Death in Reel Time (14 page)

“I didn't hear the blender,” I said. “No smoothie this morning?”

“I was waiting for you to get up,” she said, heaving a long sigh. “Celestine is applying the whip now, urging me on to read her diaries.” She gestured to a plain, lined tablet of the sort used in schoolrooms back in the day.

“I'm sorry, Esme,” I said, rubbing her shoulders. “I know it's hard on you when this happens. Maybe we should just pack these up and let Olivia be the one to read them. I'm not sure we're going to get any useful information about what happened to Olivia's father anyway.”

“No,” Esme said, holding up a hand. “No, I won't turn my back on Celestine. She's a sweet lady and I want to do my best to help her, but I just can't get a grip on what it is she wants me to know. We can pack up some of it, but
not the diaries. I'm going to read every word the woman wrote.”

“Why don't these spirit people just come out and tell you stuff?”

“I've told you, Sophreena, I don't lay claim to being any kind of expert on the afterlife, but I've learned some things since this first started happening with me when I was a child. Some questions I can get clear answers to most times. Like where something is. Where's the will? The heirlooms? The gravestone? So apparently lots of people get awarded with a cosmic GPS when they cross over. But anything having to do with relationships, or events, or any kind of story or feeling, and it all becomes a miasma. Things get lost in translation. Either they can't get it out or I can't understand it. It causes a muddle of miscommunication.”

“Sort of like with living people,” I said idly, running my fingers along the cover of one of Celestine's diaries.

Esme laughed. “Hadn't thought of it like that, but I guess that's right. I've wondered over the years if it's something about language. We depend on it so much and yet I know we've all had times when we find it inadequate. Maybe language mostly dies with us or else it becomes irrelevant. Sometimes I get actual words, but most times I get symbols, images, metaphors, and signs, or just a feeling or an emotion. Problem is, it's up to me to decide what it means and I can be awfully dense about it sometimes.”

“And you can be brilliantly perceptive about it, too, Esme. What exactly are you getting from Celestine?”

“Just a feeling she wants me to hurry up and read these diaries and that something is not right.”

“Hm,” I said, “it'd be nice if she could be a little more specific, eh?”

“She's trying. I feel like I'm getting to know her by reading all these and I can see why Olivia was so fond of her. She was a caring person. Listen to what she wrote in October of 1942”:

They had a sale on school shoes this week down at Rolene's General. Seventy-nine cents a pair for little oxfords. They're not Red Goose or Buster Brown, but they look good and sturdy. It came to me the Calvert younguns are down to wearing shoes with newspapers stuffed inside them where the soles wore out. I know their sizes cause I'm in charge of getting up all the children's measurements for the Christmas swap at the church. But the Calvert kids will be barefoot by then. So I bought a pair for Georgie and one for Polly, too. But then when I got home I had to study on how to get them to the children. The Calverts are proud and I wouldn't do a thing in this world to shame them as I know they try hard as they can to make do for their children. But it is hard times and George has been sick and not able to work much this past year. So it came to me I could put it to Minnie that I'd like to trade her the shoes for some of her flour sacks in the pattern I need to finish up a dress, which is nearly the truth. I've got right smart of chicken feed sacks saved up that I was going to make me some dresses out of, but now I'm thinking we'll do up some curtains and pillowcases for Renny with them. And I really do love best of all the flour sack patterns with the little yellow
flowers the Occo-Nee-Chee flour comes in. I use Silk Floss flour, even though it's priced a little more dear as it makes a lighter biscuit and Riley is particular about his biscuits. I don't get a chance to get any of that print unless I swap out with somebody and with Minnie squeezing every penny that comes her way the Occo-Nee-Chee sacks is all what she's got in her larder. She was pleased to trade me and we laughed about how glad we are the government is claiming all the burlap for the war effort. We're behind that because we want to do our part, but also we surely do love all the pretty cotton flour sacks and feed sacks they're giving us now and they're welcome to the tow sacks.

“That's sweet,” I said. “I've run across several passages like that where she's done nice things for people. She was always careful not to make anybody feel beholden or embarrassed. I love that about her. In my mind backhanded charity is about as bad as benign neglect.”

“Um-hm,” Esme said. “I know plenty about backhanded charity. The family my mother worked for had a daughter several years older than me and sometimes they'd give me her castoffs if they were in a giving mood. Then my mother would have to listen as the lady of the house chirped on to all her friends about how generous she'd been to her maid. Mama never turned down the clothes, because I needed them and she made sure I said my thank-you-ma'ams but I know it was hard on her to take their brand of charity.” She turned back to the diary. “Seventy-nine cents for a pair of shoes! Can you imagine that?”

“That was 1942 dollars,” I said, my brain automatically generating a list. “Nineteen forty-two, a war year:
lots
of battles, horrors yet unknown in Europe, FDR is president, gas, rubber, sugar among other things, are rationed, victory gardens, daylight savings time begins, the Manhattan Project, Japanese-American internment camps, the Cocoanut Grove nightclub fire, actress Carole Lombard crisscrosses the country promoting war bonds and is killed in a plane crash. And at the movies both
Casablanca
and
Bambi
premiered.” I stopped for a breath.

Esme was not impressed. She's seen my parlor trick too many times. “Yeah, that,” she said. “And as if the war abroad and all the wartime deprivations at home weren't enough, Celestine was worrying over the situation just across her own yard. Listen to this part”:

I'm fretting for Renny. She's trying so hard to be a good wife and doing her best to learn to please Johnny but it's never enough. Not that Johnny treats her rough but he's never satisfied with what she does nor how she does it. He gets real short with her and I can see it hurts her feelings to the quick. But it's clear he loves her dearly. He can be sweet with her, too, especially after he's had one of his little fits and been hateful and said hurtful things. Then he feels bad and is nice as pie for a while, but he doesn't learn the lesson. It's the same thing over and over again. Riley has tried to talk sense to him about it but all he gets for his trouble is Johnny sulking or giving sass back. It's a worriment. Poor little Renny looks wore-out most of the time and her weight has fell off, which is a troubling thing
with her being so tiny to begin with. I even tried talking to Johnny myself, not that I had any expectation he'd listen to me anyways. He told me, “Sister, you need to look after your own house and let me take care of my own.” Made me want to snatch him baldheaded since he is seldom even in his own house these days but out roaming the countryside carousing with his wild friends until all hours of the night. But I swallowed my words and told him all I wanted was him and Renny to be happy. Which is not at all a fib since that is my biggest wish.

“Sounds like Olivia's parents' marriage hit the skids right away,” I said, glancing up at the clock. “And speaking of Olivia, we're due at her house in an hour. Shall I go in and make our smoothies?”

Esme gave me a look. “Sophreena, there are some things best left to the professionals. I'll go make the smoothies and you pack up the stuff we've already examined here on this end of the table.” She swept her hand to include two or three boxes' worth of letters, photos, and memorabilia.

“Fine,” I said, as Esme headed for the kitchen. “Always happy to be the workhorse,” I muttered under my breath.

“I heard that,” Esme said, without a backward glance.

Being careful to keep the materials in the proper order, I packed them up and sealed them into archival water-resistant bins. This is a part of the job that gives me great satisfaction. I like knowing the family materials have been rescued from the oblivion of crumbling cardboard boxes.

My smoothie, in an alarming tint of green, was waiting for me when I went to the kitchen. “What's in this?” I asked.

“Some things are best left a mystery,” Esme said. “Just drink it down. It's tasty and it's good for you.”

“Long as I don't start glowing in the dark,” I said, taking a tentative sip. It was tasty. I was noisily vacuuming the last few drops from the bottom of my glass with a straw when the phone rang. The caller ID announced Coco.

“Could you come down to my studio for a few minutes?” she asked, skipping the small talk. “I've got a situation and I think you'll know how to handle it.”

“You got some kind of family history emergency?” I asked with a laugh. “That's my only real area of expertise, you know.”

“Not exactly,” Coco said, lowering her voice. From the muffled sound of it I imagined her cupping her hand over the receiver. “But there's a family that may
be
history if things don't get hashed out.”

Esme raised an eyebrow and I shrugged. “Is this urgent, Coco? We're supposed to be at Olivia's soon.”

“I'll be back in just a minute, Sweetie,” Coco said to someone on her end, then I heard jostling and the welcome bell at the Morningside Craft Co-op and realized she'd stepped outside. “I need you to come now, Sophreena. I've got Tina Gibson here with me. She knows some information about the day Blaine Branch died but she's—” She hesitated and I thought for a moment we'd lost our connection but then she went on. “It's complicated, Sophreena. Just come, okay?”

I hung up and gave Esme a recap. “Go,” she said. “Come on along to Olivia's when you can. Coco's not one for drama.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, okay, she'll chew the sets when it's about her, but not about something like this. You'd better go find out what's what.”

*  *  *

Tina Gibson was not quite herself. In fact, she was somebody else entirely. Tina was an upstanding member of the community and head of the Arts Council. She always took great care with her appearance and carried herself with a cool reserve. Today? Not so much.

Although I didn't know her that well, she and Coco had been friends for a long time and that counted for a lot in my book. Coco was trying to comfort her as Tina sobbed and swiped at her mascara-streaked face.

“What's wrong?” I asked, still standing in the doorway of Coco's studio.

Coco brushed past me and put the
BACK IN FIVE MINUTES
sign on the shop door. She twisted the lock and headed back into the studio, beckoning me inside.

“Sophreena, I called you because I know you can keep a confidence,” Coco said. “I told Tina she could trust you.”

“She didn't need to convince me,” Tina said with a hiccup. “We've known one another a long time, haven't we, Sophreena?”

I allowed that we had, though I didn't see fit to point out that was a mixed bag. Tina was older than me by a few years and had been one of the popular girls. Unlike Beth, she'd not been universally loved. She wasn't a bad person, but she was unsure of herself, which made her occasionally do unkind things if that's what it took to stay with the in-crowd. She'd
never done anything mean to me, so I had nothing personal against her, but we hadn't been pals by any means.

“Listen,” I said hesitantly, “I don't know exactly what's going on here, but if you know something that's important to the investigation into Blaine's murder you need to come forward.”

Tina looked to Coco, her eyes widening, then she wailed. “I told you this was a mistake,” she said. She ran her hands into her hair, normally styled into a purposefully messy cut. Today there was nothing purposeful about it. She grabbed a hank of hair on either side of her head and let out another wail. “I'm ruined,” she said, choking out a couple of pitiful sobs.

“Tina,” Coco said softly, “just tell Sophreena what you told me. She's your best hope right now.”

Tina sucked in a big breath, holding it longer than I would have thought possible. The woman had diver's lungs. Finally she let it out in a big puff. “I am
so
screwed,” she muttered. “What does it matter now?”

She looked completely dejected and I felt compelled to say something reassuring. “Tina, I'll do anything I can to help. Now, what's going on?”

“What's going on is that I've made the worst mistake of my life,” Tina said, now more morose than hysterical. “And that's saying something.”

Coco pulled over a chair and motioned me into it, then moved her stool close to Tina so she could rub her shoulder for encouragement.

“I was with Blaine the day he died,” Tina said, her face a study in misery.

“Go on,” I said, trying hard to keep my face expressionless.

“I picked him up at The Sporting Life, in the back parking lot. I dropped him off a couple of hours later near his house,” Tina said. “I was trying to talk him into making a contribution to fund an art scholarship for the high school.”

“For two hours?” I said. “That's a lot of lobbying.”

An angry look came over Tina's face, but it soon deflated into misery again.

“Were you having an affair with Blaine?” I asked, figuring we might as well cut to the chase.

“No!” Tina said. She held her chin high for a moment, then she slumped. “But I would have. It was only a matter of time. We were working up to it. How in the world could I have been so stupid? I wasn't in love with Blaine. Sometimes I didn't even like him much. I love Mike. I love my husband. I know that's hard to believe, given what I'm telling you, but I would just die if Mike found out about this. It would hurt him so much. I can't explain how I let this happen. I think maybe I just wanted some excitement and I was flattered when Blaine flirted with me. How pathetic is that?” She looked at me as if she actually expected an answer.