in our direction but yanked open the front door and bounded down the steps, running out into the night. A nanosecond later, Jennifer zipped by in hot pursuit as the outdoor lights, apparently also set on a sensor, illuminated the front yard.

The guy was young and fleet of foot, but Jennifer was closing on him.

“My Lord, that girl's fast,” Esme said from behind me.

River was out the door, but with no hope of catching them. Jennifer, still several steps behind the man, grunted, launched herself in his direction, and tackled him, both of them bouncing along the ground before coming to rest in a tangled heap.

By the time we caught up, all of us panting and wheezing, Jennifer had his hands pinned behind him and was sitting on his back, peppering him with questions.

“Who are you and what were you doing in my dad's house?” she asked, not as a cop but as an indignant daughter.

“Who are
you
?” the man spat back. “And what are
you
doing here? That's a better question.”

“I'm a police officer,” Jennifer said, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “My questions trump yours.”

The man made a noise and spat grass and dirt, then tried to twist around. “You sound familiar. Jennifer? Jennifer Jeffers? Is that you?”

She yanked at the man's hands, turning him onto his side so she could see his face. She frowned, but there was no sign of recognition. She looked up at her father, and River squatted down and twisted his head to look at the guy's face. “Who are you, son?”

“Luke Mitchell. This is my grandmother's house. Where is she and who are you people?”

ten

“I can't believe you became a cop,” Luke Mitchell said as Jennifer set a glass of water in front of him. He picked up the end of the towel he had slung over his leg and dabbed at his ear. It was raw-looking, but it had stopped bleeding.

“And I can't believe you became a criminal,” Jennifer said dryly.

“Well, not professionally,” Luke said with a lopsided grin. “I used to come and go from that window all the time. That was my bedroom when we stayed here in the summertime. But someone seems to have made some changes.” He looked to River and apologized for perhaps the hundredth time.

“How is it you didn't know your grandmother had sold the place?” River asked.

“You don't know my grandmother, do you?” Luke asked. “We're not what you'd call close. And even if she'd been inclined to let me know, which she wouldn't have been, she couldn't have reached me in the past year. I'm an anthropologist, or I will be when I finish my degree. A professional anthropologist,” he said with a nod toward Jennifer. “I participated in an experiment with three other anthropology students and some native peoples on an atoll in the South Pacific. It's isolated, and other than a satellite phone for medical emergencies, we've been living completely off the grid for a year and two months now. I just got back to the States a few days ago.”

“That sounds really interesting,” River said, leaning forward. “Living completely off the grid, you say?”

“Dad,” Jennifer said, lifting her eyebrows, “not ­really the most important aspect of the conversation right now.”

“Right, sorry,” River said.

“You really don't remember me, do you?” Luke asked Jennifer. “ 'Course, I understand why you wouldn't. I used to challenge you to swim races at the public pool—loser buys the winner a Coke—which was stupid, since you always beat me. You were fast. Still are,” he said, his hand going to the scrape on his cheek where he'd face-plowed when she tackled him.

“So you got back to the country and came to see your grandmother?” River asked. “And, what, you came in through the window for old times' sake?”

“Well, no,” Luke replied, frowning. “I knocked at the kitchen door, but nobody answered and I figured Grandma was already asleep. She's deaf as a stone. So I let myself in the way I used to.”

“You didn't see all our cars here,” Jennifer said, nodding in the direction of the driveway, “or notice the construction going on?”

“I parked on the roadside and took the shortcut in,” Luke said, pointing toward the main road. “I wasn't supposed to let anyone know I was here. Nobody but Grandma, anyhow.”

“What do you mean you weren't supposed to let anyone know?” Jennifer asked.

“My sister left a message with my old roommate. He gave it to me as soon as I got home 'cause she said it was urgent. She wanted me to meet her here. I wasn't to tell anybody I was coming nor let anyone know I was here until she talked to me.”

“Your sister,” Jennifer said, her back stiffening.

“Yeah, well, my half sister. I don't think you ever knew her. She didn't hang around the pool much. We're not close either, but she called me, so maybe that's gonna change. Anyhow, I guess she's not here yet, eh? Unless you tackled her, too, and have her hog-tied somewhere.” He glanced around and made a show of looking under the table, a teasing smile on his face.

Jennifer looked stricken, and I remembered Denton saying how much she hated making family notifications. Apparently Esme remembered, too, because she reached across the table and put her hand over Luke's. “Your sister is Sherry Burton?”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “You know her?”

Esme shook her head. “Never had the pleasure. I'm afraid we have some bad news for you, Luke.”

*   *   *

“What a horrible thing to have to break to someone,” Dee said as we sat around our kitchen table the next morning, assembling the favor boxes for the wedding reception. “How did he take it?”

“It was odd,” I said. “It was almost as if he'd been expecting the news, but at the same time he was stunned by it.”

“I don't think I saw him but maybe once or twice. I guess he was an anthropologist in the making even back then. In the short time I got to hang around with Sherry, she complained about him spying on her. She'd say outrageous things, always loud enough for him to hear when he was skulking about, just to test what he'd do.”

“What did he do?” Coco asked, opening up what seemed like the millionth tiny baker's box and inserting a piece of parchment before sliding it down the line for Dee to fill with chocolates.

“Nothing,” Dee said. “I think she was testing him to see if he would tattle on her, but who would he have told? Their grandmother didn't seem to care what they did as long as they stayed out of her hair.”

“That was an odd thing, too,” Esme said. “He didn't seem to care much either way when we told him his grandmother was still alive. I guess he'd assumed when he finally figured out that she didn't live there anymore that she'd passed, but when we told him she was in the nursing home, he just made a sort of
huh
sound.”

I heard the front door open and the voice that called a hello made me smile, followed immediately by a sigh. Jack. Jack, of the unresolved conversation. Jack, here, where the room was full of people.

“Hey, what's going on?” he asked as he stood in the doorway inspecting the assembly line.

“Wedding prep,” Esme said. “And you're in the wedding party. Pull up a chair.”

“Nah,” Jack said. “I'd like to help, but you know I'm all thumbs with this kind of stuff. This is women's work.”

He put up both hands as four heads swiveled to give him the stink-eye. “Bad joke,” he said, “but I really can't help. I'm supposed to be on the job. I just brought by a load of mulch and some liriope sprigs for your front beds, Sophreena. Want me to unload them in the usual spot?”

“That would be great,” I said.

“Okay, then, I'll try to come by this weekend and help you with the beds.”

After he'd gone, Dee tilted her head and winked at me. “Some guys bring roses, your guy brings mulch. Isn't that sweet?”

“Roses die, mulch lasts, just like friendship,” Coco said, reaching to squeeze my shoulder.

I felt comforted by the comment for a moment. Then I began to wonder if she knew something I didn't. Was she trying to warn me not to expect that Jack and I were anything but friends? Had he confided in her about his feelings?

I got up from the table, a little more abruptly than I'd intended, tipping over my chair with a loud clatter. “ 'Scuse me a minute,” I said, feeling my throat tighten as I righted the chair. “I changed my mind about where I want him to put that mulch. I need to go tell him.”

“Jack!” I called, once I was out on the front porch. Again it came out with more urgency than I'd meant and Jack's head snapped up in alarm. He'd just been putting the tailgate of the truck down and he let it fall.

“What is it?” he asked, starting toward me. “What's wrong?”

“N-nothing,” I stammered. “I just”—I motioned vaguely toward the truck—“thought, last time the mulch was fresh, and stinky, so maybe we should put it alongside the fence in case I don't get to it this weekend.”

“Sure,” Jack said, frowning at me suspiciously. “You want to show me where?”

I stepped over to a totally arbitrary spot along the fence. He pulled up and started shoveling the mulch into a neat pile, steam rising from the heat of the decaying matter as it hit the cool morning air.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about the other night?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. “We never did get a chance to finish that conversation.”

“No, we didn't,” Jack said, shovel poised in midair. He glanced off toward the house. “We need to talk, but not now. You've got things to do and I need to get on the job. You want to get some supper tonight?”

“Yeah, that would be good,” I said, trying to read his body language. He definitely looked uncomfortable. “When and where?”

“Five thirty? Gallagher's? We can find a quiet place outside. It's time we talked.”

“Sounds great, I'll meet you,” I said. I tried for a carefree amble back to the front porch, but my legs had gone to jelly and I was wobbling like a drunken duck. I had the image of Jack's face burned into my retinas, that solemn look when he said we needed to talk. It was not a happy face.

Once the last box of chocolates was stickered, ribboned, and packed into the box to be delivered to the refrigerators at High Ground, everyone dashed off to take care of other details and I was free to get back to work.

Well, free, except for thoughts and worries about Jack trying to worm their way into my head. So much for my stupid collection of signs. I kept hearing Jack's voice when he said we needed to talk. When had those words ever meant anything good?

I did a Scarlett O'Hara and willed myself to think about that later. I was determined to concentrate on tracking down Samuel Wright. I went down several virtual paths that led to brick walls before I finally got lucky. A woman named Ginger Holderman, who was apparently descended from a man named Virgil Wright, had posted on one of the genealogy message boards looking for information on Sadie Wright Harper, her ancestor's sister. She noted that she had info on Virgil and the other sibling in the family, Samuel Wright, which she'd be happy to share if other descendants were interested.

I wasn't a descendant, but I was most definitely interested.

I posted immediately, asking her to contact me to exchange information and then went back to searching databases. To my surprise, ten short minutes later I got an incoming message ping from Ginger. We exchanged a few pleasantries, then got down to business. She sent me a long string of attachments: scans of documents, handwritten notes, and transcripts for oral histories, along with several very old and faded photographs.

Ginger had kept careful records of her sources and had labeled everything clearly. The vast majority of the information was about Virgil, her direct ancestor. The information she had on Samuel was more loosely documented, but she was careful to identify which information was undocumented by using wiggle words like “family lore has it that” or “according to what so-and-so can remember.”

I thanked Ginger and promised to return the favor by sharing everything I turned up about the Wright family in my own research. This is one of many things I love about family historians; they are almost always pleased to share.

I printed out the documents and spread them on the worktable, stacking them in rough categories. Then I started going through the boxes we'd brought from River's house. Normally Esme and I would work together on these tasks and I felt a little lonely doing it by myself, but I was glad she was the one helping with the wedding. I wasn't really in the mood to think about happy couples right now. Not with the way things stood with Jack.

I weeded through a box of old bills and receipts from the 1950s, finding little of interest unless you counted the shock of how much grocery prices have soared since then. I got sidetracked by a faded receipt from the Piggly Wiggly supermarket: milk, 43 cents a half gallon; coffee, 93 cents a pound; sugar, 43 cents for five pounds, and Ivory Soap, 29 cents for two bars. Man, talk about nostalgia.

I kept going, determined to empty the box. More ephemera, bills from Southern Bell and the Electric Co-op, receipts for farm supplies, but then something of note, hospital bills, itemized services identified as the maternity ward. I did some quick mental calculations. This would have been when Lottie Walker gave birth to her daughter, Marla. The bills were addressed to Howard Walker, care of Oren Harper. What did that mean? Was the couple living at the old Harper place with Oren and Sadie even then?

Suddenly I remembered what Lottie Walker had said about how early in the marriage her husband, Howard, had died. In a mill accident, wasn't it? And very close to the time their child was born. Before or after? Could it be Howard Walker in that grave? But no, Lottie had clearly said he was buried in a cemetery. Hadn't she? I tried to recall my first conversation with Miss Lottie. Had she been lucid then? I made a note to check on Howard Walker's final resting place.

The second box was older stuff and more interesting. Bills and receipts, yes, but also letters, a scattering of photos, and some small booklets that had been used as a sort of log to mark down important dates. Seed companies and fertilizer manufacturers had given out these small memo books by the thousands back in the day as a promo item. They turned up in the ephemera of almost every client I'd ever had, at least the ones from the south. There were three of them here and the handwriting looked feminine. The info was scant, but that was better for me. I didn't have to wade through a lot of extraneous stuff.

The first memo book started off with a page marked 1938 and a list of dates, moon phases, and instructions on what to plant on each day: May 2, waxing crescent, put in leafy vegetables and flowers that produce above the ground—lettuce, sweet corn, cucumbers, and spinach. May 7 will be first quarter. Put in all vegetables with inside seeds—tomatoes, beans, peas, peppers, squash, and pumpkins.

I flipped through all three tablets quickly and found a name inscribed on the inside front cover of the third, Sadie Harper. The handwriting was the same throughout the three tablets so I decided it was safe to assume all three belonged to Sadie.

Interesting though her plans for moon planting might have been, they weren't helping me get to what I wanted to know. I flipped through the little notebooks again, rapidly scanning each page. I stopped when I came to this terse entry:
Eugenia was delivered of a baby daughter yesterday. The child lives but Eugenia did not survive her ordeal. May she rest in the Lord's peace. A sad and joyous day.