Paging the Dead

by Brynn Bonner

  Dorothy’s complaints about Joe had always been more about his shortcomings than his actions. He wasn’t sophisticated enough. Not well traveled. Not cultured. But she’d never claimed he was unfaithful or abusive in any way. He simply hadn’t been enough for her. I wasn’t sure about all the legalities, but I knew in North Carolina couples have to live apart for a year before a no-fault divorce can be granted. And Joe Porter had vacated Dorothy’s big house on the hill nearly a year ago, right about the time she hired us. I wondered if the two events were related in some way. Maybe after rejecting Joe, Dorothy was trying to renew her allegiance to her family of birth. She hadn’t yet taken back her family name, but she’d intended to once the divorce became final.

  I wondered what they’d put on her tombstone.

  eight

  “SWEET LORD. WE’RE GONNA NEED A WHOLE LOTTA COFFEE,” Esme said as we surveyed the workroom later that afternoon, “and a big ol’ vat of midnight oil.”

  “The good news is I am fastidiously organized, as you well know,” I said.

  Esme gave me a look.

  “Well, okay, in my work anyway. And yeah, there’s tons of stuff in here, but it is all sorted and divided into job areas.” I pointed to the table running along the far wall. “Since this is such a big job I moved the scanning station over to the long table. We’ve got huge stacks of photos and documents and other ephemera yet to scan and print.”

  “Bless your little cotton socks, Sophreena, you’ve been a busy gal. But oh, how I wish we could move that table over by the window so we could look out onto the backyard while we’re working and remind ourselves there’s a world out there? Watch the birds at the feeder? Maybe catch a cloud floating by.”

  “Me, too, but you know we can’t,” I said. “That flood of sunlight may be good for our psyches, but those are death rays for old photographs. I’m afraid we’re in for some long hours in that dark corner.”

  Esme let out a big sigh. “Yes, so here we go, to the batcave. Where do I start?”

  “We need to prepare the boxes we’ll store the archives in. They’re still out in the garage. You get those and I’ll warm up the scanners.”

  I turned on both flatbeds and placed a pair of thin white cotton gloves at Esme’s place before pulling on my own pair. The natural oils on human fingers are another enemy of old photos so when we handle originals we take every precaution.

  Esme brought the boxes in and kicked the door shut behind her. We keep this room closed up and a dehumidifier going twenty-four-seven to maintain climate control. In the rest of the house we’re casual housekeepers, and a peek into my closet would let anyone know I’m not so organized in all areas of my life, but when it comes to this room I’m a card-carrying control freak.

  As Esme settled in her chair she put her hand across her forehead and winced, a move she often makes when she’s getting something from beyond—wherever that is.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Something from Dorothy?”

  Esme shook her head. “No, I told you, Dorothy Porter barely deigned to talk to me while she was alive, why would she get chatty with me now? But I am getting something from somebody. I don’t know who and I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean. Just this awful heavy sense of shame and guilt.”

  “That’s pretty vague,” I said.

  “That’s the way it is sometimes, too many times,” Esme said. “It’s like they’re timid or something. They sidle up on me, drop a cryptic hint—no pun intended—then scurry back behind the veil. I wish they’d just come on out with it.” She sighed as she pulled on her gloves, then took a photo from the top of a tall stack sandwiched with rag paper. “Okay, what do we have here? Note says Dorothy and Ingrid, circa 1954. Ingrid was a cute little thing, and look at Dorothy. Winston’s right; she was a pretty girl. You know, Cassidy favors Dorothy even more than she does Ingrid.”

  “Yeah, in those pictures of Dorothy as a child she could be Cassidy’s twin.”

  Just at that moment the telephone rang and Ingrid Garrison was on the other end of the line, as if our speaking of her had prompted the call.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you again, Sophreena,” she said, her voice low and thready, “but I’m worried sick about Cassidy. Nothing I say seems to help—except when she heard Joe and me talking about the scrapbooks. That seemed to brighten her up for a bit. I understand Joe’s given you the green light. Would it be okay if we dropped by so she can watch you work? Maybe she’d feel part of it somehow?”

  “Sure, if you think it would help. But we’ve still got prep work to do. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know when we’re ready to start.”

  Ingrid sighed audibly as if to say, If that’s the best you can do, but she thanked me.

  “Poor child,” Esme said after I told her why Ingrid called.

  “I hope this is the right thing,” I said, staring down at the photo of the sisters Pritchett. “Maybe it’s too soon for Cassidy to be looking at these pictures of Dorothy and all these dead ancestors. We deal in death a lot, don’t we, Esme?”

  “I prefer to think of it as dealing with lives fully lived. Anyway, we’ll take our cues from Cassidy. At least somebody’s paying attention to the child’s needs. There’s nothing that tugs at my heart like a motherless child.”

  “Me, too,” I said, “and I suspect that’s because we both had wonderful mothers. Cassidy’s left when she was a baby. It’s so sad to think of what she’s missed out on. There’s nothing like a mama’s love.”

  I’d met Esme through her mother, Clementine, when I was on my first big genealogy gig. An old professor had recommended me for a primo job tracing the lineage of one of Louisiana’s most prominent political families. The job had paid extremely well, and I’d gotten a crash course in white-glove diplomacy. Sometimes when well-known people want their family line traced it’s not because they want to connect with the past; it’s a bid for prestige and they insist on cherry-picking what’s included in the record.

  Clementine Sabatier had worked for years as a domestic in the household. Though she hadn’t been treated very well she’d been loyal and discreet while she was in their employ, but by the time I interviewed her she was retired and inclined toward speaking the unvarnished truth. She wasn’t mean-spirited, but she answered my questions straight out. “I was in charge of polishing their silver,” she’d said, “but I’m not beholden to polish their image.” I’d gotten a ton of tantalizing information from her—most of which I’d been prohibited to use.

  I’d liked Clementine Sabatier immediately and grew to have a deep respect and fondness for her over the weeks I’d visited her. She was elderly and frail by then, but with a mind still agile and a tongue still quick.

  Esme was another story. I hadn’t known what to make of her in the beginning. When she shook my hand on our first meeting she said, “So this is how it’s gonna be.” I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond to that greeting and I muttered something unintelligible and reclaimed my hand as quickly as possible. Esme told me later she’d gotten a strong feeling that day that we were destined to work together to somehow turn her gift toward something useful. It was the one and only time she’d ever gotten any kind of cosmic vibe from a living person. I still don’t know how to feel about that.

  I got to know Esme better over the course of the weeks I was coming by to interview Clementine. I came to appreciate her dry wit and her sharp observations and to discover what a big heart she has.

  Clementine died a few months after my job in Louisiana was finished. Esme called to let me know and I went down for the funeral. The next thing I knew Esme had moved here and we were in business together.

  I owe eternal thanks to whatever Fates conspired to make that happen, though I don’t believe in stuff like the Fates. Or at least I didn’t. I can’t deny something happens with Esme, but I don’t know what it is or how to characterize it. Which is okay, because neither does Esme. Is it really an extra-sensory gift or just heightened intuition? It’s easiest
just to adopt her it-is-what-it-is philosophy and accept whatever comes to her as deserving of consideration. She’s gotten things she’s never been able to figure out, but she’s never gotten anything wrong.

  We scanned for hours, carefully cataloguing the photos and other artifacts as we went along. We never use originals in the scrapbooks we create since most are too delicate to be handled on a regular basis. We’d be supplying high-resolution scans, indexing and storing the original materials and using prints for the scrapbooks.

  Along about mid-afternoon I started wondering what we had in the fridge that could be thrown together for supper. I stood and stretched but before I could head to the kitchen to investigate the phone rang again. When I answered it I decided this must be my day to deal with women on the brink. Vivian Evans, Dorothy’s best friend, sounded even more distraught than Ingrid had earlier.

  “Joe told me that he’s given you and Esme the go-ahead to finish the Pritchett scrapbooks.”

  “Yes,” I said warily.

  “This really meant a lot to Dorothy, just meant the world to her, really,” Vivian said, alternating between sniffling and choking up. “It will be a gift to the whole community. I just wanted to let you know Joe and Ingrid have put me in charge of planning the memorial for Dorothy up at the house.”

  I’d never known anyone who’d engaged an event planner to handle a funeral, but I learned a long time ago that the wealthy do things differently.

  “I see,” I answered, which was politese for So why are you telling me this?

  “I want to make sure you know how important it is the scrapbooks be done and ready for display. And how absolutely critical it is that you do a thorough job with this. Harrison Pritchett was the town father, the founder. We need a complete history. So if you need to do more research you should definitely plan on that.”

  That last hit at my pride. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say,” I said. “Mrs. Porter was very happy with our report.”

  “Yes, of course she was. I didn’t mean anything,” Vivian said, still sniffling, “I’m just so upset. Dorothy and I were such close friends. I just can’t believe she’s gone. I want to make sure her legacy, the Pritchett family legacy, lives on. I’m only saying if there’s anything you might have missed, there’s still time.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “We’ll certainly follow up if we find any loose ends.”

  “What was all that about?” Esme asked as I placed the receiver back in the cradle.

  “Vivian Evans,” I said, “urging us to be thorough.”

  “Are we ever anything else?” Esme said. “Those two seem like unlikely friends, don’t they?” she mused. “I hear she’s taking Dorothy’s death harder than anybody, except little Cassidy maybe.”

  “I don’t think you and I are in any position to talk about unlikely friendships. Look at the two of us.”

  We both cocked our heads as we heard a “Yoo-hoo” coming from the front hall. We have a liberal open door policy with our friends and we never lock our doors when we’re home, though in light of what happened to Dorothy I was wondering if we needed to rethink things. I opened the door to the workroom and caught the multi-hued blur of a broomstick skirt as its wearer disappeared into the kitchen. I followed.

  “Brought you tomatoes,” Coco said, pulling things from the bag she’d set on the table. She lined up six of the gnarliest-looking tomatoes I’d ever seen on the counter. Then she saw my face.

  “Yes, I know, sweetie, they look awful. They’re heritage tomatoes so they haven’t had symmetry and color bred into them, but on the other hand they haven’t had the taste bred out of them. These are tomatoes as the Almighty intended. You’ll see.”

  “Great timing, Coco,” Esme said, coming up behind me. “We’ll have BLTs for supper. You got time for a glass of tea with us?”

  Coco consulted the little watch hanging from a long chain around her neck. “Sure thing,” she said, “and BLTs sound luscious. Mind if I invite myself to supper?”

  Esme went into kitchen-general mode and started issuing orders. “Coco, you toast the bread. Sophreena, you wash the lettuce and slice the tomatoes and I’ll fry up the bacon.”

  “Okay, so I hear you two are to go ahead with the Pritchett family scrapbooks. How’s that going?” Coco said as she rummaged in the bread drawer.

  “How do you know this?” I asked. “We didn’t even know it ourselves until a few hours ago.”

  “Small town, hon,” Coco said, shrugging. “Vivian told me. She came by the studio wanting me to do an urn for Dorothy’s remains, but I told her I’m not the potter for the job.”

  “You don’t do urns?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, I do them. I’ve done some lovely ones if I do say so myself. But always for people I knew and liked. If I’m honest I have to say I didn’t particularly like Dorothy Porter. I didn’t dislike her either, really. I just didn’t know her. But the little contact I had with her left a negative vibe with me. And that sinks right into the clay when I’m working it. If the urn’s to be her eternal resting place she should have good vibes around her, especially considering how she went.”

  “I hear you,” Esme said, making a bacon colonnade in her trusty cast-iron skillet.

  “I know you do, Esme,” Coco said. “That’s why I love you, darlin’. I feel so much less alone in my little strange world since you’ve come to us. Now, on a more earthly plane, I hear the police questioned that couple that moved down here last year from New Jersey about Dorothy’s murder. The ones that bought the old McPherson house up on Crescent Hill.”

  “The Emersons,” I said. “I know Audrey from the Friends of the Library group. Very nice lady. Why in the world are the police questioning them?”

  “They’re the ones Dorothy blackballed for country club membership. I don’t know what she had against them, but apparently they got off on the wrong foot with her and she held the deciding vote on the membership committee. Allen Emerson made some unfortunate remarks in front of a bunch of people about wanting to”—Coco made two-fingered quote marks in the air—“ ‘wring her neck’ for upsetting his wife.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said, “people don’t mean things like that literally.”

  “That’s on me,” Esme said, leaning away from the sizzling bacon. “I’m the one who prattled on to the detective about that little dust-up. I let my mouth get away from my brain. But it’s no more ridiculous than the police suspecting us, Sophreena. And people have killed for less.”

  “I smell bacon!” came a shout from the front hall. “You can smell it all the way down the sidewalk,” Jack said as he came into the kitchen. “That smell’s enough to make an orthodox vegetarian backslide.”

  Coco raised her hand. “Me. I allow myself one meat a month, and it’s almost always bacon, then I send PETA a check. Call me a hypocrite, but that balances for me.”

  “You want to join us?” I asked. “There’s plenty. And Coco promises me these tomatoes taste better than they look.” I sawed away, mounting up amoeba-shaped slices on the cutting board.

  “Love to,” he said, “but can’t. I’m taking Julie to dinner. Thought maybe I could set her straight on this whole thing about you and Esme being under suspicion and all that.”

  “Well, you do that,” I said.

  Coco winced. The words had come out the way I’d thought them, not the way I’d meant to say them out loud.

  “Good then,” Jack said, frowning as he studied my face. “I just came by to see if you wanted me to put in those succulents you got at the nursery. I saw last night they were still in the garage and I know you two are probably up to your eyeballs in Pritchett family scrapbooks now you’ve gotten the go-ahead.”

  “And how do you know this?” I asked.

  “I heard it from Marydale who I guess heard it from Linda Burnette, Dorothy’s housekeeper, who heard it from Vivian, maybe? Don’t know where she heard it.”

  “Well, anyhow, you’re right,” Esme said, “we ar
e up to our eyeballs with this thing and yes, please, we’d appreciate it a bunch if you’d put those plants in for us.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Got just enough time before I need to get home and clean up to meet Julie.”

  I had a sneaking hunch I wasn’t going to like Julie.

  nine

  I CALLED JACK THE NEXT MORNING WHILE I WAS WAITING IMPAtiently for Mr. Coffee to give up his last gurgle. It doesn’t take much to make me peevish in the morning, but I was determined to make nice.

  “Thanks for putting the plants in,” I said to get us right off on a positive note. I stood on tiptoes and peered out the kitchen window at the patio. “They look great.”

  “No problem. Man, you’re up at early-thirty. This deadline must have you desperate.”

  “No kidding.” I steeled myself and asked what was really on my mind, trying my best to keep the snarkiness out of my voice. “So how was your dinner last night?”

  “Okay, only I think my plan backfired.”

  “What do you mean, ‘backfired’?”

  “I explained all about you and Esme. What you do and the job you were doing for Dorothy—all of it. But now Julie’s thinking maybe you uncovered some deep, dark family secret and that’s what got Dorothy killed.”

  “Oh, good grief,” I muttered. “Other than a couple of disreputable distant ancestors the Pritchett family was pretty much mom and apple pie, at least the public face of it. I mean, Dorothy’s father, William, was a lout, but I think that’s probably the worst-kept secret in town. We’re not muckrakers, you know. We just look at what’s on the public record and in their personal papers if we’re lucky enough to find those. People don’t usually post their dark secrets in those places. Though in years to come Facebook is going to be a treasure trove of way too personal info for future genealogists. I hope I’m out of the business by then.”

  “Yeah, well, I wanted to give you a heads-up in case Julie comes around trying to score an interview with you or Esme.”