What the Cat Dragged In

by Miranda James

  I used the flashlight app on my phone to make it easier to see the contents. Aha, I thought when I espied what looked like photograph albums. There had to be four or five in the trunk, and I started pulling them out. I stacked them on top of a nearby box, and there turned out to be six of them. Medium thickness, so I could carry them all at one go.

  I was excited. These albums might reveal the mystery woman’s identity.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I hurried down the stairs as quickly as I could without stumbling over my own feet and falling. Diesel came down behind me. The albums weren’t in the best of condition. No telling how long they’d been in that trunk in the attic. They did exude a scent of camphor, and the camphor had a done a good job of keeping bugs out of the trunk. I set them on the kitchen table and opened the top one.

  The photographs had yellowed, and the tape that had held them in place had dried out. I didn’t recognize anyone in the photographs, but from the clothes I thought the pictures dated from the fifties, if not a bit earlier. I pulled out one of the loose ones and turned it over. Only a date appeared on the back. October 1953. Several years before I was born.

  I examined the front again, peering more closely at the faces of the four people in the picture. A man and a woman. Mr. and Mrs. Hale, perhaps? There was another couple who appeared to be older. When I examined their faces more closely, I felt a tingle of recognition. They were my grandparents.

  I put the picture back in its place in the album. I wondered if these albums had belonged to my grandparents. Surely Aunt Dottie would have taken any such things when my grandfather died. She wouldn’t have left these behind.

  I scanned the other photographs on the page and didn’t see my grandparents in any of them. I decided they must belong to the Hale family after all. I closed the album and picked up the stack.

  “Let’s go back to the parlor,” I said to Diesel, who had been watching me patiently.

  He trotted ahead of me down the hall and into the parlor. He jumped on the settee but left room for me to sit beside him. I pulled the small coffee table closer to me and set the albums down. With the aid of a lamp on the table beside the settee, I was able to see the photographs more clearly.

  I went slowly through the first album, checking each photograph carefully. I didn’t recognize anyone in the photos other than the man and woman I thought were the Hales. My grandparents didn’t appear in any other photos. I didn’t recognize the setting for the photos, either, so these must have been made elsewhere. I laid the album aside and picked up the next one in the stack.

  This one yielded nothing of interest. I checked the back of one photograph and inscribed there was the date 1957. At least I was moving forward in time. No result from the third or fourth one, either, though by then the pictures had moved into the 1960s. A young boy appeared with the Hales in a number of pictures. He appeared to be five or six by the end of the album.

  The fifth one was a jump back in time to the 1940s. After a quick scan I put it aside. I was beginning to feel that my search through these pictures was hopeless, unless there was another cache of albums in the attic. I would go through this sixth one, and then I would head home. My head ached from the strain of examining pages of old photographs, many of which had faded badly. I checked my watch to find out it was nearly three-thirty.

  I decided I would take the last album home with me. Alissa might recognize people in them from family photos her mother might have taken with her.

  “Come on, boy, let’s go home,” I said.

  My car stood alone in the driveway. I had no idea when the other vehicles had departed. I had been too engrossed in the albums to hear anything. I thought it odd that Kanesha hadn’t come back to give me an update. She might have attempted to while we were in the attic, but I hadn’t heard her if she had called out for me.

  Once the car cooled down a bit, the drive home was actually pleasant. Diesel lay stretched out on the backseat, and I had the album I’d brought on the passenger seat. I hoped Alissa wouldn’t see anything in it that would upset her, but I wouldn’t force her to examine it.

  Azalea might recognize the people, I realized, and now I wished I had brought the rest of the albums with me. I debated turning back to retrieve them, but by now we were back on the highway heading into Athena. I was ready to get home. For one thing, I was hungry, and Diesel must be ready for his dish of dry food by now. I could make myself a sandwich to tide me over until dinner.

  On that happy thought, I continued on to the house. When I turned into the driveway, Diesel sat up as he always did. He appeared to know when we arrived home, and he was ready to exit the car before I parked in the garage. We met Azalea and Ramses in the kitchen. After we greeted them, I inquired after Alissa.

  “Upstairs reading or taking a nap,” Azalea said. “Been up there ever since she got back. She didn’t say much. Was she upset about something?”

  I told Azalea about the poor girl’s experience with the one room in the house. Azalea frowned. “I wonder who that woman was. Miz Hale was gone by then, and it sure wasn’t that child’s mother. I don’t know about any other woman living there.”

  “Did Mr. Hale have a sister or a cousin who might have come to live there after his wife ran off?”

  “Not that I ever heard,” Azalea said. “That don’t mean it didn’t happen, though. I seem to recollect that he did have a sister, but I think she married a man from Itta Bena and moved over to the delta a long time ago.”

  “It’s definitely a mystery, then.” I went to the sink to wash my hands before I made a sandwich. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Stewart’s going to make something for you,” Azalea said. “Remember, I told you on Monday I had to leave early tonight?”

  “That’s right, you did,” I said. “You’ve got a special service at your church. Are you going to be singing?”

  “With the choir, yes, I am,” Azalea said.

  Azalea had a lovely voice. She had sung at Sean and Alex’s rather impromptu wedding. Thinking about it still made me smile. She was one of the mainstays of her choir, too. That much she had let slip.

  “Is Mrs. Luckney a member of your church?”

  Azalea nodded. “She’ll be there tonight. She stands right behind me in the choir.”

  “What about Mr. Luckney?”

  “He usually comes with her, but not always. You got something you want me to tell him?” Azalea asked.

  “I’d really like to talk to him tomorrow, if it’s convenient for him.”

  “I’ll pass that along. Is the afternoon all right? He usually stops work at lunchtime on Saturdays.”

  “That would be fine,” I said. “Thank you. Now, you go and have a wonderful service.”

  She gave me one of her rare smiles before she went to gather her things. She checked the one bag she carried besides her purse, the bag that Ramses liked to sneak into so she’d take him home with her. Evidently Ramses was still with Diesel, and Azalea nodded.

  “He’d best stay here this weekend. I’ve got a lot to do, and I don’t need him following every step I make, acting like he hasn’t had a bite in his mouth since he was born.”

  “I’ll make sure he doesn’t starve,” I said.

  Azalea departed, and I checked the refrigerator for a snack. There was some cold chicken, but there was also ham. I loved ham sandwiches, and I extracted the ham, along with mayo and some Vermont cheddar.

  The landline phone rang while I was in the middle of making the sandwich. I wiped my hands and picked up the receiver.

  “Hi, Charlie, Aleta Boudreaux. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Aleta. How nice of you to call. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got some good news for you,” she said. “After talking to you, I consulted some of the historical society’s board members, one of them being Miss Dickce Ducote, and they agreed with my suggestion
.”

  “What was that?” I said, intrigued.

  “You being a librarian and utterly trustworthy according to Miss Dickce, I have permission to give you a key to the building so you can go in and look through the archives.”

  “That’s extremely kind of you, and the board.” I hadn’t expected this. “I promise I won’t disturb anything.”

  “According to Miss Dickce, you can just about walk on water.” Aleta laughed. “I reckon we can trust you with our archive.”

  “You can,” I said eagerly. “I’ve really been wanting to examine those papers related to my family.”

  “I’ve got another surprise for you,” Aleta said with a chuckle. “I actually found them for you. I got curious after we talked, and I hunted around in the boxes and there they were. You’ll find them at the reception desk.”

  “Thank you so much. When can I get the key?”

  “If you can meet me there in the morning, say at eight-thirty, I can give it to you then. I have to be somewhere at nine, and I’m booked the rest of the day.”

  “That’s perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  Elated by this fortuitous turn of events, I went back to my sandwich and finished making it. I cleaned up before I sat down to eat. Diesel and Ramses had rejoined me, and I parceled out the bits of ham I had cut for them.

  The sandwich hit the spot, along with the can of my diet soda, and I felt I could last until dinnertime. I laughed suddenly. My behavior was rather like that of Ramses. I could have waited until dinner, I knew, but I wanted to eat now.

  The sandwich finished, I wiped my fingers and pulled the album toward me. I regretted that I hadn’t had time to show it to Azalea. I was counting on her to be able to put names to at least some of the faces, but there would still be time on Monday, no doubt.

  I had flipped open the album when my cell phone rang. Who was it this time?

  “Hi, Sean, what’s up?”

  “Dad, are you at home now?”

  I replied that I was.

  “Did you find out anything more from Kanesha? I have a call in to her, but she hasn’t called back yet.”

  “Not a word,” I said. “They all left while I was busy in the house. I went through and took pictures of every room, and then I went into the attic and poked around. I found some photo albums and looked through them. I brought one home for Alissa to look at. I’m hoping she might recognize some of the faces.”

  “Is Alissa there with you now?”

  “No. She’s been upstairs in her room since you brought her back, according to Azalea. I haven’t been home all that long.”

  “I’m not ready to tell her this, but based on my preliminary findings, I think she’s going to inherit several hundred thousand dollars. Even after taxes.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, pleased for the young woman. Maybe now she could work only one job and even go to school.

  “Yes, but I’m concerned about the source of the money,” Sean said. “The thing is, I found a small notebook in the papers the grandson brought to me. The notations are cryptic, but there are what look like amounts of money, along with initials, that cover a good twenty pages in it. I’m beginning to suspect that old Mr. Hale was a blackmailer.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “That’s outrageous,” I said. “Are you sure?”

  “No, not sure, I don’t have any real evidence,” my son replied. “But I’m having trouble coming up with any other answer at the moment. His income from the farm wouldn’t have amounted to this much, because he spent money pretty freely. The one savings account I located hasn’t had any withdrawals in twenty years, only deposits.”

  “What about the initials? Any clues there?”

  “G.J.,” Sean said.

  “Gil Jackson,” I replied. “Maybe connected to his alleged bootlegging?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Sean said. “Either Hale was a partner in it, because Jackson was operating the still on the land he leased from Hale . . . Or Hale threatened to expose him unless he got paid.”

  “Depends on how much land Jackson owns outright,” I said. “He could always move the still onto his own property if Hale threatened to expose him for using the leased land. I think it’s more likely they were partners, and those are Hale’s profits.”

  “Then there’s a heck of a lot of money in moonshine,” Sean said. “Jackson must produce a lot of it.”

  “I don’t know anything about that business,” I said. “It must be lucrative, though, or else people wouldn’t do it.”

  “Same with any business,” Sean said.

  “Are you going to tell Kanesha about this?”

  “Not yet,” Sean said. “I have to consider my client’s interests, and there’s no proof that Hale got the money through illegal means.”

  “I’m not sure how you’d prove it anyway,” I said.

  “Aye, there’s the rub,” Sean said, with a hint of humor in his tone.

  “You’re doing it again,” I said, mock-severely. “Quoting Shakespeare is a bad habit.”

  “A little Hamlet isn’t so terrible.” Sean laughed. “I need to get back to the brief I’m working on. Talk to you later, Dad. Just wanted to tell you what I’d found.”

  “Thanks. Give my love to Alex and Rosie.”

  I put the phone down and continued perusing the album. I recognized the clothing styles of the late sixties in these colored photographs. They had yellowed like all the others, thanks to their storage in the attic, even though it was ventilated. Heat rose, and Mississippi summers could be brutal.

  I finally found a face that was somewhat familiar. A young man of about sixteen, I reckoned, who must be Martin Hale Jr., Alissa’s father. He’d been a couple of years behind me in school, I thought. I would have to check with Melba on that. She would remember. I couldn’t remember half the people in my high school class, but Melba knew the names of every one of them. My high school yearbooks were packed away somewhere, and I didn’t have the energy to dig them out. I was pretty sure I had correctly identified Martin Jr.

  He was the only one who looked at all like someone I might have known. I closed the album without examining the last few pages. This hadn’t been much help, thanks to my almost nonexistent knowledge of the Hale family.

  I debated whether to go upstairs and check on Alissa. I didn’t want to disturb her sleep. I figured she could use the rest. Working two jobs meant a grueling schedule, and being away meant she could relax as much as the circumstances warranted.

  She obviously loved her brother, but she was by no means blind to his faults. Nor to her grandfather’s, or at least how her mother had painted them to her children. I had no idea whether their father had favored his own father, or if he was different in character. Her stepfather must have been, for she seemed genuinely to have admired and cared for him. She never really had the chance to know her own father.

  My thoughts turned to the historical society and its archives. I was excited by the thought of actually being able to examine papers related to my family’s history. I was sure that Mrs. Carraway had included the most pertinent facts in her book, but there might be things, as she had informed me, that she thought were better left out. Had there been any scandals attached to the Harris clan?

  I would be surprised if there weren’t. My parents had been quiet people, and I knew nothing to my grandfather’s detriment. He might have sown some wild oats in his youth, but my father had never told me any stories about his own father that would lead me to believe that.

  I realized, not for the first time, how very little I knew about so many aspects of my parents’ lives, and in turn, even less about my grandparents’. Was it because I had never expressed enough interest to encourage my father to talk to me about such things? Had I been so involved in my own life that I never stopped to think how important that information might be to me later
in life?

  The answer to that last question was an emphatic yes. I had been too wrapped up in school, then starting my own family, to take the time to sit down and talk with my parents about such things. I regretted that more than ever, now that I was a grandfather myself. I had little to pass down to my children and grandchildren about their forebears. I resolved to learn more about the family history so I could share it with Sean and Laura and their families. I thought they would be interested. I wished I hadn’t waited so long to become interested myself.

  I was still lost in these reflections a few minutes later when Stewart entered the kitchen from the garage. He carried several grocery bags that he put down on the counter before turning to greet me.

  “Hi, Charlie, you’re looking pretty gloomy,” he said while he began to empty the bags. “I’m going to do a quick stir-fry tonight, and there’s fresh salad greens, too. How does that sound?”

  “Delicious,” I said. “I’m not really gloomy, simply thinking about the fact that I know so little about my own family. Not my children, I mean, but my parents and grandparents.”

  “That’s not unusual,” Stewart said. “I don’t know a lot about mine, either, other than their being dead for a long time.” He grinned. “Don’t look at me like that, I was just trying to make you smile. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “No need to apologize. I was feeling a bit maudlin, I suppose. Can I help with that?”

  “No, this won’t take a minute. I’m going to put everything I don’t immediately need away, and the rest can sit here while I go get that pest of a dog and take him for a walk.”

  I would have offered to take Dante for his walk, but I knew Stewart loved spending time with his pest, as he called him. “All right. I’ll sit here and look glum until you come back.”

  “You do that if you must,” Stewart said. “Or you could be thinking about the marvelous dinner I’m going to make for us. Haskell should be here for dinner tonight, unless plans have changed.”