Picture Them Dead (5 page)

five

It seemed to take forever for the police to arrive and we stayed in our tight little trio, unconsciously taking one step, then another away from the dead woman, until finally I looked up and we were halfway back to Esme's SUV.

“You must be getting the idea this place is cursed,” Esme said to River.

“Not the first time. Not when I plowed up poor Jimmy. But this,” he said, gesturing toward the body with a wave of his hand, then reaching up to adjust his cap, “this is some bad juju. I don't think we need the cops to tell us somebody killed her.”

“A fall?” I proposed, though I didn't have much faith in the theory.

“Off a skyscaper, maybe,” River said. “But there's not one of those handy.”

“Did you hear anything last night?” Esme asked. “Surely she would've screamed.”

“There was lots of activity out here last night with the vigil and all. I came out once about sunset to make sure nobody was bothering my buddy there”—he nodded toward the grave—“but they all seemed content to stay on the other side of the fence, so I went back in the house and let them have at it.”

“Who made that?” I asked, pointing toward the split-rail fence that separated River's property from Claire's. The handmade sign leaning against the fence read:
IF YOU WISH TO LEAVE A TRIBUTE FOR THE FORGOTTEN MAN, PLEASE LEAVE IT HERE. DON
'
T GO ANYWHERE NEAR THE GRAVE. THAT
'
S THE LAW OF THE LAND AND OF COMMON DECENCY.

“I put that up,” River said. “And I think it had some effect. Most of the stuff they left is over there, though a few folks thought they just had to have a look-see into the grave.”

There were real and plastic flowers, a menagerie of stuffed animals, a host of handmade signs, and numerous wreaths tacked to the fence, along with enough candles to light up a small airstrip. Not to mention candy wrappers, burnt-paper candle guards, and the stubs of the tiny candles that had no doubt been passed out at last night's vigil.

“Here come the cops,” River said. “Jenny's gonna be mighty upset by this.”

Jennifer was behind the wheel of the unmarked car assigned to her and next to her, I saw the outline of a bulky figure in the passenger seat. At first I thought it was Denny. I experienced a moment of relief before realizing it was Lloyd Ramsey, Morningside's chief of police. Ramsey's a nice enough man, but I wasn't sure he was the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Denny never trash-talked the man, but “He's a good administrator” was about the best accolade he could manage.

They both got out of the car, moving with some urgency, Jennifer toward her father and Ramsey toward the body.

“Dad, you okay?” Jennifer asked, glancing sideways at her boss as she touched her father's arm.

“I'm fine, Jen,” he said, his voice low. “Just go do your job.”

Jennifer double-timed to catch up with Ramsey. He'd stopped near the body but he hadn't crouched down for a closer look. I couldn't say I blamed him, but I had to wonder if maybe he was feeling a bit inadequate. It was clear he hadn't been out in the field for a while.

“This is a homicide,” he said.

Thank you, Captain Obvious, I thought, literally biting my tongue to make sure I didn't blurt it out loud.

“Call the medical examiner and tell him to get out here,” Ramsey said, tossing the words to Jennifer over his shoulder.

I saw the muscles in her jaw clench, but she only muttered a “Yes, sir” as she pulled her phone from her pocket. She made the call, then traded the phone for a small notebook and pen. “I'm going to interview these three so we can clear the scene,” she said, turning ­toward us before Ramsey had a chance to reply.

“Who found her?” she asked, pen poised over the page.

“We all sort of found her at once,” River said, and explained how we'd converged on the scene.

“Did any of you touch anything?” she asked, looking first at me and then at Esme.

River raised a hand. “I did,” he said. “I thought she was one of the tribute people and that she'd come out here to leave something, then dozed off. She was sort of on her side and it looked like she was sleeping. When she rolled we saw the blood and her head all like that.”

“Did you touch anything else?” she asked, scribbling fast. We all shook our heads and she went on to ask about the time frame, what we'd observed, if we knew the victim, if we'd seen anyone else, all the typical questions.

“Okay,” she said at last. “If we get any good footprint impressions we'll need your shoes for elimination purposes.” She sneered down at Esme's high heels. “And if you think of anything else that might be important, call, but then you two already know how to insinuate yourselves into police cases, don't you?” she asked, her face deadpan.

“Jen,” River said, his tone cautionary. “What is it you'd like us to do now?”

“Go on back to the house,” she said. “Wait there. The ME may have questions for you. If he does, I'll call you. Otherwise just stay there until I'm done here.”

“Us, too?” I asked, jumping in before Esme had a chance to start up an argument, which I could tell she was itching to do.

“Yes, all of you,” she said, adding a perfunctory “We appreciate your cooperation” as her boss walked up behind her.

“I'll fix you a cup of coffee,” River said. “You'll have to excuse the state of the house; I'm doing a little remodeling.”

This was my first clue that River was the king of understatement. The interior of the old farmhouse was a construction zone. The walls—the ones that hadn't been knocked down—were stripped to the studs and there were tools and supplies stacked everywhere. But the kitchen hadn't been touched. It was so retro it was in again. The turquoise appliances had to have been there since the fifties, along with the white metal cabinets and the deep porcelain sink. But there was a state-of-the-art microwave and a space-age coffeemaker that took up an entire section of countertop by the sink.

“How 'bout a cappuccino?” River asked, and we both nodded eagerly.

“So you're living here with all this going on?” I asked as he motioned for us to sit at the chrome and laminate dining table.

“I don't need much,” River said with a shrug. “Kitchen works for as much cooking as I do right now. I'll redo it last, and if I time it right, it'll be done just as my garden starts coming in, assuming anything in my garden survives. The upstairs is finished, so I've got a nice place to sleep and a classy bathroom. During the day I'm mostly outdoors anyhow.”

“You're not doing this all yourself, are you?” Esme asked.

“No, no,” River said. “I've got a good contractor. I like to do the detail work myself: cabinetry, built-in bookcases, stuff like that. But it'll be awhile before we're ready for that, which is good, since the workshop's not done yet.” He motioned toward the kitchen window, and Esme and I craned our necks to see the skeletal rafters of an outbuilding going up in the corner of the backyard.

“You know, with all that's gone on here this morning, I've not had a chance to get the copy of the deed for you,” River said.

“It's okay, we can use the time to figure out what we already know,” I said, taking out my notebook.

“Okay,” River said, pushing various switches and levers on the coffeemaker with practiced ease, “but that won't take long from my end, since I don't know much.”

“Sophreena's good at getting information out of ­people that they don't even know they know,” Esme said.

“Well, let's see. I never set eyes on Charlotte Walker,” River said as gurgling noises came from the machine. “When I bought the place I asked questions about the family, just out of my own curiosity, but her lawyer wasn't the jawing type. Either he didn't know or wasn't inclined to say much. He always referred to Charlotte Walker as the Widow Walker, I guess because she'd been a widow for a long time.”

“See, there you go,” I said. “There's a bit of info we can use.”

River grinned.

“How about relatives? Did she have living relatives?”

“Don't know,” River said, getting cups and saucers from the cupboard. He held up a finger to signal an interruption and steamed the milk, which made a racket that filled the tiny kitchen. “I suspect she didn't have any kin, 'cause I bought this place and all the contents, kit and caboodle. I'd take it by that she didn't have anybody to leave it to. I kept a few of the things from the house because they were interesting or made me think of something from my own childhood, but I gave the rest away. Haven't tackled the attic yet; it's still stuffed full.”

He fiddled with pouring and scooping and served up two aromatic cups before throwing the dish towel over his shoulder. “Nutmeg? Cinnamon?” he asked.

On any other morning that would've made me giggle. River looked like he belonged on a tractor, not acting as our barista.

He caught my smile and shrugged. “Coffee is important to me,” he said. “I like to learn about things that are important to me.”

He joined us with his own cup and I went back to my notebook. I jotted down the name of the lawyer. He might not be inclined to tell me anything either, but if I made some noise about the undisclosed grave, he might be forthcoming, if only to protect his vulnerable parts. I asked more questions about the property transfer and River answered patiently, though he didn't have much useful information. Then his phone rang and from his side of the conversation it was clear we were being summoned. I raised my mug and took one last satisfying gulp before reluctantly setting it down in its saucer.

When we got back to the tent, the crime scene techs were collecting the markers they'd used to identify details at the scene and the body was being loaded into the wagon.

Ron Solomon, the medical examiner, came over to greet us. I've known Ron, now a burly man in his mid-fifties, since I was a kid. He and my father had been on the parish council together at St. Raphael's. They'd also been racquetball buddies and, despite being a decade apart in age, fast friends.

Like a lot of people who deal with death for a living, Ron has a dark sense of humor. “Tell you what, Mr. Jeffers,” he said, after introductions were made. “I'm gonna give you a twofer. Since I was out here anyhow for the female, I had a look at your skeleton. He's got a hole in his skull, seems like it warrants a further look. I don't think he died of natural causes. Bad news for him, good news for you. We'll be transporting the remains back to the morgue.”

“Well, I can't say I'm sorry to be turning this over to you,” River said, “but I would like to know what you find out about the fella. I somehow feel responsible for him, crazy as that sounds.”

“Not crazy at all,” Ron said. “I get it. So does half the town, for that matter. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Your part may not be over. A lot will depend on what we find out. North Carolina burial laws can be tricky, and family burial grounds are protected. We'll have to keep this area condoned off until we find out more. Sorry.”

River sighed and Ron turned and motioned for us to follow him. “Just a few quick questions and I can let you folks be on your way,” he said. “What are the odds we'd have two unidentifieds here in this same spot, huh? Probably fifty years apart, but still weird.”

“What are you basing the fifty years on, Ron?” I asked.

He pursed his lip. “Nothing remotely scientific,” he admitted. “They just look like old bones. I'll be able to run some tests later.”

“Have you ever encountered a glass casket before, or heard of one being used in this area?” I asked.

“Nope,” Ron answered. “I've read about them, but I've never actually seen one—never expected to, either. I think you can file that invention under ‘seemed like a good idea at the time.' Unless you're a canonized saint or a banana republic dictator, I see no reason you need meet your maker in a display case. 'Course this one isn't see-through, but still, very impractical. I take it you're looking into that whole situation?”

“Yes, we're going to do some research for Mr. Jeffers.”

“Good call,” Ron said, looking back over his shoulder to grin at River. “My money's on Sophreena. She's a bulldog once she gets her teeth into something, and with Esme on board, you got yourself the Dynamic Duo.”

“So I've heard,” River said with an amiable smile.

“Anything you can tell us that might shed some more light on how this guy got here, Ron?” I asked.

He stopped a few steps from where the young woman's body had been found and turned as if to finish this conversation before he entered sacred ground. He tilted his head and thought for a moment, his bushy eyebrows bouncing up and down with the effort. “Well, I suppose you already know this land used to belong to a family named Harper. I think it passed on to Charlotte Walker sometime in the seventies, when Mrs. Harper died. I guess the Harper line died there, too. I didn't know any of them, but my grandpa was a farmer and he rented acreage from the widow Harper after her husband died. There used to be more than three hundred acres on this homestead. So I'm guessing whoever this man is, he'd be related to the Harpers in some way. Now, I did know the Harpers' granddaughter a little. Her name was Marla. Marla Walker. We went to Morningside High at the same time, though she was a couple of grades ahead of me and we definitely didn't travel with the same crowd. I was a nerd, which I know you'll find shocking,” he said with a big grin, “and she was a wild child.”

“Walker, not Harper? Does she live around here still?” I asked.

“No,” Esme answered, shaking her head, then noticed the peculiar looks coming her way. “No,” she repeated. “The way you put it sounds like she's deceased.”

“Yeah, she is,” Ron said, still looking at Esme, his forehead pleated into frown lines. And yeah, her name was Walker. Don't know how she was related to the Harpers, but I assume she was king to them somehow. She left here while we were still in high school. Ran off with some boy as wild as she was. Bound for California, I believe, but I don't know where they actually ended up. I heard she died in a car crash, must have been about ten or twelve years ago.”