Picture Them Dead (9 page)

“Need help?” I called. “Is there more in the car?”

“No, this is it,” she called back. “Just picked up a few things while I was out.”

I went to the doorway of the kitchen and told her what I'd found out and my theory about who the Forgotten Man was. “I was able to trace him with the help of the records you got me this morning. Thanks.”

“You don't need to thank me, I was just doing my part,” she said as she tucked a brick of coffee into the cupboard. “Did you call River and tell him?”

“Yes, and I set up a time to look through his attic. Tonight, about seven.”

“That'll work,” she said, “though it might've been nice if you'd checked with me first.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just figured I could handle it if you weren't available.”

“Yes, I imagine you could get along fine without me,” Esme said, her tone brittle.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

She flapped a hand. “Nothing. I promised Denny I'd cook him supper, but we'll be done by then. It's fine.”

I almost launched into a defense but I caught myself. I was getting tired of tiptoeing around Esme's shifting moods. “Good, then,” I said.

“Good,” Esme repeated. “Will you be here for supper? I'm making pork chops.”

“Have plans,” I said.

Actually, the only plan I had at the moment was to be elsewhere at dinnertime. Jack wouldn't be back by suppertime, but maybe I could pull Dee away from the wedding activities long enough for a quick bite. It wasn't that I didn't like spending time with Denny and Esme, but she wasn't herself right now. And anyway, I figured they needed to spend some time alone. From what I could see, her relationship with Denny was in danger of going into a death stall. There was no persuading her to share her biggest secret with him. I'd threatened to tell Denny myself, but she'd let me know quick-like-a-bunny—a very angry bunny—that there would be nuclear fallout if I did that. So they were stuck, just like Jack and me.

I was searching the workroom for my cell phone when it did me the courtesy of ringing. I retrieved it from underneath a pile of papers and saw Dee's number on the display.

“We must still have our Martian mild meld,” I said. “I was just going to call and see if you wanted to go out for a quick dinner.”

“That's why I'm calling you,” Dee said. “Except you'll never guess who wants to take us out to eat. Laney Easton called, said she knew it was last-minute but she'd love to see us both and catch up. Talk about a blast from the past.”

“Well, clearly it's you she's interested in seeing,” I said. “I mean, if she'd wanted to catch up with me, all she had to do was give me a jingle. I've been right here.”

“The way I understand it, your absence would be a deal breaker. She said if we both couldn't make it tonight, we'd just shoot for another time. She wants to take us to the country club.”

“Can't do that,” I said, not really keen on sharing the limited time I'd have with Dee on this trip. “I won't be dressed for the country club and it would have to be pretty early.” I told her about my appointment with River.

Dee laughed. “I'll call her and give her your terms. Only you, Sophreena, would blow off the chance to have dinner with one of the town's muckety-mucks to go combing through a dusty old attic.”

“Yeah, well, in most cases attics are more interesting than muckety-mucks.”

*   *   *

I felt like I was back in middle school. Laney was gushing at Dee and me like we were her BFFs. We were reminiscing over crab cakes and salad at Mystic Café, a trendy new restaurant in Morningside's quaint downtown. I had mixed feelings about the place. It was cool and they served good food, but it had displaced my favorite hardware store, which had been driven to a low-rent strip mall way out on River Road. The eatery had been open only a week and there was a long line out front, but Laney had breezed right on past, speaking warmly to everyone in line as she towed Dee and me in her wake. People had smiled and chatted with her and no one seemed to resent her line jumping.

It was all coming back to me why we'd liked Laney Easton so much back when we were young. She was always smiling, always had a good story to tell, and had a deep-throated, infectious laugh. She put people at ease. I envied that talent and inwardly took a moment to analyze how she pulled it off.

Laney wore clothes well. Even dressed casually, as she was now, she looked as if every detail had been attended to. Her dark hair was precision cut in a style that was slightly longer on the sides, with straight bangs that just topped her eyebrows. Her nails were manicured and her jeans fit her slender body as if they'd been custom-tailored. A thin gold chain around her neck suspended a single pearl into the V-neck of her emerald-colored top, and her suede jacket dipped in at the waistline to follow her contours. I, on the other hand, was dressed in my attic-combing garb. And with me, hair grooming is a combat sport. I could have found Laney's appearance intimidating, but she didn't bring out insecurities in people.

She did, however, bring out a little jealousy when the talk turned to the times she and Dee had spent together when I'd been away at my grandmother's house for our annual summer visits all those years ago.

“That was when I sowed my wild oats,” Laney said, laughing. “Pretty lame oats by current standards.”

“Oh, I don't know. I remember hearing of exploits that involved a lot of sneaking out at night,” Dee said, lowering her voice to a near whisper.

“Well, yes, there was that,” Laney agreed, holding a finger to her lips. “My parents were so strict they would have locked me in my room until I was thirty if they'd known about that.”

“Was this when you were hanging out with Sherry Burton?” I asked. “Sounds like you were good friends. I'm sorry about what happened to her.”

“We were friends,” Laney said, now solemn. “ 'Course, that was a very long time ago, but she played a part in my life and when someone you know dies like that, you feel the loss.”

“Did you keep up with her over the years?” I asked. “Did you know she was in town?”

Laney looked at me and frowned. “You sound like Detective Carlson, Sophreena. Are you interrogating me?”

“No, not at all,” I said, feeling my face redden.

“Relax,” she said, reaching across to slap my hand. “I know you didn't mean anything by it. I lost touch with Sherry years ago. By the time she came for that last summer, I hardly saw her at all. My parents thought she was a bad influence, which she was,” she said with a sigh. “But she was such fun. All we really did when we met up at night was go down to the little creek behind the Harper place and pretend we were part of some exotic tribe. It was all silly, innocent stuff.”

“With boys!” Dee said. “Don't forget that part.”

“With boys,” Laney allowed with a smile. “But it was still innocent. Not that Bryan and Gavin wouldn't have liked it to be otherwise, at least where Sherry was concerned. They didn't give me a second look. Sherry was a tall, willowy thing with long, tanned legs and plenty on top. I wasn't any of those.”

“Did she return their attentions?” I asked.

“She flirted with Bryan,” Laney said. “But that was just to get him to do what she wanted. Gavin had a mad crush on her, but she didn't give him the time of day. He was a year younger and she treated him like a pesky little brother, though she already had her own pesky little brother. What was his name? I can't even remember it now. He used to try to hang out with us, but Sherry would always send him packing, and she wasn't very kind about it either. Poor little guy.”

“Did Bryan or Gavin keep in contact with Sherry?” I asked. “I'm wondering why she would have come back here. She hadn't been out to see her grandmother, so that wasn't the draw.”

Laney chuffed a mirthless laugh. “I assure you she wouldn't have come to visit her granny. Those two hated each other. I mean it. Hate, that's the only word for it. There was nothing storybook about them coming to her house for their summer stay. Granny Walker didn't want them and they didn't want to be here, at least Sherry didn't. But their mother just dropped them off. I mean, literally dropped them in the yard without even going in to speak to her mother. Is there some reason you're so interested in this, Sophreena?”

I told her about River hiring us to find the identity of the Forgotten Man. “And Esme and I were with him when he discovered Sherry's body. I guess in a weird way I feel responsible for her.”

Laney's face softened. “That's kind of you, Soph­reena. And I'd be happy to tell you if I knew anything that might help, but unfortunately I don't. Bryan's probably the one you should talk to. He kept in contact with Sherry, for a while anyway. He even hitchhiked out to Asheville once when she was staying out there somewhere with her mom and one of her several ‘stepdads,' ” Laney said, making air quotes. “Gavin may have stayed in touch, too, for all I know. But Bryan was pretty fixated on her. She was the bad girl he could never have brought home to mama. When I think about it, though, it was Sherry and Gavin who had the most in common. Neither of them had good self-control, or much judgment either. If I'd had to pick back then who'd wind up dead or in jail, those two would have been tops on the list. I know that sounds awful in light of everything that's happened, but . . .” She shrugged.

I caught a glimmer of the elegant watch on Laney's wrist and twisted my head to check the time. I was cutting it close. I made my apologies, urging Dee and Laney to stay on for dessert.

“Listen,” Laney said, putting her hand on my arm as I got up to go, “I hope whatever you find out about the Forgotten Man turns out to be a good, uplifting story. You know he's gone viral now? He and his glass coffin are all over the Internet. And again, I know this sounds callous, but whoever this fellow was, he's putting the town of Morningside on the map. And if there happens to be mention in the media of our championship golf course or the new spa hotel that's going up with that spectacular view of the lake, well, Morningside can always use an infusion of tourism dollars.”

nine

Esme was in a good mood when she arrived at River's place. Spending time with Denny had clearly been beneficial.

We started the trek up to River's house but suddenly she stopped in her high-heeled tracks, all the happy leaking out of her like air from a punctured balloon. I followed her eyes and saw Jennifer's car.

“Play nice, Esme,” I said, keeping my voice breezy to try to salvage what I could of her good cheer. “Remember, we're on the same side here. We all want to get to the bottom of this and let River get back to his peaceful life as a microfarmer.”

As it turned out, Jennifer was in a good mood, too, at least for Jennifer. She answered the door with what could have been interpreted as a smile and led us back to the kitchen, where River was drinking some kind of wretched-looking tea. Jennifer's cup of more sensible cappuccino was waiting across the table.

“Ah, you made it,” River said. “Would you like a cup of something before we tackle the attic?”

I started to decline. I'm trying to cut back on caffeine, but Esme accepted and the rich coffee aroma won out.

“You know,” I said, glancing around the retro kitchen, “it'll be a shame to tear all this out. It's so cozy and I just love all this old-fashioned stuff.”

“I've been telling him the same thing,” Jennifer said, as if astounded we'd actually agreed on something. “This is my favorite room in the house.”

River cocked his head and puffed out his lips. “Well, maybe I'll just put in a big outdoor kitchen and leave this one as is. I want a place where I can do some canning and preserving, but outdoors would be better for that anyhow. You two have me nearly convinced.”

Esme motioned toward the coffee machine. “I don't suppose you'd teach me to work that contraption,” she said. “I was thinking I might like to get one someday, but they look scary complicated.”

I wondered where in my tiny kitchen she thought she'd put the monstrosity, but I enjoyed watching River lead her through the procedure. Esme laughed as she ladled on the dollops of foamed milk.

“Dad tells me you have a good theory about who the Forgotten Man might be,” Jennifer said. She shifted in her chair before adding, “Good work.”

“We still have a lot to find out,” I said. “But it's a good start. Have you heard from Ron?” I asked, turning toward River.

He sighed. “No, I don't think Jimmy's a high priority. If he was a victim of foul play, it's not like they'll be putting out an all points bulletin for the killer. He or she is likely just as dead as Jimmy by now. But I sure would like to know more about him, and how he ended up out there.”

A silence fell over the room and we all examined our cups as if the answer could be found in the liquid within. “River,” I said finally, “before we completely lose the light, would you mind if we took a walk around the property now?”

“Sure,” River said. “Fact is, I walk some part of the property nearly every day about this time. I like to sort of abide with it, you know? To learn all its contours and textures and to catalog in my head what needs to be done. I'd love some company.”

Jennifer made a production of peering over the edge of the table at Esme's feet, but she didn't say a word.

Esme slid back her chair and reached for the oversize bag she'd stashed in the corner. “Just give me a minute,” she said, her voice sweet as honey. She then proceeded to pull out a pair of the ugliest running shoes ever produced. Bright purple trainers with lime green strips and thick white soles.

We all stared and Esme lifted her chin to a haughty angle. “Just because I'm being practical doesn't mean I can't be stylish,” she said.

We all laughed as Esme donned the neon clunkers. We were, if not best buddies, at least boon companions for the evening's stroll. The sun had only just disappeared below the horizon and the day teetered on the edge between day and night, the air soft and the light velvety.

“I'm pretty sure this is close to the original land boundary on this side,” River said, pointing off toward the highway. “Or maybe the roadway went in later and the land was snatched up by eminent domain. But anyway, this side of the property runs to the highway, so you have to jump the road to get to the nearest neighbor, and the house on that property sits way back from the road. I haven't met the people who live there yet, but I'm told they've been there for generations, too, like the Harpers were here.”

“I see your builders have made progress on your workshop,” I said, noting that the structure now had walls and a roof.

“It's coming along,” River said, adjusting his trajectory to walk toward it.

I hesitated, feeling a vague sense of dread. The last time we'd walked alongside River, we'd found a dead woman. Who knew what was inside the workshop.

As we approached, River pressed a button, which raised the garage doors and simultaneously turned on a bank of lights. Only building supplies and sawhorses were scattered about. It was then that I realized Esme had stopped in the yard and was holding her hand across her forehead in a gesture I recognized.

I went to her and spoke softly, so River and Jennifer couldn't overhear. “You okay?” I asked. “Are you getting something?”

Esme made a mumble in the affirmative, then bent down to retie her ugly shoe, as River and Jennifer noticed our delay and doubled back.

“Something wrong?” River asked, looking at Esme in concern.

“No, I'm fine,” Esme said. “I just felt the urge to stop right here on this spot and enjoy the view,” she said, giving me a coded eye signal.

“It is a nice view,” River said, frowning. “But not the nicest on the property. Hey, maybe you were a water sprite in a former life. This is where the old well used to stand. Could be you felt the draw of the water.”

“Well, nobody's ever described me as a sprite,” Esme said, pulling herself up to her considerable height, “but I do love water.” She smiled, but I recognized the signs. Esme's heightened sense of what was inaccessible to most of us took its toll on her. It gave her headaches and sometimes made her feel woozy.

We walked on, staying near the property line, River keeping up a running commentary on his plans for the place: an herb garden here, a chicken yard there, maybe an apiary just over there next year. “And here,” he said, pointing to a row of newly planted trees along the rail fence that separated his property from Claire Calvert's place, “these are fruit trees and along there blueberry bushes.” He walked closer to inspect the small saplings. “I'm happy these survived all the foot traffic through here,” he said. “I call this optimism row,” he added with a chuckle. “I'm hoping I'll live long enough to taste the fruit. But if I don't, I know Jen will get to enjoy it.” He looped his arm around his daughter's neck and she gave him a beaming smile. It so transformed her, I almost gasped in surprise. She looked like a different person altogether.

“Did you know Claire before you moved here?” Esme asked, gesturing toward Claire's house.

“I did,” River said. “Incredible woman. Terrible thing, what happened to her, but amazing how she's dealt with it.”

“I wish she'd be a little more cautious,” Jennifer said, staring at the house. “I told her if Quentin bothers her she could get a restraining order, but she insists she doesn't need one.”

“Things are not always what they seem, Jen,” River said. “Claire's a compassionate person, but she's nobody's fool; far from it. I imagine she knows what she's doing.”

Jennifer shook her head. “In my line of work things are always what they seem, unless they're something worse.”

I was expecting Esme to weigh in about now, considering how protective she was of Claire, but when I looked over at her I could see her mind was elsewhere.

As we all instinctively turned away from the still-tented grave site, River and Jennifer stepped out ahead and I reached over to touch Esme's shoulder.

She patted my hand and gave me a reassuring, if weak, smile.

“I don't know if you want to walk all the way down there,” River said, pointing down a steep hill on the other side of his long driveway. “It goes down to a pretty little creek. It's rocky, uneven ground and it'll be full dark in a few minutes. I didn't think to bring a flashlight.”

“That's okay,” I said. “We'll save that for another day. Thanks for the tour.”

“Proud to do it,” River said.

Esme walked alongside River as we headed back to the house, and as I tried to make conversation with Jennifer, I heard Esme asking River more about the old well.

“He means that, you know,” Jennifer said. “About being proud to show all this to you. I think he's prouder of this place than of anything he's ever done, and he's done a lot of things in his life. He has it in his mind to create something here that can serve as a model to others. Now death and violence have intruded on it, twice. It's weighing on him.”

These were more words than Jennifer had ever spoken to me, and they were deeply felt sentiments that she was choosing to share.

I was so surprised, I couldn't reply right away. I turned over in my mind what I should say, eager to preserve this fragile détente. “I get it, Jennifer,” I said finally. “I do. I don't know if what I find will help, but I hope it does.”

“I hope so, too,” Jennifer said. “Dad's not a black-and-white kind of guy, he sees more shades of gray than most people. I think Vietnam did that to him. It's important for him to know the circumstances of what happened here. We'll solve the case of Sherry Burton,” she said with absolute assurance. “You and Esme find out who Jimmy was and how and why he died. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said, though with far less confidence.

Back in the house, I picked up my bag. “I've got dust masks and gloves in here. We'd better get on with it before it gets any later.”

River guided us to the second floor, then opened a door that had concealed a set of steep, narrow steps. As we lined up, he started punching buttons on a small display screen located on the wall nearby. At first I thought it was a fancy thermostat, but it seemed too big for that. He saw my curious look.

“Whole-house control,” he said. “Lets me turn off lights, power down appliances, and adjust the heat and air. I like my comforts, but I can't stand waste. It'll turn off all the lights downstairs and turn them on again when we come down. There's a sensor on the door.”

I looked to where he was pointing and saw a rectangular electronic gizmo embedded in the door frame. “Cool,” I said.

“I thought so,” River said. “My company developed it.”

“You mean you developed it,” Jennifer said. “Your company was you tinkering in the garage back then.”

River shrugged. “Concept was mine, but it took people smarter than me to make it work the way I wanted it to. Anyhow, onward and upward, ladies.”

We made our way noisily up the wooden stairs and emerged into a huge attic packed chock-a-block with stuff. There was plenty of light and a fan brought in cool evening air from the outside. I was grinning from ear to ear. This was my kind of place.

Esme, on the other hand, looked horrified. When she's surrounded by the belongings of the deceased, she sometimes gets inundated with little scraps of messages, images, and emotional spikes she calls surges. The bombardment can leave her exhausted. She stood for a moment getting her bearings and then I saw her shoulders relax. Apparently this space was quiet for now.

“Nearest I can tell, the paper stuff is all over here,” River said, directing us to the south side.

There was a lot of it and it was an archivist's nightmare. Crumbling cardboard boxes and moth-eaten cloth bags held reams of wrinkled yellowing paper.

“Tell you what,” I said, looking up at River, “this is a little more than I was thinking we'd find. Would it be okay if I took some of it home to our workroom to go through? I'll bring it all back.”

“Sure,” he said. “I'll probably end up tossing it anyway unless you turn up any family members who might want it.”

I snapped on rubber gloves and started to sort. Esme collected the chosen boxes and bags and stacked them at the head of the stairs. There were eight in all plus one that contained photographs, stored as carelessly as the documents. I cringed as the flap of the box fell away when I opened it. To me, family photos are treasures, and these had been treated like trash.

After I'd gathered everything, we wandered around the attic just enjoying looking at the items. Old bed frames, a wooden high chair, lamps, two chests with blankets and quilts inside, carefully wrapped in muslin, a dresser that was shabby chic long before that was a decorating trend, and a corner filled with old fishing tackle. My eye lit on an obviously handmade child's rocking horse; the wood had a patina of gray, and was split in places, probably from the heat in the attic. Was this a gift? Perhaps from a father to a beloved child? How I wish the things people leave behind came with their stories. This is why I urge clients to include information about their belongings in their family histories. We live among things; they're the artifacts of our lives. Soup ladled from a bowl you bought yesterday at your local discount store is a different soup from that taken from your great-aunt Matilda's treasured tureen, the one she received as a wedding gift and passed on to you because you'd always admired it. That soup nourishes you in a whole different way.

We were all strolling around lost in our own thoughts when our heads snapped up in unison in response to a loud crash from downstairs.

Jennifer moved immediately, but the rest of us had a delayed reaction. She was already at the bottom of the stairs, cursing the automated light that flooded the house when she opened the door. The rest of us started clambering down after her.

“Jen, wait,” River called, but his words had no effect.