Paging the Dead Page 15

  “True,” I said. “You know, Sarah never passed the ring on. Maybe she didn’t much like her daughter-in-law either.”

  “No, that wasn’t it,” Esme said.

  “Well, what do you suppose it was, then?”

  “Don’t know—yet,” Esme said. “But it had nothing to do with her daughter-in-law. I think she liked her. Or at least she didn’t dislike her.”

  “You know, everyone we interviewed who knew Harrison and Sarah described their marriage as happy, unusually so. No one had an ill word to say about them as individuals either. But their son, William? Nobody had a good word to say about him, unless you count Dorothy, which I don’t because even her praise sounded forced. How could Harrison and Sarah Pritchett, two such good, caring people, have produced a family legacy like the one that filtered down to Dorothy and Ingrid?”

  “Hard to know,” Esme said. “Anyhow, Sarah’s what kept me sleepless all night. What set you tossin’ and turnin’?”

  “Just this whole situation.”

  “So, not about Jack, then? And before you get all spluttery and deny it, remember who you’re talkin’ to.”

  I sighed. “Okay, I’m a little put out with him. And I know that’s unreasonable. He’s got a right to date whomever he pleases. I just don’t think she’s right for him, that’s all.”

  “And you base this on what, exactly?”

  “I met her,” I said, enunciating each word. “And she isn’t Jack’s type.”

  “So you and Julie had a long heartfelt conversation and you got to know what kind of person she is? Her hopes and her dreams? Her beliefs and her ways?”

  “Well, no. We only talked for a minute or two. But she’s just—she’s really pretty, okay? She can’t possibly be a serious person and be that pretty.”

  “Um-hm,” Esme murmured. “Well, I can tell you one thing, she’s got good sources,” she said, handing over the newspaper.

  I scanned, fuming as I read. “She knows about Hank Spencer? She doesn’t mention him by name; she calls him a distant relative, but that’s who she means. Okay, first off, she got that wrong. Hank and Dorothy are not blood relations. Agnes Pritchett was related to Dorothy’s grandmother, Sarah, but even that kinship was distant. Dorothy and Hank weren’t related at all, not by blood. She got that completely wrong.”

  “So you said,” Esme mumbled.

  “Wow, she says here sources close to the investigation say robbery is thought to be the motive for the murder and that police are close to making an arrest.”

  “That’s sure news to Detective Carlson,” Esme said.

  “Well, I think I can guess where she’s getting her information,” I said, slamming the newspaper down on the table.

  “You know Jack didn’t tell her any of this. Has he ever betrayed a confidence?”

  “Maybe he didn’t realize. She’s trained to get information out of people. And did I mention she’s extremely pretty, and flirty, and all sparkly?” I shuddered.

  Esme shook her head. “Regardless, you know Jack didn’t spill anything.” She laughed softly. “Sophreena, Mama used to say, ‘You can get glad the same way you got mad.’ Jack was worried about you and maybe he got a little bossy, but you know it’s only because he’s concerned. Now, you can make up your mind to be mad at him and be miserable, or you can decide you’re glad he cares.”

  “You’re right,” I said, blowing out a breath. “He’s a good friend. I should support his choices. I should be happy for him. I hope he’d be happy for me if I found someone.”

  “Um-hm,” Esme said again. “ ’Nother thing Mama always said was ‘Don’t go crossing the creek to find water.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Esme said.

  • • •

  Esme took over trimming and mounting photos and I continued with labeling. I wasn’t happy with the mechanical precision of the computer font. I love the authenticity of hand calligraphy, but that wasn’t an option with the deadline looming. I was hoping Marydale would volunteer to help again. With her practiced eye for the details she could make a page beautiful without distracting from its documentary value.

  “Vivian was not kidding when she said she went to that High Ground Fourth of July party every year,” Esme said. “You can watch her grow up in these pictures.”

  “That must have been where she got her first glimpse into the world of the rich. She seems to covet that.”

  “Yes, and don’t you wonder at that?” Esme said. “With her and Dorothy so close she had to see money and a prominent family didn’t guarantee happiness. I don’t get people who think money will solve all their problems and who want to get close to it, like little kids pressing their noses up against the candy store window.”

  “Esme, do you think Hank Spencer could be one of those people?”

  “I don’t know what to make of him. I agree he seems like a regular guy who’s pretty content with his life—maybe a little cowed by his wife, but other than that. But what it boils down to is how could it have been anybody else?”

  “But he seemed so shocked to hear Dorothy was dead. And he didn’t appear to be hiding anything. Maybe I’m gullible, but I totally bought it.”

  “And maybe I’m too cynical,” Esme said. “But what better way to throw everybody off than to ’fess up to what he knows will be discovered anyway? Look, no matter what either of us thinks of him, it’s hard to argue with the timing. And anyway, it’s out of our hands now.”

  I pulled over the next two-page layout and consulted my notes. “Ah, 1956. Dwight David Eisenhower’s president, Elvis hits the charts for the first time with ‘Heartbreak Hotel,’ My Fair Lady opens on Broadway and the King and I and Around the World in Eighty Days are smash movie hits. Gas is around 22 cents a gallon, coffee 85 cents a pound and the average monthly rent $88. School kids get sugar cubes doused with Sabin oral polio vaccine, transistor radios hit the market, the Andrea Doria sinks, Grace Kelly marries Prince Rainier, Castro brings revolution to Cuba, and Rosa Parks sparks a bus boycott in Montgomery. What a time it was.”

  “You’re gonna sprain your brain doing that one of these days,” Esme mumbled.

  “And in our little corner of the world the Fourth of July party at High Ground rolls around again,” I mused. “Look at Harrison and Sarah. They were elderly when this picture was taken and they’re still holding hands.”

  “Yeah, they’re cute oldies,” Esme said, “but I cannot look at another picture of Sarah Malone Pritchett right now. I’m hoping she’ll give me a break tonight and if I’ve been staring at her face all day it’s just like putting out the welcome mat. Now, I’m going in to fix us some lunch.”

  “I need a break, too, and anyway I’ve got to run over to Keepsake Corner and get some more tape runner and photo corners.”

  “There’s tape runner and tabs over in that drawer,” Esme said, nodding toward the old dresser we’d converted into storage for supplies.

  “It’s all low tack,” I said. “And there’s no reason anyone will ever need to take anything out of these books, so we need high-tack tape for a permanent bond. This puts The End to the Pritchett family line.”

  • • •

  I didn’t think it was possible Marydale could fit more inventory into Keepsake Corner but when I arrived she was down on her knees assembling a display shelf that looked like it would just fit the niche between the checkout counter and the door. She’d jumped on the honeysuckle bandwagon and had tangles of silk honeysuckle vines framing the windows and more honeysuckle-themed papers, stationery, stickers and greeting cards than I would’ve thought existed stacked on the counter ready to be loaded onto the new shelf.

  “What is it they say,” she asked, grimacing as she twisted the screwdriver, “if you build it, they will come? Well, I’m building it.”

  “I hope you get swamped with customers,” I said, as I stepped around her to gather my supplies. “I have selfish reasons for wanting you to succeed. You’re my
custom supplier.”

  “If I had a few more customers like you I’d be set,” she said, blowing her bangs off her face as she set the screwdriver aside and struggled up off the floor. She stared at the shelf a moment and then over at the spot it was to occupy. “This sucker better fit,” she said. “I measured three times.”

  I helped her lift the shelf and shoehorn it into position and we chatted as she filled it with honeysuckle swag.

  “Did you hear the police asked Linda to come in again this morning?” she asked.

  “No, why?”

  “To answer more questions, I guess. I figured maybe they wanted to talk to her again before they questioned that Spencer guy. But Linda’s husband, Ben, says this is the last time they’ll talk to her without a lawyer. I sure hope it doesn’t come to that; a lawyer’s fee is about the last thing they need right now.”

  “So things really are bad for them financially?”

  “Oh, they’re not destitute,” she said, “but they’re struggling a bit. Aren’t we all? And now with Dorothy gone I guess Linda will be without a job, depending on what happens to High Ground.”

  “I’m wondering about that,” I mused. “Joe Porter says it won’t go to him. Maybe Dorothy left it to Ingrid. Seems like that would be the natural thing.”

  “Maybe,” Marydale said, arranging glass dome paperweights with honeysuckle blossoms captured inside into a pleasing cluster, “but natural wasn’t really Dorothy’s strong suit, was it? I guess everyone will know soon enough. Linda says Dorothy’s lawyer asked to meet with the family tomorrow for the reading of the will. She’s been asked to be there, too, so Dorothy must have left her some little bequest. I hope she did, for Linda’s sake and because it would be one more thing that would pleasantly surprise me about Dorothy Porter.”

  “I know what you mean. Esme and I worked with the woman for months and yet we both feel we never really got to know her.”

  “Unfortunately Dorothy seemed to put a lot of people off. Several of the old-time merchants still have hard feelings over how she bulldozed them into upgrading their places instead of giving them time to defray the cost over time. And some of the old-timers are not happy about how the town has been improved, especially the ones up on Crescent Hill. They complain about Morningside becoming Disneyfied, and really don’t like the tourists coming in. Howard Granger, Dorothy’s next-door neighbor, has been very vocal about his feelings on the subject. And apparently Dorothy even got into a wrangle with her own pastor over some improvements to the church. Honestly, I think the only people who truly loved Dorothy without reservation were Cassidy and Vivian.”

  “We should all have such a friend,” I said.

  “We do, darlin’,” Marydale said, patting my cheeks. “We’ve got each other.”

  • • •

  As I walked back to my house I looked at Morningside with new eyes and thought about what Dorothy had done for the town. It was a pity I hadn’t appreciated her contribution when I could have told her so. I admired all the wrought iron, the abundance of ornamental plants, the well-placed pocket parks, green spaces and classy storefronts. But it was more than appearance. I’d always thought Morningside was not only a pretty town but a good town. The people here looked after one another. There was the usual small-town gossip and bickering, but people were good at heart and cared about their neighbors. It made me ill to think Dorothy’s killer could be among us.

  Esme had lunch ready and we ate quickly then worked steadily for the next few hours. Ingrid called to say she had a meeting and wouldn’t be bringing Cassidy over, which was just as well. She’d been right when she said they were more hindrance than help. Coco came by and helped out for an hour, then Winston showed up in the late afternoon to bring cinnamon buns with a lava of cream cheese frosting running down the sides. For energy, he said. For ecstasy, I said.

  About five o’clock Esme stood up and stretched. “I hate to leave you working, Sophreena, but you know I’ve got that volunteers’ meeting at church. I can’t miss it ’cause I’m the committee chairperson. I shouldn’t be gone long and I’ll do some more when I get back tonight.”

  I told Esme it was no problem, but after she left I felt abandoned. I ate another cinnamon bun and called it dinner and went back at it, working on 1961, the year Dorothy graduated from the University of North Carolina in nearby Chapel Hill. Dorothy came away with a degree in American history, but I had a hunch she’d never had a real college experience. Her father had insisted she continue to live at High Ground throughout her college years.

  After she graduated her job seemed to consist of running the household at High Ground and serving as hostess for her father’s business and social gatherings. He sold the company in 1972 and spent the rest of his years traveling extensively while Dorothy stayed behind and looked after High Ground, filling her hours with gardening and lunching before eventually launching her campaign to resurrect Morningside.

  In the pictures from that period the vivacious, funny girl Winston had described was nowhere to be seen. Dorothy looked somber and spinsterish.

  Then another transformation occurred after Joe Porter came into her life. She bloomed. A smiling Dorothy looked out from pictures of that era. In the ones where she was looking at Joe she was positively beaming. I never noticed the woman had such a perfect set of teeth.

  William Pritchett had not attended Dorothy’s wedding. The way Dorothy had explained it he’d been stranded in Vienna at the time, no flights available, but I had a hunch he hadn’t expended much energy on finding a way to be a part of the day.

  Dorothy and Joe looked so gloriously happy in their wedding photo I couldn’t bring myself to use a computer font to label it. This photo needed to be honored with a personal touch. As I went to the cabinet to get my calligraphy supplies I had an overwhelming urge to call Jack, then I remembered how awkwardly we’d left things. I wasn’t sure how this was supposed to get fixed. We’d never had a real falling out before. He’d dated other people since we’d been friends and so had I. We’d even talked about the dates afterward, rating them, calculating whether a second date was in order. It had never been an issue in the past, so why was it now?

  The doorbell rang and for a moment my spirits lifted, then I realized it couldn’t be Jack. He’d have let himself in.

  It was full dark out and I hadn’t been expecting anyone so I turned on the porch light and slid over the stool so I could look out the peephole. Hank Spencer was on our front porch shifting from one foot to the other. I cursed myself. No pretending I wasn’t home now, not after I’d switched on the light. What in the world did he want? For the first time ever I wished we had a safety chain on our door. I called out loudly, “I’ll get it, Esme,” so he wouldn’t know I was here alone, then opened the door a crack.

  “Miss McClure,” Spencer said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but could I talk to you a few minutes? It’s really important.”

  Jack’s warnings echoed in my ears, but curiosity won out. I opened the door and motioned him inside, guiding him into the living room. I gestured for him to sit but I stayed on my feet. “What can I do for you, Mr. Spencer? And can I ask how you found out where I live?”

  “It’s Hank,” he said, adjusting his position on the sofa, “just call me Hank. And probably the same way you found me. Google search? Look, I’m sorry. I should have called or something, I know. I’m really rattled right now. You must think I’m some kind of head case. Look at this, my hands are shaking.” He held them out and they were, indeed, vibrating as if he were hooked up to an electrical current.

  “I came in to talk with the police today about my visit with Mrs. Porter,” he went on, talking fast, his voice raspy. “I wanted to get it all straightened out before they came looking for me. I figured I’d come over, tell them what I told you and be on my way. But they kept me there for four hours. Four hours! They must have asked me the same questions twenty times.” He ran his hand through his blond hair as he’d done the day we’d talked with him. �
��I’m so stupid, I didn’t even realize I was a serious suspect until halfway through it all.”

  “The police are just being thorough,” I said. “They’re questioning everyone.”

  “But this could ruin me,” Spencer said, raking at his hair again. “Who is ever going to want to take a tour with me if they hear I’ve even for a minute been a suspect in a murder? I should never have gone to see that woman. I shouldn’t have told her that stupid story about the ring. She got so mad about the whole thing, I was afraid she might attack me. I thought the whole episode was funny and I expected she would, too, how her ancestor had outwitted mine and come away with the prize. I mean, if anything I should have been the one to be upset by it, right? That ring had been in the Spencer family for generations.”

  He was up now and pacing in front of the sofa and I was getting increasingly uncomfortable.

  “The police will find whoever killed Dorothy and this will all blow over soon, I’m sure,” I said, making a gesture toward the front hall to signal it was time for him to go.

  Spencer stopped pacing and looked at me, his face ashen and little beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. “It may be too late for me by then. And my wife is going to kill me ’cause I’m gonna have to hire a lawyer. That’ll cost a bundle. She was already ticked off that I was spending so much time on the family history thing. She didn’t get it. The cops don’t either. That’s why I came here. Maybe you could talk to them. They act like I was stalking Dorothy Porter or something. They don’t seem to get the whole genealogy-as-a-hobby thing. But you could make them understand. Please, you’ve gotta help me.”

  Before I had a chance to reply he was across the room and had me by both shoulders. “Please, can’t you talk to them?”

  His eyes looked a little wild and he had me in a vise grip. I was starting to panic when a voice came from the doorway.

  “Get your hands off her.”

  I turned to see Jack, his face granite and his fists clenched at his sides.

  Spencer stepped back, a stricken look on his face. “God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”