Picture Them Dead

by Brynn Bonner

  “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 f
lu 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.

  In reality, a limited number of glass caskets were ever made, which begged the question of how one ended up in a North Carolina backyard. And, moreover, who was the occupant?

  I’d also found out a few things about the land River Jeffers now owned. He’d bought it from a woman named Charlotte Walker, who, as far as I could tell, was still alive. Though if the info I had was up-to-date, she’d be ninety-seven years old. I put a big question mark by her name. I gulped when I saw how much River had paid for the place.

  I heard the front door open, and Winston called out from the front hall, “Sophreena, Esme, y’all here?”

  “I’m in the workroom,” I shouted back, reluctantly tearing my eyes from the screen when he appeared in the doorway. He held up something rectangular, wrapped in foil. “Lemon-zucchini bread,” he said, setting it on the table outside the workroom. We have an absolute no food or drink policy in the workroom, since this is where we sort, examine, and scan our clients’ precious and often fragile family archives.

  “You’re baking? I thought you’d be too busy with wedding activities.”

  “Got a little case of nerves, I guess. Baking helps.”

  “What are you nervous about? You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

  “No, no,” Winston said, waving a lanky hand. “Not about marrying Marydale anyhow.” He pointed to a chair and raised his eyebrows. I motioned for him to sit.

  “I’m a little jittery about how the kids will all get along and how they’ll all feel about it. I mean, they know one another and they’re sort of casual friends already, but this’ll be different. We’ll all be family now. What if they don’t cotton to one another?”

  The kids were Dee and Brody, Marydale’s grown children and the closest people I had to siblings. Then there were Winston’s two grown sons in their early 40s, Forest and Jacob, their wives, and an assortment of grandchildren. My first instinct was to reassure him that they would all be one big happy family the minute they spoke the I-dos, but Winston has an excellent poppy­cock meter, so I didn’t try to sell that empty promise.

  “They may be a little slow to warm up at first, but Dee and Brody are happy about their mother finding loving companionship. I know that because both of them have told me so. Which isn’t to say they weren’t taken by surprise. We all were and it takes a little getting used to. Plus, they’re accustomed to having their mother all to themselves, even if it is long distance. Be patient.”

  Winston nodded. “My kids were caught unawares, too. Especially since it had been such a short time after the divorce. I didn’t like to talk to them about my relationship with their mother. I didn’t want to dishonor her by talking her down. She’s their mother, after all. But I suppose it was obvious to anybody with eyes that we hadn’t been happy for years.”

  I pursed my lips. Winston’s ex-wife, Patsy, was one of the most disagreeable people I had ever met. But I hadn’t known her long. Maybe she’d been different back when Winston met and married her. And she was, as he said, the mother of his children, though she was no candidate for Mother of the Year, as far as I could see. I decided to deflect.

  “You and Marydale will be very happy together, so your kids will be happy for you and with you. We all will,” I said.

  A slow smile spread across Winston’s handsome face. He was tanned from coaching his grandson’s ­T-ball team, and even more fit now that Marydale was orchestrating his diet and exercise. “You’re right,” he said, “it’ll all work out. But, anyhow, the main reason I came by was to ask your opinion about something.” He reached into the pocket of his powder-blue windbreaker for a gift box. “I got this for Marydale as a wedding present, but now I’m having second thoughts about whether she’ll like it. Sort of relating to what we were just talking about. Maybe it’s too soon. Tell me what you think.”

  I lifted off the top of the box to find a silver locket on a long silver chain nestled in a bed of tissue paper. I picked it up and admired the stylized engraved tree on the front.

  “I was thinking of that as a family tree, you know,” Winston said. “If I hadn’t taken that class of yours and if we hadn’t gone on with our family history club, I would have never gotten to know Marydale like I do now. We’d have stayed ‘Howdy’ friends is all. So that part’s about us. Now open it up.”

  The locket was thick and had a small lever clasp on the side, and when I pushed the release, two hinged disks sprang out. I saw that it accommodated four photos instead of the usual two. Winston had inserted a photo of himself and one of Marydale into the central circles and family pictures with their respective kids and grandkids into the other two. I closed the locket and looked at the inscription on the back: Winston and Marydale, we become family, along with the wedding date.

  “She’ll love it,” I said, placing it carefully back into the tissue. “It’s perfect.”

  Winston beamed. “Good, then.” He stowed the box away and pointed toward the computer. “You were in the middle of something. I ought to get on my way.”

  I told him what I’d been working on. “I’ve probably got about all I’m gonna get today anyhow. You don’t happen to know a woman named Charlotte Walker, do you? That’s who River bought his place from.”

  “I know of her,” Winston said. “But I don’t know her personally.”

  “You’re using the present tense. Does that mean she’s still alive?”

  “Last I heard she was,” Winston said. “She was a friend of my mother’s, or leastwise an acquaintance. I’m not sure Miss Lottie had a whole lot of friends. She kept pretty much to herself. I believe somebody told me she was in that nursing home over in Hillsborough. Cottonwood, it’s called.”

  “Yes, I know it. It’s a nice facility. Was she married?” I grabbed a notebook and pen and started taking notes.

  “Yes,” Winston said. “Though I never knew her husband and don’t recollect his given name. He died a long time ago. If I’m remembering right, she inherited the place, so she must have been a Harper. When I was young, that place seemed like it was way out in the country. The Harpers owned more land then and the place was a working farm, but it got cut up and sold off over the years. That bit River bought was the original home place.”

  “Got any candidates in mind for who might be in that glass casket?” I asked.

  “No idea in the world,” Winston said, shaking his head. “Everybody’s calling him ‘The Forgotten Man’ now.”

  “Oh, I know,” I said, and told him about Claire Calvert’s call to Esme. “She’s gone over there to keep her company and make sure the vigil folks don’t bother her.”

  “Like Claire doesn’t have enough to worry about,” Winston said, shaking his head again. “I mean, the idea of
the vigil is nice, I guess, but a little strange. It’s struck a chord with people. Everybody likes to think they’ll be remembered once they’re gone.”

  I thought of the hundreds of ancestors I’d researched for clients over the years and how so many of them were revered. And even how some were despised. Either way, they were remembered. “It’s a human thing,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s just hope someone remembers him as who he was or else he’s going to end up being remembered for having been forgotten.”

  four

  Monday morning dawned misty and foggy following a rain shower that swept through in the wee hours of the morning. My first thought was of the grave, covered only with a tarp, but then I remembered River saying they’d tented it when they posted his property.

  Esme and I were up early, we’d eaten our breakfast on the run, and by 8:00 a.m., we were ready to make a quick stop by River’s place to take a few pictures and get a feel for the property’s configuration before heading to the courthouse.

  On the drive over I admired how fresh and dewy everything looked, but I hoped the spring storms were done for a while. Marydale and Winston had planned for an outdoor wedding in the gardens at High Ground, the big estate on Crescent Hill that one of our former clients had left to the town. They’d have to move it inside if the weather turned foul. I told Esme about the wedding gift Winston had chosen for Marydale.

  “Win is just the dearest man,” Esme said. “Those two deserve every bit of happiness this world can offer. They’re so good together.”

  “You and Denny ain’t half-bad either, Esme,” I said. “What’s holding you two up from a march to the altar?”

  “We’re fine just as we are,” Esme said, pulling her sunglasses from the top of her head and practically slamming them onto her face. “I’ve told you before, I’m never going to marry again. I tied myself to a man once in my life and it was nothing but heartbreak. I like Denton Carlson, but I’m not looking for a husband.”