Read Online Grave Surprise by Charlaine Harris - Free Book Online

St. Margaret’s this morning. Neither of the Morgensterns attended Bingham College. Neither has ever been connected with the college department that arranged Harper Connelly’s visit to St. Margaret’s cemetery. In fact, no member of the Morgenstern family has contacted Harper Connelly or her brother and manager, Tolliver Lang, since her unsuccessful attempt to find Tabitha over eighteen months ago. Thank you.”
    Though Art hadn’t moved physically, the cameras caught him staring at Blythe Benson as though she’d just sprouted horns, and I didn’t blame him for the look.
    Just for openers, Benson’s voice had emphasized “psychic” and “giving a demonstration” as if they were words for something far nastier and more disreputable. Then she’d gone on to sever her clients from us in every possible way. She’d all but said we were implicated somehow in the death of the girl.
    We’d been hung out to dry.
    As one, Tolliver and I turned to look at the couple on the couch. The Morgensterns seemed oblivious to theimplications of the speech Blythe Benson had just read. They were staring at the television, waiting for Art’s speech, in a kind of numb silence. Behind them, Felicia gave us a significant look that meant, “Ha! I told you so!” I exchanged a look with Tolliver, a look of sheer incredulity. He half-opened his mouth, and I reached over to touch his arm. “Not now,” I said, very quietly.
    I wasn’t sure why I chose to be quiet, rather than confront Joel and Diane. God knows, even Diane was smart enough to realize that they’d just dumped us publicly, while sitting in our very own (temporarily) living room. They’d said, in effect, “Whatever these people claim, we’re not responsible for it. We don’t know them, we haven’t seen them, we’d never collaborate with them, and they failed the first time we asked them to find our child.”
    Art took his place before the microphones. It’s just strange seeing someone you know on television, not that it’s an experience I’ve had often. The fact that the person who was just in the room with you is now on-camera, for the moment an icon, is weird and unsettling. It’s as if they’ve become translated by the screen into another being—someone less flawed and more knowledgeable, someone smoother and smarter.
    Art had our statement, the one Tolliver and I had written, but he was doing yet another rewrite in his head at just this minute; a hasty and public one. I could see it in the long downward focus of his eyes before he began speaking.
    â€œMy client, Harper Connelly, is astounded and grieved by the events of the day. At this moment Ms. Connelly iswith Tabitha’s parents, who came here to thank Harper, from their hearts, for her part in the discovery of a body we believe to be that of their missing daughter.”
    Ha! Ball in your court, Blythe!
    â€œMs. Connelly is deeply saddened by the tragic end to her search for Tabitha Morgenstern. Though she did not maintain any contact whatsoever with the family during the months since her original employment, and though she had no knowledge that the Morgenstern family had moved to Memphis, Ms. Connelly is glad that circumstances brought about the discovery of the long-lost child the Morgensterns have been seeking. Perhaps, thanks to my client, the Morgensterns’ long time of uncertainty has come to an end.”
    â€œWhen will Harper Connelly meet with us?” said a reporter, in a voice that was not awfully loud, but extremely piercing.
    Art gave the reporter a wonderful look; it combined reproof with resignation. “Ms. Connelly does not talk to reporters,” he said, as if that were a well-known fact. “Ms. Connelly lives a very private life.”
    â€œIs it true…” began a familiar voice, and the camera swung around to frame the shining Shellie Quail.
    â€œFor