by Brynn Bonner
“Did you know Dorothy’s mother, Leila?” I asked. “She’s a shadowy figure. No one we interviewed had much to say about her.”
“I remember her,” Winston said, “but barely. I don’t think I ever saw her but a half dozen times. She was a little woman. Pretty, but delicate looking. I don’t know if she was shy or sickly or what, but she kept pretty much to herself.”
“I always wondered if it was losing his wife that made William such a bitter man,” Marydale said. “I don’t think I ever saw him smile. I was half afraid of him when I was a kid.”
“I was half afraid of him when I was a grown man,” Winston said with a chuckle. “He used to come in the bakery and bark his order like some banana republic dictator. It was just his natural disposition.”
We heard a “Woo-hoo” coming from the front hall, followed by the tinkling of Coco’s bracelets. A couple of minutes later she came in the door, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “Okay, here I am, clean hands, good eyes and a willing spirit.”
Marydale scooted down to give Coco room to work and Jack passed down a layout he’d finished.
“Sorry I’m late to the party,” Coco said as she studied the pages. “I took my folks out to brunch at the Sunrise Café then I had to take them back to their condo. You can’t believe how riled up their neighbors are getting. They’re all convinced there’s a gang of home invaders here in Morningside and that Dorothy was just their first victim. Daddy wanted to go out and get a gun, but Mom won’t have one in the house, so yesterday he went out to the sporting goods store to buy a Louisville Slugger. And guess what, they’d sold out!”
“Crazy,” I said, neglecting to add that both Esme and I already kept softball bats within handy reach behind our headboards.
“Oh, and I ran into Ingrid Garrison,” Coco went on. “She was having lunch at the café with Jeremy and Cassidy. She said she might come by for a few minutes later this afternoon.” Coco stopped talking and looked around the room. “Where’s Esme?” she asked as if I might be hiding her, which would be quite a feat.
“She should be here any minute. She’s having lunch with Detective Carlson.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Coco said. “Is this voluntary or is he still giving you two the third degree?”
“Oh, he’s done with me,” I said. “But he’s still quite eager to talk with Esme.” I raised an eyebrow and Coco’s face broke into a wide grin.
“Ooh, I see. He must be a brave, brave man.”
“Well, I think it would be wonderful if Esme went out with him,” Marydale said, “socially, I mean. He seems like a good guy and, no offense, Sophreena, but she needs something in her life besides hovering over you like a mother hen.”
“Pot callin’ the kettle,” said a voice from the doorway.
I was sure guilt was etched on all our faces as Esme swept into the room and hung up her bag.
“I won’t argue with that, Esme,” Marydale said. “But I don’t have suitors knocking at my door.”
“I met with the detective to see if there was anything we could do to help and that was all of it. Now since when did y’all start talking about my business behind my back?”
“Since never, Esme,” Coco said. “Let’s talk about your business in front of your face. Why wouldn’t you go out with him? He’s handsome and he seems nice. You might have some fun.”
Esme turned to give me a look.
“I did not put her up to that,” I said. “She’s expressing an independent opinion.”
“What about you two?” Esme said, putting her hand on her hip as she turned toward Winston and Jack. “You don’t have opinions about Detective Carlson?”
Both men got a deer-in-the-headlights look. Finally, with a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth, Winston said, “Well, now Esme, if pressed I’d have to say he’s a pretty good-lookin’ man.” He turned to Jack, who faked giving the question consideration.
“A regular Adonis,” Jack agreed with a grin.
Esme flapped a hand at them. “You know very well that is not what I meant. First off, the man has not asked me out. And secondly, as I’ve told you all, I’m satisfied with my life just the way it is. This was strictly about the case. Sophreena, Spencer’s decided to get ahead of things, I guess. He called and made arrangements to come in tomorrow to make a statement. Today was his wife’s birthday and her family was all over at their house, so it wouldn’t have looked too good for him to say he had to go off to be questioned by the police, I suppose.”
“Did you find out anything about the investigation?” Marydale asked.
“A little,” Esme said, serious now. “Joe Porter’s got an alibi. He was in a meeting with one of his suppliers.”
I was really happy about that bit of news and I knew the others were, too, judging by the smiles all around.
“And,” Esme went on, “I learned they’re running DNA off two coffee cups that were found on the floor near Dorothy’s body. There was evidence of a struggle, which we would already have figured considering how she died. Course, they ordered those tests before they knew about Hank Spencer.”
“If he admits he had coffee with Dorothy that will probably make the results a moot point,” I said.
“Which is good,” Esme said. “Detective Carlson says there’s at least a month-long backlog at the state lab.”
“Admitting he was there and had coffee with Dorothy makes it look really bad for Spencer,” I said. “He himself says he was leaving as Linda was getting back from her errands. There simply wasn’t time for anyone else to come in there and do the deed between the time he left and the time Linda found Dorothy’s body. Not unseen or unheard.”
“Yeah, you’re talking a different story now,” Jack said. “Keep that in mind in case you get a wild hair about going off to meet him again, will ya?”
I felt heat in my face and was working on a snarky reply, but Esme saved me from myself.
“I was with her, Jack,” she said. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”
“See? Mother hen,” Marydale said.
The doorbell spared us Esme’s comeback and I went to answer.
Cassidy looked like she’d lost her last friend. Ingrid gave me an apologetic look. “We’re back—again,” she said, mouthing the last word. “I hope it’s okay we dropped in like this. We were at the park but when we passed your house Cassidy begged to stop in.”
“It’s fine,” I assured her. And it was. If being a part of this project was a comfort to Cassidy it was well worth the minor inconvenience.
Once in the workroom Ingrid glanced over Marydale’s shoulder at the pages she was working on. “Oh, look here, Cassidy, this picture was taken up at High Ground when it was my grandparents’ house. They used to have a big party for the whole town every Fourth of July.”
“Highlight of the summer,” Winston said. “Food and fireworks, games and prizes. All that good stuff.”
“I only got to go once in my whole life,” Marydale said. “We usually went to my grandparents’ house in Wilmington for the Fourth. Not that the beach wasn’t fun, but I hated always missing the big party. Everybody would be talking about it for weeks afterward.”
“Gigi, there’s a pony,” Cassidy said, tiptoeing to see the pages. “Who is that little girl riding it? Can we get a pony? I love ponies.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Ingrid said. “But maybe we can find a place for you to ride one. And you know I think the girl in that picture is me.” She leaned over to study the photo closer. “Yes, that’s me. And you know who that is standing right over there by the tree? That’s Miss Vivian. And that’s her grandmother holding her hand.”
“Was she your friend?” Cassidy asked.
“Well, we were friends, sort of,” Ingrid said, tilting her head to one side, “but not friends like you and Tiffany. Vivian didn’t live in Morningside so I didn’t see her very often. She’d come to our house to play with me sometimes but she was younger than me so I didn’t m
uch like having to play with her. You know how it is when Tiffany’s little sister wants to play with you two.”
“She likes baby games,” Cassidy pronounced. “Tiffany and me like to play Xbox and her daddy’s teaching us how to play Blackjack.”
“Really,” Ingrid said, a forced smile on her face. “I’ll have to ask Tiffany’s daddy about that.”
Cassidy gasped as she caught sight of Gadget and Sprocket frisking in the yard. “Can I go play with the puppies?” she asked.
Ingrid looked a question at Marydale.
“Sure you can, sweetie,” Marydale said. “And can you take that little water dish and the water bottle from that bag and give them a drink?”
Marydale knew there was a fountain on the patio the dogs loved to lap from, but I sensed her strategy was to give Cassidy a chance to take care of something for a change. With all the adults around her constantly taking her emotional temperature she had to be feeling smothered.
We all watched as she went out and put the dish onto the grass. She splashed water into it despite some enthusiastic interference from the dogs. They jumped up on her and licked at her fingers and face. We could hear her giggle and it sounded magical.
“Thank you for that,” Ingrid said, her voice quavering, “she doesn’t laugh much these days. She’s scared. She asked me last night if somebody was going to come to our house and hurt her, or me or her daddy. She goes around with me every night and checks the locks. Frankly, I’m a bit afraid myself. Until we know why Dorothy was killed it’s easy to let your imagination run away with you. And since I was out of the family fold so long I have no idea whether it could be tied up with family business or what.”
“I doubt that,” I said. “Your father sold the business in 1972. And anyway, Dorothy never worked in the company.”
“I didn’t mean literally in the business,” Ingrid said. “I just meant somehow tied up with the Pritchett family. I’m trying to think of every possibility. Maybe it had something to do with Dorothy’s work with the town council. I got an earful from some people about that when I first moved back here.”
“There were hard feelings at the time,” Winston said. “But now most people give Dorothy her due. This town would have died out if she hadn’t pushed for changes. I hate to think it could have anything to do with that.”
“So do I,” Ingrid said. “Morningside is a wonderful place. People have been good to me since I’ve been back. And I’m proud of all Dorothy did to make the town what it’s become.” Her voice went to a whisper. “I never told her that.”
Again the doorbell saved us all from an awkward moment. Esme answered this time and returned a moment later with Vivian hot on her heels.
“Ingrid,” she said, ignoring the rest of us, “I’ve been calling you all afternoon.”
Ingrid frowned and reached into her pocket for her phone. “Sorry, I turned it off at church and forgot to turn it back on.”
“Jeremy told me where you were,” Vivian said, strolling along the tables and examining the pages we were working on. She looked like an instructor checking the work of underachieving students. “I had some questions about the guest list for the memorial. There are a couple of names I think you should add.”
“Guest list?” Ingrid said. “I thought it would just be open to anyone who wants to pay respects to Dorothy.”
“Oh, Ingrid,” Vivian said, looking at her as if she felt sorry for the poor ignorant woman, “that’s just asking for trouble. You need to control the numbers so you don’t run out of food or be overrun by people who are there out of some morbid curiosity or something. That would be so unseemly and you know that’s the last thing Dorothy would’ve wanted.”
“Still,” Ingrid said firmly. “I wouldn’t want to turn away anybody who wants to honor Dorothy. I’ll talk with Joe about it, but I’m sure he’ll feel the same way.”
“Whatever you want,” Vivian said, though she made it evident she felt that was the wrong decision. “I’ll do my best to deal with whatever challenges you throw at me.”
“I appreciate that, Vivian,” Ingrid said. “Here, come look at this picture of us at the High Ground summer party.”
Vivian seemed impatient, but she came over and I slipped the pages into a protective sleeve and handed them to her.
“I think this was the year Grandpa Harry died,” Ingrid said, “so it must have been the summer of 1957. I would have been almost six, so that means you would have been what? Three?”
“Almost four,” Vivian said. “That’s me there in that one as well, the one with William Pritchett bending down to talk to me. I know you had your issues with him, Ingrid, but he was always very nice to me at these events. Over all the years he never failed to ask me how school was going and things like that. He seemed really interested in hearing about my life.”
“Well, he sure didn’t care to hear about mine,” Ingrid said. “But yes, he could be nice—unless you dared cross him. Then you were dead to him. With William Pritchett it was one strike and you’re out.”
“I don’t even remember you being at the Fourth parties,” Vivian said, frowning. “I was there every year until I went off to college.”
Ingrid sighed. “After our grandparents died and we moved into High Ground the big bash seemed less about fun and more about appearances. We had to be there, it was mandatory. And Father expected Dorothy and me to be perfect in front of the townspeople. Any little misstep and there was a price to pay. It was a test, and I frequently failed. I’d beg off claiming a stomachache and if that didn’t work I’d go to the attic or the guest house and hide.”
“Sad,” Vivian said then looked around the room. “Well, anyway, you know Sophreena and Esme are being paid to do this. You don’t need to be over here helping out.”
Ingrid smiled. “I think Cassidy and I have been more a hindrance than a help and Sophreena and Esme have been great to let us hang around. I’m learning things about my family I never knew.”
“Dorothy always said family was everything,” Vivian said, reaching over to pat Ingrid’s arm. “Too bad you’re learning that so late.” She gave the rest of us a perfunctory nod. “Y’all carry on. I’ll show myself out.”
Cassidy came back inside with the dogs at her heels. “I think they’re tired,” she said.
“They probably are,” Marydale said. “Honey, could you fix their little beds for them?”
Both pups immediately wound themselves into little balls and fell into an untroubled sleep. Cassidy retrieved her bag and curled up on the futon couch we use for guests. She took out her stuffed dog, a book and finally the puzzle box. She picked up the box and started to manipulate the moving parts and pry at the cracks with her fingernails.
I went back to working on my pages and when I looked over a few minutes later, Cassidy was fast asleep. Ingrid followed my eyes and saw the sleeping child.
“I need to get her home,” she said. “She has enough trouble sleeping at night as it is.” She gently shook Cassidy awake and helped the groggy child gather up her things.
We worked on for another half hour before Jack stood and stretched. “I need to get going, too,” he said, glancing at his watch.
“Thanks for your help,” I said.
He came over to my table and leaned down. “Do me a favor, Soph. If you get any other leads about Dorothy’s case, just pass them on to the cops, okay?”
“Sure thing,” I said, making a shooing motion. “Now, go, you’re going to be late for your dinner date.” I tried to force out a “Say hi to Julie,” but my lips refused to make the words.
fifteen
I FOUND ESME AT THE KITCHEN TABLE THE NEXT MORNING looking downright frowsy. I looked equally bedraggled, but for me that’s not rare. We’d worked late into the night and when I’d finally fallen into bed I couldn’t get to sleep. Thoughts had chased one another around in my head as I lay there in the darkness.
I kept recalling the party photos of the Fourth of July celebration at Harrison and Sar
ah Pritchett’s and contrasting that festive event with the sterile and rigid home life Ingrid Garrison had described with her father.
Dorothy had always spoken of her grandparents with warmth and deep affection. In contrast, though she’d never said a negative word about her father through all the months we’d worked with her, there had been code words: exacting, high standards, unrelenting, assured. At one point she’d said that a person would flout William Pritchett’s advice at her peril and I’d found that pronoun telling, though I didn’t know if she’d meant Ingrid or herself.
And I kept getting flashes of pitiful little Cassidy every time I closed my eyes. I wondered what lasting effects Dorothy’s murder would have on the child.
Then there was the Jack issue. I had to face the fact that I was just plain old garden variety jealous. But that was my issue. He’d done nothing wrong and he’d been nothing but a friend to me. Which was, I had to admit, exactly the problem.
“I know why I didn’t sleep, what about you?” I asked Esme as I poured myself a tankard of coffee.
“Sarah Malone,” Esme answered. “The poor woman is not going gentle into that good night. She’s restless as the wind and apparently she enjoys my company.”
“What are you getting?” I asked.
“Oh, paradoxes, Catch-22s, enigmas inside conundrums wrapped up in perplexities and tied with Gordian knots.” She set down the newspaper and rubbed at her eyes. “I sense great joy and great pain coming from the same place. And I get a strong feeling that ring is at the crux of it all somehow, at least as a symbol.”
“If the story Hank Spencer told us is true I can’t think how Sarah Malone might have felt about being given a ring that her suitor won in a poker game. Doesn’t that seem, I don’t know, a little less than romantic?”
“It’s a spectacular ring,” Esme said. “And Harrison Pritchett put it on her finger after taking it from a woman who’d treated her shabbily. That payback had to feel a little good to Sarah. It’s got kind of a knight-in-shining-armor feel to it, don’t you think?”
