Picture Them Dead

by Brynn Bonner

  “That’d be nice,” Ron said.

  * * *

  Top o’ the Morning was doing heavy business when Esme and I stopped by for our mid-walk coffee. We hadn’t indulged in this ritual in a while, and it was fun, so far at least. Esme tried to wheedle more out of me about Jack, but I held strong, even though I was about to burst. I was dying to tell her, but at the same time I wanted it all to myself for now.

  After Jack and I had finally worked out what each of us felt, we’d talked for another hour, promising each other we’d take things slow and be very low-key about it. Grinning like a possum and chattering at Esme like a deranged howler monkey didn’t honor that agreement.

  “Well, would you look at that!” Esme said, stopping short on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop.

  I followed her gaze to the cluster of outdoor tables and spotted Claire Calvert, talking with a man seated opposite her. I couldn’t see his face, but I thought I recognized his curly hair.

  “Is that Quentin?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is,” Esme said, her lips setting into a hard line. “Claire is sitting there having coffee with the man who put her in that wheelchair. Has she lost her senses?”

  She didn’t look crazy. She looked like she was enjoying the coffee, and the company. I said as much, but Esme didn’t appreciate my assessment.

  She huffed and we turned to head inside. She’d just put her hand on the door handle when the shouting started. Nosy Nellies that we are, we stepped over immediately to see what was going on.

  Nash Simpson stood by Claire’s table, glaring down at Quentin. “Why’d you come back here?” he asked, loud enough for people at the other tables to hear. “No one wants you here.”

  Claire started to protest, but Quentin patted the air in a calming gesture and smiled at her. “It’s okay, Claire,” he said. He got up slowly, pushed in his chair neatly, and walked away without a backward glance.

  As he walked by us, Laney Easton came out of the coffee shop, laughing at something her boyfriend, James Rowan, had said. They both froze and I saw Quentin give them a murderous look before heading down the sidewalk, his calm gait now an angry stalk.

  I looked back to see Nash Simpson still standing beside Claire’s table. He started to speak to her but she turned her head away. He scowled and headed for the parking lot, stopping to talk to people at other tables as he threaded his way through. Some seemed to be giving him attaboys, but others were frowning and shaking their heads.

  “You go get our order,” Esme said. “I’ll sit with Claire.”

  When I came out, Claire was dabbing at her eyes. People at other tables were staring but pretending not to, their gazes darting quickly away when Esme’s piercing eyes did a sweep of the alleyway.

  “It’s because people care about you, Claire,” Esme said soothingly. “They don’t want to see you hurt anymore than you already have been.”

  “People shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” Claire said quietly, and let out a huge sigh. “Life is seldom simple and human beings are complex. Plus, I’m a grown woman and perfectly capable of deciding where and with whom I would like to have coffee.”

  Esme smiled. “Even angry you’re grammatical, Claire.”

  “I am angry,” Claire said. “Do you know how tiresome it is to be the perpetual victim? I am not long-suffering Saint Claire of the Wheelchair. I want to live my life by my own rules and my own choices.”

  “I think people just don’t understand,” I said, handing Esme her coffee. “Forgiveness is a laudable thing, but most of us wouldn’t have it in us to forgive what he did to you.”

  “That’s because people don’t know the whole story, or the true story, though God knows I’ve been trying to tell it for years. There was plenty of blame to go around. Quentin has paid for his mistakes and I’ve paid for mine.”

  “But, Claire,” Esme said, “you’re in a wheelchair because of him. That’s a high price to pay for whatever you think were your mistakes.”

  “And you think going to prison wasn’t a high price?” Claire asked, tears starting to pool in her eyes again. “Esme, Quentin is a good man. You don’t know him.”

  “That’s true,” Esme said. “But I know people don’t usually go to jail unless they’re guilty, of something anyway.”

  I barked an involuntary laugh. “You really believe that? How are things in Utopia?” This earned me a glare from Esme.

  “Sophreena’s right, Esme,” Claire said. “Much as I want everything to be fair and to believe people will do the right thing, sometimes it doesn’t happen that way. Quentin was insecure, he was jealous, he had a bad temper, he left his dirty underwear on the bathroom floor,” she said, allowing a flicker of a smile. “But what happened to me wasn’t all his fault. It’s more complicated than people know and things lined up in a perfect storm of injustice on this case. James Rowan was just coming in as assistant DA. He and Quentin’s older brother had been chums and James convinced Quentin to take a plea. It was a bad deal, a very bad deal. If it had gone to trial I don’t think Quentin would have been convicted, at least not of the most serious charges, not after I testified as to what really happened. But James convinced Quentin he’d be in jail until he was an old man if he didn’t take the deal.”

  “You want to tell the story to us?” I asked. “I’d really like to hear it.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Claire said, glancing at her watch, “but it will have to be another time. I’ve got to get to work.” She nodded toward a building across the street that had once been an old cotton warehouse. It had been reclaimed and divided into cool, industrial-style office spaces. The Literacy Council operated out of the bottom-floor office.

  Claire had worked hard at keeping in shape during her long rehab and she worked her wheelchair with ease, her muscular arms spinning the wheels in practiced rhythm. Esme and I fell into step alongside her.

  “How are things going with Sherry Burton’s case?” she asked. “Have you heard anything? That is still so heavy on my mind.”

  “Did you know Sherry Burton?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Claire said. “Such a sad ending to what I suspect was a sad life. I was still in my ‘save the world, let’s all join hands and sing “Kumbayah” ’ phase that summer I first met her. She seemed like a girl who needed saving. Her brother was a bit lost, too. I tried loaning her books since she seemed to have a lot of time on her hands, but she wasn’t much of a reader. Her brother read everything he could get his hands on, but Sherry had other priorities. She was like a feral cat; if you tried to pull her close the claws would come out. But sometimes if she saw me outside she’d come over to talk or have something to eat. I don’t know if this was true or not—Sherry had a tendency to exaggerate—but she told me their grandmother literally locked them out of the house during the day, so sometimes she came over just to use the bathroom. She was a troubled girl. I tried talking to her grandmother about her, hoping Mrs. Walker would get her some help, but I might as well have been talking to a stone. She said all they needed was fresh air for their health and chores to keep them busy, then she invited me to butt out. She was very clear about that last part.”

  “So you knew Luke, too?” I asked.

  “Ah, yes, little Luke,” Claire said. “He was a sweet boy. Now, he was a reader. Every time I saw him he had a book, which wasn’t too often, now that I think about it. He was as quiet as a little ninja. They were definitely at-risk kids. So sad. I know it doesn’t help her now, but I hope they get whoever did this to Sherry.”

  “I think the police have some good leads,” Esme said. “I’m convinced it will end up being something Sherry was mixed up in down in Miami.”

  We said our good-byes in front of the office and Esme and I set out on the rest of our walk.

  “Why did you tell her that about Miami?” I asked Esme as we rounded the corner, headed for home. “That’s just
a rumor.”

  “Well, first, I really am thinking that’s the way it’s going to play out,” Esme said. “And second, Claire is out there all by herself. You remember how upset she was the night of the vigil. It’s got to be very worrisome to her to be thinking about a woman getting murdered right next door and the killer still out there. I thought she’d rest easier if she believes it had nothing to do with her or this community. How would you feel if something like this happened near you and you were living alone?”

  “Safety-wise, you mean?” I asked. “I’ve never been one to twitch at every sound and I feel pretty safe in my house. Half the time I don’t even remember to lock the doors. ’Course, I’m not as isolated as Claire, nor as vulnerable.”

  “No indeed, you’re just a regular warrior princess, aren’t you, Sophreena?” This was said in a tone that was decidedly not teasing; and as if I needed further evidence that she was ticked off about something, she lengthened her stride and poured on the speed, leaving me panting and sweating to keep up with her.

  This was really getting old.

  * * *

  It wasn’t as easy as I might have hoped, but after an hour going through more boxes from River’s house and another frustrating hour of filling out request forms and perusing records at the courthouse, I finally had the death certificate for Samuel Wright. Immediately the phrase “death by misadventure” caught my eye. I’d never seen that phrase on a document, but I knew I’d run across it in school. If I remembered correctly, it meant a death that is caused by another person, but without intention, malice, or premeditation and not liable to criminal charges.

  There was no information on where or how the body was interred, but a bashed-in skull certainly qualified as misadventure in my book.

  We had to rush to make lunch. Cleve Jemson was pushing ninety years old and was a born raconteur. He’d driven himself to our luncheon and was planning to go fishing when we were done. As Margaret had claimed, he had a phenomenal memory. “Can’t remember where I put the car keys, the remote control, but I remember things that happened years ago like I was seeing it on a movie screen,” he said with a chuckle.

  “I had a good ear as a kid. Could always tell when the grown-up folks were talking about things they didn’t want the young ones to hear. ’Course, that’s when I listened hardest. Mind you, lots of this stuff happened long before my time. I only know the stories the old folks told.”

  “Margaret tells me you remember some things about the Harper family that might relate to the body found on the property,” I prompted.

  Cleve nodded. “Well, I’m short on facts, but I know there was some mystery about Samuel Wright’s death. Something not to be spoken about but in whispers among a chosen few. Folks referred to that ‘terrible night’ at the Harper place. I eventually pieced together the terrible thing was Miss Sadie’s brother dying, and it wasn’t just that he died, but that it happened in some gruesome way. I don’t know if it was a suicide or an accident or what. There was something not right about the man. I got that by the way they talked about him. And also, I remember talk about how the sheriff at the time was a friend of the family and took care of everything. People around did everything but canonize him after that ’cause everybody thought so highly of the Harpers.

  “When the brother died they laid him out at home, real private like, which wasn’t uncommon for that day and time, but I had the feeling this wasn’t just private, but secretive. And there was lots of concern about Miss Sadie. I don’t know if she was hurt or sick or what, but she was an object of both pity and awe. That went on for years after her brother died. For a long time I thought her name was Poor Sadie, since that’s what people always said when her name came up.”

  There was a ruckus at a table across the restaurant and I looked over to see Nash Simpson with three other men. His line crew, I guessed by the way they were dressed. Nash was talking and his face was florid. “Paid his debt? He hasn’t even made a down payment. What do you know about it anyhow, Stanton? We need to be rid of that whole family. Quentin and his no-count nephew. He’s a jailbird, too, you know. Car thief. I say we invite ’em both to clear out.”

  This pronouncement was met with shrugs from the other men. This was likely a rant they’d heard before. They hunkered over their plates and dug into their food.

  “Don’t pay him any mind,” Cleve said. “Nash is trying to get folks all riled up about Quentin being back from the slammer, but I doubt he’ll get any takers. Tragic what happened to Claire, but she’s forgiven him, and something about that case just wasn’t right from the get-go.”

  “Is he talking about Gavin Taylor?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he’s Quentin’s sister’s boy,” Cleve said. “He was a good boy, but Lord, lately he’s caused his mama all kinds of grief. Sometimes he don’t have the sense God gave a billy goat.”

  twelve

  “Well, we don’t have any more facts than we had before, but we can call it anecdotal evidence, eh?” I said as Esme gunned out of the parking lot.

  “I’m getting some anecdotes, too,” Esme said. “From across the divide. I feel like I’ve been hit in the head with a hammer. I can tell you one thing, whatever happened at the old Harper place, it unfolded right on that spot where River said the well used to be.”

  “Okay, so let’s go over what we’ve got. The man, let’s call him Samuel, just for the sake of argument, didn’t die of drowning. So how does the well factor in? Unless someone bashed in his head after he was already dead, which is, I guess, a possibility.”

  “No, not drowning,” Esme said, frowning in concentration. “There was something round and shiny, and horrible loud noises. Lots of shouting.”

  “Okay, so probably something violent. You know, it’s weird that we haven’t found anything about his death in the newspaper archives, not even an obituary.”

  “There’s a lot weird about this one. All I can tell you is whatever happened, it happened right on that spot,” Esme said firmly.

  “Any ideas as to the, uh, messenger?” I asked.

  Esme sighed. “A woman, as it almost always is. I guess men aren’t big communicators even in the hereafter. But I don’t know who she is and I don’t even know how I know it’s a woman. I’m just getting images this time, and some sounds. They only come in little flashes. It’s so frustrating.” She gripped the wheel tight.

  My cell phone chirped and I saw it was Dee.

  “Strange request,” she said. “Laney called and she’s wondering if you could get permission from River for her to come visit the place where Sherry Burton died. She says to tell him it’s not morbid curiosity, but she knew Sherry and since she’s heard there’s no memorial planned, she’d like to pay her respects.”

  “Okay, a little weird,” I said, turning the idea over in my mind. “When does she want to do this?”

  “Late this afternoon if you can set it up,” Dee said. “Then could you go shopping with me? I’ve got to get some shoes for the wedding. I don’t have anything but outdoor boots, athletic shoes, and city walkers. I need big-girl dress-up shoes.”

  I hesitated. What if Jack called and wanted to do something later? Then I gave myself a mental slap. I’d always hated women who would dump a friend for a guy and here I was contemplating doing it already, this early in the still-green relationship. “I’ll call River,” I said. “If he says it’s okay, we can meet around five; there’s still plenty of light then, and you and I can hit the mall afterward.”

  “You’re getting chummy with Laney Easton,” Esme said after I gave her the scoop. “You know people are saying she may be our next mayor. Maybe you can resurrect that idea of starting up a heritage center now that you seem to be in with the powers that be.”

  It was a pipe dream and I knew it, but I hadn’t been able to let go of the idea of starting a nonprofit that would provide a space and resources for people to learn how to trace their f
amily histories. I’d floated the idea several times to various town officials and everyone I’d talked to was very enthusiastic about the idea, but not so much into the making it a reality part. And, as our business has gotten more successful, gods be praised, I’ve had less time and energy to pursue it.

  “Maybe I’ll mention it to her,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll get right on it.”

  “I’m surprised she can peel herself off James Rowan long enough to do anything with you. She’s got a bad case of man-worship when it comes to that guy. I don’t see it myself, but she seems to think he’s God on high,” Esme said.

  “So you don’t think a successful, handsome, well-bred, well-educated attorney who dresses like he stepped out of GQ and has a lot of very white teeth is a good catch?”

  “I’m not judging,” Esme said in a tone that let me know she was definitely judging, “but he’s nearly two decades older than she is. And he didn’t have any interest in her until she got on the town council. Convenient, since he’s a politician. And lastly, he wears a pinkie ring, for jiminy’s sake. I don’t trust a man who wears a pinkie ring. I think she’s setting herself up for heartbreak.”

  “I hope not,” I said, and found that I meant it more than I would’ve thought. I always liked Laney. She could be thoughtless, and she did have a sense of entitlement like a lot of rich kids do, but she was so guileless about it you had to forgive her. And I was certain she genuinely cared about the town.

  “I can’t believe she wants to do a remembrance where Sherry Burton was murdered,” Esme said. “I can tell you now, that’s one sight I’d just as soon forget.”

  * * *

  Esme and I spent the next two hours going through the rest of the boxes we’d brought from River’s attic. She sorted while I worked on the time line we’d be using to construct the heritage book for River.

  This book would be the same as the family heritage scrapbooks we offer in our deluxe services, except it would feature the land rather than the family tree. River wanted to know about the people who’d lived on the land, but he was also interested in what had been grown there, how the landscape may have changed over the years, and other land usage issues. Plus, I suspected he might want to assure himself that bodies weren’t going to start popping up every time he dug a hole.