Death in Reel Time (26 page)

I could hear Esme out in the workroom still rattling off the names of flowers:
roses, daisies, hyacinths, daffodils, asters.
As I put my coffee mug in the sink I heard. “Ranunculus? Come on now, I don't even know what that one looks like. Sounds more like a medical condition than a flower. Let's give it a rest.”

“Done?” I asked from the workroom doorway.

“I am but I don't think she is. We're on a break.”

I glanced at the archival boxes lined up on the table and sighed. “You know, despite everything, I think Olivia's still glad we did this. Apart from that one horrible family secret she did find out some good things. Like that her grandparents made peace with her mother before they died.”

“I guess you could say that,” Esme said. “After Renny wrote them that she was in a family way, they seemed to have softened up some. And her mother did write in one of her last letters that they missed her and that when they came back to the States they wanted to visit her.”

“Yeah,” I said, drawing the word out. “ 'Course, Renny never told them Johnny was already gone by then. Do you think she knew? About what happened to Johnny, I mean?”

“I think she
had
to have known
something
somewhere deep down. They all three lived side by side with their lives intertwined for all those years.” Esme stopped; her gaze drifted to the window and her voice sounded far away. “But they never spoke of it aloud. Never one word.”

“That sounds like more than speculation on your part,” I said.

“Never a word,” Esme repeated. “But with total trust in one another for the rest of their days on earth. I think they all
intended to take this to their graves, but Celestine couldn't carry the burden when she was left alone with it. I wonder if it would've been better if she'd taken the secret with her. Maybe she regrets she didn't. Maybe that's why she can't find peace.”

“Well, you know my take on that. It's always better to know your own history, bad stuff and good stuff. It's all gone into making you who you are. Knowledge is power, so they say.”

“Um-hm,” Esme said. “They also say ignorance is bliss. And, anyhow, sometimes
they
talk through their hats.”

I got out my calligraphy supplies to fill in the few remaining missing dates on Olivia's pedigree chart, using Esme's notes from the courthouse records.

“While you do that I'll go get dressed, then I'll call Olivia to see when would be a good time for us to bring the rest of this stuff over.”

After I finished the chart I looked over the report I'd compiled one more time. The others had all done a smash-up job and we'd be giving Olivia a good solid start into tracing her family lines. I felt good about the job, despite all that had happened, and I was eager to see Tony's finished video scrapbook. The tape gun made a
rrrripp
ing noise as I sealed up the last box. Done.
Fini.
It would've been nice if we could have given Olivia a prettier portrait of her parents, but I still had to believe the unvarnished truth was better than the shameful silence.

As I went to close the notebook we'd used at the courthouse I saw the scribbled notes I'd jotted while trying to find sources on Charlie Martin. I knew Esme would be a while,
so I calculated I could slip in a few phone calls. If I could find out something about Charlie's best friend in the world, that might go a long way in convincing him to do the project with Tony. I did a census search and found Charles Martin living in the Tillett household when he was two years old, but by the time the next census rolled around, the household had either moved or been broken up. I didn't have enough info to go further so I opted for some scattershot sleuthing and made a list of the telephone numbers I could find for Tilletts in a four-county area. I pulled out my cell and started at the top. If I got an answer I recited my well-rehearsed spiel, giving my name and occupation and, in my friendliest voice, telling the person I was looking for family information on behalf of a client. This was not technically true. Nor somewhatish true. Or true in any sense, really. To keep it from being a flat-out lie I hired myself, placing a quarter I found in the desk drawer in front of me as a retainer.

Cold-calling is a Hail-Mary play, but when it connects there's usually a big payoff. I reached five live people in the first seven calls, that in itself a miracle. Four were gracious and polite and were as sorry as they could be that they couldn't help me. And I knew they meant it. Southerners are earnestly reverential about family ties. The fifth call was answered by a man not-from-around-here, judging by his clipped accent. He told me to bug off, though he wasn't as judicious in his choice of words. I left messages on two machines, but didn't expect to hear back on either. I would have stopped there, but Esme was still getting dolled up so I decided to try one more number. And on that call I hit pay dirt—sort of.

The woman who answered had married into the Tillett family and didn't know much about the distant relatives of her deceased husband, and something in the way she said it let me know she didn't care to know more, but she did vaguely remember Hershel Tillett, Jr. She wasn't sure what had become of him, but she knew he had a granddaughter, Lacey Simmons, who was still in the area.

I thanked her, rang off, and googled Lacey's name. It took a few more information hops before I turned up a phone number for her on a social media site. She answered with a perky “Lacey, here” and I laid down my line of patter. Lacey Simmons seemed genuinely happy to receive my call. This didn't happen often and I took a moment to enjoy it. “I'm a bit of an amateur genealogist myself,” she said. “Or at least I've been appointed the custodian of the family picture box and I've got the family Bible. Does that count?”

“It's a good start,” I said, liking this woman's easy laugh. We had a nice conversation and she told me that yes, indeed, Hershel Tillett had been her grandfather and that, sadly, he'd passed away a decade ago. I asked if she'd ever heard her grandfather mention a man named Charlie Martin.

“His brother, you mean?” she asked.

“Brother?” I repeated.

“Well, stepbrother. Granddaddy's mother died in childbirth and his daddy married a widow who had a couple of kids; they were Cora and Charlie Martin.”

“Do you know what became of either of them?”

“Well, Cora scandalized the whole county and ran off with an Italian peddler who came through. I don't know whatever happened to her or if she had a family. And Granddaddy and
his stepbrother weren't together long. Sad to say, he died not too long after his daddy married his stepmama. It was from something you don't hear much about anymore. Whooping cough? Something like that. Whatever it was it got Granddaddy's sister, Lucille, too.”

“Wait, what? So Charlie is deceased? I guess I have the wrong Charlie Martin.”

“Well, there are a bunch of 'em. You can't round a corner out here without running into a Martin,” Lacey said with a laugh. “And they all seem to favor the same two first names, Charles and Paul. There's at least a half dozen of each. It all gets very confusing.”

I knew that was true from my search at the records office. I told her about our Charlie Martin. “He says he and your grandfather were pals. They rode the rails together as hobos when they were young men and later joined the army together.”

“Hm, I wouldn't know about that,” Lacey said. “I remember Granddaddy talking about his days as a knockabout—that's what he called it. But I never heard him mention anybody he knew being with him. Not that I remember anyway. I didn't pay much attention to the old people talk when I was a kid. I wish now I had. And Granddaddy never would talk about his time in the war. I tried to interview him about it once for a school project and he got upset and told me he just didn't want to think about it. I do know he had some cousins who joined up at the same time as him. Could this man be one of them?”

“Could be,” I said. “When did you say your grandfather died?” I asked. “And how old was he?”

She gave me the dates and I calculated. Hershel would have been roughly the same age as our Charlie Martin.

The question I wanted to ask was
are you sure he's really dead?
But since that sounded like a casting call for a zombie movie, I tried a more normal question. “Was his death sudden?”

“No, poor Granddaddy sort of faded away. He was in a nursing home for several years. Toward the end he didn't even know any of us. It was very sad.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, only meaning it partly for her. I'd had a crazy notion maybe Hershel and Charlie were one and the same person. That maybe Hershel had taken on his brother's identity to escape from some debacle or other. So much for that theory. I scuttled around in my brain for a new one. In the forties lots of young men had the patriotic fever and wanted to sign up for service even if they were too young. It wasn't unusual for them to sign up under false names with false papers. Maybe Hershel gave his brother's birth certificate to a friend. I asked Lacey what she knew about his friends from his early days.

“Well, now I know he did have a gang he used to raise hell with when he was a young man. He admitted to being a rounder. And I know some of them were kin to him. But I can't recall names. Listen, I'm at work right now, but when I get home I could look through the pictures. I'm pretty sure some of them from those days have names written on the back. And I think there's one with a buddy of his right after they went to boot camp. I never saw that picture until after Granddaddy died.”

I thanked her and clicked off my phone, making a note on my pad to follow up if I didn't hear from her tomorrow. If
Charlie, or whatever his real name was, had been an underage enlistee, his wartime stories would be even more poignant fodder for the documentary.

Esme came in and I told her about what I'd been doing, all in a rush. “I think this could make a really compelling story if Tony and I can talk Charlie into doing it.”

“Assuming Tony's not in the hoosegow by then for Blaine Branch's murder.”

“Don't joke about that,” I said.

“Oh, I'm not messing around,” Esme said. “I was just on the phone with Denny. He says Jennifer's got her hair on fire. She's bound and determined to make an arrest, and at this point he doesn't think she especially cares who it is or if the charge holds up. She's desperate to show she's doing
something
.”

“Will Denny be there when she talks to Tony?”

“He says he'll make it a point, but I'm going to call Crystal, just in case. And you call Tony and give him her number. Make sure he calls her if he feels the slightest need. That boy did not do this.”

“Wow, you've sure changed your tune. Last night you weren't so sure of that.”

“That was before I heard from his mother,” Esme said.

“Michelle? His foster mother, you mean?”

“No, his real mother, his birth mother.”

“But she's—” I began, then I got it. “Oh, I see. More inter-realm memos? What is she telling you?”

Esme sighed. “She's not telling me, just showing me. He's a good kid. And tenderhearted. That's what got him into trouble before. Like that time Michelle told you about when
he couldn't stand to see that little kid getting picked on or like—”

“Like Beth?” I said, when she didn't go on. “He says it himself, Esme. Beth saved him. Maybe even literally saved his life, and he knew she was in trouble. Back then he was teetering on the edge. What if seeing Beth hurt made him totter?”

“He didn't totter, Sophreena. I won't believe that. His mama failed him in a lot of ways, though it wasn't from lack of trying. She had a lot of guilt about that but she's at peace now and she believes in him one hundred percent. And so do I.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding. “I'm with you.”

“Good then, that's settled. Wish I could say the same for Celestine's issues. What was that slogan on those old florist commercials—say it with flowers? Well, I can tell you, that is
not
working for me.”

After gathering up our lists, packing the last boxes into the car, and plotting our route for errands, we set out for Olivia's house.

“Olivia's at Marydale's shop right now,” Esme said, “getting more supplies for her scrapbooks. She said she'd probably be home by the time we get there. She's really taken to those heritage scrapbooks, and I think she's taking special care with them because Tony's filming them. By the way, you did call Tony and tell him what I said, didn't you?”

“Yes, I called him,” I said, pulling my sun visor down.

“Did he say he'd call Crystal?”

“Yes, but I'm not sure he will. He sounded—I don't know—maybe
resigned
is the word.”

“I don't care for that word,” Esme said. “And neither does his mama.”

I started to pull in the driveway at Olivia's, then noticed her car wasn't there so I parked on the street behind another car, Peyton's shiny sports car. “What do you suppose he's doing here?” I murmured.

We each grabbed a box from the backseat and headed up the walk. I started to knock, but Esme told me not to bother because Olivia had said we were to go on in and make ourselves at home. She stuffed the box under one arm and barged right on in. I could hear voices coming from the living room, but I couldn't make out much, except that among Peyton's words I heard “keep it to yourself.” I wanted to strangle him. This was the last thing Beth needed right now.

As we drew level with the doorway Beth and Peyton both startled. They were standing by the window and Peyton had been right in Beth's face, gesturing with both hands, his face florid. Beth was crying, but she quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks and turned to face us with a rueful smile.