Picture Them Dead (3 page)

three

I thought about the situation at River's place all through Sunday mass. I was so distracted that Jack had to elbow me whenever it was time to kneel or stand. I've been a lax Catholic since my parents died, but as I get older I feel the need to be more dedicated. Issues of faith and spirituality aside, I like the ritual and feeling more centered helps me launch my week.

I knew River would be pleased to hear that Esme and I would be on the case, and I wanted to help him, but I knew dealing with Jennifer was going to be a gong show. When Denny was around she was civil, but he was out of town at a seminar. I felt confident I could cope with her if I put my mind to it. As for Esme, well, I'd just have to keep them apart as much as possible.

I was pulled out of my reverie near the end of the service when the priest began reading the petitions for prayer. “We ask your blessing on the Forgotten Man,” he intoned, “though his earthly resting place has been disturbed, we pray that his soul is at peace with the Lord.”

“Seriously?” I whispered to Jack, which earned me a giggle from a little girl who was watching us over her daddy's shoulder.

After the service, people took advantage of the beautiful spring weather to linger outside, gathering in clusters to chat. As Jack and I headed to my car, Emily Clemmons peeled off from a group and called my name. Emily is in her mid-forties, has an unruly mass of salt-and-pepper hair, and carries a bit of comfortable padding that she is forever trying to diet off. She's the go-to gal when something needs organizing: bake sales, funeral dinners, Easter egg hunts, Christmas bazaars, and sometimes events of her own creation.

“I'm so glad I ran into you,” she said, reaching into her purse for a notebook and pen. “What can you tell me about this poor man they found buried at the old Harper place? I hear you and Esme have done some research; what have you found out? I'd like to know a little something about him before the vigil.”

“Hello, Emily,” I said, trying to hide a combination of irritation and amusement. “I'm afraid I can't tell you anything.”

“Can't tell me or won't tell me?” Emily asked, giving me a playful slap on the arm. “I know how you are about that whole confidentiality thing with your clients.”

“Well, there is that,” I said. “But in this case I simply don't know anything. How in the world did you find out about this anyway?”

“Oh, Facebook,” Emily said, waving a dismissive hand. “Somebody posted a picture of the coffin.” She shook her shoulders in an exaggerated shudder. “Just gruesome. It breaks my heart to think about that poor man buried out there all alone for all these years and nobody even remembers who he is. Isn't that the saddest thing?”

I thought of telling her this was far from the saddest thing I'd witnessed. Whoever this person was, he'd been given a careful burial. It was sad that there was no marker, and quite frustrating for me as a genealogist, but Emily was ramping up the drama.

Alas, it mattered not one whit what I thought, as it seemed Emily's question was rhetorical. “Some people may think this vigil is unnecessary,” she went on, “but I truly believe his spirit will rest in peace only if we let him know he hasn't been forgotten. Maybe you don't believe in that kind of thing, but lots of people do.” Then she walked off, looking for fresh ears to talk at.

I needed no convincing about the existence of spirits. It was true that a few years back I would have tagged Emily as a crackpot, but since Esme came into my life, I've become a reluctant convert. Esme has the questionable gift of being able to receive communications from the dead—sometimes, about some things, often very obliquely, and usually the info is maddeningly enigmatic. When she first told me about this, after we'd become business partners, I'd questioned her stability. I mean, I'd seen plenty of people who were haunted, but only by memories. And I knew lots of families had ghosts, but that always meant unresolved issues or questions, not ghost ghosts. I'm a binary kind of gal. A thing is either off or it's on. I don't deal well with weasel words or nuances. And really, I'd no intention of keeping an open mind. But time after time I'd seen Esme do her thing and now I totally accept that she gets messages from beyond. Occasionally it gives us a huge advantage in our research, but more often it's an exercise in frustration.

“You wanna stop by Top o' the Morning for coffee and a Danish?” Jack asked, shaking his head as he watched Emily corral another group of recruits.

“Definitely. Caffeine and sweets are my favorite major food groups.”

We decided to walk the few blocks from St. ­Raphael's, and Jack went in for our order while I grabbed one of the outdoor tables crammed into the little alley space beside the shop. I called River while I waited.

He answered, sounding out of breath.

“River, it's Sophreena. Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.

“Oh, hey, Sophreena. I'm not sure there is a good time this morning. I just had to go out and tell another bunch of people they can't be disturbing things around that grave.”

“I heard you've had some looky-loos.”

“Yeah. Can't blame 'em for being curious, it's a curious kind of thing, but I do wish they'd be more respectful about it. Things I took some care to plant are getting trampled. And some folks are going inside the tape that kid from the lab put up yesterday. People are literally crossing the line here.”

“Isn't there anything Jennifer can do?”

“She's been by a few times and she ran off one couple, but she can't stay here all day and they just keep coming. She'll come back out this afternoon with some official police department signs to warn people off. Maybe that'll do the trick.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I'm calling to let you know Esme and I would like to find out whatever we can for you. We'll do a per-hour contract for three hours of research time to keep it economical. Is that acceptable?”

“Long as I have the option to renew, that's fine by me. This whole thing with finding the grave is really just the trigger—I've wanted to know more about who's lived on this land since the day I bought it. You may think I'm strange for saying this, but I believe you share your space with the ghosts of those who came before. Their culture, their hopes and fears, their living practices all sort of seep into the soil and grow in everything.”

“That's a profound thought, River.”

“Is that your polite way of saying I'm a nut job?” River asked with a chuckle.

“Not at all,” I said, and meant it. “I'm a genealogist, after all. Of course I believe our heritage influences us. I'll make a courthouse visit tomorrow and you can get me a copy of your property deed then, too, right?”

“First thing in the morning,” River agreed. “And there's an attic full of stuff here, might be something useful up there.”

“I love poking around in dusty old attics,” I said, “but let me see what I can find out from official sources first.”

“Awesome,” River said, sounding more like a teenage skateboarder than a retiree. “If you could come out tomorrow morning sometime, I can give you a check. Or I could bring it to you, though I'm sort of afraid to leave home right now. Stupid, I know, but I feel like I need to protect our fella from the gawkers.”

“We'll get the check when we see you next, no need for a special trip. But I would like to come out and have you show me the property lines and maybe take some photos to show where the grave is situated.”

“Good deal. Other than a quick trip to the bank for the deed, I'll be right here, hanging out with Jimmy.”

“Jimmy?” I asked.

“Fella needed a name. He seems to like it,” River said. “Whole lot better than ‘skeletal remains,' don't you think?”

I laughed. “Much better. See you tomorrow.”

River Jeffers reminded me of my dad, whom I had loved fiercely. Jennifer clearly felt the same about her father and she was very protective of him. This made me think a little better of her—a very little better.

I'd just finished the call when Jack came out with two cups of coffee and two strawberry scones. I decided this was another sign I could add to my tally. Would a buddy remember your favorite pastry? And he'd doctored my coffee with just the right amount of cream and sugar. Double points.

“You get up with River?” Jack asked, giving me an odd look. Only then did I realize I must have been gazing at him like a doofus.

“I did,” I said, reaching for my coffee. “I feel bad about charging him our regular fee considering the situation he's in. So we're going to give him the economy package.”

“I wouldn't worry about that,” Jack said, huffing a laugh as he dropped into the wrought-iron chair. “River's loaded.”

“Sure.” I laughed.

“No, really,” Jack said. “You wouldn't know it looking at the way he lives, but he's got plenty of money.”

“Family money?”

“No, I think he comes from a pretty humble background. He's a self-made man. He bought some little company back in the seventies. I don't remember what the original company made, some little molded plastic part for something. Guess he took that line in
The Graduate
seriously; you know, where Mr. McGuire gives the recent graduate advice and it's just one word, ‘Plastics.' Anyhow, River had a knack for finding niche markets for parts he could fabricate quickly and economically and kept expanding the business. Eventually he got into making cases for electronics. Made a mint, then sold the company and bought another that made ecofriendly landscaping fabric. I use a lot of that in my business, so I helped him make his second fortune.”

“So Jennifer's a rich kid? Maybe that explains the attitude.”

Jack shook his head as he broke off the end of his scone. “No, he didn't spoil her. Not with material goods anyhow. River doesn't believe in excess. But he believes in the permaculture method like it's a religion. That's how I first met him. I went to a permaculture workshop. Thought maybe I could pick up some good practices for my landscaping business.”

“And he attended the workshop, too?”

“He taught the workshop. Anyhow, he's got plenty of money socked away, I don't doubt, but he gives a lot away, too. He's got a thing for funding start-up ventures when he thinks somebody's got a workable and worthy idea.”

“Okay, full price it is,” I said. “Let's just hope we come up with something workable and worthy.”

*   *   *

“This is getting totally out of hand,” Esme muttered as she came into the workroom later that afternoon.

I reluctantly pulled my attention from the computer, where I'd been researching glass caskets.

“What's getting out of hand?” I asked.

“I just got a call from Claire Calvert.”

“Claire? From the Literacy Council?”

“Do you know any other Claire Calverts?” Esme snapped. “I'm going over to her house. She needs somebody with her.”

I drew in a breath, trying to ignore Esme's tone. “What's wrong? Is she sick?”

Claire was the survivor of an incident worthy of an Appalachian ballad. She'd been an active and admired young teacher in the mid-nineties. One night her husband, Quentin Calvert, had come home to find another man, Nash Simpson, in the house with Claire. He'd gone into a jealous rage and there was a brawl. Claire had been seriously hurt, her injuries leaving her paralyzed from the waist down. Quentin had served an unusually lengthy sentence in the state penitentiary, but he'd been paroled a few weeks ago and was back in Morningside.

“No, not sick,” Esme said. “She's just agitated.”

“Please don't tell me Quentin Calvert is harassing her,” I said. I'd heard a lot of talk around town and some people weren't happy he'd come back.

“No, Emily Clemmons is the problem. With all her good intentions that woman can sure misfire sometimes. She's taken her candlelight vigil on the road. River's place is posted so she's gone around on Claire's property, without permission, so she can get everybody as close to the grave site as she can. Claire and River are friends and Claire doesn't want him thinking she's had any part in this, but she can't get him on the phone. Where's Denton when you need him? He picked a fine time to go off on a law enforcement seminar.”

“I hardly think Denny could have anticipated anything like this when he signed up for it, Esme,” I said.

Esme had been touchy about everything lately, and I couldn't figure out what was at the core of it. When I asked, she maintained, grumpily, that everything was hunky-dory. But she definitely had a burr under her saddle.

“You want me to come with you?” I asked.

“No, you stay here and hopefully make some headway with the research.”

I didn't argue. I like and admire Claire Calvert, but she and Esme are closer. They never let me get a word in edgewise when they're together. Besides, I was turning up fascinating stuff about glass caskets. Macabre? Yes. No apologies. Dead people are the stock-in-trade of my profession, so of course I'm interested in where and how they're housed for eternity.

One big thing I'd learned was that glass caskets had been a colossal flop both as a burial vessel and as a business. The Spanish flu pandemic had just ended and as always, there was no shortage of sleazeballs jumping to capitalize on people's fears. The manufacturers of the caskets made claims about how the sealed vessels would prevent the spread of disease, unsupported by anything other than their own advertising copy. The caskets themselves were expensive to produce and weighed in at nearly five hundred pounds, threatening to give the pallbearers hernias as they carried the casket to the grave site. Not to mention the glass couldn't take the pressure of six feet of dirt bearing down on it.

Also, there were plenty of financial shenanigans going on in this particular venture. The biggest company involved in “manufacturing” the caskets had perpetrated full-scale fraud. They printed up fancy brochures, opened storefronts, and even set up a fake production plant. One particularly industrious gentleman in Chicago staged an elaborate funeral with his not-quite-dead-yet wife playing the starring role of the corpse. He nearly suffocated her when he made the grand gesture of sealing the casket at the end of the service. Waiting until he'd gotten her into the privacy of the hearse to open the lid and check on her, he found her turning blue—and, I would presume, more than a little miffed. But, hey, it did prove the things sealed.