Free Paging the Dead by Brynn Bonner Page B

was all that about?” Esme asked as I placed the receiver back in the cradle.
    â€œVivian Evans,” I said, “urging us to be thorough.”
    â€œAre we ever anything else?” Esme said. “Those two seem like unlikely friends, don’t they?” she mused. “I hear she’s taking Dorothy’s death harder than anybody, except little Cassidy maybe.”
    â€œI don’t think you and I are in any position to talk about unlikely friendships. Look at the two of us.”
    We both cocked our heads as we heard a “Yoo-hoo” coming from the front hall. We have a liberal open door policy with our friends and we never lock our doors when we’re home, though in light of what happened to Dorothy I was wondering if we needed to rethink things. I opened thedoor to the workroom and caught the multi-hued blur of a broomstick skirt as its wearer disappeared into the kitchen. I followed.
    â€œBrought you tomatoes,” Coco said, pulling things from the bag she’d set on the table. She lined up six of the gnarliest-looking tomatoes I’d ever seen on the counter. Then she saw my face.
    â€œYes, I know, sweetie, they look awful. They’re heritage tomatoes so they haven’t had symmetry and color bred into them, but on the other hand they haven’t had the taste bred out of them. These are tomatoes as the Almighty intended. You’ll see.”
    â€œGreat timing, Coco,” Esme said, coming up behind me. “We’ll have BLTs for supper. You got time for a glass of tea with us?”
    Coco consulted the little watch hanging from a long chain around her neck. “Sure thing,” she said, “and BLTs sound luscious. Mind if I invite myself to supper?”
    Esme went into kitchen-general mode and started issuing orders. “Coco, you toast the bread. Sophreena, you wash the lettuce and slice the tomatoes and I’ll fry up the bacon.”
    â€œOkay, so I hear you two are to go ahead with the Pritchett family scrapbooks. How’s that going?” Coco said as she rummaged in the bread drawer.
    â€œHow do you know this?” I asked. “We didn’t even know it ourselves until a few hours ago.”
    â€œSmall town, hon,” Coco said, shrugging. “Vivian told me. She came by the studio wanting me to do an urn for Dorothy’s remains, but I told her I’m not the potter for the job.”
    â€œYou don’t do urns?” I asked.
    â€œOh yes, I do them. I’ve done some lovely ones if I do say so myself. But always for people I knew and liked. If I’m honest I have to say I didn’t particularly like Dorothy Porter. I didn’t dislike her either, really. I just didn’t know her. But the little contact I had with her left a negative vibe with me. And that sinks right into the clay when I’m working it. If the urn’s to be her eternal resting place she should have good vibes around her, especially considering how she went.”
    â€œI hear you,” Esme said, making a bacon colonnade in her trusty cast-iron skillet.
    â€œI know you do, Esme,” Coco said. “That’s why I love you, darlin’. I feel so much less alone in my little strange world since you’ve come to us. Now, on a more earthly plane, I hear the police questioned that couple that moved down here last year from New Jersey about Dorothy’s murder. The ones that bought the old McPherson house up on Crescent Hill.”
    â€œThe Emersons,” I said. “I know Audrey from the Friends of the Library group. Very nice lady. Why in the world are the police questioning them?”
    â€œThey’re the ones Dorothy blackballed for country club membership. I don’t know what she had against them, but apparently they got off on the wrong foot with her and she held the deciding vote on the membership committee. Allen Emerson made some unfortunate remarks in front of a bunch of people about wanting