Picture Them Dead (12 page)

“No indeed, you're just a regular warrior princess, aren't you, Sophreena?” This was said in a tone that was decidedly not teasing; and as if I needed further evidence that she was ticked off about something, she lengthened her stride and poured on the speed, leaving me panting and sweating to keep up with her.

This was really getting old.

*   *   *

It wasn't as easy as I might have hoped, but after an hour going through more boxes from River's house and another frustrating hour of filling out request forms and perusing records at the courthouse, I finally had the death certificate for Samuel Wright. Immediately the phrase “death by misadventure” caught my eye. I'd never seen that phrase on a document, but I knew I'd run across it in school. If I remembered correctly, it meant a death that is caused by another person, but without intention, malice, or premeditation and not liable to criminal charges.

There was no information on where or how the body was interred, but a bashed-in skull certainly qualified as misadventure in my book.

We had to rush to make lunch. Cleve Jemson was pushing ninety years old and was a born raconteur. He'd driven himself to our luncheon and was planning to go fishing when we were done. As Margaret had claimed, he had a phenomenal memory. “Can't remember where I put the car keys, the remote control, but I remember things that happened years ago like I was seeing it on a movie screen,” he said with a chuckle.

“I had a good ear as a kid. Could always tell when the grown-up folks were talking about things they didn't want the young ones to hear. 'Course, that's when I listened hardest. Mind you, lots of this stuff happened long before my time. I only know the stories the old folks told.”

“Margaret tells me you remember some things about the Harper family that might relate to the body found on the property,” I prompted.

Cleve nodded. “Well, I'm short on facts, but I know there was some mystery about Samuel Wright's death. Something not to be spoken about but in whispers among a chosen few. Folks referred to that ‘terrible night' at the Harper place. I eventually pieced together the terrible thing was Miss Sadie's brother dying, and it wasn't just that he died, but that it happened in some gruesome way. I don't know if it was a suicide or an accident or what. There was something not right about the man. I got that by the way they talked about him. And also, I remember talk about how the sheriff at the time was a friend of the family and took care of everything. People around did everything but canonize him after that 'cause everybody thought so highly of the Harpers.

“When the brother died they laid him out at home, real private like, which wasn't uncommon for that day and time, but I had the feeling this wasn't just private, but secretive. And there was lots of concern about Miss Sadie. I don't know if she was hurt or sick or what, but she was an object of both pity and awe. That went on for years after her brother died. For a long time I thought her name was Poor Sadie, since that's what people always said when her name came up.”

There was a ruckus at a table across the restaurant and I looked over to see Nash Simpson with three other men. His line crew, I guessed by the way they were dressed. Nash was talking and his face was florid. “Paid his debt? He hasn't even made a down payment. What do you know about it anyhow, Stanton? We need to be rid of that whole family. Quentin and his no-count nephew. He's a jailbird, too, you know. Car thief. I say we invite 'em both to clear out.”

This pronouncement was met with shrugs from the other men. This was likely a rant they'd heard before. They hunkered over their plates and dug into their food.

“Don't pay him any mind,” Cleve said. “Nash is trying to get folks all riled up about Quentin being back from the slammer, but I doubt he'll get any takers. Tragic what happened to Claire, but she's forgiven him, and something about that case just wasn't right from the get-go.”

“Is he talking about Gavin Taylor?” I asked.

“Yeah, he's Quentin's sister's boy,” Cleve said. “He was a good boy, but Lord, lately he's caused his mama all kinds of grief. Sometimes he don't have the sense God gave a billy goat.”

twelve

“Well, we don't have any more facts than we had before, but we can call it anecdotal evidence, eh?” I said as Esme gunned out of the parking lot.

“I'm getting some anecdotes, too,” Esme said. “From across the divide. I feel like I've been hit in the head with a hammer. I can tell you one thing, whatever happened at the old Harper place, it unfolded right on that spot where River said the well used to be.”

“Okay, so let's go over what we've got. The man, let's call him Samuel, just for the sake of argument, didn't die of drowning. So how does the well factor in? Unless someone bashed in his head after he was already dead, which is, I guess, a possibility.”

“No, not drowning,” Esme said, frowning in concentration. “There was something round and shiny, and horrible loud noises. Lots of shouting.”

“Okay, so probably something violent. You know, it's weird that we haven't found anything about his death in the newspaper archives, not even an obituary.”

“There's a lot weird about this one. All I can tell you is whatever happened, it happened right on that spot,” Esme said firmly.

“Any ideas as to the, uh, messenger?” I asked.

Esme sighed. “A woman, as it almost always is. I guess men aren't big communicators even in the hereafter. But I don't know who she is and I don't even know how I know it's a woman. I'm just getting images this time, and some sounds. They only come in little flashes. It's so frustrating.” She gripped the wheel tight.

My cell phone chirped and I saw it was Dee.

“Strange request,” she said. “Laney called and she's wondering if you could get permission from River for her to come visit the place where Sherry Burton died. She says to tell him it's not morbid curiosity, but she knew Sherry and since she's heard there's no memorial planned, she'd like to pay her respects.”

“Okay, a little weird,” I said, turning the idea over in my mind. “When does she want to do this?”

“Late this afternoon if you can set it up,” Dee said. “Then could you go shopping with me? I've got to get some shoes for the wedding. I don't have anything but outdoor boots, athletic shoes, and city walkers. I need big-girl dress-up shoes.”

I hesitated. What if Jack called and wanted to do something later? Then I gave myself a mental slap. I'd always hated women who would dump a friend for a guy and here I was contemplating doing it already, this early in the still-green relationship. “I'll call River,” I said. “If he says it's okay, we can meet around five; there's still plenty of light then, and you and I can hit the mall afterward.”

“You're getting chummy with Laney Easton,” Esme said after I gave her the scoop. “You know people are saying she may be our next mayor. Maybe you can resurrect that idea of starting up a heritage center now that you seem to be in with the powers that be.”

It was a pipe dream and I knew it, but I hadn't been able to let go of the idea of starting a nonprofit that would provide a space and resources for people to learn how to trace their family histories. I'd floated the idea several times to various town officials and everyone I'd talked to was very enthusiastic about the idea, but not so much into the making it a reality part. And, as our business has gotten more successful, gods be praised, I've had less time and energy to pursue it.

“Maybe I'll mention it to her,” I said. “I'm sure she'll get right on it.”

“I'm surprised she can peel herself off James Rowan long enough to do anything with you. She's got a bad case of man-worship when it comes to that guy. I don't see it myself, but she seems to think he's God on high,” Esme said.

“So you don't think a successful, handsome, well-bred, well-educated attorney who dresses like he stepped out of
GQ
and has a lot of very white teeth is a good catch?”

“I'm not judging,” Esme said in a tone that let me know she was definitely judging, “but he's nearly two decades older than she is. And he didn't have any interest in her until she got on the town council. Convenient, since he's a politician. And lastly, he wears a pinkie ring, for jiminy's sake. I don't trust a man who wears a pinkie ring. I think she's setting herself up for heartbreak.”

“I hope not,” I said, and found that I meant it more than I would've thought. I always liked Laney. She could be thoughtless, and she did have a sense of entitlement like a lot of rich kids do, but she was so guileless about it you had to forgive her. And I was certain she genuinely cared about the town.

“I can't believe she wants to do a remembrance where Sherry Burton was murdered,” Esme said. “I can tell you now, that's one sight I'd just as soon forget.”

*   *   *

Esme and I spent the next two hours going through the rest of the boxes we'd brought from River's attic. She sorted while I worked on the time line we'd be using to construct the heritage book for River.

This book would be the same as the family heritage scrapbooks we offer in our deluxe services, except it would feature the land rather than the family tree. River wanted to know about the people who'd lived on the land, but he was also interested in what had been grown there, how the landscape may have changed over the years, and other land usage issues. Plus, I suspected he might want to assure himself that bodies weren't going to start popping up every time he dug a hole.

Land records are not my forte. Acres and hectors, plots and plats, land boundaries and shifting creeks and rivers, it all makes me cross-eyed after awhile. Which was why walking River's land with him had been helpful. Looking at the real thing helped bring the dry descriptions to life.

Esme was humming softly and I realized this was the first time we'd worked so companionably in a long while.

“This is nice,” I said.

“Hmm,” Esme said, which could have been interpreted in a dozen ways.

“I've missed it. We haven't worked much together on this project,” I added, hoping she was ready to talk about what was bugging her.

“We don't have to do every single thing together, Sophreena,” she said. “It's fine.”

Okay, so she wasn't ready. Leave it alone, I warned myself. And for once I heeded my own cautions.

I looked quickly through the stack of info I'd printed off from Ginger Holderman. My eye landed on a point of interest and I flipped through the papers until I came to the one with the contact info she'd sent. I punched in her number, expecting to leave a message, but she picked up.

“I see you have your great-grandfather's occupation listed as mortician. What can you tell me about that?” I asked, purposefully leaving the question open.

“Creepy, isn't it?” Ginger asked. “I mean, that's not exactly like finding out you're descended from royalty or something, right? Do you think it's wrong to be sort of ashamed of your family tree? That's blasphemy, right? I mean, I know there are all these cultures where they worship their ancestors and all that, but it just seems a lot of mine make me cringe.”

I laughed. “Mine, too. But you know, when you think about it, maybe if they'd made different choices, it would have altered everything and they would have ended up in a different place or gone to a different school or never met their spouses and had children, in which case you wouldn't exist.”

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “I never thought of it that way. Anyhow, you asked about Virgil. He was born on a farm just outside Durham and grew up in North Carolina, moving from place to place, until he fetched up over in Hillsborough as a young man with big plans. He got involved in a scheme that went bad and moved to Baltimore to get away from his creditors. That's where he went to school to learn his trade. Geez, I'm getting the willies just thinking about what that curriculum must have been like.”

“Do you know if he ever had anything to do with selling funeral supplies?”

“Yeah, it was something to do with that enterprise that got him in hot water. He was selling certificates for the Modern American Burial Company. I've got a copy of one of them. They're beautifully engraved. Honestly, they look like money. They sold some kind of special burial vault or something.”

“Caskets,” I said. “Caskets made from glass.”

“You mean like Sleeping Beauty?” she asked.

“Not exactly.” I shivered, having my own case of the willies. I described the caskets and asked if she had any other information about Virgil's involvement with the company.

“Don't think so, but I'll look through the stuff and if I find anything I'll send it along. Then, you know what? I think I'll lay off the genealogy for a while. I'm an aroma­therapist, for God's sake. I can't be thinking about death and embalming or I'll ruin my nose.”

“Probably best to take a break,” I agreed.

I summarized the call for Esme. “And that adds another few ounces to the weight of our evidence. We still don't know the hows and whys, but I think we can safely assume Virgil Wright supplied that glass coffin and that it's his brother inside it.”

Esme considered, then nodded. “What was that at the end about taking a break?”

“Oh,” I laughed, “she's disappointed in her ancestors for failing to provide a more admirable pedigree.”

“Amen, sister,” Esme said. “I wish to all that's holy whoever my forebearer was who passed on this so-called gift had skipped that bequest.”

“But then you wouldn't be you, Esme. And you do good things with your gift.”

“At a cost,” Esme said. “At a dear cost.” After a moment she went back to unloading the last box we'd brought from River's house. “What do you suppose this is all about?” she asked, lifting a cloth-wrapped bundle out of the dusty cardboard box.

She held it out as if it might have a live badger inside and I followed as she carried it to the card table we keep set up in the corner, covered with bath mats and curtained off from the rest of the room to contain dust.

The bundle was about the size of a bread box and wrapped in a coarse linen cloth tied several times around with tobacco twine. I instinctively reached out and felt the sides. “Feels like books, maybe.”

I turned it over carefully and switched on the light above the table. On the bottom someone had written on the cloth with a pencil, the letters now faded almost completely. I grabbed a magnifying glass and stooped to read, squinting to help fill in the gaps in the letters.
For Lottie, someday.

I stood up, engaging myself in a spirited ethics debate. I'm happy to poke around in the possessions of deceased people. But Lottie Walker was still alive, and this was clearly meant for her. Had she ever seen it? Should I get her permission to open it?

“River bought the place lock, stock, and barrel, remember?” Esme said as if reading my mind. “This is his property now and he wants us to go through it. So let's open 'er up.”

I allowed myself to be convinced, ethics trumped by curiosity. But I grabbed my camera first and took pictures of the bundle as we'd found it before we cut the string. Inside there was a photo album, some stacks of letters tied with the requisite pink ribbons, and three more of the small memo books I'd seen before among Sadie Harper's things. Esme set in immediately to wipe things off with antistatic cloths, but I went straight for the stacks of letters, flipping through them like a deck of cards to look at the return addresses. This sent dust motes dancing into the stream of light from the lamp. Esme said a swear word in French and I felt ridiculously happy to hear it. She sounded more like herself than she had in days.

The letters were from an Inez Wright. I went to the table and flipped through the things Ginger Holderman had sent, locating the woman on the Wright family chart. She was Virgil Wright's wife. She and her sister-in-law, Sadie Wright Harper, had apparently kept up a correspondence over many years.

Esme opened the photo album to the first page and turned it to show me the picture of a snaggletoothed boy of around six, with the name Samuel Lemar Wright written underneath in irregular block letters. Esme quickly flipped through more pages. There were images of a young Samuel in a baseball uniform, school photos, a few snapshots of Samuel and a young woman, several of Samuel in uniform, then a wedding photo of Samuel and Eugenia, labeled in handwriting full of flourishes. Then there were a few snapshots of Samuel and a baby, who grew into a toddler through the series of shots.

We were interrupted by the doorbell, which meant it wasn't one of the club or Dee. They all held with the old custom of “helloing the house” by letting themselves in the front door while calling out to find out where we were.

Esme went to answer and came back a few minutes later with Claire wheeling in behind her. “I don't mean to interrupt your work,” she said, “but I thought I'd swing by on my way home and see if you had a few minutes to talk.” She glanced around the tables of Harper family mementoes and documents. “Well, as Coco would say, ‘Crikey!' I never realized you two had such an operation going here.”

“People accumulate many things over a lifetime,” I said, “and we love people with pack-rat mentalities. We find out a lot by plowing through stuff like this.”

“Well, I'll let you work; we can get together another time,” Claire said, backing her chair toward the door. “I should have called.”

“No,” Esme and I said in unison, Esme hitting a low note and me the high.

While Esme went in to fix us tea and serve up the zucchini bread Winston had baked for us, I guided Claire into the family room. I cleared off the coffee table, tossing magazines, notebooks, pens, and stray receipts onto the easy chair by the window. I really needed to tidy up in here. I hadn't been carrying my half of the housecleaning chores lately. Maybe that's what had Esme so cross.

“At the risk of being the world's worst hostess,” I said as Esme set the tray on the coffee table, “could we start right off with the story, Claire? I'm supposed to meet some people at five and I'm dying to hear this.”