Death on the Family Tree

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Everanes. My uncle was Walter Everanes, and I’m looking for somebody named Carter Everanes.” Katharine bent over the pages, fascinated. How could anybody make sense out of those consonant combinations?

  He seemed to have no trouble at all. “Unusual name. I don’t recall that I ever heard it.” He ran his finger down the page. “Here it is. The code for Everanes is EVRN, E165. Now we need to look at the codes for the 1930 census, to find out where to look for them.”

  He took her back to the microfilm room, where the older woman was still poring over something on her screen. Katharine paid the woman little attention, for her new companion was again explaining what he was doing. “The 1930 census is the most recent one that’s been put on microfilm, and these drawers hold that census for Georgia.” He gestured to the first row of a bank of small black file drawers. “And the Soundex Codes for Georgia are here. Three steps—see?”

  He paused as if waiting for her to reply, so she nodded and remembered obediently, “First you find the code number for the name in the book out there, then you look up that number in one of these green boxes to see if that name appears in Georgia, and then—?” She stopped, for she didn’t know what happened next.

  “I’ll show you.” He opened a drawer from the second bank of drawers and brought out a green box from near the back. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  “I really appreciate this.” Katharine was grateful, but felt a bit overwhelmed by his determined kindness.

  “It’s no trouble a-tall,” he assured her. “I have nothing pressing at the moment.” He put the film in a machine and fast-forwarded to E165. “Here we are. Everanes. There’s only one family, and they lived in Fulton County, like you thought.” He pointed to the screen and read aloud. “Head of household, Clifford Charles Everanes. Other persons living in the house were Mildred Faire Everanes, wife, Walter Charles, son—well, looky here! Carter Simpson, son, and Emily Lucille, daughter. That help you any?”

  Katharine stared at the gray screen, trying to absorb the information. Aunt Lucy and Uncle Walter had a brother she had never heard of? She was positive that not once in all her growing up years had she heard Walter and Lucy mention another brother.

  “This what you wanted to know?” the man demanded.

  “Oh, yes,” she told him. “I’m surprised that he was a brother, that’s all. I knew Walter and Lucy, but I never heard of Carter.”

  He gave a raspy laugh. “Mighta been the black sheep of the family. You wanta know more about him?” She nodded. He pointed to some words and numbers at the upper right of the screen. “Best place to start is the census. These numbers give us the volume of the census, the enumeration district, and the abode number.” Again she was surprised with how easily he rolled off words like “enumeration” and “abode.” She quickly jotted down the numbers he indicated, including the right frame of the microfilm, then followed him back to the drawers containing microfilms of the actual census records. He had already pulled out another green box.

  “I can take it from here,” she assured him. “Thanks so much.”

  “I’ll stick around in case you get in any trouble.” As Katharine headed back to the microfilm, he was so close behind that he trod on her heel.

  She turned. “I’d really rather do this alone. I do appreciate your help, though.”

  He held up both hands and backed off. “Sorry, ma’am. No offence intended. You need any more help, you let me know.” He swaggered back to the main library and she saw him pick up a periodical from a table and settle in as if to read. When she glanced that way in a few seconds, though, he was looking her way. He gave a grin and a wave. She waved back, and returned to the screen.

  She inserted the film and started looking for the right frame. Impatient, she punched the fast-forward button and whizzed past the one she sought.

  “Drat!” She spoke sharply before she remembered she was not alone. Her cheeks grew hot and she darted a glance at the woman on the other machine. What must she be thinking?

  At the same moment she looked Katharine’s way. “Why, Katharine Murray! You doing family research, too?”

  Katharine’s face broke into a smile. “Dr. Flo! I didn’t recognize you.”

  A slim brown hand came up to pat the short shining curls. “It’s my new look. I decided it was time to cut off that bun and get myself a new style and some bright, fun clothes.”

  For thirty years, until she’d retired a few years before, Dr. Florence Gadney had taught business at Spelman College. She always gave the impression that she meant business, too. Short and slender with an elegant carriage, she wore chic tailored suits, silk blouses, and a chignon that made her look as if she’d just stepped off a plane from Paris. In an evening gown, she resembled an Ethiopian queen, a fit consort for the handsome Maurice Gadney, M.D., in his tux. They used to make a striking couple when they attended art, musical, or theatrical openings in Atlanta, where their names generally appeared in the program as patrons, sponsors, or angels of the event. They had no children, but were often quoted as saying that the various organizations they supported served as their family.

  Even after Dr. Flo retired and got more involved in community organizations, she remained chic and elegant. Katharine had often run into her at meetings of the Perennial Plants Association, at members-only events at the High Museum of Art and the Atlanta Botanical Gardens, at fund-raising galas for women’s shelters, or at evening performances for adults at the Theater for Puppetry Arts. And while they weren’t well acquainted, Katharine always enjoyed Dr. Flo. The woman’s mind was sharp, her interests wide, and her conversation brilliant.

  That morning, though, Katharine realized she had seldom seen the professor since her husband had died unexpectedly a year earlier. Dr. Flo hadn’t seemed like a woman to hang up her socks after she was widowed. Maybe she had been traveling, picking up new clothes in street markets around the world.

  “I like your hair,” Katharine told her. “It’s a softer look.”

  “I’m not feeling very soft right now.” Dr. Flo gestured toward her microfilm. “I’m looking up some relatives of my husband’s, trying to chase down one of Maurice’s cousins. His people came from down in Butts County, and I always told him the lot of them were real good at butting heads in a butt-ugly manner. Maurice was the only decent one in the lot. Are you into genealogy?”

  “A beginner,” Katharine admitted.

  “It’s fascinating when you get into it.” Dr. Flo’s eyes danced. “You begin to feel like a detective or something, rooting around for clues. What are you looking for?”

  “I’m trying to solve a puzzle I got handed this morning. My Aunt Lucy died last week—Lucille Everanes?”

  Dr. Flo wrinkled her forehead. “I didn’t know her, but the name sounds familiar. It’s not a common one, so I wonder why. Was she on your mother’s side of the family?”

  Katharine shook her head with a rueful smile. “She wasn’t on any side of my family. Her older brother married my mother’s sister. But because they all grew up together and the Everaneses had no other family, Lucy got adopted into ours.”

  “An honorary auntie,” Dr. Flo said with a nod. “I had several of those.”

  “I did, too, but I was in elementary school before I found out Aunt Lucy was one of them. I loved her like she was blood kin, and after listening to her stories all my life, I’d have sworn I knew everything there was to know about her past. Now, clearing out after her death, I’m discovering she had a brother Carter I never heard of.”

  “Carter Everanes. Now why does that sound familiar?” Dr. Flo cocked her head, wrinkled her forehead and pursed her lips, trying to come up with an answer. Reluctantly she shook her head. “Nothing comes immediately to mind, but my mind isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Well, it’s not like Carter has been mentioned very often in the past forty-five years. At least not in my presence.” Katharine nodded toward the microfilm machine. “I hope to find out something about him in a minute.
”

  “I hope you have better luck than I did. That no-good Drake doesn’t appear in any of these records, but I know he existed, because Maurice talked about him all the time. He used to manage some property Maurice owned down near Jackson, and I want to find him to ask him about it. I guess I’ll have to drive down there and see if I can locate him.” Dr. Flo rolled back her chair and stood, shaking out her skirt, which fell almost to bright yellow flip-flops. Dr. Flo Gadney in flip-flops? What was the world coming to?

  “Maybe he changed his name,” Katharine suggested, calling on her recent lesson on genealogy research.

  Dr. Flo let out a disgusted little huff. “Or maybe he skipped the country with Maurice’s money. That’s also possible.” They chatted lightly while Dr. Flo gathered up a red canvas tote and a black shoulder bag. Finally she said, “Well, I’d better be getting home. Good luck with your search.” As she walked from the room, her shoes made soft slap-slaps against the floor.

  When Katharine found the Everanes census listing, she saw that family members in the household included Walter, fifteen, Carter, thirteen, and Lucille, eleven. All three were students. So by the time of Walter’s wedding Carter would have been—Katharine used her pencil to do the math—twenty-two. What happened to him after that? Had he gone to war and died a hero’s death? Was it during the war that he had gotten the diary and archaeological artifact? She shuddered to think she might be in possession of stolen war gains.

  But excitement rose like sap in her veins at the thought that she might personally be able to solve this mystery. Maybe she could trace Carter through the military, or perhaps there were ways to find out when a person died. She wanted to talk to the Emory professor, too, and he hadn’t come to the library yet.

  First, though, she needed sustenance. Her English muffin and tea had long since departed, and her watch read ten past one. She would lunch at the Swan Coach House up the hill and return afterwards. The Coach House was one of her favorite restaurants, although she had never eaten there alone. It was the sort of place one went with friends, or where mothers and grandmothers took little girls in fancy dresses for special birthday parties.

  Today, she would give herself a birthday party. Treat herself to creamy chicken salad in crispy, heart-shaped timbales with a generous slice of frozen salad on the side, rich with whipped cream and slices of peaches and bing cherries. She might even splurge for a meringue swan filled with chocolate mousse and covered in whipped cream.

  She thanked the librarians, fetched her belongings from their locker, and stopped by the ladies’ room. As she came out the door, she didn’t notice the stranger in the hall until he spoke. “You looking for me?”

  Chapter 5

  A lanky man detached himself from the wall. He wore crisp khaki slacks and a white Oxford-cloth shirt with green stripes, the sleeves rolled up to show muscular forearms. “The folks at the desk said a Mrs. Murray wants to ask me a question about something she’s found.” As he got closer, his jaw dropped. “Kate?”

  Only one person had ever called her that.

  “Hasty!” Katharine hadn’t seen Hobart Hastings for nearly thirty years, but for the last three years of high school he had sat in front of her every day in homeroom and many classes, because “Hastings” came immediately before “Herndon” on the roster. In tenth grade they had been assigned as biology lab partners for the same reason and without him, she might never have passed. She had never been able to see a thing under a microscope. In exchange, she began to edit his papers for spelling and grammar. Studying—and frequently bickering—together, they became so inseparable that their friends began to refer to them in one run-on word: Kat-’n’-Hasty.

  But Hasty had wanted Katharine to apply to Kenyon, where he was going, and she had chosen Agnes Scott instead. All summer after graduation he had griped about that and insisted she would never be able to survive without him. She began to feel smothered, and insisted, “I have to do what’s right for me.” Then, the night before they were to leave for their separate colleges, he had drunk too much at a party and gotten himself entangled with a girl Katharine particularly disliked—one of the shapely, sun-streaked blondes in their class who seemed to stimulate raging hormones. When Hasty and the girl drove away together in the girl’s red Mustang convertible, Katharine found herself another ride home. An hour later, Hasty had turned up on her front porch. Furious and hurt, she had refused to let him in. He had stood out in the yard under her bedroom window, yelling things like “Hey, it was just a little fun” and “If you won’t go to college with me, you can’t expect me to become a monk, you know. I have to do what’s right for me,” until her father had gone out and sent him home.

  He hadn’t called the next morning before she left for Agnes Scott, so they hadn’t said goodbye. He had called her two nights later, after he got to college, but he had sounded more belligerent than contrite, so she’d hung up on him. Several times. After that, he didn’t call again. She had nursed her anger until it subsided into a bruised and hurting heart. After a couple of months, she had permitted her roommate to fix her up, but the date was a disaster, so she didn’t repeat the experience until Christmas, when she met Tom.

  Looking at Hasty now, she wondered: if Agnes Scott had been closer to Kenyon, or if her father hadn’t decided to move the family to Atlanta that same fall, would she and Hasty have eventually made up? Instead, they had never seen each other again.

  Now he looked down at her with a surprised look that wasn’t particularly flattering. “When did you get sophisticated and beautiful?”

  “When did you get so tactful?” But he had improved, too. She could see traces of the gangly boy he had been—the same square jaw, the same hazel eyes behind glasses that were now bifocals. However, he had filled out into an attractive bulk and the silver that threaded his black curls gave him a distinguished look. Unbidden, a memory of winding those curls through her fingers while she kissed him rose before her. She felt her fingers clench and heat rose in her cheeks. What on earth was the matter with her? She was a happily married woman.

  “You’re teaching history at Emory?” she asked to cover her confusion. “I had no idea you were in Atlanta. Besides, you hated history.” His father had been an expert on the Age of Expansion and one of the shining lights of the new history department when Florida International University was founded in the seventies, but history used to be Hasty’s worst subject.

  His lopsided grin and loose shrug hadn’t changed at all. “I discovered in college that it wasn’t history I hated, it was Dad ramming it down my throat. I got hooked on the Vandals, Goths, and Celts. All that ravishing and rape.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “You never did master a leer,” she informed him, “but if you know about Celts, you are just what I need.”

  “I can’t remember anybody ever having that reaction to Celts. You intrigue me. Want to have lunch?”

  She hesitated. “I was going up to the Coach House, and it’s pretty much all women.”

  “I don’t object to women.” Seeing her look, he added, “But I have learned to respect them. Besides, isn’t this your birthday?” Part of what used to astonish her about Hasty was his memory for trivia. She nodded. “Then you mustn’t eat alone. Come on, my treat.”

  She wasn’t in the habit of eating lunch with men, but she couldn’t think of any reason to refuse, and after all, he was an old friend. So she fell into step beside him and hurried to keep up. He still had the quick nervous stride that had earned him his nickname.

  He also still had a propensity to lecture. “Did you know that this restaurant and gift shop are housed in a garage the Inman family built on their estate to house a collection of racing cars? The mansion, completed in 1928, was left to the Atlanta Historical Society on Mrs. Inman’s death in the nineteen sixties, and the society built the history center on the grounds. They opened the Swan House to the public, and created the restaurant in the garage to generate income.”

  Katharine had memorized all
those facts back when she became a docent, but she had neither the breath nor the inclination to tell him. His long legs were taking the steep incline much faster than hers. When he saw she was falling behind, he put out a hand and she took it without thinking. Holding Hasty’s hand felt so familiar that she didn’t realize she hadn’t let go until they started in the door and met two of her friends. She dropped his hand at once, but they gave Hasty a speculative look as he stepped back to let them out. Katharine’s cheeks flamed. Why had Hasty turned out so handsome? They wouldn’t have given her those looks if he’d been scrawny, ugly, and had a squint. Why hadn’t she suggested somewhere else for lunch—preferably miles from Buckhead and everybody she knew?

  However, they were there, so she might as well enjoy it. Tom probably had lunch with women all the time as part of his work. That’s what they were going to have—a working lunch. Looked at that way, it was perfectly harmless. So why was she obsessing over this?

  Because you have spent too much of your life with women and children, she told herself crossly, taking a seat on an old chest that doubled as a waiting bench.

  “What have you been doing since high school?” she asked as Hasty returned from giving his name to the hostess. His story included graduation from Kenyon, a Ph.D. from Columbia, and positions at two colleges in the Midwest before coming to Atlanta to teach at Emory a year ago.

  “Your turn,” he finished.

  Given her dreams in high school, her life sounded pretty lame. “Husband, two kids. Susan’s working in New York and Jon just graduated from Emory last month. Now he’s gone to China to teach for a couple of years. We hope to go see him at Christmas.”

  The ponytailed helper from the library came in just then and greeted her with a grin and a wave. “I see you had the same idea I did.” He stuck out a hand to Hasty. “Hello, Dr. Hastings. Lamar Franklin. I caught one of your public lectures last winter on old burial customs. Fascinatin’ stuff.” He added in a lower tone, “The chow’s pretty good here if you can remember not to eat with your fingers and to keep your napkin in your lap.”