Death in Reel Time Read online

  We settled into an easy rhythm, oars synchronizing by virtue of both muscle memory and the Martian mind-meld Jack and I have going on. With the exception of the one, rather large secret I was keeping about my feelings for him, Jack and I were open with one another.

  “Any news about the investigation?” he asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard,” I said. “I know the heat is definitely on.”

  “I figured that. How’s Beth doing?”

  I told him what Olivia had to say that morning and about how we were to pick up on her genealogy project.

  “That’d be good,” Jack said. “Keep ’em busy. I know Daniel’s worried this whole thing will put a strain on his mother and slow down her recovery.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew Daniel so well,” I said.

  “Yeah, I mean kind of. We were on a rec-league volleyball team together and I got to know him even better when I was doing Olivia’s yard work. We’ve gone to a couple of basketball games together, did a Habitat for Humanity gig, stuff like that. I saw him late yesterday afternoon as he was leaving Bonnie Foster’s house and I was just getting home. I think he’s handling some business things for Beth.”

  “I don’t know Bonnie well,” I said, fishing for how well Jack might know her.

  “We’re friendly neighbors,” Jack said, “but not like pals or anything. She’s nice and scary smart. She grew up out in the mountains somewhere. She and Blaine were college friends. Reading between the lines I’d say he brought the financial backing to the business and she brought the day-to-day operations savvy.”

  “I’d expect she’ll be able to keep the store, right? They probably had some kind of partner-survivor policy. Most business partners do that so they won’t lose the business if anything happens to one of them.”

  “Yeah, I think so. Bonnie insisted they take out a policy to protect her when Blaine took up rock climbing a few years back. She said if he wanted to dangle off the side of the mountain and endanger himself that was his call, but he wasn’t going to take the business down with him. She’s got everything she owns invested in the place.” Jack frowned as he studied something on the opposing shoreline.

  I looked over to where a cluster of kayaks and paddleboats were circling. I saw a flutter of torn yellow tape on one of the dock posts and realized this was the spot where Blaine’s body had been found. “Oh God, looky-loos,” I muttered.

  “Morbid curiosity,” Jack said. “It’s a human condition.”

  “You know, I always thought Blaine and Daniel got on pretty well,” I said, “but the last time I saw them together it was Tension City.”

  “Back when we were playing volleyball Daniel would bring Blaine along sometimes and I know they played tennis together. But I think they’d kind of gotten crossways of one another over time.”

  I told him about Blaine’s refusal to invest in Daniel’s restaurant. “Maybe that’s what soured things.”

  “Don’t think so,” Jack said, paddling extra strokes to align us with a bend in the shoreline. “Things were already mucked up with them before that happened.”

  “Daniel seems to have it in for Peyton, too,” I said.

  “Now that I don’t get,” Jack said. “Peyton’s a good guy, and a great coach. The kids at Morningside High all think he walks on water. He’s really good with them. Doesn’t lose his temper like a lot of coaches do. He’s an easygoing, mellow guy.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen him last week,” I said. “He got into an argument with Beth and he was—well, whatever the opposite of mellow is.”

  “An argument with Beth? I can’t even imagine that.”

  “Me neither, except Esme and I saw it with our own four eyes. I was mildly curious at the time but after all that’s happened, I’d really like to know what it was about.”

  “Wait, you’re not thinking it’s anything to do with what happened to Blaine, are you?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? It was strange, and when something like this happens, anything out of the ordinary pricks up your ears.”

  Jack paddled alone, alternating the paddle from side to side, while I ate cheese and crackers and drank a bottle of water. When I was done, I took over and passed him the snack bag.

  The sun, apparently jealous of the autumn leaves, was gathering in reflected glory and painting a swath of sky, the golden orb drifting slowly and gracefully toward the horizon. We’d need to turn soon or else we’d run out of daylight. And while moonlight boating could be lovely, it could also be creepy.

  I thought of the young kayaker who’d come upon Blaine’s body. As it happened he was one of Peyton Branch’s football players. The poor kid had already been unhinged by finding a body and he’d completely freaked when he found out it was his coach’s brother.

  We were on the east side of Misty Lake, which is for regular folks. Bike and hiking paths snake along the shoreline and most of the small piers are shared by neighbors or owned and maintained by the town. Olivia’s house was an exception. The house was situated at the end of the public space and had a long, steeply sloping yard that ran down to the lake, with a small private dock at the bottom. Olivia’s house may have been modest, but her lot was as luxurious as any surrounding the mansions on the west side of the lake along Crescent Hill.

  “That’s funny,” I said, as we came even with Olivia’s dock. “She just told me a few days ago her boat was stowed up in the garage loft. Now it’s tied up at the dock.”

  “Maybe she’s ready to start taking it out again.”

  “Maybe,” I said. There was no mistaking Olivia’s boat. It was a flat-bottomed skiff like Jack’s, but Olivia’s was distinctive. She’d made two small kinetic sculptures and attached them on each side aft. As we disturbed the water with our oars the ripples went out and set the metal pieces chiming.

  In healthier days Olivia had routinely used the boat to visit Beth, whose house was on an almost direct east-west line across the lake. It was quicker by far than driving around the lake, and Olivia enjoyed being on the water.

  As we came closer I noticed flattened vegetation and slickened streaks of mud near the water’s edge. My mind flashed back to Olivia’s stained pants and muddy shoes on the afternoon she’d tested herself by walking down to the lake.

  “I wonder if she took the boat out,” I mused, not realizing I’d spoken aloud.

  “When?” Jack asked.

  “The day Blaine was killed.”

  “Maybe she did,” Jack said with a shrug. “What does that matter?”

  “Good question,” I said, staring out across the lake to the group of looky-loos still circling Blaine’s watery grave.

  * * *

  Denny was sitting at the kitchen table watching Esme cook. She’d decided a home-cooked meal was just the ticket for reducing his stress levels. Maybe, but the meal she was whipping up would do nothing good for his cholesterol levels. Pork chops, mashed potatoes with gravy, big slabs of Winston’s sourdough bread with butter, broccoli smothered in hollandaise sauce, and, in a token nod to healthful eating, a small green salad. Plus, given Denny’s notorious sweet tooth, I was sure there was a pie or cake cooling somewhere.

  Denny’s immense body seemed in danger of melting over the sides of the kitchen chair, he was in such a slump. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

  “Anything new?” Jack asked.

  Denny leaned on the table and drew his hand down hard over his face as if ironing out the bags under his eyes. “Not a whole lot,” he said. “We’re learning more on background about Blaine Branch’s life, but none of it’s been useful in finding who killed him. Not yet, anyway.”

  Over the last few months Denny had become an adjunct member of our club, though he hadn’t been read in on everything. He wasn’t working on his own family history—yet, though I think we’ve stirred the notion for him. And he didn’t know about Esme’s gift. But he’d learned to trust our discretion and he claimed talking things through with us was helpful, so I had no r
eservations about asking questions.

  “What have you found?”

  “Nothing damning,” Denny said. “I think everybody knows Blaine had a wild streak when he was younger. He got into trouble in his college years, usually over stunts his idiot frat brothers put him up to. Some of those hijinks look very un-PC now and I’m sure he wouldn’t have liked them bandied about after he’d become an upstanding citizen of the community, but none of it was too serious.”

  “Could it have been something as simple as a robbery?” Jack asked. “I mean, everybody around knew Blaine had money, and more than a few knew he had a habit of carrying a lot of cash on him just for show.”

  “You got that right,” Denny said. “Blaine liked having a roll to flash. Not smart and totally unnecessary nowadays, when practically everywhere you go they take credit or debit cards. But no, for sure not robbery. His wallet was still in his pocket, plenty of cash in it, and he was wearing a pricey watch.”

  “Olivia told me you’ve cordoned off Beth’s house,” I said. “What’s that about?”

  “We don’t know where it happened. We’re trying to trace Blaine’s movement on that day. And we found blood out in the yard at his and Beth’s house. We’re assuming it was Beth’s from where she fell and hit her head, or whatever happened with her. Still,” he said, turning a palm up, “we’ve gotta cover all the bases. There’s something off about the place. And Beth won’t be much help unless she gets her memory back. Jen was over there this afternoon with a crew going over the yard again. We’re also looking at the fishing wharf behind The Sporting Life. That’s near the spot where Potter’s Creek feeds into the lake and the current is strong there; it could have carried a body out to where the kid found him.”

  “What makes you think he might have been killed there?” I asked.

  “Slim evidence, really. But according to the timeline we’ve got so far that’s the last place someone remembered seeing him that morning. We had the tech guys out there yesterday and they found trace amounts of blood on the wharf, too. But the store had a fishing gear clinic there last week and it hasn’t rained since. Could be fish blood or maybe somebody got a barb in the finger or something. Anyhow, it’s in the testing pipeline.”

  “But he was, for sure, at the store that day?” Jack asked. “I thought Bonnie said she didn’t see him at all.”

  Denny nodded again. “Same thing with the store employees, but two people saw him in the parking lot. There’s a door from the lot into a hallway that leads to his office, so could be he didn’t check in with anybody, or never got a chance to. All I can say is that’s the last sighting of him we’ve got. And this was from two different people who say he was there around eleven a.m.”

  “Do you know any more about how he was killed?” I asked.

  “We know he was struck on the back of the head with something hard and flat, and we know he was hit with considerable force. So the how we know. Now all we’re missing is the who, the why, and the where.” He sighed and Esme set a glass of iced tea in front of him and patted his shoulder.

  “It’ll all come clear,” she said. “But for now you need to give it a rest for a while. Sophreena, you and Jack want to join us for supper? There’s plenty.”

  “Love to, Esme, looks great, but I’ve got a meeting with a client,” Jack said.

  I decided Esme and Denny deserved some privacy. “I ate already,” I said, figuring cheese and crackers counted so it wasn’t a lie. And I could always sneak in for midnight leftovers if there were any. “Jack’s gonna help me with the leaves until he has to go to his meeting, then I’m gonna see what I can find out for Olivia.”

  “All right, then, you two have fun,” Esme said.

  I watched, astounded, as she served up Denny’s heaping plate. “Bon appetit, y’all,” I said. “And maybe a brisk walk after supper would be in order, else I might come back and find you both in a food coma.”

  eight

  I FELT INVIGORATED AFTER AN hour of leaf wrangling out in the crisp fall air. After Jack left I went into the workroom, woke up my computer, and jotted down some strategies for a search. As my hands hovered over the keys I heard Coco’s voice in the front hall. She chatted with Esme and Denny for a couple of minutes, then came into the workroom in her usual whirlwind fashion, clutching a sheaf of printouts.

  “Hey, Sophreena,” she said, “I hit a pretty productive vein with Olivia’s maternal grandparents through their missionary society. Thought I’d get these to you early in case you want to get some of the original stuff from them. Three generations of missionaries, her grandparents the last. Lots of info on her grandfather, though not so much on her grandmother,” Coco sniffed. “Even though from what I can tell she did just as much of the work as he did.”

  “Different times, Coco,” I said, reaching for the printouts.

  “I suppose,” Coco said. “Anyhow, I spoke with a very kind gentleman at the mission society and he’d be happy to get you some better scans of these two photos, for a small fee, of course. Those are just photocopies, one of her grandfather and one of her great-grandfather. Between you and me, I wouldn’t hang either one of those up in the kitchen. They might curdle the milk.”

  “They do look a little stern, don’t they?”

  “You’re too kind, Sophreena. They look like prophets of doom. The Easter Island statues have more vibrancy than these two.”

  She put both hands on the worktable, stiffened her arms, and flexed her back, letting out a little groan.

  “Long day?” I asked.

  Coco stood and worked her neck back and forth a few times. I half expected her to drop to the floor and assume a yoga position. She’s been known to do that during our club meetings.

  “Not so much long, just frustrating. Marydale asked me to give Madison Branch some pottery lessons. You know Marydale’s doing her mother-hen thing with Madison, right?”

  “I know she’s concerned about her and wants to help.”

  “Yes, well, and I worked with her all afternoon. I think she could probably do pretty good clay work if she could get herself together to concentrate. The girl’s a mess.”

  “She’s not exactly a girl, Coco,” I said. “She’s almost my age.”

  “Oh, trust me, she’s a girl,” Coco insisted. “A very impulsive, very unstable girl. But Marydale loves her dearly, so I know there’s got to be something to her. I’ll try to get to know her and mentor her if I can.”

  “You’re a good egg, Coco,” I said.

  “I’m a fried egg,” she said. “I’m going home to sink into a hot bath.”

  “Thanks for this,” I said, motioning to the printouts. “Great work.”

  “I was taught by the best,” she said as she picked up her bag and made for the door.

  I searched through databases on the Internet for a while, trying to catch Olivia’s father’s trail, but Johnny Hargett had left few footprints after he slipped out of Crawford, North Carolina, leaving behind his very pregnant young wife.

  All I’d managed to find was an arrest record for John L. Hargett on a drunk-and-disorderly charge in a town about thirty miles south of Crawford. The name Hargett was not uncommon, but the middle initial narrowed things down. If this was our Johnny he’d spent three days in the county jail, was released, and walked out into the sunlight and right off the end of the earth. Or so it would seem. I made a note to follow up. Maybe I could unearth the actual arrest record.

  I spent another fruitless fifteen minutes searching, but none of my sources coughed up any information. I decided to go back to mining Olivia’s family artifacts.

  Celestine Hargett’s collection of diaries was enough to make my genealogist’s heart go pitter-pat. She wasn’t a particularly inspired writer, but she’d taken her teacher’s instruction in the Palmer Method earnestly and her handwriting was consistent, easy to read, and tidy. And she was dedicated. She wrote in her journal daily, almost without fail. And even in those rare instances when she skipped a day or two she’d do a
roundup summary of what had transpired in the gap when she made her next entry. She was open and confessional in the diary—up to a point. She was circumspect enough that she must not have entirely trusted her hiding place.

  I located the diaries that covered the period between Johnny and Renny’s marriage and the time he disappeared and brought them to the worktable. Then I went to the closet and grabbed a stack of the dot-matrix printer paper I hoard for constructing timelines. I stretched it out along the length of the worktable, reinforced the perforations with tape, and drew three lines down the length of the paper: one for Olivia’s paternal family, one for her maternal family, and one for historical events to set the family into the context of their times. I ticked in all the birth, marriage, and death dates that we knew and a few major historical markers, then opened the first diary and began to read.

  October 25, 1941

  I am bone weary, but proud. I put up fifteen pints of applesauce and eight of apple butter today. They looked so pretty I couldn’t help but stand there in the cellar and admire the way the light from the window hit the sides of the jars. Riley helped me gather the apples from the orchard yesterday and Renny helped with the peeling, though the child is really more hindrance than help. She peels one for every four or five of mine and takes off half the apple with her knife. Though that’s better than taking off a finger, which I can see she could do real easy. I saved all her peels to boil up to make jelly if I can get the sugar. Else I’ll strain it out for juice. No sense wasting.

  But still and all, I do love having her here. She is good company and sweet as they come. She wants to learn how to do things and is trying her best to please Johnny, which is turning out to be no easy thing. As I feared, he is sulky and short with her when she doesn’t do things the way he wants them done. The two of them put me in mind of younguns dressing up in the big people’s clothes and playing house, neither of them with the first idea about cooking or cleaning or washing clothes nor nothing. Sometimes it is comical to watch, but other times it makes me sick to heart.