Death on the Family Tree (4 page)

She had volunteered at the Atlanta History Center for years and knew several curators. While they focused on Atlanta history, perhaps one of them could identify the necklace and diary or steer her to someone who could.

She could also use the Kenan Research Center to look up Aunt Sara Claire’s wedding on microfilmed back issues of the old
Atlanta Constitution,
to verify that the man in the wedding picture was the elusive Mr. Carter. Aunt Sara Claire would have made sure her wedding was reported in the Sunday paper, with full names of all the attendants.

As she headed to shower and dress, Katharine sang, “It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.” Except she changed the words to “It’s my birthday and I’ll play if I want to.”

She took special pains with her hair and makeup and squirted on perfume. Then she slipped on white pants, a soft yellow T-shirt, and her favorite big shirt, a fantasy in Southwest colors of dark brown, rust red, light orange, and turquoise. She added a silver and turquoise necklace and dangle earrings, and slipped her feet into soft brown huaraches she had bought in Mexico. As she passed the mirror, she told her reflection, “If only the FedEx man could see you now, baby. You clean up real good.”

She wondered again about the heavy necklace downstairs, and the woman for whom it had been made. Was she dark or fair? Lovely or plain? Obviously she had once been the wife or daughter of an important man. Had she peered into a lake as Katharine peered into her mirror, examining her image, wondering if she was still attractive or if her beauty was beginning to fade? As Katharine turned from the mirror, for just an instant she again thought she saw the shadow of a dark-haired woman to one side, but when she stepped back to look, it was a trick of the light.

Katharine rewrapped the necklace and tucked it with the diary into a small cloth tote bag. As she picked up her purse, she noticed that she had left Aunt Lucy’s peach-pit necklace on the kitchen counter. She scooped it up and dropped it into the bag with the necklace and diary, intending to stop just before she left her property and toss it into the bushes to decay. At least that way, it would be good for something.

But she forgot to toss it, because she got engrossed in her standard conversation with her father about her car. “A Cadillac is safer than a lot of other cars,” she pointed out, “and an SUV is practical for hauling things around. Besides, Tom picked out this car and brought it home. I’d have bought a Saab, or maybe a Saturn.”

Her father, as usual, did not reply—perhaps because he’d been dead fifteen years.

“What should I do with the rest of my life?” she asked the silence.

It must be break-time in heaven. She still got no reply.

She parked on the lower level of the parking deck and climbed the hill to the brick building that housed the history center’s museum, gift shop, offices, and classrooms.

“I can’t really tell you a thing about this,” the Curator of Decorative Arts said regretfully a few minutes later. “As you know, we specialize in things connected to Atlanta history. I’d suggest you try Emory’s Carlos Museum. But I’ll tell you what—an Emory history professor is browsing the museum this morning and he said he’d be doing research in the Kenan Center later. He might be able to tell you more than I can. Ask the staff to tell him you want to talk to him when he arrives.”

Katharine went up the hill to the building that housed the research center, produced her membership card, left everything in a locker except for a note pad and a pencil, pulled open the heavy glass doors, and stepped into another world.

The history center library had always been one of her favorite places. In a bustling city, it was an oasis of calm with comfortable reading chairs and soft yellow walls interspersed with large windows looking out on restful green vistas of well-landscaped grounds. On other days she had sat for hours reading Atlanta history for pleasure, with no object in mind. Today she headed straight to the microfilm room, which was separated from the rest of the library by another wall of glass. An elderly woman was scanning one microfilm screen, but did not look up. She had a short silver Afro and skin the color of coffee with lots of milk, and she wore a red cotton top with a flowing cotton skirt in a swirling pattern of reds, blues, and yellows.

Katharine found the box for 1939, the year of Aunt Sara Claire’s wedding, threaded the machine and moved the film forward to the second week of June. Sure enough, Aunt Sara Claire gloated on Sunday’s bridal page. The article beneath included descriptions of her wedding dress and flowers and a complete list of attendants. One of the men was Carter Everanes.

Everanes? Was he a cousin of Lucy and Walter?

Katharine headed to the desk. “Is there a way to trace a man who might be related to the husband of my aunt? My aunt is dead, but I’d like to know if they were related and how.”

She tensed, waiting for the librarian to ask what right she had to poke around in her aunt’s husband’s past.
Nosy
was a word that came to mind. But the librarian acted as if it were a normal request—and perhaps where she worked, it was. “You need to speak to our genealogy librarian.” Her British accent hinted that her own genealogy wasn’t catalogued in a Georgia library. “But he’ll be in a meeting all morning. Perhaps—”

“I’ll help her,” rasped a gravelly voice at Katharine’s elbow.

She turned to see a man not much taller than she, with a tanned face, a nose like a hawk’s beak, and a gray ponytail pulled back at his neck. He wore black jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt with G
IVE
M
E LIBERTY OR
E
LSE
on the front. When he smiled, his crooked teeth were stained and brown. “Lamar Franklin, ma’am, at your ser vice. I do genealogy all the time.” His accent was pure mountain Georgia. “What you wanna know? How your aunt’s husband was related to this other guy?”

It took all her willpower not to step back from a gust of old cigarettes and coffee. “It’s okay,” she told him. “I can come back another day.”

“It’s no trouble.” He waved a tanned arm bearing an anchor tattooed over ropy muscles. “Do you know when your aunt’s husband was born? Roughly, at least?”

“Nineteen fifteen.” She had filled out enough forms for Aunt Sara Claire to be able to figure that out.

“Two years older than my old man. He grow up around here?”

“Oh, yes. But I don’t know where his—ah—relative grew up.”

“Let’s hope he came from Atlanta. What’s his name?”

“Carter Everanes.”

“Could you spell the last name?”

When she complied, he took her elbow and steered her away from the desk. “Let’s start with your aunt’s husband, then, and members of his family. We’ll begin with the 1930 census. First, we’ll need the Soundex code.”

He went to a shelf near the microfilm room and pulled out a thick book. “This here’s
The Soundex Daitch-Mokotoff Reference Guide.
Soundex is one of the finest systems ever invented.” He led Katharine toward a table, still talking. “It’s a method of indexing names phonetically rather than the way they’re spelled, which makes it easier to find names which sound alike but are spelled entirely differently. This is very important in genealogical research, since a name may be spelled several ways by different generations. Even members of the same family may change the spelling of their name.” The lecture went oddly with his appearance, for he reeled the long words off his tongue like he used them often. “Soundex groups consonants under six categories of key letters and equivalents and ignores vowels, so several names have the same code.” He opened the guide. “What’s the surname we’re wantin’ again?” He opened the book.

“Everanes. My uncle was Walter Everanes, and I’m looking for somebody named Carter Everanes.” Katharine bent over the pages, fascinated. How could anybody make sense out of those consonant combinations?

He seemed to have no trouble at all. “Unusual name. I don’t recall that I ever heard it.” He ran his finger down the page. “Here it is. The code for Everanes is EVRN, E165. Now we need to look at the codes for the 1930 census, to find out where to look for them.”

He took her back to the microfilm room, where the older woman was still poring over something on her screen. Katharine paid the woman little attention, for her new companion was again explaining what he was doing. “The 1930 census is the most recent one that’s been put on microfilm, and these drawers hold that census for Georgia.” He gestured to the first row of a bank of small black file drawers. “And the Soundex Codes for Georgia are here. Three steps—see?”

He paused as if waiting for her to reply, so she nodded and remembered obediently, “First you find the code number for the name in the book out there, then you look up that number in one of these green boxes to see if that name appears in Georgia, and then—?” She stopped, for she didn’t know what happened next.

“I’ll show you.” He opened a drawer from the second bank of drawers and brought out a green box from near the back. “Let’s see what we can find.”

“I really appreciate this.” Katharine was grateful, but felt a bit overwhelmed by his determined kindness.

“It’s no trouble a-tall,” he assured her. “I have nothing pressing at the moment.” He put the film in a machine and fast-forwarded to E165. “Here we are. Everanes. There’s only one family, and they lived in Fulton County, like you thought.” He pointed to the screen and read aloud. “Head of household, Clifford Charles Everanes. Other persons living in the house were Mildred Faire Everanes, wife, Walter Charles, son—well, looky here! Carter Simpson, son, and Emily Lucille, daughter. That help you any?”

Katharine stared at the gray screen, trying to absorb the information. Aunt Lucy and Uncle Walter had a brother she had never heard of? She was positive that not once in all her growing up years had she heard Walter and Lucy mention another brother.

“This what you wanted to know?” the man demanded.

“Oh, yes,” she told him. “I’m surprised that he was a brother, that’s all. I knew Walter and Lucy, but I never heard of Carter.”

He gave a raspy laugh. “Mighta been the black sheep of the family. You wanta know more about him?” She nodded. He pointed to some words and numbers at the upper right of the screen. “Best place to start is the census. These numbers give us the volume of the census, the enumeration district, and the abode number.” Again she was surprised with how easily he rolled off words like “enumeration” and “abode.” She quickly jotted down the numbers he indicated, including the right frame of the microfilm, then followed him back to the drawers containing microfilms of the actual census records. He had already pulled out another green box.

“I can take it from here,” she assured him. “Thanks so much.”

“I’ll stick around in case you get in any trouble.” As Katharine headed back to the microfilm, he was so close behind that he trod on her heel.

She turned. “I’d really rather do this alone. I do appreciate your help, though.”

He held up both hands and backed off. “Sorry, ma’am. No offence intended. You need any more help, you let me know.” He swaggered back to the main library and she saw him pick up a periodical from a table and settle in as if to read. When she glanced that way in a few seconds, though, he was looking her way. He gave a grin and a wave. She waved back, and returned to the screen.

She inserted the film and started looking for the right frame. Impatient, she punched the fast-forward button and whizzed past the one she sought.

“Drat!” She spoke sharply before she remembered she was not alone. Her cheeks grew hot and she darted a glance at the woman on the other machine. What must she be thinking?

At the same moment she looked Katharine’s way. “Why, Katharine Murray! You doing family research, too?”

Katharine’s face broke into a smile. “Dr. Flo! I didn’t recognize you.”

A slim brown hand came up to pat the short shining curls. “It’s my new look. I decided it was time to cut off that bun and get myself a new style and some bright, fun clothes.”

For thirty years, until she’d retired a few years before, Dr. Florence Gadney had taught business at Spelman College. She always gave the impression that she meant business, too. Short and slender with an elegant carriage, she wore chic tailored suits, silk blouses, and a chignon that made her look as if she’d just stepped off a plane from Paris. In an evening gown, she resembled an Ethiopian queen, a fit consort for the handsome Maurice Gadney, M.D., in his tux. They used to make a striking couple when they attended art, musical, or theatrical openings in Atlanta, where their names generally appeared in the program as patrons, sponsors, or angels of the event. They had no children, but were often quoted as saying that the various organizations they supported served as their family.

Even after Dr. Flo retired and got more involved in community organizations, she remained chic and elegant. Katharine had often run into her at meetings of the Perennial Plants Association, at members-only events at the High Museum of Art and the Atlanta Botanical Gardens, at fund-raising galas for women’s shelters, or at evening performances for adults at the Theater for Puppetry Arts. And while they weren’t well acquainted, Katharine always enjoyed Dr. Flo. The woman’s mind was sharp, her interests wide, and her conversation brilliant.

That morning, though, Katharine realized she had seldom seen the professor since her husband had died unexpectedly a year earlier. Dr. Flo hadn’t seemed like a woman to hang up her socks after she was widowed. Maybe she had been traveling, picking up new clothes in street markets around the world.

“I like your hair,” Katharine told her. “It’s a softer look.”

“I’m not feeling very soft right now.” Dr. Flo gestured toward her microfilm. “I’m looking up some relatives of my husband’s, trying to chase down one of Maurice’s cousins. His people came from down in Butts County, and I always told him the lot of them were real good at butting heads in a butt-ugly manner. Maurice was the only decent one in the lot. Are you into genealogy?”

“A beginner,” Katharine admitted.

“It’s fascinating when you get into it.” Dr. Flo’s eyes danced. “You begin to feel like a detective or something, rooting around for clues. What are you looking for?”

“I’m trying to solve a puzzle I got handed this morning. My Aunt Lucy died last week—Lucille Everanes?”

Dr. Flo wrinkled her forehead. “I didn’t know her, but the name sounds familiar. It’s not a common one, so I wonder why. Was she on your mother’s side of the family?”

Katharine shook her head with a rueful smile. “She wasn’t on any side of my family. Her older brother married my mother’s sister. But because they all grew up together and the Everaneses had no other family, Lucy got adopted into ours.”

“An honorary auntie,” Dr. Flo said with a nod. “I had several of those.”

“I did, too, but I was in elementary school before I found out Aunt Lucy was one of them. I loved her like she was blood kin, and after listening to her stories all my life, I’d have sworn I knew everything there was to know about her past. Now, clearing out after her death, I’m discovering she had a brother Carter I never heard of.”

“Carter Everanes. Now why does that sound familiar?” Dr. Flo cocked her head, wrinkled her forehead and pursed her lips, trying to come up with an answer. Reluctantly she shook her head. “Nothing comes immediately to mind, but my mind isn’t what it used to be.”

“Well, it’s not like Carter has been mentioned very often in the past forty-five years. At least not in my presence.” Katharine nodded toward the microfilm machine. “I hope to find out something about him in a minute.”

“I hope you have better luck than I did. That no-good Drake doesn’t appear in any of these records, but I know he existed, because Maurice talked about him all the time. He used to manage some property Maurice owned down near Jackson, and I want to find him to ask him about it. I guess I’ll have to drive down there and see if I can locate him.” Dr. Flo rolled back her chair and stood, shaking out her skirt, which fell almost to bright yellow flip-flops. Dr. Flo Gadney in flip-flops? What was the world coming to?

“Maybe he changed his name,” Katharine suggested, calling on her recent lesson on genealogy research.

Dr. Flo let out a disgusted little huff. “Or maybe he skipped the country with Maurice’s money. That’s also possible.” They chatted lightly while Dr. Flo gathered up a red canvas tote and a black shoulder bag. Finally she said, “Well, I’d better be getting home. Good luck with your search.” As she walked from the room, her shoes made soft
slap-slaps
against the floor.

When Katharine found the Everanes census listing, she saw that family members in the household included Walter, fifteen, Carter, thirteen, and Lucille, eleven. All three were students. So by the time of Walter’s wedding Carter would have been—Katharine used her pencil to do the math—twenty-two. What happened to him after that? Had he gone to war and died a hero’s death? Was it during the war that he had gotten the diary and archaeological artifact? She shuddered to think she might be in possession of stolen war gains.

But excitement rose like sap in her veins at the thought that she might personally be able to solve this mystery. Maybe she could trace Carter through the military, or perhaps there were ways to find out when a person died. She wanted to talk to the Emory professor, too, and he hadn’t come to the library yet.

First, though, she needed sustenance. Her English muffin and tea had long since departed, and her watch read ten past one. She would lunch at the Swan Coach House up the hill and return afterwards. The Coach House was one of her favorite restaurants, although she had never eaten there alone. It was the sort of place one went with friends, or where mothers and grandmothers took little girls in fancy dresses for special birthday parties.