Picture Them Dead (2 page)

Jennifer walked back with a guy who looked all of twelve. He was red-haired and freckled and so slight he was having difficulty with his heavy case of supplies. When he got to the edge of the grave he looked down and gushed, “Wow, way cool!”

“This is Josh,” Jennifer said with barely disguised disdain. “He's interning with the medical examiner's office.”

“They sent a flunky,” Esme whispered in my ear. “Guess Jennifer doesn't have much juice.”

I shushed her, but she had a point.

“It's not cool,” River said gently, “it's disturbing.”

“Oh, sure,” Josh said. “I just meant I never saw a glass coffin before. I'm supposed to take some photos and measurements.”

“It's not a coffin,” I said, hardly aware I was speaking. “A coffin has six or eight sides and is wider at the top, shaped more like a body. A casket is a rectangular box. This is a casket.”

“Interesting,” River said. “But whatever he's housed in, are you going to arrange to have this—him,” River corrected, “disinterred and moved someplace?”

“Don't know if we can,” Josh said. “There're all these burial laws and stuff. Somebody way above my pay grade's looking into all that.”

“And in the meantime,” Jennifer said sharply, “what's my father supposed to do?”

“Nothing.” Josh shrugged. “We're not supposed to touch anything or do any more damage. I'll cover the hole with a tarp when I'm done, and then you wait for the big enchiladas to get in touch.” He set his case on the ground and squatted to release the latches. “Now, if y'all would step back, I'll get to work.”

“I'm gonna make some more calls,” Jennifer said, whipping her cell phone from her pocket. “I can't believe they sent Opie,” she muttered as she walked away.

River accompanied us back to our car and we chatted for a few more minutes. I told him we'd do a little investigating and I'd let him know tomorrow if we could be of any help. We talked fees and I was surprised when he didn't blink. Esme and I don't come cheap. But we also don't take on jobs where we can't provide any value. Hard as it is for me to accept, there are some things that are simply lost in the fog of history.

As we drove home, Esme and I discussed whether to take on the job. “We don't have anything pressing right now,” I said. “And, of course, I'm curious about that glass casket. But I'd also like to help River if we can. I like him.”

“Me, too,” Esme said. “I can't believe that man is Jennifer's father; they are nothing alike. Sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree.”

“Maybe there was wind the day the Jennifer apple fell,” I said with a smile.

Esme harrumphed. “Must've been gale force.”

two

Esme and I were lingering over our breakfast while reading the Sunday paper. This doesn't take nearly as long as it used to, since the newspaper's getting thinner each week, but we still savor the ritual. I especially appreciated this moment of quiet togetherness since we've been getting on each other's nerves for the last month or so.

Esme has lived in the mother-in-law suite over my garage for years now. My father built the suite with the intention of moving his mother here from Missouri to live with us. But Grandma McClure died suddenly before it was finished. Later the space had become my mother's art studio. Since my mother's death, it had served as a seldom-used guest room. When Esme had moved here from Louisiana to join me in my genealogical services business, she moved in, temporarily, while she looked for a place. We soon found the arrangement suited both of us and she stayed on.

Our friendship has grown and deepened over the years and now she's the closest thing I have to family. We get along splendidly, most of the time. But it's ­really no wonder we have friction occasionally, just like people do in blood families. First off, there's the generation gap. I'm mid-thirties and Esme's mid-fifties. Then there's the work process: I tend to be meticulous in my research habits, while Esme is, shall we say, rather casual with her interpretations, or at least she had been in the beginning. And finally, there's our personal style. I'm small in stature and dress plainly and practically. Esme's a clotheshorse, using her considerable body as a canvas. And she's got such a thing for shoes, she really should be in a support group.

And if all those differences weren't enough, we've got a complicated personal dynamic. She seems to think she has the right to mother me, which is a mixed blessing. I love it when I need mothering, but it chafes when her advice is contrary to what I want to hear. We've always fussed and bickered, but in a teasing way. Lately there's been an edge to it, at least coming from Esme.

“You gonna call River to tell him we'll look into his mystery man or do you want me to?” she asked.

“I'll call him,” I said. “I'm thinking we should offer him a set number of hours for a flat fee. I have a feeling it may be a financial hardship for him.”

“Fine by me,” Esme said, reaching for the arts and entertainment section. “Like I said, I like the man and I have a hunch we'd be researching this whether we got paid or not. I know how you get when you get a bee in your bonnet. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it makes you come alive.”

“True,” I said, “but you can't tell me you're not curious, too. Maybe we can even get the others involved.”

“Oh, you can bet they'll jump on this. What better secret could you present to a genealogy club than an unknown fella buried in an unmarked grave in a glass coffin”—she held up a hand—“I mean casket. They'll pounce on this like a lion after an antelope—unless it's overshadowed by all the wedding hoopla. Winston and Marydale tie the knot in less than two weeks.”

Winston and Marydale were the senior members of our close-knit club of family history buffs. Marydale was another mother figure in my life. She'd promised my dying mother she'd look after me and she'd taken that pledge seriously. I'd been in high school when my mom passed and I honestly don't know how I would have gotten through the following few years without Marydale. My dad was great, but he was doing his own grieving, and sometimes I just needed a woman's counsel.

Marydale had been a widow for a long time and Winston had become single a couple of years ago when his shrew of a wife left him, to the disappointment of no one who knew and loved Winston.

All of us had been blindsided when Marydale and Winston announced—confessed, really—that their longtime friendship had taken a romantic turn. And since both were long passed being dewy-eyed youths, they'd been disinclined toward a lengthy engagement. Wedding plans had commenced immediately.

I was thrilled for them, but I was also a tiny bit jealous. I've recently had an epiphany about my own feelings for Jack Ford, another member of our group. But I'm not sure he feels the same and I haven't been able to get up the courage to tell him how I feel. I'd been collecting signs for months now, signals that he considers me more than a friend, but there hadn't been enough to make me risk making a total fool of myself by declaring my feelings. I'm in limbo. I don't like limbo.

The phone rang and I got up to answer it, which I instantly regretted. Jennifer Jeffers was on the line and I could practically feel the heat coming through the handset. “Did you two go running your mouths about what happened out at Dad's place?” she asked, skipping “good morning,” “how are you,” and “do you have a minute” to get right to the accusations.

“No,” I said patiently, drawing out the word. “We did not go running our mouths, bumping our gums, or prattling on either. We don't bandy about our clients' business, Jennifer.”

“So Dad's a client. You've agreed, then? I hope you're not planning to rob him blind.”

“Jennifer,” I said, my patience circling the drain, “we had decided we'd work with your dad on this, but after this phone call, we might reconsider. What's going on?”

“I'm sorry,” Jennifer said, the sharpness in her tone belying the words. “No, really, I am sorry,” she said with a long sigh. “Somehow word has gotten out and people are swarming Dad's place, gawking. A few have left flowers by the grave.”

“Isn't the area cordoned off? I thought Josh was securing it against the weather when we left yesterday.”

“He did,” Jennifer said, “but it's not like he posted an armed guard.”

She loaded the last with enough sarcasm to make the phone heavy in my hand. I mentally auditioned several snappy comebacks, but decided to simply wait her out.

“Dad caught a couple of teenagers trying to peel back the tarps this morning. He ran them off, but people just keep coming. He can't be expected to keep guard and I'm on duty today since Denny's out of town.”

“Maybe he could post some No Trespassing signs,” I suggested.

Jennifer huffed. “Yeah, that'll take care of it, Soph­reena,” she said. “Listen, Dad really wants you involved in this and that's his call, but just do whatever it is you do as quick as you can, then step back, okay?”

I pondered an appropriate reply, but “up your nose with a rubber hose” didn't sound professional, and anyhow Jennifer had already hung up, leaving me listening to the drone of the dial tone.

I turned to see Esme shaking her head and tsking. “I wish I knew what in this world we do to get that girl's feathers ruffled all the time. I used to think she was just a bitter person, but I've asked around. She's not like this with everybody, mostly just us. And I tell you, I've had about enough of it.”

I waved a hand dismissively, though I'd been thinking the same thing myself. While she wasn't universally liked, Jennifer had good friends who were loyal to her. And Denny thought well of her, too. Esme and I were both good people. Why didn't she like us?

A yoo-hoo came from the front hall and Marydale and Winston soon appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Too late,” Winston said, glancing at our plates. “I brought you apple fritters for breakfast, Sophreena, but we got a late start this morning. Marydale's been on the phone with her kids and me with mine trying to line up all our ducks for gettin'-hitched day. I'm beginning to think we should have just run off and tied the knot.”

“Nonsense,” Marydale said. “I want all our kids and grandkids there and all our friends, too. You don't want to share our happy day?”

“I do,” Winston said, laughing. “And see how easy those two words come off my tongue? I'm just ready to say 'em and make it official, that's all.”

Winston is a retired baker who can't seem to kick the habit and he's always bringing us fresh baked goodies. The aroma of those apple fritters was making me salivate and I quickly abandoned my half-eaten bowl of oatmeal.

“I hear you've been holding out on us,” Marydale said, sliding into the extra kitchen chair.

“About?” Esme said.

“The glass coffin!” Marydale said. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“How did you hear about that already?” Esme asked.

“Word's all over town,” Winston said, whipping out the kitchen stepladder we keep by the refrigerator to serve as his perch.

I heard the front door open again and knew instantly who'd be joining us. Colette Newsome, Coco to us, was a walking wind chime; the jangle of her many bracelets, anklets, and necklaces announced her arrival.

“Seriously, a glass coffin?” she said as she swept through the kitchen doorway, her gauzy skirt flaring as she went straight for the coffeemaker.

“Told you it was all over town,” Winston said.

“I got three calls this morning,” Coco said. “People have found out you two are on the job and since everybody knows we're friends, they thought I'd have the scoop, which I am aggrieved to say I did not,” she added as she rummaged through the cupboard for her favorite coffee mug. “Not that I'd go gabbing about it if I did, but I like to be in the loop.”

“There's no loop,” I protested. “This all just came up yesterday. We hadn't even decided to take the job until a few minutes ago.”

“Well, you know Morningside,” Coco said. “We had little birds tweeting the trending news long before Twitter. Now dish.”

Esme and I are big on confidentiality, but we'd long ago granted this group the highest clearance. We share freely with them and trust it will be kept in confidence. I gave them the short version of what we'd seen at River Jeffers' place.

“Ooh, creepy,” Coco said. “No wonder everybody's imaginations are fired up.”

“When you say everybody,” I mused, “just how far has this gone?”

“People are already calling him the Forgotten Man,” Coco said. “Emily Clemmons is trying to organize a community candlelight vigil for him at the graveside.”

“Good Lord, no wonder Jennifer had her hair on fire this morning. River's going to have people traipsing all over his place,” Esme said.

“River can handle it,” Coco said. “He's a really laid-back guy.”

“You know him?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, we're buddies,” Coco said. “We both took a class last spring from this old dude over in Carrboro on foraging for medicinal and nutritional plants. We've been foraging together since the weather's opened up. He's a sweetheart.”

“I know him, too,” Winston said. “We're in a Vietnam vets outfit together. But I wouldn't say he's laid-back, Coco. I'd say he just doesn't let things show.”

“He and I went to grade school together,” Marydale said. “His parents died when we were in fifth grade and he went to California to live with an aunt and uncle. He moved back here when Jennifer was in middle school. He'd lost his wife and apparently Jennifer was getting wild and he wanted her in a different environment.”

“So you're going to help him find out who was in that coffin?” Coco asked.

“Yes, we'll dig around, no pun intended,” I said. “There have to be records somewhere; this should be an easy one.”

Famous last words.