by Brynn Bonner
I knew squat, of course. I had tons of questions and few answers, but I figured this would get her attention.
She stared right into my eyes and I thought she was going to tell me—nicely, in deference to the dignitaries present—to bug off. But then a strange smile spread across her face. She excused herself and hustled me off to Dorothy’s private study at the back of the house. I felt like I was being hauled into the principal’s office.
When she’d closed the door she wheeled on me. “Okay, tell me. Tell me what you’ve found.”
That was the exact moment when I realized I’d acted in haste. Both Denny and Esme had tried to stop me, but I’d ignored them. I was still working my mental puzzle box and I hadn’t gotten to the secret compartment that would reveal all just yet. I tried a stall.
“I know about you,” I said. “I finally found the evidence.”
And there was that odd smile again. “You did?” she said, sounding more amazed than scared. “Maybe I underestimated you. What did you find? Is it solid?”
“Solid enough,” I said, all bravado. “It’ll hold up.”
“In court?” Vivian asked.
“Definitely,” I said. “If that’s where it ends up.”
“Oh, I don’t think it will,” she said. “What would be the point? You know, when Dorothy decided to hire you and Esme I was elated. You two had such good reputations. And Dorothy was convinced that would be the best way to do it. Or so she said. Now I think maybe it was a test.”
“A test?” I repeated, hoping my hair didn’t catch fire from the friction in my brain.
“Yes. After all, if you two couldn’t turn up the evidence when you were actually researching the family, what were the odds that anyone else would stumble across it?”
“Very slim, I suppose,” I said, still playing for time. Things were clicking into place: Vivian urging us repeatedly to be thorough in our research, her insistence that I, of all people, should have understood her relationship with Dorothy, her odd reaction when she’d overheard us talking about Winston’s ancestor hiding his children in plain sight.
“Wow,” I said softly as things began to mesh.
Vivian didn’t hear. She was pacing now, her blue eyes glinting like ice crystals in winter sunshine. “I’ll admit I despaired,” she said, with a hiccup of a laugh. “I mean, I really, really despaired when you didn’t find anything in all that time you were doing the research. That’s when Dorothy insisted we go scientific about it. But in a way that was your doing, too.”
“Was it? How so?” I asked, figuring if I could keep shooting Vivian open-ended questions she’d paint me the whole picture.
“Dorothy got the idea when you showed her that Civil War scrapbook you found. The one Harrison Pritchett’s mother kept. When she saw the envelope with the baby’s hair in it she insisted that was how we needed to do it. She’d read somewhere that if you had hair with the root on it you could get DNA. Course, now we know that didn’t work. Or maybe the lab wasn’t any good. But, no matter, you’ve come through finally. I’ve tried to dig out the information myself. I searched through every inch of the attic trying to find something you two might have missed, but I had no luck at all.”
That explained the disheveled state of High Ground’s attic. And now I realized why the list in Vivian’s sketchbook had looked familiar. It was the same handwriting as the list from the small notebook Ingrid has assumed was mine. The one that read: birth certificates, handwriting samples, bank statements, letters. The tidbits were adding up and finally the secret compartment sprang open.
“So what’s the evidence you found? Come on, tell me,” Vivian said, bouncing on the balls of her spike-heeled shoes.
“I will, I’ll get to that,” I lied. “But first let me ask you, how long did your mother work for William Pritchett?”
Vivian fluttered her hands together. “You did find it!” she said, clapping like an excited kid. “Okay, well, obviously long enough for the two of them to fall in love,” she said, her voice taking on a dreamy tone. “I mean I know it was wrong, William was a married man, but only technically. His wife was feeble and wasn’t able to meet his needs. And anyway, the heart wants what it wants. And his heart wanted my mother.”
“Did she want him?” I asked.
“Well, I certainly can’t see why she wouldn’t have,” Vivian said. “He was the most prominent man in town. He was a Pritchett. But my grandmother said my mother was her own worst enemy sometimes. I wouldn’t know about that, I never knew her.”
“Is your mother deceased?”
“Yes, she drowned in a swimming accident the summer after I was born. My grandmother raised me. My mother was a beautiful woman. Did you find pictures of her?”
“No, no pictures,” I said.
All I’d actually seen of Helen Pearce was her name in an account book for High Ground. She’d been the country girl William Pritchett had hired to take care of the house and little Ingrid. The one who hadn’t lasted long on the job. Apparently Vivian’s mother had been either convinced or coerced into taking care of other things for William Pritchett as well.
“Did you always know William was your father?” I asked.
“Oh heavens, no,” Vivian said. “I would never have been able to keep that secret. I mean, I always sort of wondered why my grandmother would take me over to High Ground every month or so. But when I asked she’d just say we were going to pay our respects and to visit her friend Mr. Pritchett. He would talk with me and ask about school and everything then send me off to play with Ingrid. I had no idea why he took an interest in me. And he supported me financially. I never knew at the time, but my grandmother got an envelope of cash every month for my expenses right up until I went off to college. He cared for me.”
Not enough to publicly acknowledge you as his daughter, I thought. And an envelope of cash sounded more like hush money. Then I remembered the letter I’d found in William Pritchett’s papers, the one instructing his lawyer that “the child in question” had reached the age of majority and there’d be no more disbursements. He hadn’t been referring to Ingrid, it was Vivian he was dropping. Sheesh, William Pritchett had shed two daughters. Daddy dearest.
“So when did you know?” I asked.
“Not until last year when my grandmother took ill. She told me the whole story right before she died. Dorothy and I were both ecstatic. We’d been such good friends for so long and then to find out we were actually sisters was just thrilling for both of us.”
I had serious doubts about that. I could not imagine Dorothy being happy about such a claim. No matter how it was framed it was not a pretty story. In Dorothy’s world this would have been ruinous. A huge blot on the hallowed Pritchett name. Tacky, indeed.
“And that’s when Dorothy decided to hire Esme and me?” I asked.
“Yes,” Vivian said. “She said we couldn’t just come out with it with no proof. She said Ingrid might raise a stink, saying we were up to something about the estate, or people might think we were making it all up for publicity or something. I was never clear on her reasoning, but she was very insistent it had to come from someone else.”
“Like Esme and me,” I said.
“Yes, I’m sure she thought you two would find the proof. Strange that you didn’t. I mean if you’re so good at what you do you’d think you would’ve found out something before now.”
Not if William Pritchett covered his tracks, I thought, but did not say aloud. And not if we hadn’t been specifically asked to look into it, which Dorothy definitely had not asked us to do.
“It’s tricky,” I said. “It wouldn’t be likely we’d stumble across something like this in public records, Vivian. It required a more focused search.”
“That’s why I think it was a test. A test you failed before,” she said, wagging a finger at me, “but you’ve redeemed yourself. Now I just can’t stand it anymore, Sophreena. You’ve got to tell me what you’ve found. Is it good enough for me to go ahead with the announc
ement today? That was the original plan, to make an announcement at the open house.”
“To introduce you as the newest member of the Pritchett family,” I said, remembering the list in Vivian’s sketchbooks and that last entry with the heart drawn beside it. Vivian, not Cassidy, as the newest Pritchett.
“Yes, yes,” Vivian said. “Do you want to be there with me? I wouldn’t mind. You’ve earned it. Where do you think we should do it? I think out on the lawn. Say in maybe half an hour?” She consulted her watch. “I’d like to do it while most of the guests are still here.”
Maybe I’m slow, but only then did I realize Vivian had gone all the way to Crazy Town. She began pacing, wringing her hands. Her eyes had a feverish glint and her smile was demented.
I looked up to see Esme and Denny outside the window on the wraparound porch just out of Vivian’s line of sight. Esme gestured to ask if I wanted them to come in. I mouthed a no and slipped my phone from my jacket pocket. I switched on the recording function and while Vivian had her back turned I nudged it behind a framed photo on Dorothy’s desk where I hoped it could pick up both our voices.
“The lawn would be perfect,” I said. “But we’d better get our ducks in a row before we go out there. We don’t want anything to be contested, right?”
“Contested?” Vivian said, stopping in her tracks. “You said you had proof. Proof that would hold up in court.”
“Yes, but you know how people can be. This needs to be irrefutable.”
“You sound just like Dorothy,” Vivian said. “That’s why she decided DNA was the way to go. She said nobody could argue with DNA. Well, I can certainly argue with it.”
“Let me make sure I’m clear on everything,” I said. “Dorothy had your DNA tested against her grandfather Harrison Pritchett’s using his baby hair from that Civil War-era scrapbook? Why didn’t she just have her own DNA tested with yours?”
“She got it into her head that it had to come from a male ancestor. That’s not true, is it? But she said since we had different mothers that wouldn’t be solid proof. And she didn’t have anything of her father’s—of our father’s—they could test. Then you two showed her that memory book and the light bulb went off.” She lifted her arms and waggled her hands above her head and laughed crazily.
“And your DNA didn’t indicate kinship?”
“Well, are you surprised?” Vivian said as if I were the class dunce. “I mean, that poor little twist of hair was more than a century old. Honestly, I don’t know what Dorothy was thinking.” Suddenly Vivian’s smile was gone and she turned on me, her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about all that?”
“Just nailing everything down,” I said, deciding I’d best switch tactics if I wanted to keep her talking. “Those are beautiful pearls, Vivian. I meant to tell you that earlier.”
Her hand flew to her neck and she caressed the beads, the faraway look returning. “They’re the Pritchett family pearls. I’m so glad I wore them today. I almost didn’t. As I said, I was despairing. But now it’s so appropriate.”
“When did you get them?” I asked, cheerfully.
“Dorothy left them to me in her will. She left me several of our Pritchett family heirloom pieces.”
Vivian’s voice had changed. She sounded exactly like Dorothy.
“I thought Dorothy’s pearl necklace had three strands,” I said.
“Well, yes, but that really didn’t suit me. It was a little old-fashioned,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I prefer this tasteful single strand.”
I looked up to see both Esme and Denny gesturing urgently, and held up a wait-a-minute finger while pretending to adjust my hairpins.
“Vivian, when did Dorothy tell you about the DNA results?” I asked, trying to keep her talking.
“I don’t quite remember,” Vivian said, frowning. “I was a little mad at her about it. I mean, it would’ve been obvious to anyone the results meant nothing, but she acted like it was the be-all and end-all. Final answer!” She laughed then trailed off with a hum.
“Was Dorothy pleased with your sketches for the open house?” I asked, hoping the non sequitur would keep her talking.
Vivian looked off into the mid-distance and smiled. “She loved them,” she said. “We had a few creative differences about it in the beginning, but she loved what I came up with in the end.”
“When did you show that second set of drawings to her?” I asked. “Did you bring them over that night? Linda remembers seeing your sketchbook here.”
“Linda needs to learn that I can put my sketchbook anywhere I please in this house,” Vivian said, her voice tight, then the blissed-out smile returned. “Dorothy was really happy with my plans for the party. She said being an event planner was my true calling. She said I was the best event planner around.”
Vivian fell silent and crooked her head to one side, a confused look on her face. “No, wait, that’s not exactly what she said.” She narrowed her eyes then went on haltingly. “She said I should be satisfied with being the best event planner around.” Her frown deepened and she rubbed her temples. “That’s not the same thing at all. She said I should never have bought into my grandmother’s delusions about me being a Pritchett.” Vivian repeated the word as if it were foreign to her. She turned toward me, but I didn’t think she was seeing me anymore. “Delusions,” she repeated again. “That’s what Dorothy said. Well, my grandmother was the best woman who ever lived and she was not deluded.”
She sat down hard in Dorothy’s office chair. “Dorothy said I simply wasn’t Pritchett material. Oh, she claimed she was sorry the results had come back negative.” Vivian was crying now, oblivious to the tears running off her chin. But there were no histrionics; she was dead calm. “But she wasn’t sorry. Dorothy wasn’t sorry at all. She was gloating.”
I stayed perfectly still, afraid any noise or movement might break the spell.
“I loved Dorothy,” Vivian went on, her voice hollow and eerie. She got up and walked toward the window. “But she could be so mean sometimes.”
I flapped my hands, so fast I must have looked like a hummingbird, to signal Esme and Denny to move out of sight as Vivian walked so close to the window her nose was almost touching the pane. She stared out, lost in another time and place.
“I loved Dorothy like a sister, and she loved me, too. I know she did,” she said. “But we had our disagreements. Sisters do that. I mean, look at Dorothy and Ingrid; they fought all the time. And they were full sisters, not just half. Dorothy could be difficult. Well, you know that. Everybody knows that.”
Several strands of hair had worked loose from her carefully coiffed chignon and mascara streaks had run down each cheek, giving her the look of a harlequin waking from a fretful sleep.
“Dorothy didn’t mean half the things she said,” she went on. “But a person shouldn’t say things they don’t mean. She said I had to face the hard truth that I wasn’t a Pritchett. She said if you and Esme didn’t find proof no one else would ever be able to find anything that would uphold my grandmother’s claim. And she said if I ever said anything publicly she’d bring out the DNA evidence to prove I wasn’t a Pritchett and I’d be a laughingstock. She said she didn’t want to see me go through that. She pitied me. Well, I didn’t want her pity. I wanted her to be quiet. She wouldn’t let me think. I begged her to just be quiet. I grabbed at her and got hold of the pearls and pulled, and twisted. She tried to slap me and I pulled harder and harder. We struggled and the pearls broke. All but this last strand,” she said, fingering the pearls at her neck. “It was strong, like me. The rest scattered. I had to find them all. I had to pick them up one by one. But these pearls, they held. Aren’t they beautiful? These are the Pritchett pearls. They’ve been in my family for generations. My family. I have every right to them because I am a Pritchett. I won’t give them back.” She looked around the room wild-eyed as if someone was coming to take them from her.
“Vivian,” I said, softly. “What happened to Dorothy when you gra
bbed at her and got hold of the pearls?”
She turned toward me, her eyes big as proverbial saucers, her cheeks ruddy. “She was quiet,” Vivian whispered. “Dorothy was finally, for once in her life, without an opinion. She was quiet. Poor Dorothy. I think maybe I killed her.”
I motioned for Denny and Esme to come on the double, hoping against hope my phone battery had held out.
twenty-three
“IF I WASN’T STUCK IN THIS CAST I’D GET UP AND DANCE,” Winston said, tapping the arm of his lawn chair along to the music of a bluegrass band, his baroquely illustrated cast propped up on the picnic basket.
“So we’re saved from that spectacle,” Esme said. “You just enjoy the music and I’ll enjoy this éclair you brought.” She popped the last gooey bite into her mouth.
We’d staked out our picnic spot on the town square early in the morning while other good citizens of Morningside were still in church. We’d found a spot where a row of fir trees on one side and the fountain on the other gave us some privacy.
“This has been the best Honeysuckle Festival ever,” Coco said. “And boy, were we all due for some fun. I know it’s only been a couple of days but I’m still in shock about Vivian. Do you think she really didn’t remember killing Dorothy? Was that an act or had she actually blocked it out?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “It seemed genuine to me, but as Esme reminds me constantly, I can be gullible.”
“I hear she’s going for a mentally ill defense,” Marydale said.
“In North Carolina it’s not guilty by reason of insanity,” Esme said. “Pretty strict standard.” She passed a container of finger sandwiches to Jack, who helped himself to three.
“Well, listen to you,” Coco said, “you’d think you’ve been hanging out with a member of law enforcement or something.”
“Y’all are the ones who ragged on me to get out and have fun,” Esme said.
