Paging the Dead (26 page)

I was studying my notes when a voice from somewhere behind me made me jump. “You hiding from Vivian?”

I turned to see Jeremy coming around the corner of the house, his hands jammed into the pockets of his chinos.

“Not hiding,” I said. “Just staying out of the way.” I
wondered if his appearance was as casual as he made out or if he'd been lurking around the corner eavesdropping on my conversation with Linda.

“Me, too,” he said, trudging up onto the porch and settling down in the chair beside me, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. “Mom insisted I take another day off work to help, but honestly Vivian seems to be running the show. I feel useless, no, worse than useless. What's that old saying about a screen door on a submarine? I think me being here is making people uncomfortable.”

“Why do you say that?”

He gave me a look and I was embarrassed at how fake the question sounded now that it was hanging in the air.

“Okay,” I said, “so I've heard things.”

“Everybody in town has heard things,” he said glumly. “That's what happens when the police haul you in for questioning. People can't even look me in the eye.”

“That's a little dramatic, isn't it? The police didn't exactly throw you in the back of a paddy wagon in shackles. They just asked you to clear up some things, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, sarcastically. “Just clear up a few minor matters and oh, by the way, give us your DNA.”

I decided I might as well be as blunt as he was. “You're sure you didn't go back to Dorothy's that night after you took Cassidy to your mother's?”

He laughed mirthlessly. “You sound just like the cops. That's what they kept asking.”

“And what did you tell them?” I pressed.

“That I think I'd know if I'd gone back to Dorothy's, that I
didn't
and that I'm not sure exactly where I was at any given
second for the rest of that afternoon. I dropped Cassidy off with Mom and then I was just, you know, out and about.”

“Any receipts from anywhere? Run into anybody? Make or get any phone calls?”

“Don't think so,” he said. “Didn't buy anything. Didn't see anybody I know. No phone calls, not until later. I was just enjoying some time alone. I went to the lake for a short hike and to take some pictures. Photography's a hobby of mine. I left my phone in the car. I was afraid I'd drop it in the water again. I wanted to get a sunset shot so I was still there when the sun went down. I was on the way back from there when Mom caught up with me to tell me what had happened to Dorothy.”

“Well, that's great,” I said, perking up. “I assume the photos are digital. There would be a time stamp. Did you show the police those?”

“No, I didn't,” he said, coughing and adjusting his position in the chair. “I don't have them. I deleted them. None of them were any good.”

“You deleted them all?”

“Yeah. They weren't worth saving.”

“Well, that's a shame,” I said.

Now Jeremy was the one who wouldn't meet
my
eyes.

W
HEN WE GOT HOME
I
WAITED UNTIL
E
SME HAD GONE UPSTAIRS
then darted into the workroom to call Hank Spencer. I had to try.

“I can't talk to you,” he croaked after I'd identified myself. “The last time I talked to you I got into all kinds of hot water. I had to hire a lawyer, and let me tell you that just went over great with my wife. His fees are astronomical. I may have to sell a kidney on the black market. He'd have a canary if he knew I was talking to you for even this long.”

“I understand,” I said. “But I—”

“But nothing,” he said and hung up with a
clunk
so emphatic I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

“Told you not to call him,” Esme said as she came into the room, not even bothering to look in my direction. How could a woman who wears a size ten shoe pad about silent as a cat?

“He wouldn't talk to me anyway,” I said, chewing at the inside of my cheek as I started doodling on the timeline again.

“That's just as well, Sophreena. As you may recall the last
time you had a discussion with him he was about to come unglued. You need to stay away from that man. Far away.”

“Yeah, well, looks like I don't have any choice. I thought you were going up to take a nap.”

“I thought so, too,” Esme said, rubbing her temples. “But she has other ideas.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I swear if she shows me the back side of that quilt one more time I'm going to lose my religion.”

“Still no idea what it means?”

“Not a clue,” she said with a sigh as she began putting the background papers we hadn't used for the scrapbooks back into the proper bins.

I went to the computer and searched for the time of sunset on the day Dorothy died. I made a hash mark at 8:33 p.m. and wrote
Sunset, Jeremy taking photos at lake?

“Who deletes all the pictures they take of something?” I asked, thinking aloud. “I can see getting rid of the ones that aren't so good, but wouldn't you save the best two or three? I mean, why not? With digital all it's costing is a bit of storage space.”

“Maybe there weren't any pictures in the first place,” Esme said. “You said he sounded dodgy about it.”

“But why lie? Why come up with that as an alibi when he knows he can't produce the evidence? And even if he could that would only prove his camera was at the lake; anybody could have taken the pictures.
Unless
he was actually in the pictures. Too bad he didn't get a long-arm shot.”

“Long-arm shot?”

“You know, the pictures everybody has on their camera or phone where you take it yourself by holding the camera as
far away as you can. That'll be as iconic a photo style for our generation as a man holding his suit coat lapel was in olden days.”

“Sophreena, regardless of all that, there is no getting around the DNA on that coffee cup and the fact that Jeremy is Dorothy's only living male relative.”

“But that's the other thing. He'd just been there. He'd just had coffee with Dorothy and Linda. What could have been so important it would have brought him back to the house to see Dorothy again an hour later?”

“I have no idea,” Esme said. “Did you ask him?”

“He swears he didn't come back.”

“Well,” Esme said with a sigh. “DNA says otherwise.”

•   •   •

I was relieved when the phone rang an hour later, forcing me to get up from my chair. The timeline was getting me nowhere unless utter frustration counted as a destination, but I couldn't quit it on my own.

Marydale, sounding unusually chipper, told me she'd just been closing up shop when she got into a conversation with a woman she thought might be a potential client for Esme and me. She wondered if I could pop over for a moment.

I know Marydale well and I heard the hidden message. She had a live one on the line and if I came now I had a chance of reeling her in.

I allowed as how I'd be happy to scamper right over. I was glad I hadn't gotten around to changing back into my at-home work clothes. I went up to my room and spent about thirty seconds tidying up my hair. I kicked off my flip-flops
and slid my feet into my Mary Jane flats, then thought better of it. If this was as big a fish as Marydale's subtext indicated, best to look professional. I put back on the modest pumps I'd worn up to High Ground in the morning. They only have a two-inch heel, but for me this is ultra chic. I slicked on a little lip gloss and made sure my glasses were clean and with that my primping was done. As I say, I'm a minimalist.

Esme gave me a nod of approval when I came down and wished me well. There was never any question about whether she'd go along. She absolutely despises client meetings, and particularly the ones where I make our pitch. “Here are your keys,” she said, dangling my key ring. “You left them on the kitchen counter again.”

As organized as I am in other aspects of my life, my keys are mislaid on a regular basis and sometimes the hunt for them has me running late.

“I'll walk. I'll get there quicker if I don't have to park.”

Esme looked down. “In those?”

“They're perfectly comfortable,” I sniffed, taking an obvious gander at her four-inch spikes. She hadn't even bothered to kick them off when we came in from High Ground.

“I'm used to wearing them, you're not,” she said.

“I'll be fine. Wish me luck.”

We did our ritual touching of palms, a sort of two-handed high five, making it a high ten I suppose, and I was out the door.

Most of our clients are retirement age or older. They're the ones with both the interest and the means to hire our services, so I was surprised when Marydale introduced me to a woman who looked to be about my age.

Eve Cotes, I learned in the next few minutes, was the great-niece of a legendary former senator from our fair state, Talmadge Lunsford. She'd been sent in his stead for the memorial service for Dorothy. “Uncle Tal would have come himself, but he's just not able to travel these days,” she said. “I never knew Mrs. Porter, but he had lots of nice things to say about her service to the community. It's a terrible thing, the way she died.”

“Eve and I got to talking just as I was closing up,” Mary-dale said, “and I was telling her about how you and Esme had done the heritage scrapbooks for Dorothy. She might be interested in having the same done for her uncle. Let's go to the back so we can talk.”

I gave my usual sales pitch with my heart threatening to pound its way out of my chest. I wanted this job so much I was actually salivating. I was afraid I was going to drool on the potential client.

“That sounds like just what we had in mind,” Eve said when I'd finished my tap dance. “Some of us in the family have been nagging Uncle Tal for years to hire a ghost writer, but he's completely opposed to writing a book. However, he is a big family history buff and I think I might get him to go for this. Let me talk to the rest of the family and to Uncle Tal and I'll get back to you.”

I told her I'd look forward to her call, resisting the urge to break out into a chorus of “Ain't Too Proud to Beg.”

She looked at her watch. “Oh, for pity's sake, I've lost track of the time. I'm late for a date. And a first date at that. Guess I'll be making a great first impression.” She ducked out the back door and double-timed it to her car.

“She seems really nice,” Marydale mused as we stood in the doorway and waved goodbye.

“Yeah. I don't buy that she has any trouble getting dates, or making a good impression. She's too pretty and too personable.”

“So are you,” Marydale said dryly. “And when's the last time you went out on a date?”

“I date,” I said defensively. “I'm just—particular.”

“Picky particular, or particularly interested in one guy?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at me.

“Not you, too,” I groaned. “You and Esme should form a club. Jack and I are friends, period.”

“Who said anything about Jack?” Marydale said, feigning puzzlement. Or at least I thought she was faking. If she wasn't I'd just given away too much information.

“I've really gotta go,” I said. “I'll see you tomorrow at the memorial.”

“It's dark out, Sophreena. Let me drive you home.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Marydale. It's only a few blocks.”

“I know, but with all that's been going on, I worry,” Marydale said. “You shouldn't be out walking alone at night.”

“I'll be fine,” I said. “We can't let what happened to Dorothy keep us holed up in our houses.”

“All the same,” Marydale said hesitantly, “call me on my cell when you get home, will you?”

“Sure thing,” I said, glad I'd diverted her from the Jack issue.

Of course, just because I'd distracted her didn't mean I wasn't dwelling on it myself. As I started for home I mentally weighed and measured. How
did
I feel about Jack? I
missed him. That was a given. But how much I missed him was startling, especially since I still saw him regularly. It just wasn't the same now. And if Jack got serious about someone we wouldn't be hanging out anymore like we did now. I was really disheartened at the thought. I didn't have to explain myself to Jack; he totally got me. And I did sort of like it that when I was being stupid he called me on it and expected me to do the same for him. Plus he was fun to be around. He was smart and we both found the same things funny. And he had that terrific smile . . .

Suddenly I was aware of footfalls matching mine. I slowed, and so did they. I stopped and turned, but there was no one there, at least not in the circle of sidewalk the streetlamp illuminated. Outside that circle there were dark, lumpy shapes everywhere, any of which could've instantly sprung to life.

I gave myself a stern talking to for letting other people's paranoia get to me, but I stayed alert as I passed by a large hedgerow old Miss Etheleen Morganton had planted to separate her property from what she complained was the bustling business district of downtown Morningside. If I'd been willing to allow my imagination full rein I could have made out the shape of a man lurking in the shadows, but I made him go away by forcing myself to keep a tight hold on reality—and my messenger bag—and march on.

I picked up my pace and I could have sworn I heard the footsteps again. I tried to resist the impulse to turn around, but after a few more steps I couldn't stand it any longer. I whipped around, sucking in a breath for the loudest scream I could produce.

Empty sidewalk.

This time I laughed out loud. I was losing it. Me, the level-headed, practical one. If I was getting this jumpy what must this be doing to the drama queens?