I MANAGED TO KEEP HALF MY MIND OCCUPIED FOR most of the morning with the mundane routine of verifying the previous employment and educational credentials of applicants for county jobs. The turnover was incredible, much more frequent than I would ever have thought before Simpson & Tanner landed the government accounts. No wonder the bureaucracy worked so ponderously. The reason for many people’s frustration in dealing with anyone official could be because half the folks they talked to were new on the job.
But the urgency of Kimmie Eastman’s situation was never out of my thoughts, and I chafed at the wasted time. My eyes strayed continuously from the computer screen to the telephone, but Ellis Brawley didn’t call.
By noon, the lack of sleep and Red’s enigmatic but pointed message, plus my anxiety for my client’s daughter, had my nerves stretched to breaking. I leaped from my rolling desk chair, sending it banging into the file cabinet on the back wall, and Erik’s head snapped up. I whipped my blazer off the back of the chair and shoved my arms into the sleeves.
“What’s the matter?” he asked in a calm voice.
“I’ve got the yips,” I said, and his brow furrowed in confusion.
“What’s the yips?”
I stuffed my notebook into my briefcase and snatched up my handbag. “You know, the willies, the heebie-jeebies. The fidgets,” I added and surprised myself by smiling. “That’s what Lavinia used to call it when I couldn’t sit still. Which was most of the time, as I recall.” I sobered. “I need to be moving. I think I’ll run back up to Jacksonboro and talk to the Brawleys in person. Kimmie Eastman doesn’t have time for us to sit on our butts and wait for things to happen.”
“Okay. But before you head out, I just heard back from my buddy up in Charlotte. You know, the photography guy?”
It took a moment for my muddled mind to grasp it. “Right. About the old picture of Joline’s family.” I perched on the corner of Erik’s desk. “He find something?”
“Not exactly. He’s positive one of the words on the back is Charleston, so he checked with some of the old-timers he corresponds with. One of them’s a retired professional photographer, lives here on the island, in fact. This man says he remembers hearing about a firm back in the twenties. The guy who owned it was old even then, but he was the only black photographer in the state, far as he knew. Ron thinks we might want to talk to his friend, especially since he’s right in our backyard.”
“It’s worth a shot. Got an address?”
Erik handed me a slip of paper.
“Jonathon Morley,” I read aloud. I lifted my head and stared at my partner. “He lives at The Cedars.”
“I know. Maybe you could drop in on Miss Addie while you’re over there.”
Adelaide Boyce Hammond had been a bosom friend of my late mother. The families had been intertwined through proximity and social status for more than a century. We’d bonded a few years before when a shady land deal in which she’d invested the remainder of her family’s considerable fortune had led me to my second confrontation with violent death. Maybe she would know something about the mysterious Julia Simpson. Why hadn’t I thought of her before?
I whirled back around, dropped my briefcase and bag back on my desk, and picked up the phone. Mr. Morley answered on the second ring.
“Good morning, sir. My name is Bay Tanner, and I’m a private investigator here on the island. I’m trying to locate family members for one of our clients, and your name came up in the course of our inquiries. You used to be a photographer in Charleston, is that correct?”
His voice held the soft drawl of a native and lifelong South Carolinian. “Is this concerning the picture Ron Balczer e-mailed me about?”
“Yes, sir. I have the original, and I wondered if I might stop by and show it to you.”
“Don’t know how I can help, but I’d welcome the company. You know where I’m located?”
“I sure do. I have a friend who lives in the main building. Adelaide Hammond.”
“Of course! We’ve met a couple of times at the socials and whatnot. Lovely woman.”
His approval of Miss Addie raised him a few more points in my eyes. “Yes, she is. What’s a good time for you?”
“Right now would be fine, if you’re free. I’m just finishing up lunch.”
“Give me ten minutes,” I said and hung up.
I told Erik to forward any calls from the Brawleys to my cell phone and headed for the car.
I felt a small twinge of guilt as I accepted the pass from the security gate guard and rolled into the upscale retirement complex which boasted a skilled nursing facility as well as single-family homes tucked into stands of oaks and pines. The main building housed condominium units like Miss Addie’s along with a restaurant and clubhouse for residents. It had been a long time since I’d been to visit. Way too long. Like my father, Adelaide Boyce Hammond didn’t have that many years left.
I parked alongside the building and took the elevator. The door opened almost before my finger had left the bell.
“Mrs. Tanner? Hey! Come on in.” Jonathon Morley held the door as I slipped by, then closed it quietly behind us. I turned to find his age-spotted hand extended. “Welcome.”
He was short, almost wizened, his back bent a little with age, but I didn’t think he’d been much above five-five or -six in his prime. Most of his hair was gone except for a thin band of white resting on his ears. His smile was wide and pixyish, his eyes a clear but faded blue, and I towered over him.
“Bay Tanner,” I said, gripping his hand.
“Come in, come in. Have a seat. Can I get you anything? A sweet tea maybe?”
“Thank you. That would be great.”
I set my briefcase and handbag next to the bright green sofa and looked around the sparsely decorated living area while my host disappeared into the kitchen. Unlike Miss Addie’s place, which contained almost every heirloom piece of furniture, art, and bric-a-brac her family had ever owned, Jonathon Morley’s taste obviously ran to the spare and modern. Instead of heavy oils in ponderous gilt frames, his photographs—mostly black-and-white landscapes, and mostly framed and matted in those same two stark colors—were artfully arranged in groupings on the larger walls.
In a moment he was back, bearing a small tray with two tall, frosted glasses. He handed one to me and settled into a low chair opposite. We chatted about the weather for a few moments before he said, “I’d like to get a look at that photograph Ron was telling me about, if you don’t mind. I have to say it piqued my interest a bit.”
“Of course.” I pulled the yellowing picture from my briefcase and handed it over.
Jonathon Morley ran his arthritic fingers lightly over the surface and tilted it to several different angles, letting the sunlight wash over the faded image. I sipped on my tea and waited.
A few moments later, he said, “Silas Barnfeather. I’d bet anything on it.”
“That was the photographer?”
He nodded. “Only colored fella takin’ pictures back then, if this date in the corner is accurate. Sad to say there probably weren’t any white ones who would have bothered with a Negro family, no matter how prominent they’d become. Ron said your partner told him you thought this store in the background might have belonged to them.”
“Mitchell Brothers,” I said. “Ron brought out the letters there on the building. Not all of them, but enough so I can be pretty certain that’s what it says.”
Jonathon turned toward me, his face grave. “He also said it was a matter of life and death. Was the boy exaggerating?”
“No, I’m afraid not. And I’m also afraid I can’t give you any details. Client confidentiality. But someone’s life definitely depends on tracking down what’s left of the Mitchells. Do you think any of Mr. Barnfeather’s family would still be around Charleston? Would anyone likely have his records from that far back?”
He was shaking his head before I finished my questions. “If I’m right about it being Silas’s work, his place burned to the ground back in the late twenties.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Story around Charleston is that it was the chemicals he kept stored there, but somethin’ had to set them off. Sad to say there was a lot of that back in the day. Negro store owners getting burned out or beaten up. Silas moved away right after, or so I’ve heard tell.”
So, a dead end, I thought. Kimmie Eastman couldn’t afford too many of those.
“Well, thank you for your help. You’ve saved me from trying to track on a cold trail.”
He looked at me strangely. “ ‘Track on a cold trail’? Don’t tell me you’re a hunter?”
I laughed. “No, but my father used to let me tag along on some of his expeditions. Out on the islands. St. Helena, Fripp, Hunting. Before they all got developed, of course.”
“I used to scare up a quail or two myself,” he said, rising with me. “Haven’t been out in decades.”
“Me, either.” I turned at the door and held out my hand. “Thank you so much for the information. And for the tea.”
His faded eyes looked somber. “Not much help, I’m afraid. I hope you have better luck.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I smiled and stepped out into the hallway as he closed the door behind me.
I rang Miss Addie’s bell and knocked loudly a couple of times, but she was obviously out. I checked my watch. At a little after one, she might still be at lunch. I took the stairs and emerged into bright sunshine. By the time I’d walked a few steps, I was peeling off my jacket and tossing it over my arm. I had just reached for the handle of the door into the main part of the building when it suddenly swung open, forcing me to jump back.
“Lydia! You scared the life out of me, child! What are you doin’ here?”
Adelaide Boyce Hammond, her eyes bright behind rimless spectacles, gazed up at me. Beside her, another elderly woman stood back a couple of paces.
“I had to be here on business, and I decided to track you down.”
“Evelyn and I—” She turned and gently urged her companion up beside her. “Evelyn, this is Lydia Tanner. I mean, Bay. Child doesn’t particularly like her given name, though I’ve never understood why. Lydia, this is Evelyn Kellerman. She’s just moved in, and I’ve taken the liberty of makin’ her feel to home.”
The woman was taller than Miss Addie, and her hair was a bright red that God never intended, but her smile was sweet. “And just about saved my life, I don’t mind telling you,” she said. “I was about to die of boredom. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” I fumbled a little, unsure now that the moment was upon me whether or not to approach Miss Addie about my mystery sister. I certainly didn’t want to broach the subject in the company of a stranger.
“Well, I’ve got a bridge game to get to,” Evelyn said, unwittingly solving my problem. “Talk to you later, Adelaide. Nice to meet you,” she said again.
She turned and walked off toward the parking lot, her gait stiff as if arthritis might have invaded her hips or knees.
“What kind of business brings you here?” Miss Addie said. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”
I linked my arm with hers as we moved around to the side entrance. “It’s a case. Someone in your building I needed to talk to. Jonathon Morley. He says you two have met a couple of times.”
“Of course. He lost his wife, you know. Very sad.”
I held the door for her and punched the elevator button. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course, child,” she said as we stepped into the tiny cubicle. “I’m always happy to see you, you know that.”
Inside her apartment, I perched on the edge of an ancient wing chair. “It’s about my family, something I found out about just a couple of days ago. You know the Judge has been in the hospital?”
“Cissy Ransome mentioned it. I was going to get someone to carry me over there, but then he’s already gone home, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Is it serious?”
“They think they can correct it with medication. But I had to go through some of his papers, and I found his obituary. He’d written it out himself. For when . . .”
Miss Addie nodded. “I’ve done the same. I don’t have much of anybody left who knows enough about me to write it.”
Since she had never married—some disappointment in her youth, at least according to local legend—Miss Addie’s family had been reduced to an ailing sister and some nieces and nephews widely scattered across the country. And of course, her brother Win, but we didn’t talk about him.
I hesitated, and the look on my face must have forewarned her.
“I’ve never been a party to gossip, Lydia, and I won’t start now. Not even for you.”
The sharpness of her words stung. We stared at each other, this tiny, soft-spoken woman and I, and I was the first to look away.
“It’s important to me,” I said evenly. “Did you know about—?”
Her upraised hand, shaking a little, stopped me. “No. Please, Lydia.” Miss Addie used the arms of her own chair to push herself to her feet. “Your mother was one of my dearest friends, in spite of her troubles. She trusted me. And so does Tally. If you have questions to be answered about the family, you should talk to him.”
I rose and looked down on her soft white curls. Her slim shoulders were set, and her chin had risen as if in challenge. I smiled and admitted defeat.
“I understand, Miss Addie. Thanks anyway.”
At the door, she reached for my hand. “You’re not angry with me?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, meaning it. “It’ll be okay.”
“Remember there are others who don’t share my scruples,” she called after me as I moved toward the elevator. “Don’t you go believin’ everything you hear. Your father and mother are honorable people. Don’t you for a minute think otherwise.”
As the doors slid closed, I could see her still standing in the open doorway, a look of sadness clouding her usually bright eyes.
And her strange words ringing in my ears.