Paging the Dead Page 16

  “It’s okay, Jack,” I said. “This is Hank Spencer. He’s upset, that’s all. Everything’s okay.”

  “Everything did not look okay,” Jack said.

  “I’ll go now,” Spencer said. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Maybe we can talk later.”

  “Or maybe not,” Jack said.

  I held up a hand. “Mr. Spencer—Hank—I will talk to Detective Carlson and try to make him understand, but that’s all I can promise.”

  “Thanks,” Spencer said, giving Jack a sidelong glance, “that’s all I’m asking.”

  At the door he turned to give me one last look and mumbled another “sorry” before I closed the door, my own hand shaking now.

  I couldn’t look at Jack. “Don’t say I told you so,” I said, my voice muffled by the door. “I should never have let him in.”

  “I came by to apologize for yesterday,” Jack said, turning me around and putting out his hand. “Truce?”

  I reached to shake but he pulled me to him and put his arms around me, resting his chin on the top of my head. “What’s gotten into us, Soph? No more fighting, okay?”

  I waited for the brotherly pat, pat, pat.

  But it never came.

  sixteen

  WE’D GOTTEN PRACTICALLY NOTHING DONE AFTER ESME GOT home that night. Jack told her about my visit with Hank Spencer and she went ballistic. She’d wanted to call Detective Carlson immediately and I’d had to do some fast talking to get her calmed down.

  This morning she was on it again. “I really think we should call Denny and tell him about Spencer showing up here last night. He could well be Dorothy’s killer, Sophreena. And you let him in. You were here alone with him.”

  Denny? When had he jumped that hurdle? When I finally found my voice I was firm. “I am not calling the police on the man, Esme. He was just worked up last night, that’s all. You remember what it was like when the police questioned us? Well, multiply that times ten. He got everything but the bright lights and rubber hoses.”

  “Maybe for good reason,” Esme said. “Sophreena, I know you want him to be innocent. But from the way Jack told it the guy was unhinged.”

  “He was upset,” I allowed. “And I wouldn’t welcome any more unannounced visits from him. Seeing how he was last night made me wonder how he reacted when Dorothy threw him out of her house.”

  “No more visits, period,” Esme said, the swish of the paper cutter emphasizing her words. “Unannounced, announced or booked in advance.”

  “Agreed,” I said with a sigh.

  About an hour later Vivian called wanting me to come up to High Ground to help her decide where and how the scrap-books would be displayed. I considered telling her if she didn’t stop bothering me there might not be any scrapbooks, but she was already wound a little tight about this event so I dutifully grabbed my bag and one of the scrapbooks and answered the summons.

  The police had only this morning removed the yellow crime scene tape and released the house and there was a buzz of activity as everything got put where it belonged. It was the first time I’d been to High Ground since the day Dorothy died and it seemed surreal that the house stood seemingly permanent and unchanging yet Dorothy was gone.

  Vivian had decided to have a carpenter build reading stands for each scrapbook. Even I thought this was over the top. She couldn’t decide between easel-type stands for the long oak dining table or freestanding floor stands, and asked my opinion.

  “Wow, Vivian, I’m not sure that’s necessary. You know, after Dorothy’s memorial these will be just like any other family albums.”

  “Oh, no, no. That was the original intent, but everything’s changed now. The Pritchett family is a major part of the history of our community. I’m sure the town council will want them on public display. And as new facts come to light those will be incorporated until a complete history of the family is known.”

  This was the third time Vivian had insinuated we hadn’t done our job. It was really starting to rankle.

  “Vivian, do you know something about the Pritchett family that we missed? Something that should be included here?”

  She gave me a wan smile. “Sorry if I offended, Sophreena. I wasn’t questioning your abilities. I’m just saying I know you traced the family history way back, but now that Dorothy has passed that changes things. I’m sure people will want more on the Pritchetts of this and future generations.”

  “Vivian, these books are meant for the family. They’ll probably just be put on a shelf here after the memorial. Here—or someplace. Nobody knows yet what’s to become of this house, do they?”

  “Not definitely,” Vivian said, “but I’m sure it won’t leave the family. Which reminds me,” she said, studying her watch, “I’ve really got to run. Dorothy’s lawyer has called a meeting with us today about her will.”

  I was glad for the opportunity to escape and get back to work. On my way out I passed the staircase that eventually led to the attic. Over the past months Esme and I had spent hours amidst the jumble of family treasures and cast-off belongings crowded into that hot, dusty space.

  With no real intention I found myself mounting the stairs. I knew them so well I could accurately predict which ones squeaked. Esme and I had hauled dozens of heavy boxes of photos, memorabilia and artifacts down out of that attic.

  We’d done the first sort on tables set up in the gatehouse at High Ground. Dorothy would drop in daily to look over what we’d found but she left the grunt work to us. She, too, had been keen on Laurena Bascom Pritchett’s Civil War-era memory book. That was one of the few items she’d taken to the big house for a closer look. But the only thing she’d asked about specifically—and repeatedly—was her grandmother’s ring. She’d been fixated on it. It must have been devastating for her to hear Hank Spencer make it into the centerpiece of a joke.

  I opened the door at the top of the attic stairs and gaped at what I saw. Esme and I had left everything tidy; now boxes were standing open, the contents strewn about, and everything was in general disarray. I closed the door and went back downstairs and out the back door to my car. Should I call someone to let them know about this? An untidy attic wasn’t exactly something to raise alarms about given the more pressing concerns of this family right now. And anyway, who should I call? Still, it bothered me.

  When I told Esme she was vexed. “We left that place clean and organized. Now somebody’s gonna say we left a mess. I don’t like that.”

  “I don’t like it either,” I said. “Maybe the police left it that way.”

  “Well,” Esme said, “there’s yet another thing we need to let Denny know about, I suppose. I’ll call him a little later.”

  She nodded toward the pile of layouts she’d done while I was gone. “You’ve got a backlog there, you’d best get at it.”

  “What time period are we in now?”

  “Still the sixties, so a lot of it is William Pritchett. You know that old saying, ‘a face only a mother could love’? Well, I’m not so sure even she did.”

  “She still dropping stuff on you?”

  “Off and on,” Esme said. “She’s a weary soul and she’s wearing me out, too. I wish I could help her but I can’t figure out the message. Seems like that’s the way it goes. The longer secrets have been buried the more mud I have to shovel to finally uncover them.”

  “Do you think there is some Pritchett family secret?”

  “I don’t know if there’s a deep, dark secret,” Esme said, “but there were definitely things left unresolved. If there is it must have been Dorothy’s lonely burden to bear. I can’t imagine who she’d confide in since I don’t think she quite trusted anyone, nor regarded anyone around here as her equal.”

  “How about you, Esme?” I asked, teasingly. “Do you regard me as your equal?”

  “Sometimes,” Esme said.

  I felt my skin prickle. I’d meant it as a joke.

  “Oh, don’t go pouting,” Esme said. “Sometimes you’re my equal, sometimes you’r
e not. Sometimes I’m your equal, and sometimes I’m not. That’s why we’re a good team. Now be a good teammate and get to work.”

  William Pritchett had amassed a monumental amount of material in his lifetime, but very little of it had anything to do with family. He’d kept a travelogue of his various trips that was interesting if you wanted facts about Madagascar or Cyprus or other far-flung places, but useless in terms of the Pritchett family life. I’d already slogged through all that. But there was still a small stack of correspondence I needed to mine for whatever tidbits might be buried within.

  Most of the material up through 1972 when the company was sold related to the business, and other documents were important enough to keep but not succinct enough for scrapbooking, such as William Pritchett’s last will and testament. For the scrapbook I made a journal box stating when the will was executed and where it could be found in the family archives. Other things were simply too unpleasant to be included. While I believe in warts-and-all family histories it’s not necessary to rub salt in wounds, or expose a family’s less-than-finest attributes to public scrutiny.

  It was generally understood within the community that William Pritchett had been an offish prig and his character was certainly well known to his remaining child, Ingrid, but I still balked at including the letter I’d just found.

  It was dated October 3, 1972, a few days after the business was sold. William had rewritten his will and was getting his finances in order in preparation for an extended trip abroad. He’d written to his lawyer: In regard to your inquiry about disbursements, the child in question has now reached the age of majority and my obligations are fulfilled. There will be no further monies transferred and no provisions made for the child to inherit any portion of my estate. The matter is ended.

  No wonder Ingrid was so bitter. Her father had cut her off finally and completely and seemingly without a single regret. The words were so cold they made me feel like reaching for a sweater, even though temps had reached the ninety-degree mark outside and the air-conditioner was laboring mightily.

  I was happy when I was done with that and could turn to reconstructing the Civil War commonplace book with the copies we’d made. Laurena Bascom Pritchett, as was the custom of the day, had glued all sorts of things into her remembrance book. Newspaper and magazine clippings, buttons and snippets of cloth from favorite clothing she’d worn out, feathers, pressed flowers, colorful candy wrappers and ornate soap boxes, calendar pages and a maple leaf that had once probably been colorful, but was now only a powdery crust. There were matchbooks, homemade cards and lots of used postage stamps in addition to the autobiographical writing sprinkled throughout the book in Laurena’s straight up and down handwriting.

  We’d carefully taken the book apart and scanned the pages that could be safely placed on the scanner bed and copied the more vulnerable ones with a camera on a copy stand. Then we’d put the book back together again.

  I placed the reproduction pages in the original order and made a front plate for the book documenting everything known about its origins. This was my favorite piece in all of the Pritchett family archives, even though it represented a tragic story.

  The sun slanted in our west-facing window and I knew it must be near four o’clock. Sure enough the bell from the church down the street tolled four gongs and our doorbell dinged an echo.

  Esme went to get it and I hoped for his own sake it wasn’t Hank Spencer again. Esme was tired and her mouth was set in a hard line. But then I heard her cheerful voice and knew it must be Cassidy.

  When they came into the workroom I was surprised to see it was Jeremy who was with Cassidy, not Ingrid.

  “Mom strongly suggested I come over and learn a few things about the Pritchetts before Dorothy’s memorial,” he said. “Would it be okay if I get a quick preview?”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering what had caused this change of heart.

  “I had to go back to day camp today,” Cassidy chattered to Esme. “Daddy and Gigi had adult business. We went bowling. I didn’t even need the bumpers. I can do real bowling. Tiffany’s not got the hang of it yet, that’s what our counselor, Miss Mendy, says, but we’re not supposed to laugh at Tiffany because what she really needs is encouragement.”

  “Miss Mendy is right,” Esme said, “everybody needs encouragement. Maybe you could give us some right now. We’ve been working really hard and we’re tired.”

  Jeremy had the same reaction as everyone else had when he looked around the room. “Quite an operation,” he said. “No wonder you’re tired.”

  I knew Jeremy had been in the meeting with the lawyers and I was dying to ask questions that were none of my business. He seemed in a good mood and I wondered if that was due to the terms of Dorothy’s will.

  “These don’t look like Tiffany’s mom’s scrapbooks,” Cassidy said, carefully turning the pages of one of the heritage books the way we’d taught her to. “Tiffany’s mom doesn’t write stuff down in hers. And she uses red and blue and yellow and all the rainbow colors and cut-out shapes and ribbons and lots and lots of stickers. I like stickers. These look old.”

  “That’s the idea,” I told her. “These people lived back in olden days, so we’re trying to make them look old on purpose.”

  “You don’t want them to be pretty?” she asked.

  Jeremy put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re pretty, Cass. Just a different kind of pretty.”

  She shrugged and walked over to watch Esme work.

  “Sorry,” Jeremy said. “We’re big on honesty at our house, but unlike bowling she hasn’t quite got the hang of tact yet.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Lots of grown-up scrapbookers feel the same way she does. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”

  “I’ll be honest with you,” Jeremy said, “I really wouldn’t like to see any of it, or at least that was true before today. I’ve never wanted anything to do with the Pritchett family after what they did to my mother. I suspect that’s been pretty plain. I was dead set against it when Mom wanted to come back here. But she seemed to need the move and Cass and I needed her, so here we all are.”

  I didn’t have the foggiest idea how to respond to that, so I simply slid the memory book I’d just finished across the table. “This is a commonplace book that was kept by your number fifteen, or in layman’s terms, your great-great-grandmother, Laurena Bascom Pritchett.”

  “And which Mr. Pritchett did this poor woman have the misfortune to marry?” he asked with a sigh.

  I’d gotten to know Laurena Bascom Pritchett in the course of reproducing her heartfelt little book and in some small way I felt I shared her sorrow. Jeremy’s comment made me defensive.

  “She married Lawton Morgan Pritchett and from all accounts she loved him very much. He went off to the Civil War and never came home again to get to see his son, Harrison, grow up. Harrison Pritchett, as you know, was your great-grandfather.”

  “Yes, that much I do know,” Jeremy said, “but you shouldn’t assume I know much else. Don’t be afraid of insulting me. I’ve tried my hardest to avoid learning anything about the Pritchetts, though living here some of it soaks in through your pores. So this ancestor died in the Civil War? Were there other kids?”

  “No, Harrison Pritchett was an only child. Laurena was only nineteen when he was born. Lawton Pritchett was twenty-four. Harrison wasn’t quite three months old when Lawton went to war, and not quite a year old when Lawton died in the battle at Kelly’s Ford along the Rappahannock River in Virginia.”

  “That’s a terrible story,” Jeremy said, “so why is it I’m glad to know it?”

  “That’s a pretty universal reaction,” I said. “People like to know about their people.”

  Jeremy puckered his lips, considering. “I thought Dorothy did this as a vanity thing. You know, look at us, we’re the big cheese family around here. But maybe I should have given her the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Sometimes people have complicated reasons for w
anting to trace their lineage, and maybe there was some vanity at play with Dorothy, but she told us numerous times she wanted it done for the family, and especially for Cassidy.”

  He returned to the book, leafing through pages with more concentration now. “So this woman, my great-whatever-grandmother, looks like she saved everything she came across.”

  “Yes, very typical for the day for women who kept a book. They saved personal mementos and objects of daily life that triggered a remembrance, were pleasing to the eye or caught their fancy in some way.”

  “What was supposed to go here?” he asked, stopping to examine the blank spot on the page Jack had asked about.

  “It was a lock of your great-grandfather Harrison’s hair in a little envelope. It’s gotten lost. We’re hoping it will turn up before we’re finished.”

  “Would it have been one of those waxed paper envelopes? The kind they used to put stamps in at the post office?”

  “Glassine. Yes. I’m pretty sure it was in the book when we found it, but it must have fallen out when Dorothy had it. She kept it overnight to look at it.”

  “I think I might know where it is,” he said. “I saw something like that on Dorothy’s desk. I meant to ask about it. I thought maybe it was my mother’s from when she was a baby. She was a blond tyke.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I’ll see if we can locate it and put it back in the original book,” I said. “Would you like to see what this ancestor, Laurena Bascom Pritchett, looked like? She was a blonde, too.”

  “There are pictures?”

  “There’s a nice ambrotype of her as a young woman,” I said, reaching across to turn the pages to the back of the scrapbook. “It was in a half case that was falling apart, but we managed to get a pretty good reproduction of it.”

  “Wow, she looks like my mother,” he said. “Or I guess it would be my mother looks like her. Cassidy, look at this, this is Gigi’s—” He looked a question at me.

  “Her great-grandmother.”

  “Why was she great?” Cassidy asked, coming over to have a look.