Death on the Family Tree Read Free Page A

a Highland scene, then an African letter opener with an ibex inexpertly carved for the handle. She grimaced at a long string of beads made from what looked like mildewed peach pits, and tossed several worn, obsolete maps into the trash. The bottom was filled with out-of-date coffee table books. Would the drama department at Lucy’s old school like any of her things to use as props? Katharine crossed to the refrigerator message board and made herself a note to call them. Then she scooped the things back into the box and carried it to the music room. As she set it down, her toe nudged that small, old box. What could it contain? It looked like Lucy herself had fastened it years ago and never opened it since. All the packers had done, apparently, was retape it.
    She knelt beside it and puzzled again over that one word written on one side in Aunt Lucy’s neat script: CARTER . Then she fumbled in the open box for the ibex letter opener and carefully slit the tape.

Chapter 2

    Before she could lift the fragile flaps, the phone rang again. Hoping it was Tom, she tucked the small box under one arm and dashed back to the kitchen. With a surge of anticipation, she lifted the phone from its charger.
    “Hey, Doll Baby. I wanted to call and wish my favorite little girl a happy birthday.”
    Katharine concealed her disappointment with extra enthusiasm. “Uncle Dutch! How sweet of you to call.” Dutch Landrum had been her daddy’s best friend. His wife was gone, like both her parents, and Chapman, his only child, lived up in Schenectady, New York, and seldom bothered to come home to see his dad. A couple of months earlier Dutch had sold his big house and moved into Autumn Village, just down from Aunt Lucy, and the two old friends had enjoyed each other in the brief time they’d shared a hall.
    “I figured you might be a little lonely today, with Lucy gone and all.” Dutch’s voice was wistful.
    “I was just going through some of her things,” Katharine told him. “Mr. Billingslea sent me boxes and boxes this morning. I thought for a minute I’d gotten heaps of birthday presents.”
    He laughed with her, a sound that was mostly wheeze made up of age, whiskey, and too many cigars. “Lucy would have gotten a kick out of that. She was a great old gal.” They shared reminiscences for a minute or two, until Dutch said with obvious regret, “Well, I’d better go. They’re fixing to take us on another outing. Some lecture, I think, with lunch to follow. I was never so busy in my life until I moved here. I think they try to kill us with activities so they can resell our units.”
    “Any luck getting them to call you ‘Dutch’?”
    “That’s what they finally call me,” he emphasized the verb, “but every blessed piece of paper I get from the administration comes to Lionel Landrum. Remember, Shug, I’m countin’ on you and Tom to make sure they put ‘Dutch Landrum’ on my cemetery marker. I don’t want Chap carving ‘Lionel Deutsch Landrum’ in stone.”
    “We’ve got you covered,” she assured him. “If necessary, I can always knock him down.” That earned her another wheezy chuckle. When she and Chap were little, Katharine had frequently been punished for knocking him down. Only Dutch had admitted he needed it.
    “You’re still keeping my cartons safe?” he asked with a trace of anxiety.
    “Absolutely. They have a place of honor in my attic.” Dutch had brought over three boxes of things he hadn’t had room for in his new home but wasn’t ready to discard.
    “That’s good. Nothin’ in them except some old college yearbooks and a few mementoes, but I might want to look through them again sometime. Well, I better go. Still have to put on my tie. Happy birthday.”
    Katharine smiled. Dutch hated wearing ties as much as any six-year-old but kept one hanging on his doorknob for when he went out. She pictured him tying it and stepping into the hall looking so natty that half the widows in the building would