Paging the Dead (10 page)

Carlson pursed his lips. “Could be.”

“The pearls, too,” Esme said, reluctantly joining the conversation. “Those weren't cultured pearls, they were the real thing. A whole lot of oysters put up with a whole lot of aggravation to make those. They were very old. Dorothy told us her grandfather brought them back from the Orient. I expect they were expensive.”

“Pearls?” Carlson said, frowning. Then he repeated the word, almost in a whisper, and I could see his mind was somewhere else.

“Pearls,” Esme said impatiently. “She was wearing them when we saw her that day. Three strands around her neck?” She demonstrated by gesturing arcs across her chest, then her eyes grew wide. “Oh, dear Lord,” she said. “Was she strangled with the pearls?”

Carlson scribbled something on the sticky note but didn't reply.

“You didn't find her pearls,” Esme said, more a statement than a question.

Again Carlson didn't answer. He pulled off the sticky note and stuffed it in his jeans pocket. “Thanks for calling me about this,” he said, picking up the envelope with the photo.

“You're welcome,” Esme said, briskly. “Now did you talk to the gal at the gas station? Are we free to leave town?”

“You planning a trip?” he asked.

“No,” Esme answered. “But
could
we if we wanted to?”

“Yeah, sure,” Carlson said with a shrug. “I did talk to the clerk and she remembers you being there. You're free to do whatever you please. But I—we—may still have some
questions. I hope y'all will make yourselves available if we do.”

His eyes never strayed from Esme. I might as well have been a chair. As I watched a smile crinkle up the corners of his eyes, the dime finally dropped.

Somebody
was sweet on Esme.

I
N SUMMER
E
SME AND
I
TRY TO GET IN OUR WALK BEFORE IT
gets too hot. This morning we were doing our routine three-mile loop, with a stop at the coffee shop at the halfway point. I get a lot more exercise on these outings than Esme does. For every stride she takes I have to take two. She claims I have the advantage of youth so she cuts me no slack.

As we walked by the main administration building of Morningside High School on Parsons Street, Esme pointed. “I've been thinking about what Winston said about how much the town has changed. Is this what the high school looked like when you graduated?”

“Pretty much,” I answered, trying not to huff and puff. “There's a new football field and the music building was built since then. Everything's been spruced up and there's nicer landscaping, but other than that it hasn't changed much.”

“What year did you graduate?” she asked, and I noticed with some irritation that she wasn't even breaking a sweat.

“Nineteen ninety-eight,” I said. “Bill Clinton was president and embroiled in the Lewinsky scandal; Carl Wilson,
my favorite Beach Boy, died that year and so did Linda McCartney, another favorite. The embassies were bombed, Hurricane Mitch hit Central America and killed a bunch of people and an earthquake in Afghanistan killed even more.”

“I see,” Esme said. “Tell me, Sophreena, did anything good happen in 1998?”

“I'm sure it did, but I was in a bad place so I guess I only noticed the bad. Let's see, there was peace in Northern Ireland, that's good. Europeans adopted the euro, is that good or bad?”

“Jury's still out,” Esme said. “How about music, movies, things you enjoyed?”

“Let's see, for movies it was
Saving Private Ryan, Armageddon
 . . .”

“Okay, let's forget movies,” Esme cut in. “How about music?”

“Green Day, Spice Girls, Alanis Morissette,” I rattled off. Esme made a face like she smelled something bad.

“Television?”

“
X-Files
,” I said. “I
loved
that show.”

“Me, too,” Esme said. “It seemed like a documentary to me.”

“Oh, and gas was a buck a gallon,” I added.

“Now that's enough to make a person nostalgic,” Esme said as we turned onto Sandhill Avenue.

Esme and I are creatures of habit. We like taking the same route every day and I knew this stretch on Sandhill was the best time to bring up a delicate subject. At least going downhill I stand a chance of keeping up if she gets steamed and starts truckin'.

“So what do you think of Detective Carlson?” I asked, trying for casual.

Esme wasn't buying it. “Say what you mean, Sophreena. Are you asking if I think he's good at his job?”

“Do you think he's handsome?” I asked.

“Yes, he's a good-lookin' man,” Esme allowed.

“He's crushin' on you, Esme,” I teased as I turned to dance along backward in front of her.

“Yes, I can see that,” Esme said flatly.

This bummed me out. I'd been pretty proud I'd picked up on it and I'd thought I was the only one so astute. “Well?” I asked.

“Well, nothin',” Esme said. “I told you long ago, Sophreena. I am done with men. I walked down that long aisle to one man and I gave him everything I had and he
took
everything I gave and then some more. After him I took back my name and my life. I'm better off on my own.”

Esme had married young. She'd fallen for the very kind of man her mother had warned her against, a musician. He'd broken her heart over and over again but she kept struggling to make it work. Six years into the troubled marriage, he'd set out in a van with four other musicians bound for a gig in Chicago. Somewhere in southern Illinois they were t-boned by a semi. No one survived the crash. I'd asked her once if he's ever tried to contact her from beyond the grave and she'd said, “Roland was never good about calling when he was out on a gig. Said long distance was too expensive. Well, this is
way
long distance, so no, not word nor sign.”

“But Esme, every man's not like that,” I said now. “And
anyway, you wouldn't have to marry Carlson, for heaven's sake. You could just go out with him. Have some fun.”

“I have fun already, Sophreena. End of subject.”

We'd reached Top o' the Morning, the coffee shop everyone in town frequents to get their caffeine and town news. Esme stopped at one of the outside tables to say hello to a friend from church and I went inside and got in line. I spotted Jack standing near the pick-up counter, clicking away on his BlackBerry as he waited for his coffee. He looked up as if he'd felt my eyes on him and walked over.

“Hey, I was gonna call. You want to catch a movie tonight or something? I've been working too hard, I need a break and I'm bettin' you're in the same boat.”

“Wish I could,” I said, surprised by how big an understatement that was, “but we're going to have to work overtime to get the Pritchett family scrapbooks done in time.”

“Okay, then,” Jack said as the young barista called his name and set his order on the counter.

Two cups. Not good.

“Well, step over here after you get your coffee,” Jack said. “I want you to meet Julie.”

He picked up a coffee in each hand and gestured toward one of the bistro tables in the front window. A woman was sitting with her long legs crossed, talking on her cell phone. She was blond and willowy, nicely dressed, beautifully groomed and a perfectly dreadful human being. I was certain of it. Julie was going to be easy to hate.

But after I got our coffee I trudged over dutifully to be introduced, hyper-aware of my sweaty clothes and droopy hair divided into two messy ponytails.

“It's nice to meet you,” Julie said, putting out a hand then realizing I didn't have one free to shake. “Jackie's told me so much about you.”

“Really? Has Jackie?” I turned toward Jack.

“I know Julie from college days,” he said. “That's what everybody called me then.”

“When we weren't calling you Mr. McStudly,” Julie said with a laugh. She reached over to touch his arm.

“Nice to meet you, but I gotta get this coffee to Esme before it gets cold.”

“But wait,” Julie called as I turned to go. “I'd like to talk to you about—”

“No comment,” I said over my shoulder. “Absolutely
no
comment.”

Esme had grabbed one of the tables outside. She passed over a water bottle from her waist pack as I set the coffee in front of her. “Water first,” she instructed. “Now, what's that scowl on your face all about?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“It's somethin',” Esme insisted. “But I suppose you'll tell me when it suits you.”

I glanced over and saw Vivian Evans writing furiously in a big notebook and when she looked up she held up a wait-a-minute finger as if I'd asked her to come over, which I hadn't. She looked worse than I did. Vivian was normally very polished, but today her eyes were red-rimmed, her clothing rumpled and her hair was in a bun, skinned back so tight it looked like it hurt.

She came over and went into a passive-aggressive scolding. “I'm surprised you two have time for lingering over
coffee with the scrapbooks due. Now, remember, Dorothy would've wanted you to cover
absolutely
everything concerning the family. Double- or triple-check if need be.”

“So you've said,” I replied, trying to give the woman the benefit of the doubt. “Look, Vivian, I know Dorothy was your friend. This must be a very hard time for you. But you have to believe me, we'll deliver what we promised her.”

Vivian's eyes filled with tears and she bit her bottom lip. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Nobody seems to understand how close Dorothy and I were. No offense to Ingrid, but I was more a sister to Dorothy than she was. Surely you, of all people,” she said, looking from Esme to me, “can understand that.”

The most I expected of Esme was that she'd hold her tongue after Vivian had questioned our professionalism, but she surprised me by offering Vivian words of comfort. “It's hard to lose a friend. It's good you want her memory to live on.”

“I do,” Vivian said, wiping at her eyes. “I want that.”

Just then three women walked by. The younger one I recognized from my yoga class, Sherry something. But the others I couldn't place. They were blatantly staring at us and I felt the color go to my face. Would this never end?

“Here we are,” I said to Esme in a low voice, “the Thelma and Louise of Morningside.”

“Don't mind them,” Vivian said when the women were out of earshot. “The tall one's Leticia Morgan. She's overly suspicious, probably because she was once married to a cop—that Detective Carlson. She's married to a banker now. She takes a couple of the bank employees out to coffee or lunch occasionally. Makes her feel good about herself.”

So the rumor mill was still grinding. Esme was right, we were just going to have to hold our heads high, which is exactly what she was did when the women came back out of the coffee shop. She stared right back.

I had to hand it to Carlson, he had good taste in women. Leticia Morgan was a beauty, though she didn't hold a candle to Esme.

Vivian started to tear up again as she watched them walk away. “Poor Dorothy, she would've hated being the subject of this horrible spectacle. This is not the way a Pritchett should be remembered.”

“Vivian,” Esme said, her voice gentle, “can I ask you a question?”

“I guess,” Vivian said, wiping her red nose with a hanky.

“I'm sorry to be so blunt,” Esme said, “but how is it you could become friends with the woman who helped put your husband out of business? I don't understand that.”

“Oh, that wasn't Dorothy's doing,” Vivian said. “It was just circumstances. And anyway, in the end it was the best thing that could have happened to him—to us. When Frank was running the diner he put in
such
long hours and I was working for the phone company over in Chapel Hill. We never saw each other. After Frank sold out we had time together, for a little while anyway. It was a blessing really. And Dorothy helped me get started in my own business after Frank died. Something I could throw all my energies into. She made sure all the right people hired me for their events and coached me on what discriminating clients expect. She said I was a natural, that I had exquisite taste.” Her face contorted and the tears came again.

Esme patted her hand. “I'm sure Dorothy will be smiling down on you on her memorial day. And you needn't worry, we won't let you down.”

Vivian nodded, fighting to keep her emotions in check, and went back to her table to scribble some more in her notebook.

“That was very kind of you,” I said.

“I'm a very kind person, Sophreena,” Esme said. “Just because I don't enjoy putting up with people's nonsense doesn't mean I can't see when they're in pain. And she is
racked
with it.”

•   •   •

I called Ingrid when we got home to let her know we were about to begin work on the scrapbooks. Less than an hour later she arrived looking like she'd had another hard night, but smiling gamely. “Sophreena, thanks for letting us do this. Cassidy'll be here soon. Her daddy's spending some time with her this morning then taking her out to an early lunch.”

“How're you doing?” I asked, as I guided her toward the workroom.

“I think I'm still in shock. Dorothy was always healthy as a horse, so I guess I got the idea that we'd have plenty of time to fix what was broken between us. I didn't count on anything like this.”

When we stepped through the doorway Ingrid looked around. “Wow, how much of this is from the Pritchett family?”

“All of it,” I said.

She gave me a jaw drop, then walked over to the scrapbooking table where we had the first few pages in progress. “Is it okay to touch?” she asked, eyeing the cotton gloves Esme was wearing.