Paging the Dead (6 page)

Both my parents were only children so what few relatives I have left are distant, in both consanguinity and geography. I long for family and envy people from big garrulous families that hold noisy family reunions and squabble over a deceased loved one's soup tureen or the Postage Stamp quilt Aunt Lulu made when she was a bride. Those things matter enough to fight over because they're the artifacts that help us identify with our tribe—that let us know we belong.

“Best run up and get dressed,” Esme said as she came down the stairs from the mother-in-law suite that's her part of the house. My dad had added the space when his mother's health started to fail, intending to have her come live with us, but she hadn't lived to occupy it. I'd offered it to Esme when she came here five years ago, just until she could find a place of her own. She'd been in no hurry to apartment hunt and had insisted on paying me rent. I quickly got used to having her here and now it seemed like the most natural arrangement in the world.

“Do we have somewhere we need to be?” I asked. Esme is always careful with her appearance, but she looked especially well put together today.

“No, but that Detective Carlson is coming over to talk with us and I want us looking like a couple of respectable professionals.”

“So you think he's going to suspect us less if we're well dressed?” I asked.

“Just go get ready,” she said, picking up a dishtowel and giving it a half-hearted snap in my direction.

I donned the black slacks and tailored blouse I usually wear to meet with clients instead of my work-at-home uniform of jeans and T-shirt. The issue of Dorothy's scrapbooks was weighing on me. If we got the go-ahead with the original deadline, we'd be hard pressed to make it if we lost two or three working days. I debated calling Joe Porter later in the day but decided it really would be gauche to ask him right now.

As it turned out I could have saved myself the worry. While I was slipping on my sandals my cell phone rang. I was surprised to discover Joe Porter on the other end. He accepted my condolences, then asked if I would come over to his service station that afternoon to discuss some things.

I said I could, but it made me uneasy. Why couldn't he just state his business on the phone? I had a sinking feeling our project was about to get the ax.

I didn't have time to stew about it though. I'd just gotten my hair tamed into a ponytail when the doorbell rang. Had to be the detective. I couldn't decide whether to be relieved or scared. Surely we'd get this all straightened out, but what if we didn't?

Detective Carlson was alone this time and he and Esme were already settled into opposing armchairs when I came into the living room. The detective started to stand but I motioned for him to stay seated, amused that being a cop hadn't strained the southern gentleman out of him. I sat on the middle cushion of the sofa in case I needed to referee and placed my time-stamped receipts from yesterday on the coffee table. I like to be prepared.

“Thank you for coming by, Detective Carlson,” Esme said. She was cordial, but I knew it was killing her to hold in what she was really feeling. “Sophreena and I are concerned that there seems to be a rumor going around that we are suspects in the death of Mrs. Porter. We would like these rumors nipped in the bud. We'd like to clear up any questions you have right now.”

The last two words came out a little harsh. I gave her a warning glance, but Carlson didn't seem ruffled.

“Where did you hear such a rumor?” he asked.

“That's not important,” Esme said. “We just want it to stop.”

“Look, we aren't in charge of the town's rumor mill,” he said, spreading his hand, palm up. “And the truth is, you are suspects.”

I held my breath, expecting Esme to erupt, but she kept her cool—in fact she was downright frosty. “Pardon me?” she asked.

“Everyone who had contact with Dorothy Porter yesterday is a suspect,” Carlson said, “until they're ruled out. Doesn't mean I think you killed the woman, but it does mean we're going to investigate. I wouldn't be doing my job otherwise.”

“We understand that,” I said. “ That's why we contacted you. Once we're cleared you won't have to waste any more time and energy on us and you can get on with finding the person who did it.” I picked up the receipts and handed them over. “These will prove our whereabouts yesterday afternoon and I'm sure there are store cameras if you can't accept these.”

Carlson studied them for a moment, then took out his
little notebook and scribbled in it. “Thanks,” he said, handing back the receipts. “Could you tell me where you were later in the afternoon?”

“Here,” Esme said. “We got here about six, or six-fifteen maybe. Our friends were here waiting for us. Oh, and we stopped for gas at the service station over on Carver Street before that. I'm sure they have cameras, too. Fact, I know they do. I was there when they were installing them a few months ago. Guy that runs the place told me he was having trouble with drive-offs since the price of gas got so high and he'd finally decided to pony up for cameras.”

“Unfortunately, Miss Sabatier,” Carlson said, lifting an eyebrow, “he put in dummy cams; as effective a deterrent as real cameras but at a fraction of the cost. Course, I probably shouldn't let that cat out of the bag; let's keep that just between us.” He gave her a smile, but she wasn't having any of it.

She crossed her arms. Never a good sign.

“I'm sure we have the receipt somewhere,” I said quickly, “or that the clerk will remember. Her name's Cindy, she knows me, I used to babysit her. She was looking out the window and I waved to her.”

“That's fine,” Carlson said.

“Other people saw Dorothy after we left,” Esme said, getting snippy now. “Doesn't that clear us?”

“Not really,” Carlson said, putting his notebook away. “You could have come back. But I'll follow up,” he said, pointing to my receipts. “And I appreciate you ladies being so helpful. I apologize if the rumors are distressing you, but as I say, we don't have any control over that. If you think of anything
else, please don't hesitate to call.” He pulled out a card, then wrote on the back and handed it to Esme, even though I was standing closer. “Day or night. That's my personal cell on the back.”

“One more thing,” Esme said, taking the card and tossing it onto the side table. “Mrs. Porter's great-niece, Cassidy, came to see us this morning. She and her grandmother Ingrid, Dorothy's sister. That little girl is just purely heartbroken about Mrs. Porter's death. I gave her a promise you'd find who did this. Are you going to make a liar out of me?”

“No, ma'am,” Carlson said. “I intend to track this person down and see they get what's coming to them, no matter who the culprit turns out to be,” he added, his voice grave. He gave her a long, penetrating look, but Esme's gaze didn't waver.

The soundtrack from a gunfight scene in a spaghetti western started playing in my head.

E
SME DROPPED ME BY THE DEALERSHIP TO PICK UP MY CAR
, then she was off to her gig as a volunteer in a summer tutoring program at her church. I was on my own for the meeting with Joe Porter. Just as well. I love Esme dearly, but she can be a loose cannon when dealing with clients. Once she forms an opinion sometimes she can't help but say it out loud.

I had nearly an hour to kill so I stopped by Keepsake Corner to leave a book I'd promised to loan Marydale. She was doing brisk business for a weekday morning. I tried not to groan when I saw a young woman checking out a stack of decorative stickers and factory-made embellishments. I appreciate an attractive scrapbook page as much as the next person, but this trend of using embellishments at the expense of documentation makes me sad. Fifty years from now those pretty stickers won't mean a thing, and family members will be left pining for more information about the photos. What was the occasion? When was it? Who are those people? What happened that day?

But whenever I preach the importance of journaling in
scrapbooking workshops people claim they can't think of what to say or their handwriting isn't pretty or some other lame excuse not to document. To which I say
Pfft!

I browsed while I waited for Marydale to get a free moment. She'd gotten in some beautiful handmade papers that would be perfect for Dorothy's heritage scrapbooks
if
we got to do them.

Two older women were perusing the stationery section. They were relative newcomers to Morningside and I recognized them as garden club ladies.

“I was scared half to death to stay by myself last night. I checked the locks three times,” one of them said.

“I heard they're looking at the nephew,” the other said. “I hate to say it but I hope it does turn out to be a family thing and not some psychopath going around breaking in at random and killing people.”

“I heard that about the nephew, too,” the first woman said, “but I also heard they suspect those two—” At that point she looked up and saw me and became flummoxed. “Never mind,” she said.

They both seemed to come to the sudden realization they didn't need any stationery after all and hustled out of the store.

“Pay no attention,” Marydale said, coming up behind me and putting her arm around my shoulders. “People like to gossip.”

“But I
have
to pay attention, Marydale,” I said. “This could hurt our business, not to mention it's humiliating to have people looking at me like that.”

“It'll soon pass and they'll realize what ninnies they've been,” she assured me.

I told her what Jack had found out from his reporter friend, then filled her in on our visit with Ingrid and Cassidy and our talk with Detective Carlson.

“My, you've had a busy morning,” she said.

“You should have seen Cassidy,” I said. “Do you know anything about her mother, by the way? I never asked when we were doing the research since we were tracing backward.”

“From what I understand her mother took off for parts unknown when Cassidy was an infant. Ingrid was divorced by then, so she left San Francisco and moved down to where Jeremy lived—Sacramento, I think it was—so she could help out with the baby. Then when Cassidy was school age they decided to move back here. Ingrid got a job as a receptionist for Dr. Warren and Jeremy got on at the bank. They moved into one of those little duplexes down on River Road so Cassidy could go back and forth easily between them. It's a far cry from Dorothy's life up on the hill.”

“Why would Ingrid want to come back here, do you suppose? Seems like there's so many bad memories for her here.”

“She's getting older,” Marydale said, “maybe she thought it was time to heal old wounds.”

Or settle old scores,
I thought, but did not say aloud. “Did you know Ingrid when you were growing up?” I asked, only now realizing she and Marydale must be around the same age.

“I did.” Marydale nodded. “I mean, we weren't good
friends or anything, but we were schoolmates when we were little. She left home young, and I mean really young, like in her early teens. At first the story was that she was sent away to boarding school, but she never came home on school breaks or summers. There was even a rumor for a while that she was dead. But a couple of the girls at school had some contact with her. A few postcards and a phone call or two. Turns out she'd just had enough of the Pritchett family—her father, in particular—and ran away. It was the sixties”—Marydale shrugged—“so of course she struck out for San Francisco.”

“It's hard to believe she and Dorothy were even sisters. Dorothy was so proper and Ingrid's more the free spirit type.”

“True,” Marydale allowed, “but they were very close at one time. Their mother died when Ingrid was small. Dorothy looked after her like a fierce little mama lion. But Ingrid was strong willed and the relationship got more complicated as they got older.”

“I'll say. It seems like every time we saw them together they were having words—loud, angry words.”

“Not every family's the Waltons,” Marydale said. “Doesn't mean they didn't love one another deep down.”

“You're right,” I said. “Sometimes people are like porcupines. The more they try to get close, the more they hurt one another.”

•   •   •

I still had a half hour so I stopped by The Morningside Apothecary, which most of the locals still call Stanton's Drugs. I slowed my pace to admire the front window display
of antique apothecary bottles, old measuring implements and vintage medicine boxes and tins. Uber quaint, though I knew once I got past the register I'd find the store stocked with the same assortment of health and beauty items as any chain, plus aisles full of things a person might not know he needed until they beckoned from the shelf. Chia Pets, battery-operated spaghetti twirler forks, T-shirts and all manner of plastic toys with a half-life of about three minutes once they'd been wrestled from the blister packaging.

I nodded hello to Mr. Stanton, who was tidying the magazine rack. He'd given over the pharmacy operation to his son about a year ago and now spent his days puttering around the store, slipping out to play golf whenever the urge struck him.

I followed the familiar path to where I knew I'd find my contact lens solution. One of the perks of small town shopping is that even blindfolded I could locate every item I needed from this store.

As I filled my basket I overheard two teenaged boys at the other end of the aisle. “I betcha it was the husband. It's always the husband.”

“I thought the old woman was divorced. Wasn't she that rich old lady who married a grease monkey?”

“He's not a grease monkey, dude. He, like, owns a whole string of gas stations. And my mom says they weren't divorced yet, just heading for it. Maybe he offed her
before
she could divorce him to get all her money.”