Paging the Dead (2 page)

I meant it when I told Dorothy I'm good at what I do. I studied hard and I work hard. But Esme's unorthodox contribution to our success is a secret we guard closely. First off, it sounds flaky when you say it out loud, and in the genealogy world where everything is predicated on hard facts and documentation this could quickly get me a reputation as a kook. Secondly, Esme's gift is vague and maddeningly temperamental.

I was a total skeptic in the beginning, but I've seen it work too many times now to have doubts.

I glanced at my watch, nearly three. “We're going to have to hurry along with our errands. The others will be waiting.”

“Marydale will get everything ready if we run late.”

The
others
are our four closest friends. We get together
weekly to work on our family history projects. At least that's how the friendships started.

Marydale Thompson, the mother hen of the group, owns a papercraft shop in downtown Morningside called Keepsake Corner. She'd invited me—hounded me, actually—to teach a class on family heritage scrapbooking a few years ago. I'd resisted. I didn't think we'd get much interest. Shows how much I know. The class filled immediately and we'd started a waiting list. The others had all been in that first class. It was the perfect storm of personalities, interests and unidentifiable chemistry and we'd bonded. When the class was over we didn't want to give up one another's company so we kept going as sort of an informal club.

Esme hummed a song her choir was learning as we drove out to the big box store to buy plastic bins for Dorothy's family memorabilia. On principle I don't like giving the chain stores business, but it's the only place I can find uncoated pure polyethylene boxes. For full-service customers like Dorothy we organize and store the family history artifacts in archival-quality materials and containers. Although we charge a hefty fee—one that sometimes makes the client's eyes bug out—we earn every penny. It's tedious work. For Dorothy we were not only doing that, we were actually constructing her scrapbooks for her. Heaven forbid she should have to learn to operate a glue stick.

Our next stop was the garden nursery to pick up drought-resistant plants for our patio. As we were cruising along in the greenhouse I almost ran my sled into a man who was bent over checking out the Japanese boxwoods.
As he turned in response to my apology I realized it was Jeremy Garrison, Cassidy's father. From his suit and tie I gathered he'd probably come straight from the bank where he worked as some kind of manager.

“Hi, there,” I said. “We just saw your daughter over at your Aunt Dorothy's house.”

“Oh, hey, Sophreena,” he said, stumbling a little over my name as people often do. My grandmothers' names were Sophie and Doreen and my parents didn't want to play favorites.

“Yeah, her day camp was closed today,” he said, “and she decided she'd rather go to Dorothy's than to work with her grandmother or me. Course, why wouldn't she? Dorothy spoils her rotten.”

I'd noticed that Jeremy always skipped the
aunt
honorific, but given his frosty relationship with Dorothy I figured he didn't feel inclined to honor a kinship he didn't feel.

“You two about done with the illustrious Pritchett family?” he asked. His tone was light, but I heard an edge. Whereas Dorothy had used the word
illustrious
reverently, Jeremy packed it with sarcasm.

“Wrapping it up,” I said, resisting the urge to crow about finding the ring. There's an understanding between genealogist and client that their family business will be held in confidence. And even though Jeremy was a family member, his aunt Dorothy alternately tried to pull him into the family fold one minute and push him out the next.

“It's weird,” Jeremy said, frowning, “you two probably know more about my family than I do.”

“The scrapbooks will be done for your aunt's open house. They'll document your family line back through several generations. Maybe those will help.”

I thought Jeremy smirked, but maybe it was a smile. “I'll have to study up, I guess.”

Esme made a show of checking her watch and I got the message. I said a quick goodbye and we hustled to the checkout. But I was thinking about Jeremy and Dorothy as we loaded everything into the back of the SUV, and still pondering as Esme pulled into the gas station a few minutes later and got out to fill the ever-thirsty tank. I noticed one of the plants had fallen over and went around to open the hatch and right it.

“That is one family dynamic I just can't figure,” I said to Esme as she watched the price ticker fly by on the pump. “It's clear Jeremy has no real affection for his aunt Dorothy, yet he visits her regularly and he lets Cassidy spend time with her, too. What's the deal?”

“A deal is exactly what it is,” Esme said. “Dorothy's got money and no heirs. Jeremy may not like Dorothy but I imagine he's got admiration aplenty for her money. Cassidy's the trump card. She's crazy about that kid.” Then her expression softened. “And why wouldn't she be? She
is
cute as a button, and smart, too.”

She snatched her receipt from the pump and glared at it and I went around to begin the climb up into the passenger side of the SUV. Where are ropes and pulleys when you need them?

“Considering how Dorothy and her sister fight, wouldn't you think Jeremy's kissing up to Dorothy might seem like disloyalty to his mother?” I asked.

“Well, if I were Ingrid I'd sure think so, but maybe she's a bigger person than I am.” Esme swiveled her head and shot me a warning look over her sunglasses. “And no smart remarks about my size, girly. You know what I mean.” She blew out a breath. “All I've got to say is this job is nearly over and I'll be glad to be done with Dorothy Pritchett Porter
forever
.”

A
S
E
SME PREDICTED BY THE TIME WE GOT BACK TO OUR PLACE
Marydale had the food set out and everyone had taken up their customary spots in our living room.

Marydale Thompson had been widowed very young and raised a son and a daughter on her own. She and my mother had been good friends and I'd grown up with Marydale's kids as the cousins I never had. They both live in California now and don't get back to see her as much as any of them would like, so we're the beneficiaries of Marydale's pent-up need to mother.

“There you two are,” she said, hooking a strand of salt and pepper hair behind her ear. “I was beginning to think we should send out the hounds.”

Esme sniffed. “If by
hounds
you mean your two yappy Westies, we'd be lost forever. Their short legs don't cover much territory.” She bent to give Gadget a scratch behind his ears to show she meant no offense and Sprocket came skittering over to horn in on the action.

“They make up in tenacity what they lack in size,” Winston
Lovett said. He dangled his big hand over the edge of the couch cushion and snapped his fingers. Gadget came running and Winston scooped him up and cradled him in his lap. The little dog looked mighty pleased.

At sixty-five, Winston is the elder of our tribe. He's lived in Morningside all his life, knows practically everyone in town and is privy to all the peccadilloes and backroom deals that go on among Morningside's citizenry. Up until two years ago he'd owned and operated Sugar Magnolias, the best bakery for miles around. Now that he's retired he no longer has to get up before the roosters every day, but he still loves to bake and we benefit from that, too.

It usually takes us a while to get down to any actual business. We like to gab and eat first and since Esme and I had skipped lunch we set in on the food with enthusiasm.

Jackson Ford had taken his usual seat, a straight-backed chair at the end of the coffee table. He was dressed in his typical jeans and work boots. He's a landscape architect and at only thirty-two he already owns a thriving business. His progress on his family history has been stalled for a while now but he still hangs out with us.

Jack is my best male friend. I've never had a close guy friend, not one like him, anyway, and it's confusing sometimes.

“You two give your report to the duchess?” Winston asked, dropping crumbs as he bit into one of the croissants he'd brought to share. Gadget's tiny tongue shot out to capture the unexpected treat and I could have sworn the little mutt smiled.

“Oh, yes, we did,” Esme said, chuckling. “Wait'll y'all hear how that went.”

As I said, there's a sort of code among genealogists that we keep confidences, but we do consult amongst ourselves. And in the “ancient history club,” as Winston's wife, Patsy, disparagingly calls us, we all consider ourselves genealogists so we feel free to share. Not once had a confidence ever left this room—at least not that I'd gotten wind of. And since Morning-side's a small town, I would've definitely caught the scent.

“Well, come on, dish!” said Colette Newsome, the amulets on her bracelet jangling as she gestured encouragement to Esme.

Colette, Coco to all of us, is in her mid-forties and is what might be called a “seeker.” She's always having her chakras adjusted, her auras read or her head bumps interpreted. She's dabbled in numerology, palmistry, aromatherapy and reflexology. She's a talented potter and makes a good living at it. Tourists snap up her wares by the armload from the Morningside Craft Co-op and she gets lots of commissions.

Esme grabbed another ham biscuit from the tray Marydale had brought and launched into the story of how we'd restored Grandma Pritchett's bling to its rightful owner. There was no need to be coy about how we found it with this group. They know all about Esme's being a large medium—my joke, which Esme doesn't appreciate.

She was just getting to the good part—the part where she got to mock me—when my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and thought it might be a potential client so I stepped into the kitchen to answer.

When I came back to the living room a few minutes later the others looked my way and the laughter and chatter stopped cold. I struggled to find words, gulping like an air-drowning fish.

“Sophreena, what's wrong?” Esme asked.

“It's Dorothy. Mrs. Pritchett. I mean Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Pritchett Porter,” I sputtered, then forced myself to stop and draw a breath. “Esme, she's dead. Dorothy's dead. She's been murdered.”

B
Y THE TIME THE POLICE ARRIVED TO QUESTION US
I'
D
stopped shaking and willed myself into a state of calm. Esme, on the other hand, was all het up and taking it very personally that Dorothy had managed to get herself dead and had somehow involved us in it.

Not that Esme's callous. Just the opposite—she cares so deeply that if she doesn't get mad, sadness overcomes her. When something bad happens she needs to find someone to pin it on so she can channel it all out.

The only question I'd thought to ask while I was on the phone with the detective was about Cassidy. He'd assured me the girl was okay and that whatever had happened to Dorothy, it had happened after Cassidy left.

Our card had been found at the scene and they'd learned we'd been at Dorothy's earlier in the day. The detective told me they'd very much like to have a chat while things were still fresh in our minds. His tone was pleasant, but he made it clear it wasn't optional.

Even in my stupor, when I opened the door to the
detectives I had to suppress a snicker. Either their commanding officer had a sense of humor or one of them had ticked somebody off. The male detective identified himself as Denton Carlson. He was about fifty, black, burly and at least six foot five. His partner, Jennifer Jeffers, wasn't much taller than me. She must've barely made the height requirement for the force. She was a green-eyed strawberry blonde and her freckled skin was pale against the dark business suit she'd adopted to cadge whatever authority she could get.

She looked up at Esme then caught my eye and an understanding passed between us. Shorty Solidarity.

As I motioned for the detectives to sit at the kitchen table I could hear the others out in the living room whispering. They were clustered around the door and I only hoped they wouldn't lean on it and fall into a pile on the kitchen floor like some Three Stooges skit.

“Could I offer you some coffee or tea?” I asked, my mother's hospitality training kicking in despite the circumstances.

“Coffee would be great,” Detective Carlson said and Jeffers nodded. I caught Carlson checking out the dinette chairs as if wondering whether they'd support him. I considered telling him they'd been Esme-tested, but thought better of it since she was in a mood.

She went to the cupboard and retrieved four mugs while I launched a brew in the Mr. Coffee. She was humming softly, but it wasn't a contented hum, it was more like a thrum or a drone. As she leaned in to set the mugs down she muttered, “Denny and Jenny? Seriously?”

The names hadn't registered on me and I had to choke down an unseemly giggle. Our client had been murdered. That was about as serious as things get. But dark humor is another way Esme copes and sometimes she sucks me right in.

Jeffers began the questioning. I admired her methodical approach and tried to match it as I detailed our dealings with Dorothy up to and including that afternoon's meeting. “She'd expressed a particular interest in anything we might learn that would help her locate an heirloom piece of jewelry, a ring that had been in the family for many generations.”

Jeffers seemed unfamiliar with the whole concept of genealogy and couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that this was how Esme and I earn a living.

“So, she hired you to find a ring?” she asked.

“Not directly,” I said. “She hired us to trace her family lineage. Which we did, back to the British Isles. The family name is occupational. It comes from a word meaning ‘maker of pointy weapons,' ” I said, then realized I was babbling. “Anyway, finding the ring was just a lucky bonus.”