Sharyn McCrumb’s Edgar Award-winning series features the savvy exploits of forensic anthropologist and not-so-amateur sleuth Elizabeth MacPherson.
In MacPherson’s Lament, family troubles in Virginia spin out of control, forcing Elizabeth to leave her adopted Scotland to sort out the multiplying problems. Struggling to start a new law practice in Danville, Virginia, Bill MacPherson will handle almost any case, even his parents’ divorce. But when he takes on a realtor’s job—selling an antebellum mansion for eight elderly daughters of Confederate veterans—he only earns criminal charges. As Elizabeth confronts her panicked sibling, she wonders if even she can untangle this web of deceit and keep her brother out of prison.
Best-selling author Sharyn McCrumb’s masterful storytelling is guaranteed to captivate readers as she deftly combines the past with the present, humor with suspense. Barbara Rosenblat’s first-rate performance leads you on a luxurious armchair tour of the South alongside the spunky Elizabeth.
Release date:
October 6, 2010
Publisher:
Ballantine Books
Print pages:
304
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There is a silly rumor going around the family that you have graduated from law school, passed the bar exam, and are actually setting yourself up in practice as a partner. I suppose that this will settle the betting pool once and for all. I wonder which one of us picked this decade as the probable date of your graduation! Of course I told Geoffrey that he hadn’t a hope of winning in any case; I don’t even think they’d let you stay in law school until 2041. My guess is Mother will win the pot; I’m sure she came the closest to the correct year. That’s probably why she’s gloating about your newly elevated status. A partner, indeed! Reading between the lines of Mother’s propaganda, I deduced that you did not get hired by a real law firm and are therefore striking it out on your own to chase ambulances and draw up wills in the unsuspecting city of Danville, Virginia.
“As I recall, your graduation gift to me in days gone by was an IOU, which I could with perfect justice return to you on the present occasion, but I am more gracious than you (also more solvent), and so enclosed you will find a check for five hundred dollars, which I hope you will use to buy a desk or other bits of office furniture for your new establishment, but if you’d rather buy a thousand baseball cards or a collection of Perry Mason videos to instruct you in trial procedure or whatever else takes your fancy, then you have my blessing. (Seriously, Bill, we are all very happy for you. Keep me posted about your most exciting cases. If you can afford the overseas postal rates.)
No doubt you are all aquiver to learn how your baby sister is doing in the capitals of Europe. Well, the capital of Scotland, anyhow. And the answer is: very well, thank you. Cameron is back from the high seas and he’s keeping busy with his flippered friends at the lab while I am attempting to put my Ph.D. in forensic anthropology to some practical use, short of grave-robbing—a time-honored profession in Edinburgh, as you doubtless know. The way Cousin Geoffrey keeps going on about Burke and Hare, you’d think he had stock in the company.
In conclusion, I have just one teensy question about this new law practice of yours. Mother says in her letter that you have gone into partnership with A. P. Hill, which is charming for both of you, I’m sure, except that I had the distinct impression that A. P. Hill had been dead for a hundred and twenty-seven years. I take it, then, that you are the junior partner? I await your explanation of this phenomenon with bated breath.
May you please the Court, Elizabeth
“Letter from my sister,” said Bill MacPherson to his new law partner, the aforementioned A. P. Hill. “I thought you might like to read it. I’ve already cashed the check, though.”
A. P. Hill scanned the letter without a trace of a smile. “Dead for a hundred and twenty-seven years. People always say that when they hear my name.”
“Surely not always,” murmured Bill. “There are probably scads of Yankees who don’t recognize it at all. Anyway, if it bothers you, you could always use your first name. Amy Hill is a perfectly good name.”
“Amy Hill isn’t auspicious enough for a practicing attorney,” she said, frowning.
“How about using your middle name? Powell is okay. And it’s what your folks call you, isn’t it?”
His partner shrugged. “Only because I refuse to let anyone call me Amy. I just think initials have a more aggressive and professional sound. Especially for someone as harmless looking as I am.”
Bill observed his partner appraisingly. She was just over five feet tall, with short straw-colored hair and the sort of angelic face that necessitated the showing of her ID card rather oftener than most people her age were required to do. “You do put one in mind of a high school cheerleader,” Bill conceded. “At first glance, I mean. For those who haven’t seen your pit-bull tactics in trial class. But that gleam of blood lust in your green eyes ought to tip off anybody who’s paying attention. I expect you come by it honestly, what with all those cavalry charges in your bloodlines.”
Bill was referring to the original A. P. Hill, one of Robert E. Lee’s generals during the Civil War. The present bearer of that name was the warrior’s great-great-granddaughter, who had chosen to fight her battles in court rather than at the head of an army. The family resemblance was there, though, in her no-nonsense manner and in the easy self-confidence that she displayed in legal combat. Her grades in law school had been better than Bill’s, and he still marveled at his good fortune that she had agreed to go into partnership with him. He was sure she could have snared a lucrative position in an established law firm if she’d wanted one. But she said that if she didn’t strike out on her own, the family would make her practice law with her cousin Stinky. She wanted to make it through her own efforts, she said, without family influence.
Bill had never met his law partner’s family, but he knew that she came from somewhere west of Roanoke, and, although she didn’t speak of it, he could well imagine a rural law practice in southwest Virginia, replete with drunk drivers and bad-check cases. There would already be a couple of well-established attorneys there who would get all the business, leaving newcomers to scramble for the lowest-paying leftovers. Here in Danville there was at least a chance of some criminal cases, which were A.P.’s specialty, and a population of sufficient size to provide them with the more prosaic legal business of wills and no-fault divorces, which would generate most of the revenue for the firm of two.
Fortunately their rent was modest. The newly graduated lawyers had set up headquarters downtown in an old bank building which now housed a florist shop, a travel agency, and a number of small apartments on the two upper floors, one of which had also been rented by Bill MacPherson, because it was the cheapest accommodation he could find. A.P., who preferred to see criminals in court rather than in the stairwell of her building, had moved into a more secure and luxurious high rise on the outskirts of town.
The law office consisted of three small rooms partitioned with wallboard out of one large one—on the landlord’s theory that three rabbit hutches ought to rent for more than one decent-sized room. The frosted glass door opened into a reception area, containing as yet no secretary. On either side of this waiting room, doors led to the tiny offices of Bill MacPherson and A. P. Hill, each furnished with a secondhand desk and bookcase, law books, a typewriter, and very little else. The new attorneys had their independence, an optimism that might pass for recklessness in more conservative circles, and less than a thousand dollars to get on with. Business had better become brisk very soon.
“So, partner, how was your morning?” Bill asked.
“All right, I guess,” said A. P. Hill. “I went down to the courthouse and introduced myself around. I put my name on the list of attorneys who can be assigned to court-appointed cases. How did things go here?”
“Crowd control wasn’t a problem. I called the business college to see if we could get a part-time secretary that we could afford. They’re sending over an applicant this afternoon.”
“Good,” said A.P. “I’ll interview her. You’d fall for the first hard-luck story you heard, without bothering to find out if she could type.”
“Well, ask her if she suffers from claustrophobia.” He looked at the walls, little more than an arm’s length away. “It could be a liability in this office.”
“This is what we can afford,” said A.P. “If we don’t get some business soon, we may be operating out of a packing crate on the sidewalk.”
“Probably against city ordinances,” said Bill. “I would offer to go and chase an ambulance, but unless I get my car tuned up, I probably couldn’t catch one.”
A.P. glanced again at Elizabeth’s letter. “At least we got some more money. I hope you remember to thank your sister for this.”
“It’s high on my list of things to do this afternoon,” Bill promised. He held up a cardboard box. “Speaking of that check, I also got a little something to brighten up the office. I went out to deposit the check from my sister, and as I was coming back, I happened to look into that flea-market place … I’ll just put it on the table in the corner.” He took his newly purchased prize out of its wrappings of newspaper and set it on the white plastic table scrounged from Goodwill. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s dead,” said A. P. Hill. “Did you actually pay money for that monstrosity?”
“Yes. Elizabeth suggested that I spend the money on office furniture, but when I saw this fellow here at the flea market, I just had to have him.”
“What flea market?”
“That store down on the corner. I think it used to be a grocery store, but now some antique dealers have set up stalls inside. So, anyhow, I went in, just out of curiosity—”
“Do they have any old weapons in there? Swords, things like that?”
“I didn’t notice,” said Bill. “Probably. The place is full of junk. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. So you found this dead animal in drag—”
“The taxidermist says that he’s an authentic Virginia groundhog. And he wasn’t killed for display. He’s a road kill,” Bill added happily. “And his little black robe is handmade by the taxidermist’s wife. Isn’t he marvelous?”
A. P. Hill frowned into the leering face of a large marmot, who was stuffed and mounted in a standing position. Moreover, it was dressed in a black satin gown that might have been judge’s robes or graduation attire. “Hmm. I don’t suppose it occurred to you to buy a filing cabinet or two instead? Maybe some office supplies?”
“Oh, there’s enough money left over for that,” Bill assured her. “Especially if we buy secondhand stuff. But this fellow was too wonderful to pass up. He’s one of a kind. I thought we’d call him Flea Bailey. Get it? Like F. Lee—”
“Yes, well. Keep him in your office, okay, Bill?”
Bill remained cheerful and unoffended at this dismissal of his prize. “I thought I would,” he agreed. “After all, you’ve got a mascot of your own, haven’t you?” He pointed to a Lucite paperweight on the otherwise empty desk. Embedded in the clear plastic was a round bit of bone, like the center shank in a slice of country ham.
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