Picture Them Dead

by Brynn Bonner

  “What are you basing the fifty years on, Ron?” I asked.

  He pursed his lip. “Nothing remotely scientific,” he admitted. “They just look like old bones. I’ll be able to run some tests later.”

  “Have you ever encountered a glass casket before, or heard of one being used in this area?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Ron answered. “I’ve read about them, but I’ve never actually seen one—never expected to, either. I think you can file that invention under ‘seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Unless you’re a canonized saint or a banana republic dictator, I see no reason you need meet your maker in a display case. ’Course this one isn’t see-through, but still, very impractical. I take it you’re looking into that whole situation?”

  “Yes, we’re going to do some research for Mr. Jeffers.”

  “Good call,” Ron said, looking back over his shoulder to grin at River. “My money’s on Sophreena. She’s a bulldog once she gets her teeth into something, and with Esme on board, you got yourself the Dynamic Duo.”

  “So I’ve heard,” River said with an amiable smile.

  “Anything you can tell us that might shed some more light on how this guy got here, Ron?” I asked.

  He stopped a few steps from where the young woman’s body had been found and turned as if to finish this conversation before he entered sacred ground. He tilted his head and thought for a moment, his bushy eyebrows bouncing up and down with the effort. “Well, I suppose you already know this land used to belong to a family named Harper. I think it passed on to Charlotte Walker sometime in the seventies, when Mrs. Harper died. I guess the Harper line died there, too. I didn’t know any of them, but my grandpa was a farmer and he rented acreage from the widow Harper after her husband died. There used to be more than three hundred acres on this homestead. So I’m guessing whoever this man is, he’d be related to the Harpers in some way. Now, I did know the Harpers’ granddaughter a little. Her name was Marla. Marla Walker. We went to Morningside High at the same time, though she was a couple of grades ahead of me and we definitely didn’t travel with the same crowd. I was a nerd, which I know you’ll find shocking,” he said with a big grin, “and she was a wild child.”

  “Walker, not Harper? Does she live around here still?” I asked.

  “No,” Esme answered, shaking her head, then noticed the peculiar looks coming her way. “No,” she repeated. “The way you put it sounds like she’s deceased.”

  “Yeah, she is,” Ron said, still looking at Esme, his forehead pleated into frown lines. And yeah, her name was Walker. Don’t know how she was related to the Harpers, but I assume she was king to them somehow. She left here while we were still in high school. Ran off with some boy as wild as she was. Bound for California, I believe, but I don’t know where they actually ended up. I heard she died in a car crash, must have been about ten or twelve years ago.”

  “I guess that explains why she didn’t inherit the place,” I said.

  “Doesn’t explain why her kids didn’t, though,” Esme mused, and again she got a piercing look from Ron. “Assuming she had kids,” she added quickly, giving me a sidelong glance.

  “She did, I think,” Ron said. “Although I can’t remember for sure. Like I said, I didn’t really know her that well and everything I heard about her after she left here was tidbits I picked up at class reunions and such. Sorry, that’s about all I’ve got to contribute. Except one more thing that might mean something as you dig around in this, so to speak. Though it’s hard to tell since your backhoe work kind of scrambled things,” he said, turning slightly toward River, “I’d say the grave digging was an amateur job. The grave’s not deep enough and there’s no vault. There’s no way they should have expected that coffin to hold up under all that pressure without one. And it didn’t.”

  “Thanks, Ron. Will you let us know what else you find out?” I asked.

  “I’ll let Mr. Jeffers know,” Ron said, “since he’s the landowner. He can pass things on, or if he tells me you’ve got his proxy, you can check in with me.”

  River nodded. “They’re acting as my agents. I’d like them privy to any information you’d be allowed to give me,” he said, and I saw the first hint of the decisive businessman he’d been.

  It wasn’t until we were walking to Esme’s SUV that the full impact of what we’d witnessed in the last couple of hours hit me. A young woman in the prime of her life had been literally struck down. The attack had been sudden and unexpected and presumably her killer was still out there, among us. My knees almost buckled.

  Esme reached over, pulled my hand through the crook of her arm, and patted it. “Don’t look back, Soph­reena. Just keep walking. Life’s got no reverse, we’ve got to keep moving forward.”

  Her warm hand was a comfort and I leaned into her as we walked.

  “Were you getting something back there?” I asked after I’d made the arduous climb back into her SUV.

  “Mm,” Esme said. “Little something. Don’t have the first idea who’s sending the message, but I knew Marla Walker was dead and that she had kids. There’s something off there about relationships. Unfinished business or something unsettled, don’t know just what.”

  “That’s pretty vague,” I mused, drawing a family tree in my head to better understand the Harper lineage.

  “Sorry I can’t be more specific, Sophreena,” Esme said with a sigh. “I wish this thing was all or nothing, and mostly I wish it was nothing, since it’s costing me some precious things I might like in my life. But I don’t get any say in it, apparently.”

  * * *

  At the courthouse Esme and I took a few minutes in the lobby to plan. We decided on our usual strategy of divide and conquer. Esme would hit vital records, probates, and wills, while I combed land records and taxes.

  “Okay,” I said, “based on what I found out about the manufacture of glass caskets, I figure whoever’s in that grave had to have been put there somewhere between 1915 and, well, long enough ago to have become ‘old bones,’ as Ron put it. Also, there was that full-grown longleaf pine tree so close to the grave that the roots had grown into it, so it probably hadn’t been there at the time of the burial. I think we should narrow the timeline to, say, 1915 to 1950.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Esme said.

  “And it sounds like the the Harper family owned the land back a long way, probably to land-grant days, but we need to concentrate on who was living there during our time period. Presumably that would be Charlotte Walker’s parents.”

  “Sophreena, what are you forever preaching about presuming things?” Esme said, climbing into the saddle of her high horse.

  I sighed. “That presumption contaminates your research. Slip of the tongue. I should have said our working theory is that the Harpers who lived on the land during that time period could be Charlotte Walker’s parents and we need to be looking for the records that either verify or disprove that theory.”

  Esme nodded, satisfied she’d brought me back onto the straight and narrow. We decided on a meet-up time and each went on our merry way.

  Four hours and three trips to the vending machine later, we met back in the lobby and compared notes.

  “I think I found the right Harpers,” Esme said. “Oren and Sadie Harper.”

  “Yes, that’s them,” I said. “And I verified how much River paid. Esme, that old farmhouse and a smidge over five acres of land went for a million and a half.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Esme said. “Prices keep going up.”

  Since Morningside had undergone what some disgruntled folks called its “Disneyfication,” home and land prices had steadily climbed, a localized anomaly in the national housing slump. A few years back, the powers that be had launched an aggressive beautification campaign and the small downtown area had been forcibly infused with quaintness and charm. Faux old-world facades had been added to buildings
and public areas had been elaborately landscaped. Everywhere you looked there were wrought-iron fixtures and light stanchions and enough slate and cobblestone to pave a road to the Atlantic Ocean. Restaurants and boutiques had sprouted up like crocuses, and a new spa hotel was slated to go in near the championship golf course. Now Morningside routinely makes top ten lists of the best towns to live in. Realtors had been pestering me for the past few years about representing me when I get ready to sell my house. Which, unless I’m starving, will be about the second week of never.

  “Fly in the ointment is, I can’t find any record that Oren and Sadie Harper ever had children,” Esme said. “So who is Charlotte Walker to them?”

  “She’s not their daughter?” I asked.

  “Like I said,” Esme repeated, not bothering to hide her irritation, “there’s no record they had any children.”

  I glanced up at the clock in the lobby. “Still time to get to the nursing home. How about we go see if Charlotte Walker will tell us herself what she was to the Harpers?”

  six

  I tried a different tactic with the desk ­people at Cottonwood. Instead of asking if Charlotte Walker was there, I simply asked for her room number, using the diminutive Winston had used. “We’d like to see Miss Lottie if she’s up to having visitors today.”

  The attendants looked at one another. They seemed to be struggling to figure out how to deal with us. “Are you friends of Miss Lottie’s?” one of them asked.

  “Sort of,” I lied. “She’s actually a friend of a friend. I’m a genealogist,” I said, veering back onto the righteous path. “I’m doing some research on her family.” I handed over one of my business cards.

  “I see,” the attendant said, though I didn’t think she did. She gave the other woman a meaningful look. “It’s just that Miss Lottie’s been here for nearly three years,” attendant number two said, “and she’s never had a single visitor.”

  “That’s truly sad, isn’t it?” Esme said, picking up the pen for the sign-in sheet and signing both our names. “What did you say that room number was?”

  The attendants again attempted a mind meld and number one gave us the just-a-moment pointy finger and picked up the phone. “Let me call back and make sure she’s in her room,” she said, turning her head as she spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Where else would she be?” Esme groused out of the side of her mouth. “She’s ninety-seven, she gonna be out painting the town?”

  “Room Eighteen,” the attendant said as she put the receiver down. “Right down that hallway.”

  There was a nurse outside the door of Room 18. “Miss Lottie is very excited to hear she has visitors today,” she said, her voice a little too chirpy for me in my present state of upset, fatigue, and hunger.

  The hospital bed had been cranked to a sitting position and a tiny birdlike woman sat nestled in the bed linens. She had on a satin bed jacket and her hands were folded primly in her lap. She looked very sweet.

  As we went into the room she looked up and her eyes narrowed, focusing on Esme. “ ’Bout damn time,” she said, her lips pinched into a tight line. “Did you bring my root beer?”

  * * *

  “She’s a sundowner,” I said to Jack that night, sliding a wedge of pizza onto my plate.

  Esme had taken Claire Calvert out to supper and I’d been gazing into the fridge hoping dinner might materialize when Jack called to say he was on his way with pizza. I was happy we had the house to ourselves as I was recounting our visit to Lottie Walker. Esme hadn’t found the whole thing nearly as amusing as I had.

  “She’s mostly lucid earlier in the day,” I explained. “But near nightfall, she gets befuddled and cranky. She’s got a thing for root beer, but their food services don’t have it, so one of the attendants brings her a few bottles now and then. She mistook Esme for her root beer supplier and when we didn’t have any contraband for her, the whole visit went straight downhill. The woman knows an impressive number of swear words.”

  “Did you find out anything useful?” Jack asked, picking off a piece of pineapple and throwing it onto a neighboring slice. I like pineapple on my pizza, he doesn’t. But he’d gotten it anyway. Sign.

  “Not really, but I’m going back, earlier in the day next time, and without Esme. I think this woman probably knows some good information. I just have to figure out how to get it from her.”

  “And are you sure you’re okay, from the other thing, I mean?”

  “You mean finding a dead body first thing on a Carolina spring morning?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Yeah, that,” Jack said, reaching over to rub my shoulder.

  “No, I’m not okay. It was awful to see the way she died. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. And the fact that she was probably pretty close to my age and that we don’t even know who she is makes it even worse.”

  “I saw Emily at the pizza place. She’s already talking about organizing another vigil that will go on until the woman is identified. She’s on a Forgotten Man and Forgotten Woman theme now.”

  I groaned. “I know Emily means well. I know they all mean well, but I wish they’d have some consideration for their living neighbors, too. They really upset poor Claire Calvert last night. That’s why Esme’s taken her out tonight, to get her away from the people camping out next to her house.”

  “They’re on her property, uninvited. She could call the cops,” Jack said. “I’m sure Jennifer would jump at the chance to clear them out.”

  “I think Jennifer would welcome an excuse to jail them all, but Claire doesn’t want to alienate anyone. And the vigil people aren’t the problem. It’s the fence-jumpers. I think it makes Claire feel vulnerable to be there alone with all those people around.”

  “Especially now, I’d think,” Jack said, “what with Quentin being released from prison, although I don’t know if I quite understand that whole dynamic. Did you know she went to visit him regularly while he was in the pen?”

  “No, I didn’t. Wow, you’d think she’d never want to set eyes on him again, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suspect that would be my reaction,” Jack said. “But she’s probably a more forgiving person than I am. I can tell you who is not happy about having him back in the community—Nash Simpson. Though I guess that’s understandable. If I have my facts straight about how that whole thing went down, Quentin came pretty close to killing Nash in that fight. Nash would like Quentin tarred, feathered, and run out of town on a rail, and I think there are a few people around who’d agree with him. People love Claire Calvert, and they were out for blood when that happened to her.”

  “Do you remember it? I mean, do you remember when it happened?” I asked.

  “Yeah, don’t you?”

  “Some of it, but I was so absorbed in what was going on with me at that time, I wasn’t really tuned in to the outside world. My mother was dying and I wanted to spend every minute with her, and at the same time I was struggling to work out how I was going to live without her. It wasn’t a good time for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Soph,” Jack said, kneading my shoulder again. He took the plate from my lap and threw it onto the pizza box, then drew me over to put his arm around me. With his free hand he reached over to take mine and twirl the birthstone ring my parents had given me. It felt wonderful to be snuggled up like this, but this was always, always, when the elephant came strolling into the room. Our relationship had been stuck in the zone between friendship and romance for months now. And it seemed neither of us wanted to be the one to push it forward or try to rewind. Every time I steeled my nerves to bring it out into the open, I’d get two words in and choke. What if I screwed it up and lost Jack for good? There were signs, but on the other hand, what if I was completely misreading him and he was struggling for a way to let me down gently?

  “Soph?” he said now, his voice sounding far away. “Can we
talk about something?”

  “Sure,” I said, my heart thumping. “What is it?” I felt excitement, or dread, or maybe simple relief. Whatever emotional cocktail it was, it was making my pizza revolt.

  Just then the doorbell chimed and I wished more than anything for a vaporizing gun to zap whoever was standing on the front porch mashing that button.

  “Hold that thought,” I said as I went to answer it.

  I found all six feet five of Denny Carlson standing on the front steps in the drizzling rain, a travel bag hanging from a strap on his shoulder. An airport taxi was pulling away from the curb. He held up a hand. “Tell Esme I know I’m supposed to call, but I just got in and my phone’s dead.”

  I motioned him in, holding the storm door open as wide as it would go to accommodate his bulk. He dropped his bag in the front hall and shook like a dog.

  “Esme’s not here, Denny. She’s out to dinner with Claire. I thought you weren’t due back until Friday.”

  Before he could answer, Esme’s SUV pulled into the drive, her headlights sweeping us as she maneuvered close to the house. She got out and ran to the porch, ducking inside as I pushed the storm door open again.

  “Denton, what’re you doing here?” she asked as she brushed water from her sleeves. “I thought you weren’t due back until Friday.”

  “There’s an echo in here,” he said. “And welcome home, Denny, I’ve missed you.”

  “Yes, yes, that, too,” Esme said, offering him a cheek to kiss.

  “The chief called me back,” Denny said as we all moved into the family room. “Because of the homicide, which I understand you two knew about before anybody else.”

  “How did Jennifer take it that the chief called you in?” Esme asked.

  “About like you’d expect,” Denny said, nodding a hello to Jack. “But truth be told, I think she may be relieved. Jennifer’s a good cop, but she’s too close to this one and she knows it. She wants to protect her dad, and that’s how it ought to be, but somebody’s got to be looking at the case with colder eyes.”