Picture Them Dead by Brynn Bonner Page B

surprise me,” Esme said. “Prices keep going up.”
    Since Morningside had undergone what some disgruntled folks called its “Disneyfication,” home and land prices had steadily climbed, a localized anomaly in the national housing slump. A few years back, the powers that be had launched an aggressive beautification campaign and the small downtown area had been forcibly infused with quaintness and charm. Faux old-world facades had been added to buildings and public areas had been elaborately landscaped. Everywhere you looked there were wrought-iron fixtures and light stanchions and enough slate and cobblestone to pave a road to the Atlantic Ocean. Restaurants and boutiques had sprouted up like crocuses, and a new spa hotel was slated to go in near the championship golf course. Now Morningside routinely makes top ten lists of the best towns to live in. Realtors had been pestering me for the past few years about representing me when I get ready to sell my house. Which, unless I’m starving, will be about the second week of never.
    â€œFly in the ointment is, I can’t find any record that Oren and Sadie Harper ever had children,” Esme said. “So who is Charlotte Walker to them?”
    â€œShe’s not their daughter?” I asked.
    â€œLike I said,” Esme repeated, not bothering to hide her irritation, “there’s no record they had any children.”
    I glanced up at the clock in the lobby. “Still time to get to the nursing home. How about we go see if Charlotte Walker will tell us herself what she was to the Harpers?”

six
    I tried a different tactic with the desk ­people at Cottonwood. Instead of asking if Charlotte Walker was there, I simply asked for her room number, using the diminutive Winston had used. “We’d like to see Miss Lottie if she’s up to having visitors today.”
    The attendants looked at one another. They seemed to be struggling to figure out how to deal with us. “Are you friends of Miss Lottie’s?” one of them asked.
    â€œSort of,” I lied. “She’s actually a friend of a friend. I’m a genealogist,” I said, veering back onto the righteous path. “I’m doing some research on her family.” I handed over one of my business cards.
    â€œI see,” the attendant said, though I didn’t think she did. She gave the other woman a meaningful look. “It’s just that Miss Lottie’s been here for nearly three years,” attendant number two said, “and she’s never had a single visitor.”
    â€œThat’s truly sad, isn’t it?” Esme said, picking up the pen for the sign-in sheet and signing both our names. “What did you say that room number was?”
    The attendants again attempted a mind meld and number one gave us the just-a-moment pointy finger and picked up the phone. “Let me call back and make sure she’s in her room,” she said, turning her head as she spoke into the mouthpiece.
    â€œWhere else would she be?” Esme groused out of the side of her mouth. “She’s ninety-seven, she gonna be out painting the town?”
    â€œRoom Eighteen,” the attendant said as she put the receiver down. “Right down that hallway.”
    There was a nurse outside the door of Room 18. “Miss Lottie is very excited to hear she has visitors today,” she said, her voice a little too chirpy for me in my present state of upset, fatigue, and hunger.
    The hospital bed had been cranked to a sitting position and a tiny birdlike woman sat nestled in the bed linens. She had on a satin bed jacket and her hands were folded primly in her lap. She looked very sweet.
    As we went into the room she looked up and her eyes narrowed, focusing on Esme. “ ’Bout damn time,” she said, her lips pinched into a tight line. “Did you bring my root beer?”
    *   *   *
    â€œShe’s a