Paging the Dead

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

About Brynn Bonner

For Brenda Upchurch Smart, a fine writer and a fine friend.
Gone too soon.

With heartfelt thanks to my six sages and paladins: Margaret Maron, Sarah Shaber, Diane Chamberlain, Kathy Trocheck (aka Mary Kay Andrews), Katy Munger and Alex Sokoloff for your counsel, support and friendship. I'm privileged to be one of the Weymouth Seven. 'Tis a wondrous gift! Thanks also to the members of the Cary Writers' Group for early reading and input. Many thanks to my agent, Cynthia Manson, for her steadfastness and tenaciousness and to my editor, Micki Nuding, for her invaluable guidance. Most of all, thanks to my family for supporting me, always, as we make our own family history.

E
VERY FAMILY HAS SECRETS
. S
KELETONS IN THE CLOSET, A
rotten apple dangling from a blighted limb on the family tree, the crazy aunt hidden away in the attic. And while the families who hire me to trace their family lineage pay me handsomely to haul their secrets into the light, usually they don't thank me for it in the end. Such is the genealogist's lot.

Today was an exception. The client sitting across from me was about to be thrilled. Dorothy Pritchett Porter spread her bejeweled fingers on her chest and looked to me expectantly. Milking the drama, I held out my fist and opened my fingers like a flower blossoming. All I needed was a hallelujah choir and a shaft of light streaming down on my palm, which held a ruby and diamond ring that could have choked a moose.

I congratulated myself as the woman's jowly jaw dropped. I had definitely flabbered her gast, smacked her gob. If I'd had a feather handy I could have knocked her over with it. I, Sophreena Angelica McClure, have done it again. I have dazzled a client. With some unconventional help to be sure, but I couldn't let on about that.

I only wished all the effort could have been for a client I liked more. Dorothy Porter is what my mother would've called a woman of breeding. I thought maybe there'd been some over-breeding somewhere along the line. Still, I was thrilled with the way her flinty blue eyes lit up at the sight of this long lost bauble and gladder still to see a smile overtake her inner sourpuss. I got a whiff of a bonus in the offing.

“I've been searching for this for years, how in the world did you ever find it?” Dorothy asked breathlessly, reaching out to pluck the ring from my hand. “
Where
did you find it?”

“Oh, I can't give away my secret methods,” I said, my voice sing-songy. “Let's just say I am very, very good at what I do.”

My business partner, Esme Sabatier, was seated next to me on the
divan
, as Dorothy insisted on calling the molting velvet monstrosity that occupied half her sitting room. Esme made a sound halfway between a
harumph
and a swear word in French. I covered with a cough and Dorothy went right on admiring the way the light caught those diamonds while I gave Esme my sternest look.

Alas, Esme is immune. She rolled her eyes, looking around for an escape route. Esme hates dealing with clients, Dorothy in particular. But she'd had to cart me out here since my car was in the shop and I can't drive her hulking SUV because it's a stick, not to mention I can't see over the steering wheel.

I gave Dorothy a smile. “Actually, what I did was put together everything I'd learned about your grandmother to get to know the kind of person she was and when I saw that box among her things in the attic I knew at once it was a
puzzle box with a secret compartment. I've seen them before. I thought there was a good chance that's where she would have hidden the ring for safekeeping. Here, let me show you how it works.”

I took the box from the side table and demonstrated the various sliding, pulling and pushing manipulations required to open the secret compartment.

“And to think,” Dorothy said, her eyes wide. “I almost threw that box out when we moved my grandmother's things to the attic. You can't imagine what this means to me.”

“Oh, Lorda mercy, she's gonna cry,” Esme said, leaning toward me and whispering out of the side of her mouth. “Get me outta here, quick.”

Just at that moment little Cassidy Garrison, Dorothy's great-niece, came literally skipping into the room, ending Esme's mutterings. Esme does not brook foolishness from adults, but she's got a big ol' mushy spot for kids.

Cassidy perched like a little bird on the arm of Dorothy's chair and I marveled at the transformation in the woman. She beamed as she slid an arm around the child. Cassidy was six years old but small for her age. She had the blond hair and clear blue eyes that ran through the Pritchett line.

“Say hello,” Dorothy instructed, hugging Cassidy in tight.

Cassidy gave us a shy wave, then the ring caught her eye. “Ooh, that's pretty, Auntie Dot,” she cooed, fingering the stones.

“It's more than pretty,” Dorothy said. “This is the Pritchett family ring. It's belonged to our ancestors for generations. It's an heirloom from an illustrious family—our family. Remember, I told you I hired these two ladies to research our
Pritchett family tree so you'd know where you came from. That's important.”

“Oh,” Cassidy said, clearly underwhelmed. She tangled her fingers in the triple ropes of pearls draping Dorothy's neck. That necklace was also a family heirloom and I couldn't believe the officious Dorothy was allowing Cassidy to play with the pearls and muss her perfectly coiffed hair, but she made no attempt to stay the child's busy hands.

“I'm glad you're pleased, Mrs. Porter. You have our report and of course we'll be working diligently on your family heritage scrapbooks over the next couple of weeks. You have a fine family, lots of truly accomplished people,” I said, remembering how I'd struggled to shear a couple of black sheep in one branch without compromising my genealogist's integrity. “I'm going to leave a couple of our business cards here with you,” I plowed on, placing them on the marble-topped coffee table. “We'd appreciate it if you'd recommend us to your friends.”

“Yes, of course,” Dorothy said, still mesmerized by the ring. Then she seemed to snap out of it. “But now, don't forget.” She held up a finger and actually wagged it at me like a school marm. “You absolutely must have the scrapbooks finished for my Founders' Day open house on the Friday before the Honeysuckle Festival. I'll have important guests and I want those books on display. That is specifically stipulated in our contract.” She eyed us as if we were trying to put one over on her. “You do not get your final payment if you don't deliver.”

“Of course,” I said, “you'll have them in ample time.” I felt the divan vibrate as Esme's aggravation grew.

We exited quickly once we'd stood to go. The sight of Esme and me side-by-side makes people want to snicker. Some try to hide it and nearly bust a gut holding it in while others just let go and laugh right in our faces.

I know we make a funny-looking pair. I'm short. So short I sometimes don't make the cut at the amusement park attractions where signs decree
YOU MUST BE THIS TALL TO RIDE
. If I wear heels, don't slouch and pouf my hair up I can do five feet even. I'm thirty-one years old and part Asian—maybe, that's a whole 'nother story—and part some pale Celtic tribe. My eyes are brown and my hair borrowed from both sides of my heritage and settled at a light auburn that can't decide if it wants to be straight or curly. Sometimes I wear contacts, but most of the time I wear glasses in a style once worn only by the hopelessly nerdy. Now the hipster crowd has adopted the look and made me fashionable. I look small and meek. I am not meek.

Esme is six foot two in her stocking feet and doesn't cotton to flat shoes. She's descended from sturdy Creole stock and is the color of a mocha latte. She's fifty-two years old and the way she sees it she's earned a pass on pulling her punches. Esme's got both altitude
and
attitude. She looks regal and mellow. Esme is not mellow.

We've been partners in our family history research business for five years. Since I'm accustomed to looking at life across multiple generations, five years should seem like the blink of an eye, but I can hardly remember what my life was like before Esme and can't imagine life without her, despite how she likes to needle me.

“Wait 'til I tell the others about this one,” she said, chuckling as she climbed behind the wheel. “ ‘I'm very, very good at
what I do,' ” she mimicked my voice, which is small like the rest of me.

Now it was my turn for an eye roll. “What did you expect me to say?
‘Well, Mrs. Porter, we use rather unusual research methods. My sidekick here has the gift and your dearly departed Granny told her where she put that ring. Anything else you want to ask while we've got her on the line?
' ”

“I'll not be asking the poor woman anything else. Let her rest in peace. I got the feeling she had a troublesome life. Anyway, you know very well I don't appreciate being called on to do family therapy from the great beyond. If they didn't get their stuff together here on earth they got all eternity to work on their issues. And honest to Pete, sometimes I don't think even that'll be long enough.”

Esme gunned out onto Larkwood Drive, which would take us down out of the rarefied air of Crescent Hill and back into Morningside Village where the normal people live, and continued her rant. “All I want to know from the departed is where did they put the will, the cash bonds, the jewelry. Did he or didn't he father that child? Who is that standing beside them in the photo? That kind of thing usually comes through pretty clear but the other stuff is just gobbledygook. I can't make heads nor tails out of it most of the time.”

I'd heard this speech from Esme many times so I made some agreement noises as I gazed out the window at the green lawns, a luxury only those in this part of town could afford what with the relentless North Carolina sun intent on parching every sprig. It had been a dry June and people in our middle-class neighborhood had made their peace with
some browning of the turf, but the rich continued to sprinkle with abandon.

Not that I have anything against rich people. After all, only the well heeled can afford to hire us. But I don't envy them either. After working closely with so many rich families I've seen the truth in that old saw about money not buying happiness.

We don't get much work from regular families. Most make do with their own DIY genealogists—the great-aunt who spends vacations visiting courthouses and graveyards, or the kid who's assigned a school project and gets hooked on filling out the family tree.

My mother had set the hook for me. She was adopted and all her life longed to know about her origins. For her it hadn't been a hobby, it had been her personal Moby Dick. And now that she's gone I continue the hunt for her.