Picture Them Dead (4 page)

In reality, a limited number of glass caskets were ever made, which begged the question of how one ended up in a North Carolina backyard. And, moreover, who was the occupant?

I'd also found out a few things about the land River Jeffers now owned. He'd bought it from a woman named Charlotte Walker, who, as far as I could tell, was still alive. Though if the info I had was up-to-date, she'd be ninety-seven years old. I put a big question mark by her name. I gulped when I saw how much River had paid for the place.

I heard the front door open, and Winston called out from the front hall, “Sophreena, Esme, y'all here?”

“I'm in the workroom,” I shouted back, reluctantly tearing my eyes from the screen when he appeared in the doorway. He held up something rectangular, wrapped in foil. “Lemon-zucchini bread,” he said, setting it on the table outside the workroom. We have an absolute no food or drink policy in the workroom, since this is where we sort, examine, and scan our clients' precious and often fragile family archives.

“You're baking? I thought you'd be too busy with wedding activities.”

“Got a little case of nerves, I guess. Baking helps.”

“What are you nervous about? You're not getting cold feet, are you?”

“No, no,” Winston said, waving a lanky hand. “Not about marrying Marydale anyhow.” He pointed to a chair and raised his eyebrows. I motioned for him to sit.

“I'm a little jittery about how the kids will all get along and how they'll all feel about it. I mean, they know one another and they're sort of casual friends already, but this'll be different. We'll all be family now. What if they don't cotton to one another?”

The kids were Dee and Brody, Marydale's grown children and the closest people I had to siblings. Then there were Winston's two grown sons in their early 40s, Forest and Jacob, their wives, and an assortment of grandchildren. My first instinct was to reassure him that they would all be one big happy family the minute they spoke the I-dos, but Winston has an excellent poppy­cock meter, so I didn't try to sell that empty promise.

“They may be a little slow to warm up at first, but Dee and Brody are happy about their mother finding loving companionship. I know that because both of them have told me so. Which isn't to say they weren't taken by surprise. We all were and it takes a little getting used to. Plus, they're accustomed to having their mother all to themselves, even if it is long distance. Be patient.”

Winston nodded. “My kids were caught unawares, too. Especially since it had been such a short time after the divorce. I didn't like to talk to them about my relationship with their mother. I didn't want to dishonor her by talking her down. She's their mother, after all. But I suppose it was obvious to anybody with eyes that we hadn't been happy for years.”

I pursed my lips. Winston's ex-wife, Patsy, was one of the most disagreeable people I had ever met. But I hadn't known her long. Maybe she'd been different back when Winston met and married her. And she was, as he said, the mother of his children, though she was no candidate for Mother of the Year, as far as I could see. I decided to deflect.

“You and Marydale will be very happy together, so your kids will be happy for you and with you. We all will,” I said.

A slow smile spread across Winston's handsome face. He was tanned from coaching his grandson's ­T-ball team, and even more fit now that Marydale was orchestrating his diet and exercise. “You're right,” he said, “it'll all work out. But, anyhow, the main reason I came by was to ask your opinion about something.” He reached into the pocket of his powder-blue windbreaker for a gift box. “I got this for Marydale as a wedding present, but now I'm having second thoughts about whether she'll like it. Sort of relating to what we were just talking about. Maybe it's too soon. Tell me what you think.”

I lifted off the top of the box to find a silver locket on a long silver chain nestled in a bed of tissue paper. I picked it up and admired the stylized engraved tree on the front.

“I was thinking of that as a family tree, you know,” Winston said. “If I hadn't taken that class of yours and if we hadn't gone on with our family history club, I would have never gotten to know Marydale like I do now. We'd have stayed ‘Howdy' friends is all. So that part's about us. Now open it up.”

The locket was thick and had a small lever clasp on the side, and when I pushed the release, two hinged disks sprang out. I saw that it accommodated four photos instead of the usual two. Winston had inserted a photo of himself and one of Marydale into the central circles and family pictures with their respective kids and grandkids into the other two. I closed the locket and looked at the inscription on the back:
Winston and Marydale, we become family
, along with the wedding date.

“She'll love it,” I said, placing it carefully back into the tissue. “It's perfect.”

Winston beamed. “Good, then.” He stowed the box away and pointed toward the computer. “You were in the middle of something. I ought to get on my way.”

I told him what I'd been working on. “I've probably got about all I'm gonna get today anyhow. You don't happen to know a woman named Charlotte Walker, do you? That's who River bought his place from.”

“I know of her,” Winston said. “But I don't know her personally.”

“You're using the present tense. Does that mean she's still alive?”

“Last I heard she was,” Winston said. “She was a friend of my mother's, or leastwise an acquaintance. I'm not sure Miss Lottie had a whole lot of friends. She kept pretty much to herself. I believe somebody told me she was in that nursing home over in Hillsborough. Cottonwood, it's called.”

“Yes, I know it. It's a nice facility. Was she married?” I grabbed a notebook and pen and started taking notes.

“Yes,” Winston said. “Though I never knew her husband and don't recollect his given name. He died a long time ago. If I'm remembering right, she inherited the place, so she must have been a Harper. When I was young, that place seemed like it was way out in the country. The Harpers owned more land then and the place was a working farm, but it got cut up and sold off over the years. That bit River bought was the original home place.”

“Got any candidates in mind for who might be in that glass casket?” I asked.

“No idea in the world,” Winston said, shaking his head. “Everybody's calling him ‘The Forgotten Man' now.”

“Oh, I know,” I said, and told him about Claire Calvert's call to Esme. “She's gone over there to keep her company and make sure the vigil folks don't bother her.”

“Like Claire doesn't have enough to worry about,” Winston said, shaking his head again. “I mean, the idea of the vigil is nice, I guess, but a little strange. It's struck a chord with people. Everybody likes to think they'll be remembered once they're gone.”

I thought of the hundreds of ancestors I'd researched for clients over the years and how so many of them were revered. And even how some were despised. Either way, they were remembered. “It's a human thing,” I said with a sigh. “Let's just hope someone remembers him as who he was or else he's going to end up being remembered for having been forgotten.”

four

Monday morning dawned misty and foggy following a rain shower that swept through in the wee hours of the morning. My first thought was of the grave, covered only with a tarp, but then I remembered River saying they'd tented it when they posted his property.

Esme and I were up early, we'd eaten our breakfast on the run, and by 8:00 a.m., we were ready to make a quick stop by River's place to take a few pictures and get a feel for the property's configuration before heading to the courthouse.

On the drive over I admired how fresh and dewy everything looked, but I hoped the spring storms were done for a while. Marydale and Winston had planned for an outdoor wedding in the gardens at High Ground, the big estate on Crescent Hill that one of our former clients had left to the town. They'd have to move it inside if the weather turned foul. I told Esme about the wedding gift Winston had chosen for Marydale.

“Win is just the dearest man,” Esme said. “Those two deserve every bit of happiness this world can offer. They're so good together.”

“You and Denny ain't half-bad either, Esme,” I said. “What's holding you two up from a march to the altar?”

“We're fine just as we are,” Esme said, pulling her sunglasses from the top of her head and practically slamming them onto her face. “I've told you before, I'm never going to marry again. I tied myself to a man once in my life and it was nothing but heartbreak. I like Denton Carlson, but I'm not looking for a husband.”

“Like him?” I said. “I think it's a little more than that, Esme.”

“Okay, all right,” Esme said, her voice singsongy. “You want me to say it? I do love the man. But he surely wouldn't love me if he knew about my gift. It would all be over. I like things just as they are.”

“I don't suppose you've heard anything from the Forgotten Man, have you?” I asked in a teasing tone.

“Not a peep, Sophreena,” Esme said sharply. “I wish I could choose who comes to me, but you know full well it doesn't work that way.”

I ignored the jibe. “Well, anyhow,” I said, “I don't think you give Denny enough credit. He's a special guy.”

“He is,” Esme said with a sigh. “But he wouldn't understand this, Sophreena. He's a cop—he's trained to be logical and analytical. Roland was a musician and had an artist's outlook on life, so I thought he'd be open. But once he knew, he never looked at me the same way again. He started calling me Fruitcake as an endearment. He thought that was hilarious.”

I tried to hide my surprise. Despite how close we were, Esme had never told me much about her short marriage. I knew he was a jazz musician and that she'd married him despite her parents' disapproval. And I knew the marriage had gone sour by the time he died in an auto crash, but that was about it.

“How was Claire last night?” I asked, changing the subject to see if I couldn't cajole Esme into a better mood.

“She was upset when I got there, but we reached River finally and told him what was going on and he reassured her. She was fine after that. I stayed on awhile anyway, just to visit. I found out the woman who sold River the property donated a big chunk of money to the Literacy Council in Claire's name.”

“In Claire's name? That's cool.”

“Cool, but surprising,” Esme said. “They were neighbors, but Claire didn't know the woman well at all. I take it she was kind of a recluse.”

“I think she's still alive,” I said, and repeated what Winston had told me. “She'd be ninety-seven.”

“We need to talk to her,” Esme said. “The sooner the better.”

“Yeah, I called the nursing home this morning, but they wouldn't even confirm she was a resident. Privacy issues. I think we should take a ride out there this afternoon.”

Esme pulled onto the meandering gravel driveway that led to River's house, but only got a few yards before she came to police tape strung across the drive. She stopped the car and shut off the engine with a sigh. “I sure wish Denny would get home.”

“Personal or professional wish?” I asked.

“Both. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I believe Jennifer needs him right now. She's gotten herself in a dither. I mean, it's an aggravation, but you don't see River getting het up over everything and it's his home.” We opened our doors and climbed out. Stooping under the tape, we began to walk up the drive.

“Yeah,” I said. “Jennifer should take a page from her dad, he's so chill.”

Just then we heard loud, angry shouting. Quickening our steps, we saw River stalking across the yard from the direction of his house, yelling at the top of his lungs and gesticulating. “Enough's enough! I've had it. Get the hell out of here. Clear out, now!”

I looked to where River's attention was focused and saw a young woman lying on the dirt berm of the grave. The tarp had been partially pulled back and her white arm stretched into the hole.

Esme and I reached the grave just as River did. “This is getting ridiculous,” he said, pointing to the girl, whose long blond hair hid her face. “Now they're sleeping here?”

He reached down to shake the girl's shoulder. “You can't be here, miss. Wake up. Didn't you see this is taped off? You need to get out of here, right now!”

She didn't move, so River shook her again, a little harder this time. “Do you hear me? Are you stoned or something?”

Some of the dirt began to slide into the hole and the girl's head lolled to one side, half dangling into the grave. The left side of her head had been bashed in and there was a puddle of blood beneath her.

I don't know how long we stayed there, frozen, staring. It could have been a minute, it could just as easily have been an hour.

It's strange the things that go through your head when you've seen something that rattles your brain. I felt as if I were completely detached from normal human feelings, and any shame I might ordinarily have about judging her appearance was completely shut down as I took in every detail. I deduced she was a bottle blond, although it was hard to be sure if her roots were showing or if the blood had seeped into the hairline around her scalp. She had a small yellow rose tattoo on her shoulder that was stretched and distorted. Her hands were dirty, and her nails, which looked like they'd once been nicely manicured, were broken and ragged. She had on loose runner shorts and a tank top, with a matching jacket tied around her waist. I'd have guessed she'd been out for a run had it not been for her blinged-out flip-flops. I'd put her at late twenties, maybe early thirties. She was slender and pretty. I'd never seen her before, I was certain of that. I looked around for a purse or a bag, scanned her clothing for pockets, but didn't see any. She appeared to have gotten soaked at one time, and her clothes still looked damp. I had half an inkling that detail might be important, but couldn't quite string together why.

“I'd better call Jenny,” River said at last. “Y'all try to back out in your own footprints; even I know that much about crime scenes.” He looked behind him and stepped back into his own boot impressions and Esme and I attempted the same maneuver, though Esme had a harder time of it since she had on her stupid high heels again, and when she stepped into the impressions she'd already made, she kept sinking and almost falling over.

Once we were a fair distance away, the spell seemed to be broken and we all looked at one another, coming back to our senses.

“Do you know her?” River asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“Me either. Had you seen her before?” Esme asked, the question directed at River. “Is she one of the people who came out to leave a tribute?”

“No idea,” he said. “So many people were here in the last two days and I didn't see half of them, they came after dark. Could be she was one of them, but I don't recognize her.” He fished his phone from his pocket and gave a quick nod in our direction. “ 'Scuse me for a second while I make this call to report a dead person on my property. Again.”