Paging the Dead (24 page)

“The thing is, Jeremy denies he was even in that room that day,” Denny said.

“Why would he lie about that?” I asked. “He was in and out of that house all the time. He had free run of the place. And he was there that day. He picked up Cassidy.”

“So why deny it if he had coffee with Dorothy in that sitting room? That's what I'd like to know,” Denny said. “In fact we're about to go ask him that question and see if he'll give us a DNA sample so we can see if we get an exact match. Let me know if you turn up any long-lost male relatives,” he added, glancing across at the cruiser where an impatient Jeffers was waiting behind the wheel. He gave Esme a quick smile that had nothing to do with the case then strode across to the car. He barely had a chance to close his door before Jeffers pulled away from the curb, tires squealing.

•   •   •

“Give it up, Sophreena,” Esme said an hour later. “You've been bent over those charts for long enough. If there was anybody to find you'd have found them by now.”

I slapped the notebook closed. “You're right. You know, when you look at the charts it's a miracle the Pritchett name
survived as long as it did, or that the family didn't die out altogether. Before Dorothy and Ingrid there were four generations with only one child.”

“So, that leaves only Jeremy,” Esme said, pursing her lips. “That's troublesome, very troublesome, but I just can't accept that this means what it appears to mean. First off, Cassidy truly loved Dorothy and that had to count for something big in his book, right? And he's not a hothead, in fact, just the opposite—he's kind of aloof. Even when he's angry he's always in control. And from everything we've heard this was a violent outburst, not something planned.”

“But what if it wasn't? What if it was a coldly calculated act? Joe Porter said Jeremy was shocked there weren't more assets in Dorothy's estate. And I'm sure Jeremy and Ingrid both figured Ingrid was going to benefit in some way from Dorothy's will.”

“Hard to think about,” Esme said. “But I know I'm not objective. I don't want anything bad to happen to Cassidy. Let's just hope there's some rational explanation for that coffee cup having Jeremy's DNA. Right now we've got enough to worry about, Sophreena. We only have one more day to get all this finished.”

We worked without interruption for the next three hours. The pages got plainer as we went along, with fewer embellishments and less detail work, but I tend to be a minimalist so that suited me fine. Plus, if Vivian was right and these ended up in some community display, the cleaner pages would be more appropriate—and more honest. These scrapbooks weren't works of love constructed by a family member; they were produced by our hired hands. To me it was like
paying someone to pick out your wedding dress—or maybe your husband. I much preferred Laurena Pritchett's humble commonplace book. It was messy and had little to offer in the way of design or aesthetics, but it was heartfelt and reflected real lived experiences.

I stretched my arms high and worked my head from side to side. Esme stood and reached for the ceiling, nearly touching it with the tips of her fingers, then twisted and slung her arms around. Our eyes swept the room and then we looked at each other, wide smiles spreading across our faces.

“Mercy, mercy,” Esme said, “I can see the end of this thing. I think we can finish this up tonight.”

But the good cheer didn't last. A minute later we got a call from Linda Burnette.

“I'm up at High Ground,” she said. “Winston took a spill off the ladder. He's hurt but he won't let us call an ambulance. I think he's broken something. Can you or Esme come and see if you can talk him into going to the hospital?”

Stiff muscles and fatigue were forgotten and Esme broke her own land speed record getting from our house to High Ground.

Linda, Vivian and a couple of other volunteers were gathered around Winston, who was sitting on the decking of the wide porch off the back of the house. He was clearly in pain but when he caught sight of us he started grousing.

“Oh, for pity's sake, don't tell me they called you. I'm fine. I just need to walk it off.” He tried to scramble up, but his foot wouldn't hold and he fell back onto the planking with a thud.

I knelt beside him and folded up his pant leg. His ankle
was hugely swollen and turning purple. I untied his shoe and though I tried to slip it off gingerly he winced and made a grunting sound.

Esme sat on the steps and leveled a look on him, her dark eyes flashing. “Winston, you're going to the ER one way or the other. Now do you want me to call an ambulance, or do you want us to carry you to my car?”

Winston took one look at her and knew not to argue. “Fine, I'll go with you,” he said.

While Esme pulled her SUV up close I went into the kitchen to round up something to make an icepack. As I was rummaging in the drawers looking for a big dishtowel I heard voices I recognized coming from the hallway.

“Quiet, Cassidy will hear you,” Ingrid said.

“She's upstairs,” Jeremy answered. “And besides, you don't think she's going to hear about this? The police questioning her father? It'll be all over town.”

“They have no reason to suspect you of anything,” Ingrid said. “None at all.”

“You weren't there, Mother,” Jeremy said. “I'm telling you, I'm a suspect. They kept me there for two hours; they took my DNA, for God's sake.”

“They don't know anything,” Ingrid said. “If they did they'd have made an arrest by now.”

I realized—too late—that their voices were moving closer. Ingrid stopped short as she came into the kitchen and saw me standing there with the dishtowel I'd taken from the drawer flapping in the breeze from the open door.

“Sophreena!” she said. “I didn't realize anyone was in here. What are you doing?” She frowned as she saw the
cluster of people out on the porch, trying to get Winston to his feet. “What's going on?”

I moved to the refrigerator and made a lot of noise getting the ice, hoping she wouldn't realize I'd overheard their exchange. I told her about Winston's injury and she asked if there was anything they could do.

“We've got it,” I said. “I know you must have a lot to do to get ready for tomorrow.”

“Vivian can handle things here,” Jeremy said. “If you need help just let me know.”

He seemed sincerely concerned and I wanted to believe that's the kind of person he was. But could I? There was something unsettling about what I'd just overheard.

When I got back outside Winston was getting situated, his leg stretched across the two seats in the back of the SUV. I put the makeshift ice bag over his ankle, causing him to flinch again. Within seconds Esme was behind the wheel and we were off to the ER.

We'd have left an ambulance in the dust.

•   •   •

“I do not understand that woman,” Winston's daughter-in-law, Nancy, said as we sat in the ER waiting room while Winston's broken ankle was being put in a cast. “Patsy's still at her sister's. I called her and told her what happened, but she doesn't want to come home. She says he can manage fine and it would be too expensive to change her ticket. I mean, I hate to be a walking cliché and complain about my mother-in-law, but she is such a cold fish!”

Nancy, a petite, vivacious brunette, was a kindergarten
teacher. She was married to Winston's oldest son, Foster, and they had two rambunctious pre-teen boys. Winston loved Nancy like a daughter. He'd been reluctant to let me call her, but once it became clear the injury couldn't be brushed off he'd had no choice.

“He could come to our house,” I said. “We have a guest room on the ground floor.”

“No, he'll want to go home; he'll insist,” Nancy said. “Foster's out of town on business, but he'll get the first flight home and the boys and I will stay at the house with Daddy Win tonight. He'll hate being fussed over, but he'll just have to get over it.”

“That's really sweet of you,” Esme said.

“He's a sweet man,” Nancy said. “He brings out the good in everybody.” She curled her lip. “Well, almost everybody.”

Winston came out a few minutes later, struggling to work the crutches.

“Daddy Win,” Nancy said, rushing to give him a hug. “How in the world did this happen?”

“I'd like to know that myself,” he said. “I was helping hang baskets of ferns around the porch up at High Ground. I checked the ladder, I know I did. Vivian even came over and held it for me. Linda was handing the ferns up and we were talkin', sort of remembering this and that about Dorothy, and everything was going along smooth. Then somehow the ladder slipped and I went keister-over-teakettle.”

“Thank goodness it's just an ankle and not a knock on the head,” Nancy said, tiptoeing to kiss him on the cheek. “Now come on, let's get you home. The boys want to set up a crutch racing course in your backyard.”

“God help us,” Winston said, but he was grinning.

As I watched them make their way to Nancy's car I felt sad. When I'd first met Winston I'd assumed what I heard about Patsy Lovett was exaggerated. But then I got to know her and she really was a God-awful harpy. How did a lovely man like him get hitched up with someone like that? I thought of how Joe Porter had described a vibrant and fun Dorothy, a woman neither Esme nor I could imagine based on our experience with the imperious matron Dorothy had become. People change. Or more troubling still, people aren't always what they seem.

•   •   •

After another two hours of steady work Esme and I had finished all the scrapbooks and packed up everything to cart it up to High Ground the next day. Complete.
Fini.
Done.

I should have been elated. So why did everything feel so
undone
?

I called Jack to tell him about Winston and heard dishes clanging and restaurant noises in the background. “Does he need anything?” Jack asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

I told him I thought Nancy had everything covered and began telling him how the accident had happened but he cut me off.

“Hey, Soph, this isn't the best time to talk. Can I call you back?”

Sure, he could.

But he hadn't.

Esme accepted a supper invitation from Denny and I didn't even have the energy to tease her about it. She
continued to claim she was only doing it to stay close to the investigation, but I don't think she expected me to believe her, especially since she came down the stairs looking gorgeous and she allowed Denny to pick her up at our house and drive her to the restaurant instead of meeting him there. This was definitely a date. She tried to get me to come along with them, but I had no interest in being a third wheel. I told her I was looking forward to vegging out and watching a movie.

I was happy for her. Really, I was. But the house seemed big and empty after she left. I couldn't find a movie that held my interest. I was restless and it felt like I should be doing something, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what.

I wandered out to the kitchen to fix myself some supper, more for something to do than because I was hungry. I was staring at the meager contents of the fridge when the doorbell rang. It was a promising sound. Maybe Jack had decided to come by instead of calling me back. But no, he wouldn't ring the bell—would he? We weren't on such friendly terms right now, so maybe he would.

It wasn't Jack; it was Ingrid and Cassidy and both of them were obviously out of sorts.

“You left this up at the house and I thought you might need it to finish up the family history.” Ingrid held out a small notebook before I'd even had a chance to say hello.

I took the notebook and looked at the cover. “No, it's not mine,” I said.

“Oh,” Ingrid said, frowning. “I saw that list and I assumed it was yours or Esme's.”

“List?”

“On the first page,” Ingrid said, grabbing at Cassidy's hands as the girl flapped them back and forth against Ingrid's hip, twisting from side to side and making whiny noises.

I opened the notebook and glanced at the page. The list read:
birth certificates, handwriting samples, bank statements, letters.
I handed it back to Ingrid. “I can see why you thought it was mine, but no, I've never seen it before and it's not Esme's.”

“Strange,” she said, putting the notebook back in her bag. “I just assumed . . . maybe it was Dorothy's, though it doesn't look like her handwriting. Oh, well, wasted trip. As you can see I need to get Cassidy home to bed. She's had a long day and she's tired.”

“I'm not tired,” Cassidy said. “I'm sad.”

This seemed to me a gross understatement. The poor child looked absolutely desolate.

Ingrid gave me an exhausted, pained smile then guided Cassidy along to the car.

I closed the door and leaned against it, mentally and physically exhausted. Hadn't this turned out to be a peach of a week? My client had been murdered. I'd been the subject of horrid gossip. My wonderful little town had been turned inside out. Jack and I were on the outs. Winston was hurt. Two guys I'd come to like were suspects in Dorothy's murder. I was starting to be suspicious of everyone who crossed my path. Esme might be slipping away from me and I was powerless to ease the suffering of a grief-stricken six-year-old.

I didn't need food or a movie. I needed to be doing something. I went into the workroom, where I felt I had some control. The timeline of Dorothy's last day was still bothering me.

Genealogists depend on all kinds of charts and graphs to help keep track of family lineage, historical events and cultural phenomena and to make sense of how they all intersect. Timelines are my personal favorite.

I grabbed a handful of old dot-matrix printer paper from the three boxes I hoard for just this purpose, unfolded ten sheets along the length of the worktable and reinforced the perforations with tape. I drew a line across the bottom of all ten sheets and crosshatched at intervals to represent the hours from noon until seven. I labeled this line
Me & Esme
. Then I repeated the process in parallel three more times, one for Jeremy, one for Hank Spencer and one for Linda Burnette.