by Brynn Bonner
“There you two are,” she said, hooking a strand of salt and pepper hair behind her ear. “I was beginning to think we should send out the hounds.”
Esme sniffed. “If by hounds you mean your two yappy Westies, we’d be lost forever. Their short legs don’t cover much territory.” She bent to give Gadget a scratch behind his ears to show she meant no offense and Sprocket came skittering over to horn in on the action.
“They make up in tenacity what they lack in size,” Winston Lovett said. He dangled his big hand over the edge of the couch cushion and snapped his fingers. Gadget came running and Winston scooped him up and cradled him in his lap. The little dog looked mighty pleased.
At sixty-five, Winston is the elder of our tribe. He’s lived in Morningside all his life, knows practically everyone in town and is privy to all the peccadilloes and backroom deals that go on among Morningside’s citizenry. Up until two years ago he’d owned and operated Sugar Magnolias, the best bakery for miles around. Now that he’s retired he no longer has to get up before the roosters every day, but he still loves to bake and we benefit from that, too.
It usually takes us a while to get down to any actual business. We like to gab and eat first and since Esme and I had skipped lunch we set in on the food with enthusiasm.
Jackson Ford had taken his usual seat, a straight-backed chair at the end of the coffee table. He was dressed in his typical jeans and work boots. He’s a landscape architect and at only thirty-two he already owns a thriving business. His progress on his family history has been stalled for a while now but he still hangs out with us.
Jack is my best male friend. I’ve never had a close guy friend, not one like him, anyway, and it’s confusing sometimes.
“You two give your report to the duchess?” Winston asked, dropping crumbs as he bit into one of the croissants he’d brought to share. Gadget’s tiny tongue shot out to capture the unexpected treat and I could have sworn the little mutt smiled.
“Oh, yes, we did,” Esme said, chuckling. “Wait’ll y’all hear how that went.”
As I said, there’s a sort of code among genealogists that we keep confidences, but we do consult amongst ourselves. And in the “ancient history club,” as Winston’s wife, Patsy, disparagingly calls us, we all consider ourselves genealogists so we feel free to share. Not once had a confidence ever left this room—at least not that I’d gotten wind of. And since Morning-side’s a small town, I would’ve definitely caught the scent.
“Well, come on, dish!” said Colette Newsome, the amulets on her bracelet jangling as she gestured encouragement to Esme.
Colette, Coco to all of us, is in her mid-forties and is what might be called a “seeker.” She’s always having her chakras adjusted, her auras read or her head bumps interpreted. She’s dabbled in numerology, palmistry, aromatherapy and reflexology. She’s a talented potter and makes a good living at it. Tourists snap up her wares by the armload from the Morningside Craft Co-op and she gets lots of commissions.
Esme grabbed another ham biscuit from the tray Marydale had brought and launched into the story of how we’d restored Grandma Pritchett’s bling to its rightful owner. There was no need to be coy about how we found it with this group. They know all about Esme’s being a large medium—my joke, which Esme doesn’t appreciate.
She was just getting to the good part—the part where she got to mock me—when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and thought it might be a potential client so I stepped into the kitchen to answer.
When I came back to the living room a few minutes later the others looked my way and the laughter and chatter stopped cold. I struggled to find words, gulping like an air-drowning fish.
“Sophreena, what’s wrong?” Esme asked.
“It’s Dorothy. Mrs. Pritchett. I mean Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Pritchett Porter,” I sputtered, then forced myself to stop and draw a breath. “Esme, she’s dead. Dorothy’s dead. She’s been murdered.”
three
BY THE TIME THE POLICE ARRIVED TO QUESTION US I’D stopped shaking and willed myself into a state of calm. Esme, on the other hand, was all het up and taking it very personally that Dorothy had managed to get herself dead and had somehow involved us in it.
Not that Esme’s callous. Just the opposite—she cares so deeply that if she doesn’t get mad, sadness overcomes her. When something bad happens she needs to find someone to pin it on so she can channel it all out.
The only question I’d thought to ask while I was on the phone with the detective was about Cassidy. He’d assured me the girl was okay and that whatever had happened to Dorothy, it had happened after Cassidy left.
Our card had been found at the scene and they’d learned we’d been at Dorothy’s earlier in the day. The detective told me they’d very much like to have a chat while things were still fresh in our minds. His tone was pleasant, but he made it clear it wasn’t optional.
Even in my stupor, when I opened the door to the detectives I had to suppress a snicker. Either their commanding officer had a sense of humor or one of them had ticked somebody off. The male detective identified himself as Denton Carlson. He was about fifty, black, burly and at least six foot five. His partner, Jennifer Jeffers, wasn’t much taller than me. She must’ve barely made the height requirement for the force. She was a green-eyed strawberry blonde and her freckled skin was pale against the dark business suit she’d adopted to cadge whatever authority she could get.
She looked up at Esme then caught my eye and an understanding passed between us. Shorty Solidarity.
As I motioned for the detectives to sit at the kitchen table I could hear the others out in the living room whispering. They were clustered around the door and I only hoped they wouldn’t lean on it and fall into a pile on the kitchen floor like some Three Stooges skit.
“Could I offer you some coffee or tea?” I asked, my mother’s hospitality training kicking in despite the circumstances.
“Coffee would be great,” Detective Carlson said and Jeffers nodded. I caught Carlson checking out the dinette chairs as if wondering whether they’d support him. I considered telling him they’d been Esme-tested, but thought better of it since she was in a mood.
She went to the cupboard and retrieved four mugs while I launched a brew in the Mr. Coffee. She was humming softly, but it wasn’t a contented hum, it was more like a thrum or a drone. As she leaned in to set the mugs down she muttered, “Denny and Jenny? Seriously?”
The names hadn’t registered on me and I had to choke down an unseemly giggle. Our client had been murdered. That was about as serious as things get. But dark humor is another way Esme copes and sometimes she sucks me right in.
Jeffers began the questioning. I admired her methodical approach and tried to match it as I detailed our dealings with Dorothy up to and including that afternoon’s meeting. “She’d expressed a particular interest in anything we might learn that would help her locate an heirloom piece of jewelry, a ring that had been in the family for many generations.”
Jeffers seemed unfamiliar with the whole concept of genealogy and couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that this was how Esme and I earn a living.
“So, she hired you to find a ring?” she asked.
“Not directly,” I said. “She hired us to trace her family lineage. Which we did, back to the British Isles. The family name is occupational. It comes from a word meaning ‘maker of pointy weapons,’ ” I said, then realized I was babbling. “Anyway, finding the ring was just a lucky bonus.”
“And you told me on the phone earlier,” Denton Carlson interjected, “that you did locate the ring and that you handed it over to Mrs. Porter earlier today?”
“Yes,” I said, “she put it on her finger. You didn’t see it?”
Jeffers ignored the question. “Could you describe this ring?” she asked. She might as well have said, Could you describe this unicorn? She eyed me suspiciously. So much for our moment of solidarity.
I tried not to be insulted. These two did
n’t know us and they were simply doing their jobs. I closed my eyes and pictured the ring. “A center ruby, quite large, and faceted. I’m not a gem expert, but I think they call it a brilliant cut. There were rows of diamonds surrounding it, two rows, maybe three.”
“How large would you say the ruby was?” Jeffers asked, holding her thumb and forefinger to form a circle.
“Big enough to be considered a weapon in some states,” Esme cut in, clearly growing impatient with both the pace and the focus of the interview.
Detective Carlson either registered a fleeting smile or he had a facial tic, I couldn’t tell which. He turned his attention to Esme and took the lead in the interview. Jeffers didn’t seem to mind that he’d hijacked the conversation and I figured this must be their regular routine. Esme and I do that sometimes when interviewing clients. It helps keep things moving.
“So you two spent a lot of time with Mrs. Porter?” Carlson asked, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and clicking a ballpoint pen as if it were a starter’s pistol.
“Too much,” Esme said, with characteristic, if ill-advised, candor. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but a little bit of the woman went a long way.”
“You didn’t get on well with her?” Carlson asked, staring at his little pad.
“Oh, we got on fine,” Esme said. “I get along with everybody. It’s just she was a rich woman with a rich woman’s expectations. Used to calling the shots.” Esme drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, dear Lord, that was a bad choice of words. Was she shot? Is that how she died?”
“We’ll get to that,” Carlson said, his eyes glued on Esme. “Now, is there anyone you can think of who might have a grudge against Mrs. Porter? Any bad blood in this family you investigated?”
“Oh, honey,” Esme said, turning sideways to put her arm along the back of her chair, “you’re gonna need a bigger notebook.” She wiggled her finger at his small tablet.
“Yeah?” he said. “Tell me about it.”
“Where do we start?” Esme said. “First there’s her nephew, Jeremy Garrison. He talked her into some investments a few months back and they tanked. He’s been in the doghouse ever since, probably even before that just on general principle. And believe me, she got off on making him lick her boots.”
Jeffers showed Carlson something in her own notepad. “Her sister’s son, she’s trying to reach him.”
“Uh-huh,” Esme said. “And there’s you another one.” She motioned for Carlson to write. “Her sister, Ingrid. She and Dorothy were always gettin’ into it. I never heard such caterwaulin’.”
I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with how free Esme was being with both information and her opinions.
“Mrs. Porter and her sister had a strained relationship,” I cut in, trying to tamp down the tone. “Ingrid only recently moved back here after years away. There were some hard feelings over the distribution of their parents’ estate. But Mrs. Porter told us she was eager to heal those old wounds. She and her sister were trying to work things out.”
“It was a workout, all right,” Esme mumbled.
“Anybody else we might want to talk with?” Carlson asked, turning back to Esme, who was obviously a more interesting interview subject than me.
“Let me see,” Esme said, staring up at the ceiling. “I guess you’ll want to speak with her soon-would’ve-been-ex-husband. Isn’t that the first person you people suspect?”
Carlson ignored the question. “Anyone else who should be on our radar?” he asked and this time he made no attempt to hide a wry smile.
Esme sighed. I could tell she’d about spent her anger. “Well, I understand she was tough on all her service people: handymen, gardeners, like that. And I happen to know she blackballed a couple trying to get into the country club and they were pretty cheesed off at her; you might want to check that out.”
I heard rumblings from the living room and knew Marydale was taking credit for having brought us that tidbit of gossip.
Carlson heard it too, and raised an eyebrow.
“It’s our genealogy group,” I explained. “We have a regular Tuesday meeting. They’re waiting for us.”
“Well, I guess we need to wrap this up, then,” Carlson said, giving me a tight smile. It was quite unlike the one he’d bestowed on Esme. “Just a couple more questions. You’re absolutely certain Mrs. Porter had this ring in her possession when you left her this afternoon?”
“Right there,” Esme said, holding up her right hand and pointing to her ring finger. “She had it in her possession, all right, and if it’s gone you can be sure somebody had to fight her to get it.” Esme stopped again and her eyes widened. “Did they? Did they beat on her? Oh, Lord in heaven, nobody deserves that! How did she die?”
“I’m sorry,” Carlson said. “I can’t release that information.”
Esme muttered under her breath and I didn’t need a good grasp of French to get her meaning.
“And how did you ladies pass the rest of the afternoon?” Carlson asked casually, leaning back in his chair and making a ceremony of putting his notebook into his inside jacket pocket and clicking his ballpoint before he put it away.
He didn’t say, Can you account for your whereabouts, but that’s what I heard. It was only then that I realized he might consider us actual suspects in Dorothy’s murder.
It must have occurred to Esme as well. When I looked over she was pulling her arm off the back of the chair and leaning forward, her eyes narrowed.
I piped up before she could speak and gave the man our itinerary for the afternoon, doing mental inventory about how we might prove it. We had time-stamped receipts from the big box store and from the plant nursery. And maybe Esme had the one from the service station. She’s careless about receipts. Out of sheer habit I began to figure a timeline, then realized I had no idea what time Dorothy died, or how she died—or why. I felt tears welling up and was surprised. How was it that I cared more for Dorothy in death than I had in life? I pictured her radiant smile when she’d first seen the ring and remembered how tender she was with Cassidy. Who could have known those would be among the last moments of her life? And now who would mourn her? Who would miss her?
Losing my parents was horrific and it had left a big hole in my heart. I still miss them every day. My mother died a wasting death over many months. It was awful, but at least we’d had the chance to say everything we wanted to say to each other. My dad died three years later in a car wreck. When last I’d seen him we’d tossed off a casual “See you later,” as if we had all the time in the world stretching out before us.
But we didn’t.
“We may need to talk with you again,” Carlson was saying, and I realized they had stood to leave. “Will you be in town for the next few days?”
“We’ll be right here, Detective Carlson,” I said, this time holding out a hand to quell Esme. “And we’ll do anything we can to help.”
four
“DID YOU HEAR HIM?” ESME ASKED THE OTHERS INDIGNANTLY after the detectives had gone and we’d all gathered back in the living room. “He told us not to leave town, just like in the cop shows.”
“Now, Esme,” Marydale said soothingly, “he didn’t say that.”
“He might as well have,” Esme insisted. “I didn’t like his attitude.”
“Esme,” I said, “you can bluster all you want; Dorothy Porter is still going to be dead. It’s a terrible thing, but it’s happened.”
Her face twisted into a pained expression and she sat down hard on the loveseat. “I know,” she said at last. “I’m sorry. This is no way to act. I don’t handle bad news well. Plus I’m feeling guilty because I had so little patience with Dorothy Porter and now the poor woman’s dead. I mean, she wasn’t a bad woman.”
“That would be a sad thing to have on your tombstone, wouldn’t it?” Coco said with a sigh. “ ‘She wasn’t a bad woman.’ ”
A silence fell over the room, the festive camaraderie of an hour ago smothered by a gloomy pall.
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br /> “Dorothy wasn’t always like that, you know,” Winston said, a rueful smile on his rugged face. “I’ve known her all my life. When Dorothy was a girl she could charm the birds out of the trees. She was pretty and so cheerful. Had a laugh like a silver bell and lots of friends. All that despite growing up without a mama and with a daddy mean as a snake with a belly rash.”
“I can’t even imagine her like that,” Marydale said. “Don’t get me wrong, she was never unpleasant to me, but she wasn’t what you’d call friendly, either. And it seemed like she crossed swords with a lot of people around town.”
“Well, she did,” Winston allowed, “but some of that was for causes worth battling about. Thirty years ago this was a dying southern town, just like lots of other little burgs that dotted the railroad lines back in the day. Our little downtown was nothing but a cluster of rundown buildings. Lots has changed since those days thanks to Dorothy Porter. Without her, Morningside wouldn’t be Morningside.”
“And the town wouldn’t be here in the first place if it weren’t for her grandfather starting up his company here,” I said.
“What was that company anyway?” Coco asked. “That was before my time.”
“It all started before any of our times, even mine,” Winston said. “Harrison Pritchett, Dorothy’s grandfather, came here when this was nearly ’bout wilderness. He set up a sawmill down by the river that feeds our lake. Then he found out the lumber he was milling was good for tool handles and he decided rather than becoming a supplier he’d manufacture them himself. He was successful in that and kept branching out. But the real money came when he started building comfort stations for construction sites.”
“Comfort stations? What’s that?” Coco asked.
“You might know them better as port-a-johns,” I said. “Dorothy preferred we play down that particular detail of how the family empire was built.”