Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"I have a headache," she said. "Are you ready to leave?"

"I have the same problem. What caused yours?"

"Ned and I met with the client in my criminal case and then went round and round about the best way to handle it. Ned is pressuring me to take it to trial in front of a six-person jury for the experience. I think the best thing is to work out a plea agreement that will get my client out of jail and on with his life. Don't you think I should put the client's interests first, not what might be more beneficial or interesting to me?"

"I'm ready to leave," I answered.

THAT EVENING, Mrs. Fairmont was in a mild fog. She didn't speak much during supper except to ask me three times if I'd turned off the television before we sat down to eat. My headache eased as we ate, and I realized it was probably caused by lack of food combined with eyestrain.

"Is there anything you would like to do this evening?" I asked as we finished supper.

Mrs. Fairmont blinked her eyes a few times and stared past my left shoulder. "I miss my friends," she said sadly. "So many of them are gone."

I reached across the edge of the table and put my hand on hers. "I'm sure you had many good friends."

Mrs. Fairmont's eyes brightened. "Would you like to look at my picture albums?"

"You have albums?"

"Yes. They're in the small dresser in my show closet. Would you bring one or two to the green parlor?"

I remembered seeing the small white piece of furniture. "Yes ma am. Are there any particular ones you want to see?"

"No, surprise me."

I cleaned up the supper dishes while Mrs. Fairmont went into the parlor. Upstairs, I discovered that every drawer in the dresser contained photo albums. I grabbed one from each drawer and returned downstairs. We sat beside each other on a firm sofa. I placed an album in her lap, and she opened it.

It was from Christine's early years.

"What was Mrs. Bartlett like at this age?" I asked, pointing at a photo of the family and several other young girls at the beach in front of a huge sand castle.

"Christine has always been social. She recruited those other girls and got them to haul buckets and buckets of sand to build that castle while she bossed them around." Mrs. Fairmont stared at the picture. "I knew she would have to marry someone with plenty of money because she wouldn't lift a finger to do any work herself. What do you think made her that way?"

I didn't try to answer. Mrs. Fairmont turned the page. The faded images seemed to bring a spark of life back to her. We finished one album. I handed her another.

"Aren't you bored?" she asked.

"No ma'am."

I'd picked an album of pictures from before Christine was born. It was filled with black-and-white photos of Mr. and Mrs. Fairmont. Mrs. Fairmont spent time inspecting each picture, especially the ones with her friends. She couldn't remember every name, but when she identified one, it was like discovering the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. One picture was a group scene from a fancy outdoor party in the spring. I could see the flowers but not the colors in the black-and-white photo. Mrs. Fairmont touched it with her slightly gnarled index finger.

"That was a big soiree. A lot of our social set was there."

The women were wearing fancy dresses and the men stood around in suits and ties. Several servants could be seen in the photo.

"There's Ellen Prescott," Mrs. Fairmont said, pointing to a statuesque woman beside a tall man. "Of course, this was a long time before Lisa was born."

"Is that her husband?" I asked.

"No, it's her older brother Floyd. The party was at his home."

"Her brother was named Floyd?"

"Yes, Ellen was a Carpenter before she married. Their father worked as a clerk in a shoe store. Ellen was so sweet and married Webster Prescott, who had inherited a lot of railroad stock. Floyd was the black sheep of the family, but he made a lot of money and that has a way of making people forget the past."

My eyes opened wider as I stared at the photo. "Why was he a black sheep?"

"Oh, I never heard anything but rumors."

Mrs. Fairmont reached out to turn the page, but I held it firm.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm still looking at that picture. What did Floyd Carpenter think about Lisa?"

Mrs. Fairmont gave me a strange look. "I don't know, but I'm sure everyone considered Lisa the little princess. Her blonde curls stood out in any crowd. Christine claims Lisa misbehaved, but I think Christine was probably looking at herself in the mirror."

While Mrs. Fairmont talked, I tried to come up with an innocent way to frame my next question. "Did Floyd's name come up in conversations after Lisa disappeared?" I asked nonchalantly.

Mrs. Fairmont's eyebrows arched downward. "What an odd question. I'm not sure what you mean."

"I'm just curious about Floyd and Lisa and their families."

"Floyd had a son named Joe, who is a lawyer."

"He's my boss."

"Of course, he works with Sam Braddock. Joe and Lisa were the only children in the two families. After Lisa was murdered, the Prescott line ended when Webster and Ellen died."

"But no one is sure Lisa was murdered."

Mrs. Fairmont pushed my hand away from its grip on the page. "If Lisa had gotten lost, someone would have found her. She was either kidnapped or killed. I'm sure there are other interesting photographs in this album."

Mrs. Fairmont turned the page and continued reminiscing about old friends. I barely paid attention and hoped a polite "Yes ma'am" and "No ma'am" would give the impression of interest. There weren't any other pictures of Floyd, and the album ended before Lisa's birth. Mrs. Fairmont's enjoyment returned. I took the book from her hands.

"There's nothing like family and close friends," I said.

"This has been like therapy for me. Would you like to do it again?"

"Yes ma'am."

Flip opened his tiny jaws in an amazingly expansive yawn.

"My baby is ready for a nap and so am I," Mrs. Fairmont said.

"I'll carry the albums upstairs," I said.

I led the way and returned the books to their respective drawers across from the shoe racks. I wanted to take out the other albums and discover if one of them held clues, but without Mrs. Fairmont as a guide, the photos wouldn't have any more significance than a magazine spread.

"I'd like to call my parents before it gets too late," I said as I leaned over to give Flip one last scratch in his favorite place.

"Of course," Mrs. Fairmont replied. "Seeing those pictures probably made you homesick."

I returned to the kitchen. I didn't feel homesick. I was frustrated at my inability to penetrate the deepening mist surrounding Floyd Carpenter and Lisa Prescott.

DADDY ANSWERED THE PHONE. I could almost hear his smile when he realized it was me. I touched the top of my head where he liked to kiss me. We talked for a few minutes about the weather and the garden.

"Are you changing, Tammy Lynn?" he asked.

I pondered his words a moment. "That's a good question. I've been too busy to take inventory."

"Being too busy can happen to anyone. It doesn't matter whether you're working in a chicken plant or a law firm. Ask the Lord to search your heart and give you a readout."

"Yes sir."

"That's what Oscar Callahan has been doing," Daddy continued. "Did your mama tell you about his heart attack?"

"No sir."

"It happened a few days after you left for Savannah. We didn't get much information about it at first because they transported him to the intensive-care unit at a hospital in Atlanta. Pastor Vick and one of the elders drove down to pray for him. He let them anoint him with oil and pray the prayer of faith."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"We're praying. The whole church came together at the end of the service last week and spent time at the altar."