Paging the Dead (14 page)

“If we make as much progress this afternoon as we did this morning I'll take an hour tonight and see what I can find out about the Spencer family,” I said.

“You go for it,” Esme said. “After we get back from supper I'm going to work a while longer and then I'm planning a rerun of last night's hot bath and early to bed with a good book.”

As I was loading the dishwasher my friend Gina Bradford returned my call. I'd known Gina since we were college roommates. She works at the State Archives in Raleigh so I get to see her often since that's one of my regular research haunts. She and her husband, Sam, have an eight-month-old
daughter named Ella who's the light of their lives, but from time to time even a devoted mama needs a break. We were scheduled for a girls' night dinner and movie on Monday and I'd left her a message that I needed a raincheck.

“Why are you bailing on me?” Gina asked without preamble. “This better be good. Tell me you've got a date with a great guy and I'll totally forgive you.”

“No, but thanks ever so much for rubbing that in. It's work.” I told her about our deadline.

“They haven't found out who did it, have they?”

“No, not that I've heard, and believe me, I would've heard. Nobody's talking about anything else.”

“Hey, I've been meaning to call to tell you this,” she said, “but it's been crazy around here. Ella's teething like crazy and Sam's been out of town and the nanny called in sick twice this week. Anyhow, somebody's doggin' your steps on the Pritchett family research.”

“What do you mean?”

“There's a guy who's come into the Archives a couple of times recently. I've never assisted him but I overheard a couple of the staff talking about it after the Pritchett woman was killed, you know, like how weird it was that there were two people researching the Pritchett family and then she gets murdered.”

“Do you know what his name was?” I asked.

“I forgot, but I wrote it down. Hold on a minute, let me get my bag.”

I could hear Ella wailing in the background and had the thought maybe she'd grow up to have a career in opera. After some scrambling noises Gina came back on the line, talking
between vain attempts to shush the baby. “His name was Spencer, Henry Spencer. He lives here in Raleigh someplace. I don't have contact information, but I'm sure you can ferret that out in a heartbeat. Sorry, Sophreena, I've really gotta go.”

I hung up, marveling that there was a mother left the wide world over with her hearing—and her sanity—intact. I filled Esme in on what Gina had told me.

“Spencer? Well, that surely can't be a coincidence. Maybe Mr. Henry Spencer would be interested in pooling our resources,” Esme said. “Should we try to find him and ask him?”

“My thoughts exactly,” I said.

Some people have mixed feelings about the way the Internet is remolding society, but for genealogists it's been a gift from the technology gods, for the most part. I had contact info for Henry Spencer in less than sixty seconds; phone number, address and a map to his house. Plus I'd learned he owned a travel agency specializing in historical destinations.

I called his home number and a female answered—either that or Henry had a voice in the Michael Jackson register. I asked for Henry and the woman got cagey.

“Can I ask who's calling?”

I summoned my friendliest down-home manner and told her I'd been doing some family history research and I'd heard that Henry was interested in the family, too. I allowed as how we might could share information.

“Oh, that,” the woman said and I sensed she wasn't a fellow traveler when it came to the family history hobby.

She covered the mouthpiece, but not very well, and yelled, “Hank, phone, pick up.” She sounded like a quarterback
getting ready to take the snap. I was half expecting her to add
hut hut
.

After some confusion and rustling in the background a male voice announced, “Hank Spencer.” He sounded younger than I'd expected.

Again I explained why I was calling. I may have misrepresented a tad, but only by omission. He apparently got the idea I was researching the Spencer family and I didn't disabuse him of the notion.

“Maybe we're distant cousins or something,” he said, seemingly pleased at the prospect. “Yeah, I'd love to exchange info. When could we do that?”

“No time like the present,” I said. “How does your afternoon look?”

“Uh,” he said hesitantly, “let me think. Well, I can't invite you here. My wife's giving a baby shower and I'm going to have to vacate the premises in a few minutes. I could come to you if you live nearby.”

While we'd been talking I'd been searching one of those meet-halfway websites and found a coffee shop just off I-40 that fit the bill. I threw out the suggestion and Spencer said he could be there in less than an hour.

Esme wasn't about to miss out on the sleuthing and we agreed, grudgingly, that we'd have to give up our planned supper out and work into the night to make up for lost time. I resisted the urge to say we had bigger fish to fry. I love a good pun, but Esme's not a fan and I fear one of these days she's going to take the eye roll too far and never be able to see straight again.

I printed extra copies of the three photos we had of the
Spencer family and put them into a folder along with the timeline I'd drawn up for Sarah Malone and we set out for our meeting with my long-lost cousin.

•   •   •

Esme and I both spotted Spencer straight away then looked at each other, gaping. We really need to work on our poker faces.

The guy had blond hair of a hue usually seen only on fifties-era starlets and Scandinavian children. He was handsome and well dressed but his motions were hyperkinetic, his leg bouncing and his eyes flitting around the room. Too much caffeine maybe.

We introduced ourselves and I could see confusion register on his face as he glanced from Esme to me then back again. No doubt he was wondering which of us he could possibly be related to since neither of us is anywhere near Anglo enough to be a Spencer.

Esme went off to get us coffee and I sat down in the chair Spencer pulled out for me. “Okay, then,” he said, “tell me, how exactly are we related? I know I have lots of distant Spencer cousins but I haven't been at this long enough to get them all straight.”

“Is this a hobby?” I asked, avoiding the question. “Or is there some particular reason you're researching the family tree?”

“Hobby,” he said. “Well, sorta hobby, sorta work. I own a travel agency and we specialize in trips to different historical sites—Revolutionary and Civil War battlefields, birthplaces of presidents, monuments, stuff like that. So our clients are
all history buffs. Most of them know their family trees back to Methuselah. I got tired of answering ‘I have no idea,' when they asked me about mine. So I started it because I thought it would help my business, but then I got hooked. You know what I mean?” He pointed to my folder and laughed. “Well, course you do.”

He opened a notebook and flipped through pages of scribbled notes until he came to a clean page. “Okay, tell me your name again and how we're related.”

Esme joined us with the coffee and raised an eyebrow at me. I'd been stalling until she got back so we could both see his reaction.

“I'm not certain we are,” I said. “Actually the family line I've been tracing is the Pritchett family.”

“Okay, yeah. That's way distant. Wait, no, that's not even a blood relation to me,” he said. “The Spencers and Pritchetts had some connection way back, but they aren't related.”

I glanced over at Esme. The mention of the name hadn't unsettled him so I took a more direct approach. “Did you know Dorothy Pritchett Porter?”

“Know her? Well, no, I can't say I know her. I met her once, man, what a clusterf—” He caught himself before he uttered the expletive. “What a disaster that was. How is the grand dame?”

“Dead,” Esme said flatly.

Hank Spencer looked like a pole-axed steer, as my granddad used to say. His eyelids fluttered and he seemed uncomprehending. He worked his mouth for a couple of seconds then sputtered. “Geez, I'm sorry. It must have been sudden.”

“Real sudden,” Esme said. “She was murdered. You haven't heard this? It's been all over the news.”

Spencer shook his head. “No, I've been out of town—a tour to Antietam. Didn't get back until about four this morning. I slept in then did a couple of chores for my wife and then you called. Martians could have landed on the White House lawn and I wouldn't have heard about it. Who killed her?”

“That's the big question right now,” I said. “When did you meet Dorothy?”

“Earlier in the week,” Spencer said, still frowning. “I don't remember which day it was. Let's see, it wasn't Monday, I had a meeting that night. Must have been Tuesday. Tuesday afternoon.”

“And where was this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

“At her house. I'd come across some info written in my, let's see”—he shot his eyes upward and tapped the table with his finger to keep count—“my great-great-aunt's diary while I was doing my family research and there was a wicked funny story I thought she'd find amusing. Boy, was I wrong about that.”

His posture stiffened and he looked at each of us through narrowed eyes. “Wait a minute, when did you say was she killed? Are you cops or something?”

“No,” I said, drawing out the word, “we really are genealogists researching the Pritchett family. But the police
are
going to want to talk to you. You may have been the last person to see Dorothy alive, other than the killer.”

Esme started in on one of her low decibel mumbles and I knew she was already building a case against Spencer in her head. And on the face of it things did look pretty bad. But if he was acting, he was ready for the next Scorsese film.

His hand shook as he took a sip of his coffee. “Man, oh man,” he said. “I can't believe it.”

“Could I ask about the story you told Dorothy?” I asked. “You say she wasn't amused?”

“That's putting it mildly,” he said, looking around as if he'd lost something. “Do you think I should get a lawyer or something? That's going to cost a bundle, isn't it? My wife's gonna kill me. She told me I shouldn't go to see the woman, but I thought it would be good to connect. Most people like to talk about their ancestors, you know?”

“Yes, I know. I'm a genealogist, remember?” I said with a smile. “I'm sure you'll be able to get this all cleared up. I wouldn't worry.”

Esme grunted and I gave her a nudge under the table.

“The truth will set you free,” she said with a tight smile. “So what was this story?”

“Okay,” Spencer said, talking rapidly now. “So my folks were thrilled about me getting interested in this family history thing. For one thing it was their chance to get rid of the boxes of family crap that had accumulated in their attic. Some branches of the Spencer family are not what you'd call sentimental. As each generation died out they dumped the stuff on anybody who'd take it and my folks ended up with a ton of it. I drove to Virginia and loaded up as much as I could fit in my car. That's another reason my wife's not thrilled. I took over the spare bedroom to sort through it all.”

“And there was something that would have interested Dorothy in this diary you're talking about?” Esme asked, trying to steer Spencer back on track.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, tapping his pen nervously on his notebook. “I found a diary from my great-great-aunt Agnes, except she wasn't related to me except by marriage, so whatever that makes her.”

I opened my mouth to educate Spencer on the affinity of in-laws but it was Esme's turn to silence me. “Yes, go on,” I said, rubbing the shin she'd kicked.

“Okay,” Spencer said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Let me get this right. My great-great-uncle Raeford Spencer and his wife, Agnes, lived in Richmond sometime late in the 1800s. And Agnes, who just between you and me and the fencepost sounds like a primo shrew if ever there was one, wanted someone to help take care of her hellion kids. Two boys, some kind of old-fashioned names I can't remember, but I've got them written down in here somewhere,” he said, placing his hand on the notebook as if he were swearing on a Bible. “Anyhow, Agnes remembered some distant cousins of hers out in the tidewater who had daughters. She got to thinking one of them might like to come live in the city a while so she reached out. She writes all about how happy she is when Sarah Malone accepts the invitation, yadda yadda, all is well.”

“We found a picture,” I said, pulling the copy of the cabinet card photo out and handing it to him. “I think this is Raeford and Agnes Spencer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I've got that same one. Mine has names on the back. They're in pencil and whoever wrote
it had terrible handwriting, but you can make it out. That picture tells a lot, doesn't it? Look at those boys. You can tell they were the spawn of the devil, can't you? And Agnes, whew boy, a face that could stop a train, and not in a good way. And I think there was a little bait and switch going on with Sarah Malone. I'm not sure it was made clear she was coming to be a servant. From some of the entries in Agnes' diary it sounds like they had some disputes about that. A couple of times Sarah threatened to pack up to go home, but something convinced her to stay.”

“One thing that we're interested in,” Esme says, “is this ring right here on Agnes Spencer's finger.”

“So she told you?” Spencer asked. “From the way she was acting I didn't think she'd tell anybody.”

“Who told us what?” I asked.

“Mrs. Porter,” Spencer said. “She told you the story about the ring?”