Free Paging the Dead by Brynn Bonner

know what it’s supposed to mean. Just this awful heavy sense of shame and guilt.”
    â€œThat’s pretty vague,” I said.
    â€œThat’s the way it is sometimes, too many times,” Esme said. “It’s like they’re timid or something. They sidle up on me, drop a cryptic hint—no pun intended—then scurry back behind the veil. I wish they’d just come on out with it.” She sighed as she pulled on her gloves, then took a photo from the top of a tall stack sandwiched with rag paper. “Okay, what do we have here? Note says Dorothy and Ingrid, circa 1954. Ingrid was a cute little thing, and look at Dorothy. Winston’s right; she was a pretty girl. You know, Cassidy favors Dorothy even more than she does Ingrid.”
    â€œYeah, in those pictures of Dorothy as a child she could be Cassidy’s twin.”
    Just at that moment the telephone rang and Ingrid Garrison was on the other end of the line, as if our speaking of her had prompted the call.
    â€œI’m so sorry to bother you again, Sophreena,” she said, her voice low and thready, “but I’m worried sick about Cassidy. Nothing I say seems to help—except when she heard Joe and me talking about the scrapbooks. That seemed to brighten her up for a bit. I understand Joe’s given you the green light. Would it be okay if we dropped by so she can watch you work? Maybe she’d feel part of it somehow?”
    â€œSure, if you think it would help. But we’ve still got prep work to do. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know when we’re ready to start.”
    Ingrid sighed audibly as if to say, If that’s the best you can do , but she thanked me.
    â€œPoor child,” Esme said after I told her why Ingrid called.
    â€œI hope this is the right thing,” I said, staring down at thephoto of the sisters Pritchett. “Maybe it’s too soon for Cassidy to be looking at these pictures of Dorothy and all these dead ancestors. We deal in death a lot, don’t we, Esme?”
    â€œI prefer to think of it as dealing with lives fully lived. Anyway, we’ll take our cues from Cassidy. At least somebody’s paying attention to the child’s needs. There’s nothing that tugs at my heart like a motherless child.”
    â€œMe, too,” I said, “and I suspect that’s because we both had wonderful mothers. Cassidy’s left when she was a baby. It’s so sad to think of what she’s missed out on. There’s nothing like a mama’s love.”
    I’d met Esme through her mother, Clementine, when I was on my first big genealogy gig. An old professor had recommended me for a primo job tracing the lineage of one of Louisiana’s most prominent political families. The job had paid extremely well, and I’d gotten a crash course in white-glove diplomacy. Sometimes when well-known people want their family line traced it’s not because they want to connect with the past; it’s a bid for prestige and they insist on cherry-picking what’s included in the record.
    Clementine Sabatier had worked for years as a domestic in the household. Though she hadn’t been treated very well she’d been loyal and discreet while she was in their employ, but by the time I interviewed her she was retired and inclined toward speaking the unvarnished truth. She wasn’t mean-spirited, but she answered my questions straight out. “I was in charge of polishing their silver,” she’d said, “but I’m not beholden to polish their image.” I’d gotten a ton of tantalizing information from her—most of which I’d been prohibited to use.
    I’d liked Clementine Sabatier immediately and grew to have a deep respect and fondness for her over the weeks I’d visited her. She was elderly and frail by then, but with a mind still agile and a tongue still quick.
    Esme was another story. I hadn’t known what to