Picture Them Dead Read Free

measurements.”
    â€œIt’s not a coffin,” I said, hardly aware I was speaking. “A coffin has six or eight sides and is wider at the top, shaped more like a body. A casket is a rectangular box. This is a casket.”
    â€œInteresting,” River said. “But whatever he’s housed in, are you going to arrange to have this—him,” River corrected, “disinterred and moved someplace?”
    â€œDon’t know if we can,” Josh said. “There’re all these burial laws and stuff. Somebody way above my pay grade’s looking into all that.”
    â€œAnd in the meantime,” Jennifer said sharply, “what’s my father supposed to do?”
    â€œNothing.” Josh shrugged. “We’re not supposed to touch anything or do any more damage. I’ll cover the hole with a tarp when I’m done, and then you wait for the big enchiladas to get in touch.” He set his case on the ground and squatted to release the latches. “Now, if y’all would step back, I’ll get to work.”
    â€œI’m gonna make some more calls,” Jennifer said, whipping her cell phone from her pocket. “I can’t believe they sent Opie,” she muttered as she walked away.
    River accompanied us back to our car and we chatted for a few more minutes. I told him we’d do a little investigating and I’d let him know tomorrow if we could be of any help. We talked fees and I was surprised when he didn’t blink. Esme and I don’t come cheap. But we also don’t take on jobs where we can’t provide any value. Hard as it is for me to accept, there are some things that are simply lost in the fog of history.
    As we drove home, Esme and I discussed whether to take on the job. “We don’t have anything pressing right now,” I said. “And, of course, I’m curious about that glass casket. But I’d also like to help River if we can. I like him.”
    â€œMe, too,” Esme said. “I can’t believe that man is Jennifer’s father; they are nothing alike. Sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree.”
    â€œMaybe there was wind the day the Jennifer apple fell,” I said with a smile.
    Esme harrumphed. “Must’ve been gale force.”

two
    Esme and I were lingering over our breakfast while reading the Sunday paper. This doesn’t take nearly as long as it used to, since the newspaper’s getting thinner each week, but we still savor the ritual. I especially appreciated this moment of quiet togetherness since we’ve been getting on each other’s nerves for the last month or so.
    Esme has lived in the mother-in-law suite over my garage for years now. My father built the suite with the intention of moving his mother here from Missouri to live with us. But Grandma McClure died suddenly before it was finished. Later the space had become my mother’s art studio. Since my mother’s death, it had served as a seldom-used guest room. When Esme had moved here from Louisiana to join me in my genealogical services business, she moved in, temporarily, while she looked for a place. We soon found the arrangement suited both of us and she stayed on.
    Our friendship has grown and deepened over the years and now she’s the closest thing I have to family. We get along splendidly, most of the time. But it’s ­really no wonder we have friction occasionally, just like people do in blood families. First off, there’s the generation gap. I’m mid-thirties and Esme’s mid-fifties. Then there’s the work process: I tend to be meticulous in my research habits, while Esme is, shall we say, rather casual with her interpretations, or at least she had been in the beginning. And finally, there’s our personal style. I’m small in stature and dress plainly and practically. Esme’s a clotheshorse, using her considerable body as a canvas. And she’s got such a