Paging the Dead (27 page)

I turned and ran smack into the chest of a man who'd planted himself in the middle of the sidewalk, his feet wide apart and his arms outstretched.

I squawked and jumped back but he didn't move. He waved his arms around and started repeating
it's okay
over and over like the words were rounds from a Tommy gun.

My heart was pounding and there was a terrible buzzing in my ears as blood rushed to my head. I couldn't decide whether to try to run past him or turn and flee toward Keepsake Corner. Marydale would be gone and everything else was closed, so neither option seemed like a good plan. Plus, I'd worn these stupid shoes and I wasn't exactly fleet of foot.

I found myself assuming a defensive karate-style stance, even though I've never had one minute of self-defense instruction. Suddenly that seemed like a severe deficiency in my education.

“Don't freak,” the man said, and I recognized the voice. Hank Spencer. “I didn't want to keep following after you; I was afraid you'd think I was stalking you and you'd be scared.”

“And you thought jumping out in front of me would be better?” I squeaked.

“Guess I wasn't thinking at all,” he said, stepping up to where I could see him. “Look. I changed my mind about talking to you. I went to your house, but your partner or friend or whatever she is wouldn't tell me where you were. I don't
think she likes me. And frankly, she scares the bejesus out of me.” He walked over and sat down heavily on the river rock wall that bordered the sidewalk. “I wanted to tell you I'm really sorry about coming off the spool like that the other night and for being a jerk and hanging up on you earlier. I'm not like that. Really, I'm not. Usually I'm a pretty mellow guy.”

“Evidence notwithstanding?” I said.

“I guess,” he said. “It's just, lately I'm having some stuff going on in my life. My business is down and my wife is scared about that so she takes it out on me. And yeah, I know, times are tough all over. I wasn't too worried until this business hit me. I can't believe I've gotten myself into this mess. I met Dorothy Porter
one
time, to talk about something I do as a
hobby
. Next thing I know I gotta hire a lawyer—with money we don't have. And people are looking at me like I'm a stone-cold killer.”

“How did you know where to find me?” I asked, looking around and wondering if I should still make a run for it.

“What?” he said, as if I'd snapped him out of some profound meditation. “Oh, no mystery there,” he said. “I saw you when I was driving by. I parked down the street and hustled to catch up with you. I figured better here than going back to your house and facing that Esme woman.”

I relaxed a little but stayed where I was. I decided I enjoyed being out of easy reach. “The reason I called you earlier,” I said, “I wanted to ask you some more questions about that day. Something doesn't fit, but I can't seem to figure out what.”

“That's why I came,” he said. “I really am sorry about being such a tool earlier, but this lawyer has put the fear of
God in me about talking to the police. Course, he didn't say anything about talking to a genealogist. The way I figure it is if you can sort out all those begets and begots you're the one I want trying to make sense of this so I can get out from under.”

I had him go over everything he'd seen and done at Dorothy's that afternoon. I pressed for information that might help with the timeline, but again he couldn't tell me much that was helpful. “I was totally messed up after she got so upset,” he said. “Looking back on it now, I should have known better. I mean, half the people on my trips are into family history because they take pride in their distinguished ancestors. I should have kept that in my mind when I went to see Mrs. Porter.”

“Dorothy could be a little stuffy sometimes,” I said.

“Now you tell me,” Hank said. “She was trembling and crying and she acted like I'd told her the story to make fun of her or something, which wasn't the case at all.”

“And you didn't say anything to indicate you wanted the ring back?” I asked.

“Back? What do you mean, back?”

“Well, it was the Spencer family ring. It was in your family for generations.”

“Well, yeah, but
was
is the operative word there, right? And that was ages ago. Plus my ancestor was the one stupid enough to lose the thing in a poker game, and it was never in my direct line anyhow, so even if it had still been in the Spencer family I'd have no right to it. I never said anything about putting any claim on the ring. It was just the story that
upset her. And I feel bad about that, I do. I hate thinking the last minutes of the woman's life were unhappy and that I was the cause of it. But other than that unintended cruelty, I never hurt her. I swear it.”

I relented and went over to perch on the rock wall with Spencer, though a few feet away. “Look,” I said, “you had no way of knowing she'd react like that. A lot of people enjoy having a little spice in the family stew. An outlaw or a rakish ne'er-do-well. And you're gonna think I'm obsessing, which I am, but can we go over the timeline just one more time? And this time can you close your eyes and tell me absolutely everything you can remember about that day?”

He shrugged and seemed to resign himself to the exercise. He started in with the familiar narrative again, but this time he added a few details he'd left out before as I asked some guiding questions. Yes, he'd had coffee with her, yes in the fancy cups, but someone else was coming over after him.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

Hank opened his eyes, looking a little dazed. “Because she said so,” he said. “When she
invited
me to leave she said I had to get out because she was expecting someone shortly and she wanted me and my scurrilous tales gone by then. Is that the word,
scurrilous
? What does that even mean? She was nattering on about how she had to make this person realize some hard truths and how she'd spent half her life defending and upholding the Pritchett family name. Yadda, yadda. She was rantin' like she was off her meds or something.”

“You never mentioned this before.”

“I forgot. Honestly, I forgot she said all that. I was so shocked when she wigged out everything went out of my head. I didn't remember 'til just now. Wow, that closing your eyes thing really works, huh?”

“Yeah, it
works
,” I said with a sigh. “Unfortunately in this case it informs without enlightening.”

T
HE
F
RIDAY OF
D
OROTHY'S MEMORIAL DAWNED CLEAR AND
cooler, as if she'd arranged pleasant weather for the comfort of her guests. But I was filled with dread at the prospect of going up to High Ground.

It made me ill to even consider that Cassidy could lose her father, but every snippet of evidence that bubbled up seemed to be pointing directly at Jeremy. And he wasn't helping himself by being evasive, if not outright lying. Why did he feel the need to do that if he hadn't done anything wrong?

And what Hank Spencer had supposedly remembered last night didn't help matters. I'd heard Dorothy use that phrase, “hard truths,” with Jeremy many times.

When I came downstairs I found Esme sitting at the kitchen table, hand across her forehead, staring down into her coffee cup.

“Another rough night?” I asked.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Sometimes I truly wish those who've passed on would stop looking back over their shoulders, or their wings or whatever they've got now.
I feel like stamping all messages from Sarah Malone
RETURN TO SENDER.
Every time I close my eyes here comes that quilt.”

“Must be something important to Sarah, but maybe we'll never know what it means.”

“Oh, I'll eventually know. She's got no intention of leaving me alone until I figure it out. And one thing that comes through loud and clear is she's frustrated I'm being so thickheaded. So now she's not only haunting me, she's trash talkin', too.”

•   •   •

I recognized several dignitaries sprinkled in with the regular Morningsiders at High Ground. As Esme and I threaded our way through the crowd I overheard remnants of conversation here and there, most glowing tributes to Dorothy for her public service.

Joe Porter was standing near the entrance to the kitchen talking with a group of men. I nodded to him as I went by and he reached out and pulled me aside.

“Sophreena, I want you to meet Rick Medlin,” he said. “He's one of my managers. He tells me he thinks maybe he owes you an apology.”

I looked up at the man expectantly, but didn't have a clue what this was all about.

“I was rude when you came to see Joe the other day,” the man said, and only then did I look beyond the suit and recognize the guy as the wrench-wielding mechanic. “The reporters had been swarming the place trying to get to Joe and I was getting sick of it,” he said. “Just before you came there'd
been this tall, blond woman snooping around. She was way too pushy and I guess I took my frustration out on the next person to come along. I'm sorry about that.”

“No problem,” I assured him, thinking the reporter must have been Julie.

I liked Rick Medlin.

Esme had gone on out to the lawn where most of the regular folks were assembled. I'd seen Marydale and Coco out there clucking over Winston. I started out to join them, but then caught sight of Jack chatting with Julie and decided I couldn't deal with that today.

I went into the dining room to check on the scrapbooks and found Jeremy and Ingrid both leafing through the pages. We made a little stilted conversation, then I excused myself and got out of the room.

I'd gotten halfway down the hall before remembering I should have asked Ingrid about where she wanted the boxes of archives put. I was eager to get them out of our workroom and even more eager to turn over responsibility for them to someone else.

As I got to the doorway I overheard Ingrid and Jeremy in what sounded like an argument. I could only make out snatches of the conversation since they were both whispering furtively. “Careful what you say . . . told her too much already . . . your life we're talking about . . . your future . . . not much longer . . . sick of the lies . . . Cassidy's future . . . we've come this far . . . not much longer . . . the consequences . . .”

I crept away on my tippy toes, thinking I might be sick. I walked out to the kitchen where the drone of murmured
voices and the clinking of glasses and silverware drifted in from the formal rooms.

“Sophreena? You okay?” a voice asked.

I was looking to the outside, searching for Esme. “Yes, Vivian, I'm fine,” I lied.

“Vivian? That's about the tenth time I've gotten that today.”

I turned for a closer look. “Linda, I'm sorry. I just glanced . . .”

“It's the suit,” Linda said, pulling on the lapels of her stylish black business jacket. “I had to go out and buy it since I didn't have anything decent to wear. Dorothy's lawyer, Mr. Conover, is going to make an announcement later about High Ground being left to the town and he's going to introduce me as the manager, so I have to look respectable.”

“You look very professional,” I said.

“I must. People keep mistaking me for Vivian, which is okay by me; she's a pretty woman. But I don't think she's too thrilled with the comparison.”

“She should be flattered,” I said, which earned a smile from Linda, perhaps her first of the day. “Listen, have you seen Esme? I can't seem to find her.”

Linda jerked her head toward the living room. “Last time I saw her she was in there with Cassidy.”

I worked my way through a throng of adults who were juggling food plates and talking in low, respectful voices until I got to the front part of the living room where a window seat was nestled in the large bay window. Esme was sitting with Cassidy, who was cross-legged on the window seat with the
puzzle box on her lap. She still kept it with her, even though she'd solved the puzzle. She seemed to find comfort in it.

She was busying herself by putting some small object into the hidden compartment, closing the box up, manipulating the pieces to reveal the object, taking it out, then doing the whole thing over again.

“Hi, Cassidy,” I said.

She turned her sad eyes up to me and I felt heartsick. “Hi, Miss Sophreena,” she murmured, then went back to her business.

I wanted to tell Esme what I'd overheard between Jeremy and Ingrid, but I couldn't very well do that in front of Cassidy. So I sat in a chair nearby and tried to give Esme eye signals that I needed to talk. But she was focused on Cassidy.

“That sure was nice of your Aunt Dot to give you her special ring,” Esme said.

“Daddy took the ring and put it at the bank in a safe box so no one can steal it,” Cassidy said, working the latches and sliders quickly now that she'd gotten the hang of it. “He says if I
absolutely
need to sell it for money to go to college that would be okay but we should try to keep it in our family if we can.”

“I think either way would make your Aunt Dot happy,” Esme said.

Cassidy shrugged, not much cheered.

I could see I wasn't going to get Esme aside anytime soon so I went off in search of Vivian. I found her ushering a group through the house, giving a running commentary on the architecture and history of the home as if she were
the lady of the manor, or perhaps a well-trained docent. She seemed keyed up, even for Vivian.

I told her I had a quick question and she gave me a scowl. I had to resist the impulse to feel my face to see if the look she'd drilled me with had left a mark. She was reluctant to leave her audience but she excused herself and took my elbow, guiding me into the kitchen where Linda was supervising the caterers. “What is it, Sophreena?” Vivian asked, looking back to make sure her little group wasn't about to escape.