Paging the Dead (15 page)

“No, she didn't,” Esme said, using her running-out-of-patience voice. “As we told you, Mr. Spencer, you were probably the last person to see Mrs. Porter alive.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, running his hand through his thatch of blond hair.

The late afternoon sun was bathing the western window in a golden light that gave the entire coffee shop a sepia hue as if nature was adjusting the lighting so we could picture the tale Spencer began to unfold.

“According to Agnes Spencer's diary this ring was made by some famous jeweler in England back in the mid-seventeen hundreds. It was like a big deal thing in the Spencer family. Anyhow it came down through the generations,
always through the oldest son in the family, natch. It missed my line.”

“So your great-great-granddaddy wasn't in line for it,” Esme said, following the thread.

“No, his older brother. Raeford was the last Spencer to have the ring, or rather his wife, the not-so-lovely Agnes, was,” he said, pointing to the photo. “They got married sometime in the 1870s. But apparently Raeford's mother didn't much take to her son's intended. Instead of giving over the ring for the engagement like was the family custom she held on to it long after they got hitched. It made Agnes furious. She wrote pages and pages about that in her diary. She wanted that ring in the worst way.”

“Apparently she got it eventually,” I said.

“Yeah, Raeford's mother took ill and on her deathbed she finally gave the ring to Agnes. But the universe had a little joke in store—the old broad surprised everybody, including herself, and made a full recovery.”

“I don't suppose Agnes offered to return the ring,” I said.

“Nuh-uh,” Spencer said. “Wore it twenty-four-seven. Gloated about it constantly in her diary.”

“But that still doesn't tell us how it went from being the Spencer family ring to the Pritchett family ring,” Esme said.

“I'm getting there,” Spencer said, holding up a hand. “So it seems old Raeford Spencer had what these days we'd call an addictive personality. He overate, you can see he's a tubby guy. And he drank a lot, but I think one look at Agnes explains that. Anyhow, he also had himself a bit of a gambling problem—and a poker buddy by the name of Harrison Pritchett.”

“Dorothy's grandfather,” I said, starting to see where this was headed.

“Yep,” Spencer said. “And here's where the two families connect, and clash. Agnes wrote quite a bit in her journal about Sarah Malone. She'd come to loathe having her in her house. She didn't like that Sarah got so much attention from the men. Well, duh. Look at her; she's gorgeous.”

“She caught Harrison Pritchett's eye,” Esme said, picking up the photo and staring at it. “She was radiant and he was totally smitten,” she said, stating a fact rather than asking a question.

“Oh yeah,” Spencer said. “Agnes thought it was ‘vulgar the way Harrison looks at her,' ” he said, adopting a snooty voice as he recited lines from the diary. “ ‘She plays the shy kitten but that is all artifice.' ”

“Am I to take it gambling was involved with the ring passing hands?” I asked.

“Yep,” Spencer said. “Raeford went all in on a game of five-card stud. He couldn't cover his bet so he crept into the bedroom and took the ring right off the sleeping Agnes' hand. Harrison Pritchett cleaned him out that night, taking not only the ring but the backstory about a family heirloom that went with it.”

“I can see why Dorothy didn't care for that version,” Esme said.

“Yes,” I said, remembering how grateful Dorothy had been that we'd found the ring that was the emblem of her
illustrious
family. “She would have been appalled to learn it was poker winnings.”

“You got that right,” Spencer said. “She took the ring off and put it in her pocket after I told her the story. Then she just went berserk and threw me out. All I wanted was to share a good story. I tried to tell her that but she wasn't in a listening mood.”

“Did you see anyone else at Dorothy's house?”

“No, only her.”

“Did she answer the door herself?”

“Yes,” Spencer said. “This is starting to sound like a grilling.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But imagine how you'd feel if one of your clients got murdered on a trip. Dorothy was our client and we'd like to do everything we can to help find out who did this to her. Can we ask just a couple more questions?”

I've got a pretty good pitiful look that I can deploy when I need it and I gave it to him now, looking at him over my glasses and letting my face go slack.

He hesitated then threw up his hands. “Sure,” he said. “Go ahead.”

I tried to pin him down about the timing of his visit, but he was vague about it. “I'm on an unbending schedule every day with my job,” he said, “so when I'm on my own time I refuse to wear a watch. I know I was supposed to be there at four and I think I was pretty much on time.”

“And how long did you stay?” I asked.

Spencer shrugged. “I'm not sure. Thirty minutes? Forty-five? It could have been longer, I suppose.”

“Did you see a little girl, or the housekeeper or anyone else when you were there?”

“Nobody,” Spencer said. “Not to speak to. When I was leaving I did catch a glimpse of a woman taking some bags out of the back of a dark-colored SUV. She was medium tall and medium build, I guess you'd say. Dark hair. That's about all I could tell from a distance. I'd parked on the street and she was at the end of the driveway near the garage. I only saw her for a second or two.”

“Must have been Linda coming back from the store,” Esme said and I nodded.

“Well, there you go,” Spencer said. “She can tell you Dorothy Porter was alive and righteously POed when I left her house.”

“Linda's the one who found the body,” Esme said.

Spencer slumped back in his chair. “Man, oh man, this is
not
good.”

•   •   •

“Were you getting something in there?” I asked Esme as she bulleted up the entrance ramp back onto I-40. “When we were talking about Harrison Pritchett falling for Sarah, you seemed to go somewhere else for a bit.”

“There was something incredibly intense about the relationship between those two,” Esme said. “And I do mean
intense
.”

“They were madly in love, or they despised each other or what?”

“Not sure,” Esme said. “Thin line between love and hate sometimes. I don't know what, but it was something extraordinary. Complicated. All tangled up.”

“There was quite a difference in their ages. Maybe she didn't marry for love. But then again she didn't marry for money, either. Harrison Pritchett hadn't made his fortune by then. He was working as a blacksmith's assistant back in those days—when he wasn't gambling.”

“Well, sounds like he was also a real card shark. Maybe he cleaned out other rich guys besides Raeford Spencer,” Esme said.

My phone rang and an irate Marydale barely waited for a hello. “You will not believe this,” she said, spitting each word. “Vivian Evans is telling everyone in earshot it might have been Linda Burnette who robbed Dorothy, and maybe worse. I've known Linda my whole life. You have too, Sophreena. She was a friend of your mom's. Linda would never do anything like that, and anyway she actually
liked
Dorothy Porter, despite the demands that woman made on her.”

“Why would Vivian say that?” I asked, feeling guilty about my own fleeting suspicion when Spencer told us he'd seen Linda. But that only lingered a nano-second before my left brain gave my right brain a dope slap.

“I have no earthly idea,” Marydale said. “She's been spouting off about what dire straits Linda and her family are in with two kids in college at the same time. Of course that's a struggle. Been there, done that. But Linda and Ben are managing fine, thank you very much.” Marydale's ire passed and now she sounded simply sad. “I know Vivian is hurting. I know she and Dorothy were close, but, really, this kind of nonsense doesn't help anything.”

“No, it doesn't,” I said. “Listen, what has Linda told you about that day?”

“Not too much,” Marydale said. “She's having nightmares about it.”

“Wasn't that late for Linda to be there? Didn't she usually leave around mid-afternoon?”

“She did. In fact Dorothy had cut her back to three days a week. I guess even the rich have to take economy measures nowadays. Linda said she was all ready to leave right after you two did that day but then Dorothy asked her to fix her something for supper and she had to go to the store. You see what I mean? As usual she went way beyond the call of duty.”

“Any idea about what time that was?” I asked.

“I don't have any idea, but Linda might remember,” Marydale said. “Sophreena, why are you asking about all this?”

“I'll tell you when I see you, Marydale. I'm on my cell and you know it's not a good idea to discuss private stuff on a cell.”

“Right,” Marydale said. “Where are you anyway? I tried the house. I figured you and Esme would be holed up working.”

“We were, but then something important came up. We're on our way back to Morningside.”

“Meet you at your house,” Marydale said. “I'll put on the coffee.”

T
RUE TO HER WORD
, M
ARYDALE WAS SITTING IN OUR KITCHEN
when we got home, the welcome aroma of freshly brewed coffee perfuming the air and a quiche in the oven. And she wasn't alone. Linda Burnette, pale and puffy-eyed, had her hands wrapped around a steaming mug as if the contents were the elixir of life.

I hadn't seen Linda since Dorothy died and I felt ashamed I hadn't reached out. She'd been a good friend of my mother's but unlike with Marydale we hadn't stayed in close touch. Linda had still been parenting teenagers and sometimes working two jobs during the past few years, so there simply hadn't been many opportunities to get together.

“How are you?” I asked.

She turned her face up to me.

“Stupid question,” I said, rubbing her shoulder.

“It's bad,” Linda said, setting her lips hard to hold in tears.

“Can't help much to have the police questioning you,” Esme said. “But if it's any consolation they questioned us, too.”

Linda waved a hand. “I don't care. I just want them to find Dorothy's killer. I still can't believe this has happened.”

“Remind me again,” I said as I helped myself to a cup of coffee, “how long did you work for Dorothy?”

“Nearly seven years,” Linda said. “I know lots of people think she was just this stuck-up woman, but she wasn't like that—well, at least not all the time. She could be a really caring person. I like to think we became friends.”

Marydale couldn't hold out any longer. “Where have you two been? Was the thing that came up something about Dorothy?”

I looked at Esme.

“Split jury on that right now,” she said. “Let's take our coffee to the patio to talk.”

Linda drew in a shuddering breath as she rose and I realized Esme had suggested the change of venue to give her a chance to regroup.

Once we'd arranged ourselves around the patio table I told them about Hank Spencer and that he'd freely volunteered that he was at the house that afternoon.

“Did Dorothy mention anything about meeting with him?” Esme asked Linda.

“No. She said she was having a guest, but she didn't say who it was or what it was about. She asked me to make up a pastry tray and set up the coffee service but that was a pretty regular routine, especially lately. She had lots of meetings in the late afternoon and at night. I think she got lonely in that big house since Joe moved out. She looked for any excuse to lure visitors over.”

“But this would still have been during the day, right?” I
asked. “In broad daylight. And you can't remember what time it was?”

Marydale glared at me and only then did I realize how accusatory the question sounded.

“I'm sorry, Linda,” I said. “I'm going crazy trying to figure out how this could have happened.
When
it could have happened. You okay to go over it all with us? I know you've probably had to tell it a million times.”

“It's okay,” she said, still clutching the mug so hard her knuckles were white. “I told Marydale I wanted to come talk to you. The police are doing their best, but they don't seem to have much to go on and I'll just come out and say it, I don't like Jennifer Jeffers much. We went to school together and there's something about her that rubs me the wrong way. Anyhow, they seem convinced this was a robbery and I can't see how that makes sense. I couldn't even tell anything was missing. Course, I didn't know about the ring when I found Dorothy.”

Esme and I both turned to shoot a look at Marydale and she threw up both hands. “Don't look at me, I didn't blab.”

“The police told me about it, or rather questioned me about it,” Linda said. “I cannot believe you found that thing. Dorothy and I spent hours up in that hot, stuffy attic going through her grandmother's things and we never found it. I was beginning to think she dreamt it up.”

“Oh, it's real,” Esme said.

“I can't believe she didn't tell me you found it. But I was cleaning upstairs when you two left, then Jeremy came by to pick up Cassidy and I guess she didn't want to say anything in front of him. She did say she had something to tell me
when I got back from the store and she seemed happy about it, whatever it was. But, of course, she never got the chance.”

“The ring's gone and we think her pearls as well,” I said.

“Pearls?” Linda said, and I remembered Denny had said it the same way, rolling the word around as if trying to divine its meaning.