Well Read, Then Dead(40)

            I smiled, remembering a time in high school when I had a college boy’s frat pin. Since my parents didn’t know about the “older man” in my life, I pinned it to my bra strap when my parents were around. I guess all women use the same hiding places, which begs the question, was Delia hiding the locket or keeping it close to her heart?

            Ryan continued, “We took a ride over the bridge to Fort Myers and the ME’s Office released the locket so we could return it to the family in time for the burial.” He sat back with a broad, satisfied smile and handed me the locket and chain. “We thought you should be the one to give it to Augusta.”

            Although I hadn’t known of its existence until a few hours ago, it felt oddly poignant to have the locket and the delicate gold chain in my hands.

            “You’re looking at the back. Turn it over.” Ryan was eager to see my reaction.

            I flipped the locket and there it was, one graceful swamp lily, with six thin petals arching from the center like swimmers diving in an elegant curve off the high board.

            “How lovely.” I stroked it ever so gently with my index finger. “It looks like the etching was done by hand.”

            “That’s what I think, too.” Frank’s voice rose a notch. He was as energized as the rest of us. This was a more likable side of his personality. “I wonder why it’s that particular flower.”

            Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Easy peasy. The swamp lily blooms year round. Hopefully so does whatever this locket represented to Miss Delia.”

            Frank said, “Sassy, there’s more to come. Open it.”

            My hands shook a little as I tried to work the delicate clasp. The locket was old and had been so precious to Miss Delia, I didn’t want to break it now.

            When it popped open, I guess I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was to see an old black and white picture inside, so ancient that the person’s features had all but faded away. An old-fashioned snap-brimmed fedora was still clearly defined.

            “Who do you think? Maybe her father? Look at that hat. Men haven’t worn hats like that since, oh, way before I was born.” Ryan was clearly up for a guessing game.

            I called Bridgy from the kitchen and of course Ophie tagged along. Bridgy was thrilled at the adventure of it all even as she pronounced the man unrecognizable.

            Ophie wiped her hands on her apron and took the locket carefully. She moved to the window and gazed at the picture in the streaming sunlight. After a while she handed the locket back to me.

            “For heaven’s sake, that’s not her father. It’s her lover.”

            We gaped. She rendered every single one of us positively speechless.

            Satisfied that she had us all agog, Ophie continued her thesis. “She might have kept pictures of both parents in her locket, but why only one parent? When a woman keeps a picture of a man for decades and decades, he was important. Someone she could never quite let go.”

            Then she waggled a finger between Ryan and Frank, saying, “You two rascals can only hope some pretty young filly will be carrying around your picture fifty or sixty years from now.”

            “You think the picture is that old?”

            “Oh, easily. Soon after John F. Kennedy showed up for his presidential inauguration without a hat in 1961, men eased out of the habit of wearing them, and that was years after folks started using color film in their cameras. Between the black-and-white film and him wearing the fedora, I’d say this picture was taken mid-1950s or earlier.”

            “I suppose Miss Augusta will know who he is,” Bridgy ventured. “But, do you think she’ll tell us?”