Picture Them Dead (11 page)

There were notations about Oren and Sadie taking the train to Baltimore for the funeral, then a few pages later:
Samuel and the baby will arrive on the four o'clock train, Hillsborough Depot. He has named the child Charlotte as Eugenia wanted. He has shipped his things and what little they had for the baby. Will need to see what we can buy or borrow for her.

I unrolled the time line I'd started for the Harpers and ticked in these dates, then went back to unloading the box, more systematically now. I came upon another notebook, this one the larger old-fashioned composition-­book style with a black-and-white faux marble cover that had faded to gray. This was not a diary but rather a commonplace book for Sadie Harper: grocery lists, calendar events, chores, and reminders were all written with no regard to category or format.

Near the front there was a list of recipes for homemade baby formula, several were crossed through with a note beside it giving the reason for its rejection: spits up, makes her colicky. At the end of the list was a note-to-self:
Go see Hershel Watkins about getting a nanny goat and have Louise show me how to milk it. Doc says goat's milk may be best.

There were more notations about the best treatment Sadie had found for diaper rash, which was to leave little Lottie's hindquarters exposed to the sunlight for half an hour every morning. There was doctor's advice about putting the baby on a schedule (feed every four hours), and a granny woman's counter-advice on the matter (feed her when she's hungry). There were instructions for treating croup and disturbing advice on how to deal with teething—put a little paregoric or whiskey on the gums and rub them hard with your thumb.

Apparently Sadie Harper, who had no children of her own, had worked hard at acquiring child-care skills.

Notations regarding Samuel's ill health and declining mental state were numerous at first, but steadily decreased as I leafed through the book. What did that mean?

I looked up at the clock and was amazed to find it was after four. I'd gotten so absorbed in what I was doing that I'd lost track of the time, not to mention that I'd finally been able to let go of the anxiety about my upcoming talk with Jack. But now the worry was back with a vengeance and my stomach cramped.

I dashed upstairs and made myself presentable, fussing a little more over my appearance than I normally do. Maybe Esme's fashion sense was rubbing off on me, or maybe I just didn't want to get dumped while looking like a schlub. But really, I wasn't going to get dumped, was I? And could you even be dumped if you'd never been together? I couldn't believe I could've gotten the signals that wrong. Still, Jack had looked so solemn this morning.

I slicked on a bit of lip gloss and squared my shoulders, examining myself in the mirror. “Stop obsessing,” I told my reflection. My reflection ignored me.

When I arrived at Gallagher's, fifteen minutes early, I snagged my favorite table in one of the outdoor nooks that had been carved out of every available inch of land surrounding the restaurant, which had once been a private residence. We'd have plenty of privacy, though at this point I couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. I might be less likely to fall apart if I knew people were watching. I put down my notebook to save the table and went inside to order. This was the way Jack and I always operated—whoever gets to the place first orders for both—so why did I all of a sudden feel weird about it? Like I was being a bit too cheeky by choosing for him, though I knew, without one scintilla of doubt, he'd order the spicy chicken wrap. That's what he got here, every time.

I put in our order and went back outside to make notes on what I'd discovered today while I waited for Jack, while I waited for Fate.

“Sophreena Suprema!”

I didn't need to look up to know who it was. Bryan Mason had stuck me with that nickname back in high school, a little teasing attention as a favor to the nerdy girl. I'd hated it, yet liked it a little, too. It was all very confusing, as so much is when you're in that stage of life.

“Hi, Bryan,” I said, hoping he'd nod and keep on going.

It was a vain hope. He came over to the table, pulled out the other chair, and flipped it around to straddle it. “How are things with you?” he asked. “Still running that research business? What was it, some kind of paralegal thing?”

“Family history,” I said. “I'm a genealogist.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bryan said. “I knew it was something like that.”

There followed an awkward silence, a phenomenon I'm usually very good at waiting out, but in this case I wanted to get the chitchat over with so Bryan could move along. “And you're still out at the golf course? Running the pro shop?” I framed it as a question, though I knew he was.

“Yep. Been out there nearly ten years now. Geez, can you believe it? We're like respectable adults now. Seems like only yesterday when we were getting into mischief at Morningside High.”

“Well, some of us were getting into more mischief than others,” I said.

“Right. Right,” Bryan said, his face split by a big grin.

“Listen, Bryan,” I said, figuring I might as well capitalize on this opportunity, “that was so upsetting what happened to Sherry Burton, I'm really sorry. I understand you two stayed friends over the years.”

“Well, not close friends or anything. We'd exchange email every now and again and we got together when I was down in Miami a while back. But yeah, it's horrible what happened to her.”

“Do you know of anyone here who had problems with her?” I asked, deciding I might as well cut to the chase.

“Here?” Bryan said, as if the idea had only now occurred to him. “I seriously doubt anyone from around here was involved. Nobody here would have had any reason to hurt Sherry. Miami, now that's a different story. She was living large down there. We met up at the bar where she worked, really swank joint, but something about it didn't seem entirely kosher, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don't know,” I said, pointing to myself. “Nerdy girl, remember? Spell it out for me.”

Bryan shrugged, looking off toward the entrance. Bryan had always been a bird-on-the-shoulder conversationalist, his eyes routinely wandering to the space beyond you in case someone better came along. “I think they may have been selling stuff they weren't licensed for, things of the pharmaceutical variety.” He cocked an eyebrow, clearly trying to determine if his meaning was penetrating my thick skull.

“Dealing drugs, you mean,” I said. “And you think Sherry was involved?”

He shrugged again. “She worked there, and she seemed to be living well for a bartender. She invited me back to her place; it was pretty swank, too.”

“So you're saying she was living beyond her means?”

“Definitely,” Bryan said. “And you know that old saying about lying down with dogs and getting up with fleas.” He shook his head as if the very thought of it made him sad. “I hate what happened to her, but I have a sick feeling she probably brought it on herself.”

I saw Jack just then. He was on the porch scanning the outdoor spaces. I called to him and he came over, giving Bryan a cool greeting. Bryan greeted him back like they were best pals, then got up and motioned Jack into the chair with a flourish. “Meeting friends,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the door. “Best not be late.”

“What did he want?” Jack asked once Bryan was out of earshot.

“Nothing,” I said. “He saw me sitting here and came over to say hello.”

“I doubt that,” Jack said. “He doesn't do anything without an agenda.”

“No love lost for Bryan, then?” I asked.

Jack frowned. “I don't know the guy all that well.” He turned toward me, crossing his arms on the tabletop. “Did you order?”

I told him I had and waited, wondering if I'd be able to eat anything if we had the talk now.

Jack didn't seem in a hurry to get to it either. He was clearly uncomfortable, and as we made mindless small talk, my sense of impending doom steadily heightened. I could hear the theme song from
Jaws
pounding in my ears.

A silence fell and Jack let out a big sigh, lacing his callused fingers together. He seemed about to get into it, but just then our waitress came onto the porch holding a laden tray and shouting my name.

She arrived at our table, all perky, and deposited plastic baskets and cups onto the table. “Anything else I can get for you?” she asked, smiling in that ‘please leave a decent tip' way seasoned waitresses do.

I looked over the spread and automatically asked for ketchup. I'm not a ketchup gal myself, but Jack seems to think it's a must-have condiment for every meal. The waitress produced a bottle from her apron pocket and took her leave.

I'd thought I was too tense to do anything but nibble, but the aroma of my meatball po' boy made me salivate, and I figured if this was to be my last meal as a happy woman, I might as well dig in and enjoy it.

We ate, and the ritual seemed to relax us both. I savored every bite, thinking to delay the inevitable, and used the time to convince myself that our friendship could weather this. Things might be awkward for a while, but we could get back to the comfort we'd felt with each other as buddies. We could, I was sure of it. Probably.

“You want to tell me what's crossways with you and Bryan?” I asked.

Jack shrugged, forking up the filling from his wrap that had plopped into his basket. “Probably just me being touchy. We do some work out there, not the golf course proper, as they have their own grounds crew, but we take care of the areas around the clubhouse. I run into Bryan now and again. You'd think he owned the place. Gives out orders to my crew without checking with me and sometimes isn't very civil about it.”

I nodded. “He's always been like that. He's not mean, he just doesn't get that he's insensitive. Which I guess makes a kind of sense, doesn't it? He'd have to be at least somewhat sensitive to realize he was being insensitive, ergo . . .” I let my voice trail off, and Jack threw his head back and laughed.

“That's why I love that we're friends, Soph,” he said, the chuckle dying out. “You and your circular logic.”

I felt the po' boy threatening a return trip. Friends. Oh, dear God, I was about to get the
We can still be friends
speech. I wondered if he'd tack on the
It's not you, it's
me
line to cap off the humiliation.

Jack looked up and saw the expression on my face. “What's the matter?” he asked, looking around to see what might be amiss.

I gave him a tight smile. “You said we needed to talk. So let's talk.” I put down what little remained of my sandwich and wiped my fingers, now eager to get it over with so I could go home and wallow in my misery in private.

“Yeah, that,” Jack said, taking a gulp of water. After three false starts he finally began. “We've been friends a long time, Sophreena. And I hope we'll stay friends, no matter what.”

“Sure, we will,” I said, struggling to keep my voice from quavering.

“I hope so,” Jack said, dragging his hand down over his face. “It's just that sometimes in a friendship one person might want something the other person doesn't have to give and once that's clear, it gets awkward and you feel uncomfortable and . . .” His voice trailed off and he squirmed, scratching at his neck.

“Look, Jack,” I said, feeling almost as bad for him as I did for myself, “just say what's on your mind. It's okay, really.”

I was amazed that I sounded so calm. Inside my head I was screaming and making lists of chores that required vigorous physical activity that I could tackle over the next few days to work out the heartbreak. There was a mulch pile to distribute, patio furniture that needed scrubbing down, a workroom due for a thorough file purge.

I was so absorbed I didn't hear what Jack said next. I looked up and saw the pained expression on his face and struggled with what to say to let him off the hook, but I couldn't come up with anything, not anything that wasn't a total lie anyhow. I wasn't okay. And I wasn't likely to be okay any time soon.

“Well?” he said. “Would you say something?”

I took in a breath and began haltingly. “I meant it, Jack, we'll still be friends, but I may need some time.”

Jack looked miserable. “I knew I should have kept my mouth shut. I'm really sorry, Soph. I guess I misinterpreted the situation. I thought I was reading your signals, but I guess it was just wishful thinking. But I couldn't go on the way it was either. I had to tell you I wanted more than friendship and let the chips fall where they may. And I guess they have.”

“You . . . excuse me? You what?”

Now it was Jack's turn to put up a hand. “It's okay, Soph. I'll get past it, but I had to know where I stand. I didn't say anything before 'cause I didn't want to screw up our friendship, but you can't live on hold forever, so now it's out there”—he held both hands out toward me—“and you know, and clearly you don't feel the same, so it'll be weird for a while, but we can salvage the friendship, right?”

Our perky waitress chose that moment to appear at our table. “Dessert for you two?” she asked, starting to clear away the detritus from our meal.

“Yes,” I said, matching her smile. “We'll both have a slice of your chocolate cheesecake. We're celebrating.”

Jack frowned in confusion as she walked away.

“Now, let's finish our talk,” I said.

eleven

I was whistling brightly when Esme came downstairs the next morning. She was decked out in her walking clothes and seemed pleased to see I was ready to go.

“You're happy this morning,” she said. “You find out more last night? You know for sure who the Forgotten Man is, or was?”

“Nope, no closer yet, but I'm hopeful. I'm ready to go if you are.”

“I am,” Esme said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Would you like to tell me what's gotten into you? Why am I not forced to holler myself hoarse to get you to come down and get out the door? Wait a minute, didn't you go out with Jack last night?”

“I did,” I answered, trying to keep my face neutral. “We went to Gallagher's.”

“And?” Esme asked, narrowing her eyes at me.

“And,” I said, bending over to tie my shoes, “it was good. Everything's always good at Gallagher's.”

“Sophreena,” Esme said, drawing out my name.

I was delighted when the phone rang at that moment, and I jumped up to answer it. I wanted to keep the Jack secret a while longer. It was such a delicious secret.

“Sophreena, this is Margaret Roman. We met the other day out at Cottonwood. Do you remember me?”

I mentally sorted through the people I'd met at Cottonwood, linking names with faces, and bingo: Margaret, the amateur genealogist.

“Of course, how are you?” I said, hoping to keep it brief. In addition to being very generous, amateur genealogists can also be very long-winded. While I admire the enthusiasm, it's hard to maintain rapt attention through the litany of begats in their own family trees. It's worse than grandmothers armed with purses full of grandbaby pictures.

“I hope I'm not calling too early, but I wanted to tell you about an interesting conversation I had with Ruth Wilkins' brother, Cleve, last evening. You remember Ruth?”

Oh Lord, it was going to be one of those days. I covered the mouthpiece lest Margaret hear my groan. “Ruth?” I asked, feigning interest.

“Ruth Wilkins. She's the lady at Cottonwood who said she knew Miss Lottie when they were girls. Do you recall?”

I did recall, and suddenly I didn't have to feign interest.

“Well, Cleve is younger than Ruth. He's got a much better memory and he loves a good story. You know the type. Anyway, he told me some things about the Harpers that I think might interest you. None of this is documented, you understand. I mean, it's not official, but it's pretty entertaining.”

“I'm all ears,” I said eagerly, grabbing a notepad from the kitchen drawer.

Margaret laughed, a pleasant bell-like sound. “Oh no, dear heart, I couldn't do the story justice. I was wondering if by chance you'd be free for lunch. Cleve would like to meet you and pass on what he knows.”

I sighed. I'd hoped to finish going through the boxes from River's attic today, but this sounded too promising to pass up, so I made the date.

“I thought today was to be a workday,” Esme said as I put the phone back on the base. “If I'd known we could go off and play hooky, I'd have made lunch plans myself.”

“It's a working lunch,” I said, determined not to let Esme rain on my parade. “You should come, too.” I explained to her who we'd be meeting and why.

Placated, Esme set about filling our water bottles while I did a few hamstring stretches. I had a feeling I might even be able to keep up with Esme's stride on our walk today. Giddiness, it seemed, was energizing.

“If we're able to get the definitive proof about Samuel being the Forgotten Man, do you think the hoopla will die down?” I asked as I finished my last stretch and took my water bottle from Esme.

“I very much doubt it. If you could let it be known why he was buried in that glass coffin, and if it's a reasonable explanation, then they might tire of the story and move on to something else. Look at what's happened with Sherry Burton's murder. People were all stirred up about it until they found out who she was and that she was on the run from drug dealers.”

“Who says that?”

Esme shrugged. “Word about town. Rumor is she crossed somebody down in Miami and they hunted her down. Terrible, but it's plain old crime, nothing to do with them.”

We were just heading out the front door when the phone rang again. I craned my neck around the doorjamb and saw Ron Solomon's number on the display.

“Thought you might like to know my findings on your skeleton-in-residence at the old Harper place,” he said. “I wish I had unlimited funds and one or two more lab assistants, in which case I'd be studying this one for a while, but since I don't have either, I'm calling this a homicide and wrapping it up.”

“Any estimates on the time frame?” I asked.

“A frame, yes, but not a date,” Ron said. “Like I say, if I had unlimited funds, but I don't.”

“Okay, well, if I told you I have reason to believe the man died in the mid-1920s, would that square with what you've found?”

“Why?” Ron asked, drawing out the word.

I told him what I'd learned about Samuel Wright. “I don't have the whole picture yet, but would that be consistent with your findings?”

“Spot on,” Ron said. “Now, Sophreena, share and share alike, eh? You'll let me know when you find out more, right?”

“Sure, Ron,” I said, putting a little faux snark into my voice. “So you want my tax dollars and you want me to do your job?”

“That'd be nice,” Ron said.

*   *   *

Top o' the Morning was doing heavy business when Esme and I stopped by for our mid-walk coffee. We hadn't indulged in this ritual in a while, and it was fun, so far at least. Esme tried to wheedle more out of me about Jack, but I held strong, even though I was about to burst. I was dying to tell her, but at the same time I wanted it all to myself for now.

After Jack and I had finally worked out what each of us felt, we'd talked for another hour, promising each other we'd take things slow and be very low-key about it. Grinning like a possum and chattering at Esme like a deranged howler monkey didn't honor that agreement.

“Well, would you look at that!” Esme said, stopping short on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop.

I followed her gaze to the cluster of outdoor tables and spotted Claire Calvert, talking with a man seated opposite her. I couldn't see his face, but I thought I recognized his curly hair.

“Is that Quentin?” I asked.

“Yes, it is,” Esme said, her lips setting into a hard line. “Claire is sitting there having coffee with the man who put her in that wheelchair. Has she lost her senses?”

She didn't look crazy. She looked like she was enjoying the coffee, and the company. I said as much, but Esme didn't appreciate my assessment.

She huffed and we turned to head inside. She'd just put her hand on the door handle when the shouting started. Nosy Nellies that we are, we stepped over immediately to see what was going on.

Nash Simpson stood by Claire's table, glaring down at Quentin. “Why'd you come back here?” he asked, loud enough for people at the other tables to hear. “No one wants you here.”

Claire started to protest, but Quentin patted the air in a calming gesture and smiled at her. “It's okay, Claire,” he said. He got up slowly, pushed in his chair neatly, and walked away without a backward glance.

As he walked by us, Laney Easton came out of the coffee shop, laughing at something her boyfriend, James Rowan, had said. They both froze and I saw Quentin give them a murderous look before heading down the sidewalk, his calm gait now an angry stalk.

I looked back to see Nash Simpson still standing beside Claire's table. He started to speak to her but she turned her head away. He scowled and headed for the parking lot, stopping to talk to people at other tables as he threaded his way through. Some seemed to be giving him attaboys, but others were frowning and shaking their heads.

“You go get our order,” Esme said. “I'll sit with Claire.”

When I came out, Claire was dabbing at her eyes. People at other tables were staring but pretending not to, their gazes darting quickly away when Esme's piercing eyes did a sweep of the alleyway.

“It's because people care about you, Claire,” Esme said soothingly. “They don't want to see you hurt anymore than you already have been.”

“People shouldn't be so quick to judge,” Claire said quietly, and let out a huge sigh. “Life is seldom simple and human beings are complex. Plus, I'm a grown woman and perfectly capable of deciding where and with whom I would like to have coffee.”

Esme smiled. “Even angry you're grammatical, Claire.”

“I am angry,” Claire said. “Do you know how tiresome it is to be the perpetual victim? I am not long-suffering Saint Claire of the Wheelchair. I want to live my life by my own rules and my own choices.”

“I think people just don't understand,” I said, handing Esme her coffee. “Forgiveness is a laudable thing, but most of us wouldn't have it in us to forgive what he did to you.”

“That's because people don't know the whole story, or the true story, though God knows I've been trying to tell it for years. There was plenty of blame to go around. Quentin has paid for his mistakes and I've paid for mine.”

“But, Claire,” Esme said, “you're in a wheelchair because of him. That's a high price to pay for whatever you think were your mistakes.”

“And you think going to prison wasn't a high price?” Claire asked, tears starting to pool in her eyes again. “Esme, Quentin is a good man. You don't know him.”

“That's true,” Esme said. “But I know people don't usually go to jail unless they're guilty, of something anyway.”

I barked an involuntary laugh. “You really believe that? How are things in Utopia?” This earned me a glare from Esme.

“Sophreena's right, Esme,” Claire said. “Much as I want everything to be fair and to believe people will do the right thing, sometimes it doesn't happen that way. Quentin was insecure, he was jealous, he had a bad temper, he left his dirty underwear on the bathroom floor,” she said, allowing a flicker of a smile. “But what happened to me wasn't all his fault. It's more complicated than people know and things lined up in a perfect storm of injustice on this case. James Rowan was just coming in as assistant DA. He and Quentin's older brother had been chums and James convinced Quentin to take a plea. It was a bad deal, a very bad deal. If it had gone to trial I don't think Quentin would have been convicted, at least not of the most serious charges, not after I testified as to what really happened. But James convinced Quentin he'd be in jail until he was an old man if he didn't take the deal.”

“You want to tell the story to us?” I asked. “I'd really like to hear it.”

“I'd be happy to,” Claire said, glancing at her watch, “but it will have to be another time. I've got to get to work.” She nodded toward a building across the street that had once been an old cotton warehouse. It had been reclaimed and divided into cool, industrial-style office spaces. The Literacy Council operated out of the bottom-floor office.

Claire had worked hard at keeping in shape during her long rehab and she worked her wheelchair with ease, her muscular arms spinning the wheels in practiced rhythm. Esme and I fell into step alongside her.

“How are things going with Sherry Burton's case?” she asked. “Have you heard anything? That is still so heavy on my mind.”

“Did you know Sherry Burton?” I asked.

“Yes,” Claire said. “Such a sad ending to what I suspect was a sad life. I was still in my ‘save the world, let's all join hands and sing “Kumbayah” ' phase that summer I first met her. She seemed like a girl who needed saving. Her brother was a bit lost, too. I tried loaning her books since she seemed to have a lot of time on her hands, but she wasn't much of a reader. Her brother read everything he could get his hands on, but Sherry had other priorities. She was like a feral cat; if you tried to pull her close the claws would come out. But sometimes if she saw me outside she'd come over to talk or have something to eat. I don't know if this was true or not—Sherry had a tendency to exaggerate—but she told me their grandmother literally locked them out of the house during the day, so sometimes she came over just to use the bathroom. She was a troubled girl. I tried talking to her grandmother about her, hoping Mrs. Walker would get her some help, but I might as well have been talking to a stone. She said all they needed was fresh air for their health and chores to keep them busy, then she invited me to butt out. She was very clear about that last part.”

“So you knew Luke, too?” I asked.

“Ah, yes, little Luke,” Claire said. “He was a sweet boy. Now, he was a reader. Every time I saw him he had a book, which wasn't too often, now that I think about it. He was as quiet as a little ninja. They were definitely at-risk kids. So sad. I know it doesn't help her now, but I hope they get whoever did this to Sherry.”

“I think the police have some good leads,” Esme said. “I'm convinced it will end up being something Sherry was mixed up in down in Miami.”

We said our good-byes in front of the office and Esme and I set out on the rest of our walk.

“Why did you tell her that about Miami?” I asked Esme as we rounded the corner, headed for home. “That's just a rumor.”

“Well, first, I really am thinking that's the way it's going to play out,” Esme said. “And second, Claire is out there all by herself. You remember how upset she was the night of the vigil. It's got to be very worrisome to her to be thinking about a woman getting murdered right next door and the killer still out there. I thought she'd rest easier if she believes it had nothing to do with her or this community. How would you feel if something like this happened near you and you were living alone?”

“Safety-wise, you mean?” I asked. “I've never been one to twitch at every sound and I feel pretty safe in my house. Half the time I don't even remember to lock the doors. 'Course, I'm not as isolated as Claire, nor as vulnerable.”