Picture Them Dead

by Brynn Bonner

  “I knew the Harpers,” the other wheelchair-bound woman said. Her voice was strong and her big eyes were further magnified by thick lenses. “I knew them nearly a century ago, can you imagine that? We didn’t live but a mile from each other, but that was a long way back then, when you had to do it on foot. It took us coming into this place all these years later to become friends, didn’t it, Lottie?”

  Miss Lottie nodded, but I wasn’t sure she’d heard or understood.

  “Maybe you can help me, then, too,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Ruth Wilkins. I can’t say I knew Mr. Oren and Miss Sadie all that well; I was but a child. But they were friends of my mama and daddy’s. I know they were good folks.”

  The other two ladies introduced themselves. The first was named Constance McNally and she looked far too young to be in a retirement home. When I said as much she explained that they lived in the apartments in the other part of the complex and that they came over to visit every few days. The other one introduced herself as Margaret Roman. She was petite and lively and had a dandelion fuzz of snow-white hair. She was excited to hear I was a genealogist, and I braced myself for a long recitation of her family’s illustrious history, which is usually what I get when I meet an amateur family historian. But she surprised me.

  “I just love family stories,” she said, her smile the sweetest I believed I’d ever seen on a grown-up’s face. “I come over here and talk to the people and write down what they remember about their families, then I give my notebooks to their family members later on when the person is, you know, no longer with us.” She whispered the last words. “The families seem to appreciate it. It amazes me how many people don’t ever think to do that until it’s too late and then wish they had.”

  “Preach it, sister,” I said, which earned me another smile.

  “I’ve even done some of Miss Lottie’s family history, haven’t I, Lottie?”

  Miss Lottie looked at her blankly.

  “You remember I asked you about your birth date and growing up out at the farm and all,” Margaret prompted.

  “Charlotte Eugenia Wright Walker, born June sixteen in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and seventeen. I was born at home in Maryland with an old granny woman the only one to help. I killed my mother coming into the world. Happy birthday to me,” Miss Lottie said, setting her water glass down hard on the table, her expression dour.

  “Now, dearie,” Margaret said, patting Miss Lottie’s hand, “it’s a sad thing that your mother died in childbirth, but you oughtn’t to say you killed her. That’s not true.”

  “True enough,” Miss Lottie countered.

  “And what were your parents’ names again?” Margaret asked.

  “My mother was Eugenia, Eugenia Elizabeth Collins Wright. That was her name. She was real pretty. They say she had eyes blue as the sky and hair black as crow’s feathers. That’s about all I know of her.”

  “And what was your father’s name?” I blurted before I could stop myself.

  My mistake. Margaret’s soft voice and gentle manner had been carrying Miss Lottie along and I’d broken the spell. Miss Lottie turned to me, her eyes narrowed.

  “You’ll not trick me, missy,” she hissed. “We don’t talk of my daddy. It was the war that ruint him. That and my mama dying. None of it was his fault, it was the war.”

  “Yes, I remember, you told me about him being in the war,” Margaret said soothingly, not the least bit thrown by Miss Lottie’s change of mood. “That was a terrible war, the First World War. Just awful.”

  “None of ’em are any good,” Miss Lottie said, tilting her head as if thinking this over, “but that one was just pure hell for the ones in the trenches. It wasn’t like now, where they drop the bombs from those robot planes. In that war, you had to look a fella right in the eye when you killed him. That does something to a man. It poisons his soul.”

  I leaned over and whispered a suggestion into Margaret’s ear. She nodded and smiled at me, clearly proud to be taking the lead.

  “Miss Lottie, could you tell me your daddy’s name? And do you know when he died and where he’s buried?”

  “I could tell, but I won’t,” Miss Lottie said, jutting out her chin. “You’re in with her and trying to trick me,” she said, lifting her chin even higher in my direction. “I done told you I don’t talk about that night. I made a solemn promise and I mean to keep it till I’m in my grave.”

  “That’s fine, Miss Lottie,” Margaret answered sweetly, though it certainly wasn’t fine with me. What night? Promise not to talk about what? This was like waving catnip in front of a tabby’s nose, then snatching it away.

  “I’m not asking you to break a promise, Miss Lottie,” I said, keeping my voice as low as I could and still have her hear me. “I just want to make sure your father’s grave gets a proper marker, that’s all.”

  “No marker,” Miss Lottie said. “No, ma’am. That’d only lead to folks poking their snouts in our family business, and Uncle Oren says we’ll not allow that. Nobody’s got the right to judge until they’ve walked a mile in her shoes. It was the only choice, and I ought to know.”

  “Okay, no marker,” I said. “I just wanted to check with you about it; your father is buried on the old Harper place, right?”

  Miss Lottie looked at me, her eyes losing focus. It was as if someone had thrown a switch and the light went out. She looked around, confused, until her gaze came to light on a plate of store-bought cookies an attendant had brought over.

  “Is there nobody in this place knows how to make a good apple pie?” Miss Lottie said, loud enough to be heard in the kitchen, which I was pretty sure was her intent. “Sadie makes the best pie you ever tasted out of apples from our orchard. They’re small and nubbly, but sweet as a mama’s kiss, and Sadie’s crust is so light you have to stab it with your fork to keep it from floating off the plate. She always makes me a birthday pie instead of a cake. Is Sadie coming to fetch me soon? She’ll be afoot, she never has learnt to drive a car. Maybe she’s ­a-waiting for it to cool down outside. She said she’d come fetch me soon as she could get loose.”

  “I think you’ve lost her, sweetie,” Margaret said.

  * * *

  I stopped for gas at Joe Porter’s filling station. He runs the only station in town that still has full service, and I hate pumping gas. The stench gets into my nose and I can smell it for the rest of the day. It makes me queasy.

  I was hoping to have a chance to talk to Gavin Taylor, and as luck would have it, he was the one who came out to fill my tank. I risked the fumes to roll down my window.

  Gavin and I weren’t exactly buddies, but I’d known him all through our school years. He was one of those guys who blended into the background, popping out now and again to do something truly impressive—or truly stupid—before receding into the background again. He’d been suspended and sent for counseling in his sophomore year for coldcocking the gym teacher. That sounds like a terrible thing unless you knew, as the students all did, that the gym teacher picked mercilessly on small, weak kids. One of those kids happened to be Billy Hayward, Gavin’s next-door neighbor. Billy was a painfully shy, skinny kid who’d never have dreamt of talking back to a teacher. He’d left gym class each day for months with red-rimmed eyes and trembling legs. We’d had some class talks about bullying, but no one had ever given us guidance on what to do if the teacher was the bully. Gavin improvised.

  “Hey, Gavin,” I said, my voice nasal as I tried to keep from inhaling the vapors. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  I’d almost said, “Since you got out,” but saved myself from that foot-in-mouth moment. Apparently my hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  “It’s okay, you can say it,” Gavin said with a sigh. “Since I got outta the clink.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “what happened with that whole thing, Gavin?”

&nbs
p; He shrugged. “I just saw the car and wanted to drive it. I wasn’t going to keep it or try to sell it or anything like that. I just wanted to drive that sucker, just once. A 1971 Chevy Camaro, a classic muscle car. Fully restored. It was just sittin’ there, the sun shining down on it like it was in a spotlight. Seemed to me like it was beggin’ to be put through its paces, so I borrowed it for a spin. Figured I’d have it back before the owner got off work and nobody’d be the wiser. Turns out the owner has a window office with a view of the street and felt absolutely no inclination to share the pleasures of his sweet ride.”

  “How long did you get?” I asked

  “Six months, which was a gift. Could’ve been worse. But now I’ve got a record. Couldn’t get my old job at the golf course back. I’m lucky Joe was willing to hire me.”

  “Remind me again what you did at the golf course,” I said.

  “I worked in the garage keeping all those carts running smoothly and spit-shined, ready for the rich folks to drive their fat butts around the course for their exercise. Bryan got me the job, but even he couldn’t save my bacon after my unfortunate incarceration.” The nozzle snicked off and he coaxed an extra gallon into my tank with a series of nozzle clicks.

  “Joe’s a good guy,” I said once there was silence.

  “Yeah, the man’s solid. Truth is, I like working here better than at the course anyhow. Pay’s not so good, but at least I’m working on real cars.” He jerked his head toward the garage.

  “How was it for you in there, Gavin?” I asked.

  “Bad,” he said. “I see now why sometimes people come out worse than when they went in. It’s like a technical school for criminals. I learned about burglary, fraud, scamming, and fighting. I hope I don’t ever use any of it. But I also learned a little about myself. The prison shrink informs me I have poor impulse control, can you believe that?”

  “Hard to imagine,” I said. “Listen, I wanted to say I’m sorry about Sherry Burton; I understand you were friends with her.”

  “How did you know—” He stopped and cocked his head back. “Oh yeah, you know the big cop, right? Well, like I told him, I knew her when we were kids, but I haven’t seen her in a long, long time. I was sorry to hear about how she died. It was terrible, but I don’t know anything about it.”

  He was emphatic, maybe a little too emphatic, and I noticed he was no longer looking at me.

  * * *

  When I got home I went immediately to the workroom, where I found a stack of photocopies Esme had left for me from her morning courthouse excursion. Using the info she’d gotten on Miss Lottie, I was able to backtrack to her father, Samuel Wright, and after some digging I found what little there was of his military record. Samuel Wright had served in World War I, and from what I could find out about his unit, he’d probably spent some time on the front lines.

  I had no proof that the glass casket held Samuel Wright’s remains, but everything pointed in that direction and I figured it was time I called River to report the theory.

  “So, run that by me again,” he said, getting lost in my recitation of names and relationships. “This Samuel Wright ties into this place how?”

  “He was the brother of Sadie Wright Harper, the wife of the owner of the property starting around 1910. Oren Harper, Sadie’s husband, inherited it from his folks. Sadie and Oren had no children, and they left the property to Miss Lottie Wright Walker, who would have been their niece. I’m still digging, and as I said, I have no proof as yet that the remains you found were those of Samuel Wright, but he’s our best candidate so far.”

  “Yeah,” River said, “now all I’d like to know is how and why he ended up with a hole in his skull, buried in my yard in a glass coffin, the grave unmarked and undisclosed. Is his death related in any way to that young woman who died at his grave? Who would have been related to him how, exactly?”

  “That’s a lot of questions,” I said with a sigh, my excitement about my theory waning in the face of all that remained unknown. “If I’m on the right track, he would have been her great-grandfather. You mentioned there might be some things in your attic we could go through. When would be a good time for us to do that?”

  “How about tonight?” River asked. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be at five, but I should be back here by six thirty at the latest. I can rig some trouble lights up there and it’ll be cooler after the sun goes down anyhow. Does that work for you?”

  “You bet,” I said. “I’ll be there by seven.”

  I wasn’t sure Esme would be able to make it, but at this point I didn’t know whether to hope she’d be free to come along or that she’d opt out. I could deal with her irritability or Jennifer’s hostility, but both at once was overload.

  As if my thoughts had summoned her, Esme came in the front door. I went out into the hallway just in time to see her disappear into the kitchen with an armload of groceries.

  “Need help?” I called. “Is there more in the car?”

  “No, this is it,” she called back. “Just picked up a few things while I was out.”

  I went to the doorway of the kitchen and told her what I’d found out and my theory about who the Forgotten Man was. “I was able to trace him with the help of the records you got me this morning. Thanks.”

  “You don’t need to thank me, I was just doing my part,” she said as she tucked a brick of coffee into the cupboard. “Did you call River and tell him?”

  “Yes, and I set up a time to look through his attic. Tonight, about seven.”

  “That’ll work,” she said, “though it might’ve been nice if you’d checked with me first.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just figured I could handle it if you weren’t available.”

  “Yes, I imagine you could get along fine without me,” Esme said, her tone brittle.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  She flapped a hand. “Nothing. I promised Denny I’d cook him supper, but we’ll be done by then. It’s fine.”

  I almost launched into a defense but I caught myself. I was getting tired of tiptoeing around Esme’s shifting moods. “Good, then,” I said.

  “Good,” Esme repeated. “Will you be here for supper? I’m making pork chops.”

  “Have plans,” I said.

  Actually, the only plan I had at the moment was to be elsewhere at dinnertime. Jack wouldn’t be back by suppertime, but maybe I could pull Dee away from the wedding activities long enough for a quick bite. It wasn’t that I didn’t like spending time with Denny and Esme, but she wasn’t herself right now. And anyway, I figured they needed to spend some time alone. From what I could see, her relationship with Denny was in danger of going into a death stall. There was no persuading her to share her biggest secret with him. I’d threatened to tell Denny myself, but she’d let me know quick-like-a-bunny—a very angry bunny—that there would be nuclear fallout if I did that. So they were stuck, just like Jack and me.

  I was searching the workroom for my cell phone when it did me the courtesy of ringing. I retrieved it from underneath a pile of papers and saw Dee’s number on the display.

  “We must still have our Martian mild meld,” I said. “I was just going to call and see if you wanted to go out for a quick dinner.”

  “That’s why I’m calling you,” Dee said. “Except you’ll never guess who wants to take us out to eat. Laney Easton called, said she knew it was last-minute but she’d love to see us both and catch up. Talk about a blast from the past.”

  “Well, clearly it’s you she’s interested in seeing,” I said. “I mean, if she’d wanted to catch up with me, all she had to do was give me a jingle. I’ve been right here.”

  “The way I understand it, your absence would be a deal breaker. She said if we both couldn’t make it tonight, we’d just shoot for another time. She wants to take us to the country club.”

  “Can’t do tha
t,” I said, not really keen on sharing the limited time I’d have with Dee on this trip. “I won’t be dressed for the country club and it would have to be pretty early.” I told her about my appointment with River.

  Dee laughed. “I’ll call her and give her your terms. Only you, Sophreena, would blow off the chance to have dinner with one of the town’s muckety-mucks to go combing through a dusty old attic.”

  “Yeah, well, in most cases attics are more interesting than muckety-mucks.”

  * * *

  I felt like I was back in middle school. Laney was gushing at Dee and me like we were her BFFs. We were reminiscing over crab cakes and salad at Mystic Café, a trendy new restaurant in Morningside’s quaint downtown. I had mixed feelings about the place. It was cool and they served good food, but it had displaced my favorite hardware store, which had been driven to a low-rent strip mall way out on River Road. The eatery had been open only a week and there was a long line out front, but Laney had breezed right on past, speaking warmly to everyone in line as she towed Dee and me in her wake. People had smiled and chatted with her and no one seemed to resent her line jumping.

  It was all coming back to me why we’d liked Laney Easton so much back when we were young. She was always smiling, always had a good story to tell, and had a deep-throated, infectious laugh. She put people at ease. I envied that talent and inwardly took a moment to analyze how she pulled it off.

  Laney wore clothes well. Even dressed casually, as she was now, she looked as if every detail had been attended to. Her dark hair was precision cut in a style that was slightly longer on the sides, with straight bangs that just topped her eyebrows. Her nails were manicured and her jeans fit her slender body as if they’d been custom-tailored. A thin gold chain around her neck suspended a single pearl into the V-neck of her emerald-colored top, and her suede jacket dipped in at the waistline to follow her contours. I, on the other hand, was dressed in my attic-combing garb. And with me, hair grooming is a combat sport. I could have found Laney’s appearance intimidating, but she didn’t bring out insecurities in people.