The Buzzard Table by Margaret Maron Page A

like a British accent to you?”

CHAPTER
11
    A group of vultures is called a “Venue.” Vultures circling in the air are a “Kettle.”
    —The Turkey Vulture Society
    Sigrid Harald—Wednesday afternoon (continued)
    I t was nearing three o’clock before Sigrid and Anne finished eating and were ready to head out of town for the farm where Martin Crawford was camped.
    “Anne? Anne Lattimore? Oh my goodness!” a matronly gray-haired woman exclaimed as they were paying their lunch tab. “I swear, you haven’t changed a bit since high school! Well, maybe a little bit of snow on the roof, but nothing on the waist.”
    The woman patted her own ample waist and enfolded Anne in a hug before she could sidestep it. The face was vaguely familiar, but high school was more than forty years in Anne’s past and she had not attended any of the reunions. Nevertheless, she made herself smile as if in delight and say, “How lovely to see you again after all this time! You’ve met my daughter, haven’t you?”
    From attending exhibits of her mother’s photographs, Sigrid realized that Anne didn’t have a clue as to this woman’s name, but she recognized her cue and dutifully stepped forward with her hand extended. “Hello, I’m Sigrid Harald and you are—?”
    “Mavis Trogden,” the woman said, beaming. “Mavis Rainey, that was. Your mom and I were in the same homeroom the whole four years of high school.”
    She signaled to a short stout woman who had preceded her into the tearoom to claim a table near the back. “Alice Jean, look who’s here! Anne Lattimore!”
    Several minutes of “Remember when?” and “Here’s a picture of my oldest grandchild” passed before Anne could disentangle herself gracefully.
    “Maybe we should go ahead and stop by the bank while we’re this close,” Sigrid said when they were finally out the door.
    The bank was on the next block and it was a replay of the tearoom, this time with a gray-haired executive who came out of his office to take Anne’s hand with shy pleasure, before turning to Sigrid. “You cannot know what a crush I had on this girl when I was sixteen.”
    “Ah, Bobby,” Anne said, automatically dimpling. “If only you’d said something back then.”
    He shook his head. “No, you were always out of my league. And then you went off to New York to study photography the day after graduation and never looked back, but I’ve followed your career, Anne—the Pulitzer, your exhibit at the art museum, that gut-wrenching story you did on poor Somalia a few years ago before it was on the news every night. What a life you’ve led!”
    Eventually, he escorted them back to Mrs. Lattimore’s box. He seemed to know about her condition but was restrained in his sympathy. “One of the old guard,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “We’ll not see her like again, I’m afraid.”
    Anne had brought along a canvas tote and they soon transferred everything from the box. The only thing they opened was a velvet jeweler’s bag that was heavier than expected. When Sigrid loosened the drawstrings and looked inside, she saw a handful of gold coins. “Can’t wait to hear the story that goes with these.”
    “Don’t look at me,” her mother said as she closed the box and slid it back into its slot. “I never saw them before.”
    The bank executive was in conference with someone else when they emerged from the vault area and they managed to get back to the car and lock the tote bag in the trunk without being waylaid again.
     
    With Anne behind the wheel, they drove out of town on Old Highway 48, then turned onto a nearly deserted secondary road that took them through a part of the county that was still mostly farms.
    Here in February, the fields had a locked-down air as if waiting for spring rains and warm sunshine. The ditchbanks were scruffy with dead weeds and the occasional litter of plastic soda bottles, beer cans, and plastic bags half hidden by the dry brown