Death in Reel Time (19 page)

“I'll probably see Olivia at church,” she said. “I'll ask if we can stop by this afternoon. We may as well get this over with.”

“I haven't exactly figured out how to tell her yet.”

“Not the kind of thing you blurt out at Sunday dinner between ‘this fried chicken is really crispy' and ‘pass the mashed potatoes,' is it?”

“No, it's not, and there are still a couple of things bugging me.”

“Only a couple?” Esme said. “For you that's pretty good.”

I ignored the jib. “What about the old woman, Mrs. Yarborough, the one who saw Johnny getting on the train?”

“You read what Celestine said about her, poor eyesight and prone to confusion. She was probably just mistaken. And anyhow, Celestine knew it wasn't true.”

“And the arrest record?” I said.

“You know very well most forms of identification back then had no photograph. I can think of all sorts of scenarios where vagrants might have found Johnny's body and filched his ID,” she said with a shiver. “But I don't like thinking too hard on that 'cause it's too grisly.”

“Yeah, it is,” I agreed. “I just want to make sure we give Olivia the most solid information we can get.”

“What is it you're always preaching about firsthand reports?” Esme asked.

“That weight must be given to a description of events provided by a source with firsthand knowledge as long as they have no motive to misrepresent the event,” I recited. “But it doesn't take the place of getting hard evidence.”

“Which we can't do in this case, since only three people in the world knew what happened and they've all passed on. And since you academic types are so dead set—you'll pardon that expression—against accepting my word for anything those folks might have to say
after
they pass, we're stuck with what we've got.”

Esme left for church and I still had a half hour—and an idea. I went into the workroom and powered up my laptop. I called up a series of maps and traced the path of the river that ran through Crawford, noting the counties downstream. Starting with the county closest to Crawford I checked death records for the time period in question. This was a long shot, as most records from that era haven't been digitized yet, but sometimes you get lucky—and this time I did. Sort of. Two counties south from Crawford I found a death certificate for a John Lamont HARNETT. The date of birth matched Johnny HARGETT and the one-letter discrepancy was likely a typo or a misreading. The box checked for notification of next of kin said UNKNOWN; cause of death listed was drowning. The date of death was also listed as UNKNOWN, but was estimated. The date fell two weeks after Johnny and Riley had their altercation on the railroad trestle.

I thought of what Esme had said about the paper identification from those days. There surely would have been water damage. And how many people could there be in that small area with the first and middle-name combination John Lamont and the same date of birth. It was far from definitive proof but I was reasonably sure I'd found Olivia's father's death certificate. But there were still two conflicting pieces of information I needed to sort out: the arrest report and the sighting of Johnny by Mrs. Yarborough.

I dashed off an email request for a copy of the original documents, hoping they would contain a physical description, and made a note to check the newspaper archives for more info. I sat back in my chair, feeling both relieved and terribly sad. If this held up we'd answered Olivia's most pressing question, but it was a disturbing story.

*  *  *

Olivia met us at the door and I noted the pink was back in her cheeks and she moved more spryly, almost like her old self. She was smiling but I could tell she was holding back, a part of her partitioned off with worry about Beth. It made me think of a saying Marydale spouts now and again about her two grown-up kids and their life challenges:
A mother can only be as happy as her unhappiest child.

We went into the dining room and Olivia showed us the scrapbook pages she and Beth had done. They were beautiful. The items on the each page had good balance and weight and they'd used embellishments judiciously to help tell the story rather than obscure it. There was copious script on each page documenting everything known about each photo and weaving the family narrative through.

“Wow, you get a gold star,” I said.

“It's mostly Beth,” Olivia said.

“Where is Beth?” I asked.

“She's upstairs, resting,” Olivia said. “She went to church with me this morning and it was hard. People either wanted to say their condolences all over again, or they pretended not to see her at all.”

I feared this was the least of what Beth was going to get as the investigation into Blaine's death wore on, especially after word got out that their home was the likely scene of the crime. And with Arlene Overton running her mouth about her crackpot theory.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?” Olivia asked. “Esme said you'd found something. I'm dying to hear.”

Esme looked at me, but I found myself tongue-tied. The genealogist in me was ready and eager to give a report. The friend in me was not. If this had been a couple of generations removed from Olivia, it would have been different. Clients can be more detached as they move back in time to more distant antecedents. But this was Olivia's father and though she'd never known him, this information about both his life and his death would be upsetting. And worse still would come the revelations about her sainted uncle Riley and aunt Celestine and what they'd kept from her throughout her entire lifetime.

Esme saw me struggling and said to Olivia. “Let's sit down to talk. We've found out what happened to your daddy and it's going to be a hard story to hear.”

“Should I get Beth?” Olivia asked uncertainly.

“Let us tell you first and you can decide,” Esme said.

Olivia's smile faded. She sat down at the table and folded her hands in front of her as Esme opened up the diary and spoke softly. “I'm going to read you something your aunt Celestine wrote a few months before she died. You need to hear this in her words.”

Olivia listened, her face occasionally contorting. There were silent tears and shuddering breaths, but that was all. No histrionics. When Esme was done reading we sat in silence to let Olivia collect herself.

“Poor Uncle Riley,” she said, fishing a tissue from the pocket of her jogging suit. “How he must have suffered. He was such an upright man. This must have eaten at him over all those years. And my mother! Why couldn't she have told me about the abuse?
She
didn't do anything wrong.”

“I don't know why she chose not to tell you,” I said. “Maybe she thought she was protecting you somehow. Things were a lot different back then. These things weren't talked about.”

“Not so different,” Olivia said, swiping at her nose with the tissue. “Even now people don't talk about it. And the abusers still get away with it. I don't understand it. My mother was a strong, smart woman. She went back to school after my father left her—well,” she said, gesturing toward the diary, “I guess now I have to say after he died. She took correspondence courses, and then Aunt Celestine and Uncle Riley looked after me for a semester while she went to Greensboro to finish up her degree. She was a grade school teacher for thirty-seven years.”

“I imagine she was a proud woman, too,” Esme said. “And it seems like it's harder for proud women to admit they've let themselves get into situations like that. I'm sure she was doing what she thought best, Olivia, for both of you.”

Olivia nodded. “You're right,” she said at last. “Sometimes people blame the victim. No wonder they're afraid to come forward. And here I am doing it myself. I suppose I should feel sad that my father died, but I didn't know the man, and now that I know how he treated my mother I'm glad I never knew him.” She frowned. “Is there something I should
do
about this? I mean, should I report it to somebody?”

“The principals are all deceased,” I said, “and any evidence would be long gone, so I can't think what would be accomplished, but I'll check into what our legal obligations are if you'd like.”

“Okay, you do that. But I'm not going to allow this to be a secret any longer. Otherwise I'd be doing to my family and
friends what my mother and aunt and uncle did to me. This is our family's history, the good and the bad.”

I didn't want to leave Olivia in this frame of mind, so we talked a little while about more pleasant aspects of her family history. Then I reached into my bag for the photo of Shoes, the dog. “On a happier note, did you know this little guy?”

Olivia smiled as she picked up the photo. “Ah, that's Shoes. My best buddy.”

“You knew the dog then?” I said.

“Oh, I'll say,” she said, sniffling into her tissue again. “That dog went everywhere I did, until he died of old age when I was about twelve. He slept in a little basket by our fireplace. He was a great little companion for a kid living out in the country.”

“Do you know how he came to join the family?” Esme asked.

“You know, he was always just there,” Olivia said. “Mama had him even before I was born. I don't know where or when she got him.”

I pulled the page I'd scanned from Celestine's diary out of a folder and read it to her, selectively editing out her father's edicts about keeping the dog.

“Well, how 'bout that!” Olivia said. “All those years I should have been calling him Shui, instead of Shoes,” she said, pronouncing the word
schway
the way her mother had doubtless taught her. “But Shoes suited him, too, in more ways than one. He was forever taking my shoes off and hiding them somewhere. I think maybe he believed it would keep me home with him instead of me going off to school. You know, somehow that dog could tell time. I swear he
could. Every day he'd trot down to the end of the road to meet the school bus and he'd arrive just as I stepped off. Perfect timing, every single school day, rain or shine.”

I got the eye signal from Esme that it was time to go. Olivia walked us out and as we were saying our good-byes Marydale's car pulled up with Winston at the wheel. Marydale got out of the passenger side and opened the back door. Beth got out, holding Gadget. She didn't have on a jacket and it was obvious she'd been crying.

Olivia rushed toward her, holding out her arms. “Beth, what in the world? I thought you were upstairs taking a nap.”

“I was,” Beth said, her voice almost robotic. “But I heard voices downstairs and I came down to see who it was. I wasn't eavesdropping,” she said, turning to Olivia, “but I heard the whole story. It's so strange. Just strange.”

“She walked over to my house,” Marydale said. “I think she needs to get inside and maybe you could make her some hot soup, Olivia.”

“Yes, yes,” Olivia said, putting her arm around Beth's shoulders.

Winston reached over to retrieve Gadget. He practically had to pry the dog out of Beth's arms.

Esme and I both turned to Marydale after Olivia took Beth inside, but she put up a hand. “I don't know what she overheard, and I'm not going to ask,” she said. “She wants to talk to you, Sophreena, but she says to give her a little time first. She was awfully upset. I think maybe she's starting to remember some things about the day Blaine died, too.”

“Like what,” Esme asked.

“We don't know, exactly,” Winston said, casting a sidelong glance at Marydale. “She wasn't making sense. Something about history repeating and being a brother's keeper but none of it was tied together right. It was like she couldn't even hear Marydale or me talking to her.” He looked over at Marydale again and I had the distinct impression they were hiding something from Esme and me. This was the first time I'd ever felt anything but total honesty in our tight little club.

I didn't like this feeling one bit.

E
SME HAS A THING FOR
outdoor decorating, and ever since she's come to live with me our house gets decked out for all the seasons. We'd come home from Olivia's and set in working on the autumnal display. I was checking every few minutes to make sure I didn't miss a call from Beth, but no word yet. As we arranged a cornstalk teepee on our front porch Denny called to ask if he could stop by.

“Why does he bother to call?” I asked. “Surely he knows by now he's welcome.”

“He calls ahead because he is courteous—and because I have explained to him those are the rules,” Esme said. “I don't like being taken for granted.”

“You mean you don't want to be caught when you're not all spiffed up,” I said with a grin.

“There is that,” Esme allowed. “But that's not all of it, Sophreena,” she said firmly. “I never expected to be in a relationship again in my life and I don't like the idea of giving over my independence to any man, even Denny Carlson.”

“He's a good man, Esme,” I said.

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “And he's handsome, and he's taller than me.”

“How many men have all that going for them?” I asked. “And he's willing to put up with your quirks?”

“He doesn't know about
all
my quirks, Sophreena, as you well know.”

“Why don't you just tell him?”

“Oh no,” Esme said, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not! I'm not going to have him thinking I'm some kind of circus freak.”

“You're certainly not a freak, Esme,” I said. “You're a sensible, caring person. A person who just happens to have a gift.”

“You say gift, other folks say peculiarity. And some days even I say it's a blue ruin.”

“Well, you know I don't agree,” I said, as I hung a pinecone wreath Esme had made onto our front door. “You do a lot of good with your gift. And you've trusted our friends with your secret and they've been totally accepting.”