Picture Them Dead Read Free Page A

thing for shoes, she really should be in a support group.
    And if all those differences weren’t enough, we’ve got a complicated personal dynamic. She seems to think she has the right to mother me, which is a mixed blessing. I love it when I need mothering, but it chafes when her advice is contrary to what I want to hear. We’ve always fussed and bickered, but in a teasing way. Lately there’s been an edge to it, at least coming from Esme.
    â€œYou gonna call River to tell him we’ll look into his mystery man or do you want me to?” she asked.
    â€œI’ll call him,” I said. “I’m thinking we should offer him a set number of hours for a flat fee. I have a feeling it may be a financial hardship for him.”
    â€œFine by me,” Esme said, reaching for the arts and entertainment section. “Like I said, I like the man and I have a hunch we’d be researching this whether we got paid or not. I know how you get when you get a bee in your bonnet. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it makes you come alive.”
    â€œTrue,” I said, “but you can’t tell me you’re not curious, too. Maybe we can even get the others involved.”
    â€œOh, you can bet they’ll jump on this. What better secret could you present to a genealogy club than an unknown fella buried in an unmarked grave in a glass coffin”—she held up a hand—“I mean casket. They’ll pounce on this like a lion after an antelope—unless it’s overshadowed by all the wedding hoopla. Winston and Marydale tie the knot in less than two weeks.”
    Winston and Marydale were the senior members of our close-knit club of family history buffs. Marydale was another mother figure in my life. She’d promised my dying mother she’d look after me and she’d taken that pledge seriously. I’d been in high school when my mom passed and I honestly don’t know how I would have gotten through the following few years without Marydale. My dad was great, but he was doing his own grieving, and sometimes I just needed a woman’s counsel.
    Marydale had been a widow for a long time and Winston had become single a couple of years ago when his shrew of a wife left him, to the disappointment of no one who knew and loved Winston.
    All of us had been blindsided when Marydale and Winston announced—confessed, really—that their longtime friendship had taken a romantic turn. And since both were long passed being dewy-eyed youths, they’d been disinclined toward a lengthy engagement. Wedding plans had commenced immediately.
    I was thrilled for them, but I was also a tiny bit jealous. I’ve recently had an epiphany about my own feelings for Jack Ford, another member of our group. But I’m not sure he feels the same and I haven’t been able to get up the courage to tell him how I feel. I’d been collecting signs for months now, signals that he considers me more than a friend, but there hadn’t been enough to make me risk making a total fool of myself by declaring my feelings. I’m in limbo. I don’t like limbo.
    The phone rang and I got up to answer it, which I instantly regretted. Jennifer Jeffers was on the line and I could practically feel the heat coming through the handset. “Did you two go running your mouths about what happened out at Dad’s place?” she asked, skipping “good morning,” “how are you,” and “do you have a minute” to get right to the accusations.
    â€œNo,” I said patiently, drawing out the word. “We did not go running our mouths, bumping our gums, or prattling on either. We don’t bandy about our clients’ business, Jennifer.”
    â€œSo Dad’s a client. You’ve agreed, then? I hope you’re not planning to rob him blind.”
    â€œJennifer,” I said, my patience circling the drain, “we had decided we’d work with your dad