Picture Them Dead (7 page)

Whoever Lottie Walker was, it was unlikely that she was the natural child of Oren and Sadie Harper, but clearly she had some sort of relationship to them. Why else would they have left her everything they had in this world? My single goal for this afternoon was to find out what Lottie Walker's birth name was. That would put me on a new trail. Anything else I found out I'd count as a bonus.

*   *   *

I managed to snag a prime spot in the parking deck right next to Terminal A and hustled inside so I'd be there to greet Dee. I joined the crowd at the bottom of the escalator and milled around, vying for a spot where I could see the top of the platform.

I spotted Dee's blond hair, styled in a new pixie cut, and called out to her as she descended. I'm not normally a big emoter, but Dee brings out the kid in me, and we were both squealing and hugging like teenage girls at a boy-band concert.

“Is that your only bag?” I asked, eyeing her compact carry-on.

“Yep, this is it,” she said.

“Only you could pack enough for two weeks into that tiny bag,” I said.

“I pack like the engineer I'll soon be,” Dee said. “Everything has at least two functions and I can buy things here if need be. It'll still be cheaper than paying to check a bag.”

Dee had an undergraduate degree in economics and had worked a short stint in New York as a financial analyst before deciding she was on the wrong career path. She'd found she was more interested in her brother's profession than her own. Brody was an architect, and the more he talked about his work, the more Dee became unsatisfied with hers. So she'd quit her job and gone to Chicago to get a degree in architectural engineering. She and Brody had plans to open a firm together in North Carolina once she graduated.

“We have our Genealogy Club meeting tonight,” I told her once we were in the car. “You'll have to come. We've put together a really cool scrapbook for Marydale and Winston. It's beautiful, if I do say so myself. Lots of exotic papers, and I did all the calligraphy for it. All modesty aside, I do have a beautiful hand.”

“You do,” Dee said, “all modesty way aside, but is it supposed to be a surprise? How did you get all the stuff without Mother knowing? She knows the inventory in that shop like it's hardwired into her brain.”

“Roxie ordered it all for me,” I said, “off the books.”

Dee's cousin Roxie came over from Chapel Hill every Thursday to keep the shop so Marydale could have a weekday off. She was a sweet gal, but a bit of a scatterbrain. When Marydale announced she was getting married Roxie had been floored and blurted out, “But you're old,” before her brain could stop her tongue. She was never going to live it down.

“Oh, Roxie,” Dee said. “Bless her heart. Yeah, I'd love to come to the club tonight. I want to see everyone, especially Jaaa-ack,” she said, reaching over to poke me in the ribs.

I slapped her hand away, concentrating on a lane switch. Dee was the only one I'd confided in about my feelings toward Jack. “I can't take any teasing about that right now,” I warned her. “Not after last night.” I told her about our interrupted conversation.

“Sophie, you're torturing yourself,” she said. “You've lived in this in-between long enough. You need to just put it out there and see what happens.”

“And what if he doesn't feel the same way? Then it will be all awkward. I'm not sure we could ever get back to being just friends. It would be horrible.”

“Well, you can't go on like this forever, either,” Dee said, digging her sunglasses from her bag. “There's got to be tension.”

“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “I've got tension, anyway. I'm not sure anyone else is aware of the situation.”

Dee gulped a laugh. “Everyone else is aware, Sophie, everyone in the club and probably half the town. You know how Morningside is. And speaking of which, what is all this drama over that grave? A glass coffin? That's so creepy weird.”

“And it just keeps getting weirder,” I said. “When's the last time you talked to Marydale?”

Dee frowned. “Must have been night before last. Why?”

I told her about finding the body at River's place.

“Oh, my God, Sophreena, that must have been awful,” she said.

I nodded. “On a scale of one to ten, it was about a seventeen,” I said.

“Did you know her? Is it somebody from Morningside?”

“No, no clue who it is.” I gave her a rundown on the facts, which didn't take long. “No identifying marks except a rose tattoo, and that's certainly not very unusual these days.”

“A rose tattoo?” Dee asked.

“Yeah, on the shoulder. Only a butterfly would be more of a cliché, right? But at least she went for a more distinctive color, her rose was yellow, not red.”

“Soph, I think I know who it is!”

seven

I asked Denny to meet us at my house; I didn't want to bring the taint of a murder investigation into the happy wedding kerfuffle at Marydale's. He pulled up at the curb as Dee and I were getting out of my car. I was relieved to see that Jennifer wasn't with him—I had enough stress in my life at the moment.

All of us automatically gravitated toward the kitchen, the room with the coffeemaker. I set a pot to brew while Denny talked with Dee.

“So you knew this woman?” Denny asked, pulling out his trusty notebook and clicking his ballpoint.

“Maybe,” Dee answered. “I can't be sure and I wouldn't know her today if I met her on the street, but that tattoo, I can't imagine there would be that many women her age with a yellow rose tattoo who would have some connection to that place.”

“Her name?” Denny prompted.

“Sherry. Sherry Burton. At least that was her name when I knew her. I don't know if she ever married.”

“And when and how did you know her?” Denny asked, which was a question I wanted an answer to as well. Dee and I had known mostly all the same people when we were growing up, and I didn't remember anyone named Sherry Burton.

“When I was in middle school. I didn't know her well, but I met her a few times.”

“I didn't know her at all,” I said, and realized it came out like an accusation.

Dee frowned. “I don't think you ever met her. She was the granddaughter of the old woman who lived there, the one who was like a hermit. I've forgotten her name.”

“Lottie Walker,” I said.

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

“How did you meet Sherry and I didn't?” I asked, setting steaming mugs of coffee on the table.

“She came to stay with her grandmother for a couple of weeks in the summertime. She had a younger brother, too, but I don't remember his name. Anyway, they came two or three summers in a row. It was always during the time you were visiting your grandmother in Missouri. I was looking for someone to hang out with while you were away, and Laney Easton had somehow met Sherry. I started hanging out with the two of them the first summer Sherry was here, but it didn't last long. My mother put the kibosh on it quick-in-a-hurry. She thought Sherry was too wild. But Laney's mother apparently didn't get the memo because Laney hung out with Sherry the whole time she was here. They were thick as thieves.”

“Laney Easton, the village councilwoman?” Denny asked.

“The very same,” I said. “Hard to imagine, I know, but we were good buddies way back then. Laney outgrew us and joined the in-crowd by the time we got to high school, but we were the three amigos there for a while.”

“Now she's a power player,” Denny said. “Youngest ever on the village council, on boards and committees and I don't know what all. So she'd know Sherry Burton?”

Dee nodded. “She did back then, at least. That first summer, while I sat home totally bored and waiting for Sophreena to get back from Missouri, Laney and Sherry and a couple of boys we knew from school were into all kinds of mischief, sneaking out at night and going on adventures. She got that tattoo when she was here. I don't know who she talked into giving it to her because she was clearly underage, but she managed it.”

“And who were these boys?” Denny asked, scribbling in his notebook.

“Gavin Taylor and Bryan Mason. I don't know if Gavin still lives here or not, but I think Bryan is running the pro shop at the golf course. He was the last time I was home, anyway.”

“He is,” I confirmed. “Gavin's still here, too. He's a mechanic at Joe Porter's service station.”

“Oh, I know Gavin,” Denny said, packing a lot of meaning into the words. “And do you have any idea where Sherry lived or anything else about her recent life?”

“Not really,” Dee said. “I think she had a pretty bad home life growing up. It seemed like her mother brought her and her brother here just to dump them and they hated it here. The grandmother didn't seem too thrilled about it either. She never did anything with them, as far as I could see.”

Denny scribbled some more. “Okay, then, looks like the brother, assuming he's still among the living, would be the next of kin, unless she was married. No wedding ring, but that doesn't necessarily mean she wasn't,” he said.

“I hope I haven't given you a bum steer,” Dee said. “I mean, not that I hope it's Sherry, or that I hope it's anyone I know, or anyone at all. I mean, it's terrible that someone was killed like that.” She looked over at me with a pleading look. “What do I mean, Sophie?”

“You mean you need to get to your mother's to prepare for one of life's joyful moments and let Denny get back to the cop work,” I said.

“Guess that's my cue,” Denny said, stashing his notebook and handing over his empty mug. “I'll let you know what I find out.”

After we heard the front door close, Dee looked up at me, her eyes wide. “I don't think I've ever known anyone personally who died like that—before their time, and violently. It's really unsettling.”

“All the more reason to get you to Marydale's and involved in something happy. You are happy about this, aren't you?”

Dee pursed her lips. “I am. But that doesn't mean I don't have a few reservations. I know Winston is a good guy, but I'm nervous for my mom. She's been on her own for a long time. This will be a big adjustment for her, and for Brody and me. But I know we'll work it out.”

“That's what good families do,” I said, trying to bat down the green-eyed monster rearing his ugly head. I envied Dee. Families were everything to me professionally, but I have few blood relatives left, and those are distant relations living in faraway places. Thank goodness I had Esme.

*   *   *

This time the front desk attendants at Cottonwood hardly even looked up from their paperwork when I signed the visitor log.

I hurried back to Room 18 and pushed the door open a crack. “Miss Lottie, okay if I come in?” I called in a half whisper.

“Come on in,” said a voice both frail and irked. “Not like I have a choice about who comes prancing through here all hours. Who are you? You that girl that brings the books? I done told you I don't read no more. Bad eyes. Take your cart on to somebody who can still make out that tiny print. Don't know why they have to make it so small anyhow.”

All this before I'd even set foot in the room. I explained again who I was and for a moment she seemed to understand. “Yes, I recollect, you came before. You wanted me to tell you a story, didn't you, little girl? Well, I don't know any stories, and besides, I'm tired. You go on now, go outside and play.”

I sighed. Miss Lottie may have been a sundowner, but she wasn't too sharp at noon either.

Just then there was a smart rap on the door and Miss Lottie yelled out a “Come in” that didn't sound in the least welcoming.

“It's Carlos, Miss Lottie,” a young male attendant said. “You want to go down to the dining room today or should I bring you a tray?”

“Tray,” Miss Lottie said. “And a root beer.”

“I've told you we don't have root beer,” Carlos said, “but I can bring you a soft drink. They have cola and lemon-lime and I think they've got orange soda, too. Does one of those sound good?”

“Root beer or nothing,” Miss Lottie said, pursing her lips and turning away from him like a petulant child.

Carlos gave me a wink and said, “Okay, then, I'll be back with your tray in a few minutes.” He cupped his hand and whispered, “She's usually a little more sociable after she eats.”

He was right. When he brought the tray, he asked if I'd like to help her with it or if he should stay. I looked at the tray stocked with fruit gelatin, some kind of chopped meat in gravy on a piece of toast, a mound of mashed potatoes, a carton of milk, and a glass of water. Of course I wanted Carlos to stay and feed her, but I figured doing it myself might help me build a bond with her.

It did, but it cost me. She complained about everything, from the way I held the spoon to the tone of my voice. She muttered under her breath about all my ineptitudes, punctuating the litany now and again by swearing at me. Man, she was a grumpy old lady. She ate like a bird, but still, she did seem to get a degree more civil with each tiny bite.

“Miss Lottie,” I said, holding out a spoonful of mashed potatoes, “you grew up at the old Harper place, right?”

“Old Harper place,” Miss Lottie repeated.

“Do you remember someone being buried there? Was there a family cemetery on the property?”

“No, I told the lawyer, I want to be buried at Plain­view. That's where Howard is and I want to be laid out right by him. I bought the plot when I buried him. Stone's already there. All that's left is to put the date on when I go.”

“I'm glad you have that taken care of,” I said. “Are all the Harpers buried at Plainview, too?”

“Lord, no,” Miss Lottie said, giving me a glare. “They were all Methodists, they don't go to Plainview. They get planted at Memory Gardens.”

“All of them?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “None of them were buried on the old Harper place?”

“You're trying to trick me,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I grew up there. Lived there most of my life. Can't remember the time before I lived there. Fact, I hardly remember anything that came before that night. And can't forget a minute of what happened, though I surely wish I could.”

“What night was that, Miss Lottie?” I asked, trying not to look at the mystery meat as I scooped up a bite and offered it to her.

“Is it night already?” Miss Lottie asked. “I get so mixed up in here. They forget to open my shades and half the time I don't know if it's night or day.”

“No, it's still daytime, Miss Lottie,” I said. “I was asking what you meant when you said you couldn't remember a time before that night. You were telling me about when you were still a girl and living at the Harper place.”

“The Harpers are good people,” she said. “Real good people.”

“I've heard that about them,” I said. “Did you grow up with Oren and Sadie Harper?”

“Sadie was a beautiful woman, wasn't she?” Miss Lottie said. “And brave. She had to do some hard things in her life, but she did what she had to do and I thank the Lord for that. I could have hated her for what happened in some ways, but I didn't. Not a bit of it. I loved her like she was my mother.”

“What kind of hard things did she have to do?” I asked, excited that we finally seemed to be getting on some kind of track, a meandering one to be sure, but at least we had momentum. I scooped up another spoonful of the meat concoction.

She leaned over to take the bite, then immediately spat it onto her tray. “That's the worse thing I ever tasted,” she squawked. “You trying to poison me?”

I wanted to point out that she'd already eaten two hearty spoonfuls of the sludge so she'd already be dead if I was trying to poison her, but we'd been trucking along so nicely and I was hoping I could get her back. “No, ma'am, I promise I'm not,” I said. “I'm sorry if it isn't good. Here, let's try a bite of the gelatin.”

She accepted the quivering orange spoonful and seemed to enjoy it so much that she forgave me for trying to kill her with the mystery meat. She pulled a few impressive swallows of milk from her straw, then pushed the tray away.

“Miss Lottie, could you tell me your maiden name?” I asked.

“Gave it up when I married Howard. I was an old maid when I met Howard Walker. Thirty-three years old and never even had a beau. I never did think about myself the way he saw me. It was new and strange, and just mighty wonderful,” she said, her eyes now staring off into the distance as if I wasn't in the room. “We run off and got hitched quick, and the next thing I know I've got a baby in my belly and Howard's got hisself killed down at the mill. I had no business raising a child. Some women ain't cut out to be mamas and the proof is in the pudding. Marla didn't turn out too good. She's always in one kind of trouble or another. The only time she comes around is when she needs bailing out of some mess. Oh Lordy, is she here?”

“No,” I said, “she's not here, Miss Lottie. But I'm sure she'd love to see you.”

Miss Lottie puffed out her cheeks and let out a whoosh of stale-smelling breath. “I 'spect not,” she said. “You don't know Marla if you think that. She'd as soon kick you as kiss you.”

I wonder where she got that temperament, I thought. “Could you tell me your maiden name?” I tried again. “The name you were born with.”

“Charlotte,” she said. “It was my mama's mama's name, but everybody always called me Lottie, long as I can remember. I'm Lottie.”

“And your last name?”

She looked at me and her eyes seemed to bobble along lazily in their sockets. Apparently an afternoon nap was about to happen, ready or not.

“Right, that was my name,” she said, blinking very slowly.

“Yes, your maiden name, Miss Lottie. What was it?”

“Right,” she said, the word slurring.

And she was out, her snore like the purr of a kitten.

*   *   *

The afternoon hadn't been a complete loss. I'd learned that Miss Lottie was indeed Marla's mother and likely the grandmother of the murdered young woman. But that raised other questions. If Lottie had living grandchildren, why would she give so much of the money she'd gotten from selling the place to the Literacy Council and not to them? Assuming she hadn't planned to leave something to them. After all, the woman wasn't dead yet. Maybe she'd left them something in her will; that is, if the nursing home didn't eat it all up before she passed.

Esme was in the kitchen preparing a vegetable tray for the club meeting when I returned. I don't know why we continue to call ourselves a club. We have no real structure, no bylaws or rules, we're just friends. Still, we do set aside this time each week to work on our family histories and talk about our progress, and most Tuesday nights, we walk down to Marydale's shop after we eat and spend some time working on our heritage scrapbooks.