Paging the Dead by Brynn Bonner Page A

them as garden club ladies.
    â€œI was scared half to death to stay by myself last night. I checked the locks three times,” one of them said.
    â€œI heard they’re looking at the nephew,” the other said. “I hate to say it but I hope it does turn out to be a family thing and not some psychopath going around breaking in at random and killing people.”
    â€œI heard that about the nephew, too,” the first woman said, “but I also heard they suspect those two—” At that point she looked up and saw me and became flummoxed. “Never mind,” she said.
    They both seemed to come to the sudden realization they didn’t need any stationery after all and hustled out of the store.
    â€œPay no attention,” Marydale said, coming up behind me and putting her arm around my shoulders. “People like to gossip.”
    â€œBut I have to pay attention, Marydale,” I said. “This could hurt our business, not to mention it’s humiliating to have people looking at me like that.”
    â€œIt’ll soon pass and they’ll realize what ninnies they’ve been,” she assured me.
    I told her what Jack had found out from his reporter friend, then filled her in on our visit with Ingrid and Cassidy and our talk with Detective Carlson.
    â€œMy, you’ve had a busy morning,” she said.
    â€œYou should have seen Cassidy,” I said. “Do you know anything about her mother, by the way? I never asked when we were doing the research since we were tracing backward.”
    â€œFrom what I understand her mother took off for parts unknown when Cassidy was an infant. Ingrid was divorced by then, so she left San Francisco and moved down to where Jeremy lived—Sacramento, I think it was—so she could help out with the baby. Then when Cassidy was school age they decided to move back here. Ingrid got a job as a receptionist for Dr. Warren and Jeremy got on at the bank. They moved into one of those little duplexes down on River Road so Cassidy could go back and forth easily between them. It’s a far cry from Dorothy’s life up on the hill.”
    â€œWhy would Ingrid want to come back here, do you suppose? Seems like there’s so many bad memories for her here.”
    â€œShe’s getting older,” Marydale said, “maybe she thought it was time to heal old wounds.”
    Or settle old scores, I thought, but did not say aloud. “Did you know Ingrid when you were growing up?” I asked, only now realizing she and Marydale must be around the same age.
    â€œI did.” Marydale nodded. “I mean, we weren’t goodfriends or anything, but we were schoolmates when we were little. She left home young, and I mean really young, like in her early teens. At first the story was that she was sent away to boarding school, but she never came home on school breaks or summers. There was even a rumor for a while that she was dead. But a couple of the girls at school had some contact with her. A few postcards and a phone call or two. Turns out she’d just had enough of the Pritchett family—her father, in particular—and ran away. It was the sixties”—Marydale shrugged—“so of course she struck out for San Francisco.”
    â€œIt’s hard to believe she and Dorothy were even sisters. Dorothy was so proper and Ingrid’s more the free spirit type.”
    â€œTrue,” Marydale allowed, “but they were very close at one time. Their mother died when Ingrid was small. Dorothy looked after her like a fierce little mama lion. But Ingrid was strong willed and the relationship got more complicated as they got older.”
    â€œI’ll say. It seems like every time we saw them together they were having words—loud, angry words.”
    â€œNot every family’s the Waltons,” Marydale said. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t love one another deep down.”
    â€œYou’re