“Birth and death certificates, and also several wills.” I jotted the names and approximate dates down for her.
She scanned the list. “Some prominent names here.” She nodded. “This will take a few minutes, but I’ll find what you need.” She pointed to a desk in the corner. “Just wait there.”
“Thank you.” I sat down at the desk and divested myself of my coat and briefcase. I pulled out a pen and a notepad, ready to jot down details.
Twenty minutes passed before Ms. Sanders returned. She was remarkably efficient, but I knew she had worked in this office for over twenty years. She had to keep everything properly organized in order to be so effective, and I respected that. In many ways she was like a reference librarian, and a first-rate one at that.
I had to sign a receipt for each document she handed me, and that took a few minutes. Finally I was able to sit down at the desk again and start my research.
I checked the birth and death records first and noted them on my pad. Once that was done I checked the dates and determined that Richard Ducote could not have been the father of Vera Cassity. She was only seventy-three when she died, three months past her birthday, according to her birth certificate, and he died about two years before she was born.
One question resolved. With no blood relationship to the Ducotes, Vera could not have laid claim to Richard Ducote’s estate, although she and the Ducote sisters shared the same mother.
Now for the wills. Richard Ducote first.
I skimmed through the legalese and found the pertinent information. Other than small legacies to some of his household servants—not including Essie Mae McMullen—he left the bulk of his estate in trust for his two daughters, An’gel and Richelle (a.k.a. Dickce). When they each turned twenty-one they would inherit half the estate. He settled a substantial amount on his wife, Cecilia, in a trust for her lifetime. His two executors were named administrators of the trust. Should Cecilia remarry, the money would revert to the estate to be divided between her daughters.
That was it. Not a single mention of Essie Mae anywhere.
Frankly I found it odd. Not to leave anything to the mother of his two children? It was cold, not to mention callous.
Did he trust Cecilia to provide for Essie Mae? And had that trust been fulfilled?
I turned to Cecilia’s will. No surprises here, and no mention of Essie Mae. Cecilia left everything to An’gel and Dickce.
The lack of provision for Essie Mae disturbed me even more. Had Cecilia booted her out of the house after Richard’s death? I could understand Cecilia’s feelings in the matter, naturally, but still.
Perhaps there was an explanation in the journal. I had read about two-thirds of it, I estimated, and if the journal extended to the time of Richard’s death and after, the answers to my questions could be within its pages.
The last document was the last will and testament of Esther Mae McMullen Hobson. She left all her worldly goods to her daughter, Vera Micaela Hobson, and her son, Amory McMullen Hobson. I wondered where the Micaela came from, and then I remembered reading that Essie Mae’s father was called Mick, probably short for Michael.
No answers in Essie Mae’s will, either.
It all came down to the journal, then.
I returned the documents to Ms. Sanders. She checked them carefully, one by one, to make sure they were not damaged in any way. After she was satisfied, I thanked her again and left the courthouse.
I checked my watch. It was a quarter to ten. I had accomplished a lot in a surprisingly short amount of time.
On my way out of the courthouse I spotted Hank Beauchamp down the hall. He wore that same rumpled suit, and I recognized it as the one he had worn to the gala. Evidently it was the only one he had. He was busy chatting with someone and didn’t see me, and I had no reason to interrupt his conversation.
Instead, blessing the efficiency and speediness of Ms. Sanders, I hopped into my car and headed for the archives office.
Seven minutes later I sat at my desk, Cecilia’s journal in my hands. I found the place I’d left off and began to read again.
Cecilia professed to be ecstatic over her two darling girls, and Richard adored them as well. There was no mention of Essie Mae for several pages. There were accounts of social events, a short trip to New Orleans with Richard, and then the entries grew more sporadic. Months passed without one, and in a few pages two years sped by. Evidently Cecilia was too busy with the children or with the social activities entailed by her position as Mrs. Richard Ducote to have much time to spare for her journal.
I persisted, however, in hopes that I would find another mention of Essie Mae. The first one I found shocked me.
I am in complete despair. I thought Richard was happy with our two dear little angels, but he confessed to me this morning that he still longs for a son. He needs a son, he says, to keep the Ducote name alive. He owes it to his ancestors to make sure the name goes on. I was furious with him, because I knew what he wanted. Essie Mae is still here, though I do my best to forget her completely, and apparently willing to bear him another child, but I WILL NOT HAVE IT!!!
The next entry occurred on a date I recognized. Cecilia wrote simply that Richard was killed in an accident that day.
Two months passed before she wrote in her journal again.
I still can’t believe that Dick is gone. The house seems surprisingly empty now. There is so much quiet. I hadn’t realized how alive and vital a man he was, the flurry of activity that always seemed to surround him. He was the love of my life, despite his transgressions. What shall the girls and I do without him?
We will do without Essie Mae, however. I will have her out of this house as quickly as possible. There is a local farmer who has been trying to court her, Jedediah Hobson. He is rough and uneducated, but he seems very much in love with her. I have told her that if she will marry him and leave this house and never come back, I will see that she will be rewarded. She does not know that Dick wanted to change his will to settle a large sum on her, in addition to his provisions for me and my darling angels. I managed to stall him, and then he was killed before he had the lawyer draw it up.
Conscience nags at me. I would love to kick her out of this house without a cent, but every time I look at my sweet girls, I would be reminded, and I cannot have her on my conscience. Dick would reproach me from the grave. Therefore I have made her write and sign a statement that once she leaves this house she will never return, nor will she ever have any contact with my daughters. If she does she will forfeit the money she will be paid every month. Now I wait only to hear whether she has decided to marry Hobson, and the sooner she does so, the better.
I turned the page and found a small, folded sheet of paper. I opened it and read the contents—Essie Mae’s agreement to leave River Hill and never return. She stated that she would never see or speak to An’gel or Dickce again, on pain of forfeiting her annuity, as she called it.
I folded the paper and tucked it back inside. I set the journal down. There was something so sad and so touching about that spidery handwriting. A mother renouncing all claim to her children forever.
My heart ached for her.
THIRTY-ONE
I forced myself to pick up the journal and glance through the remaining pages but found nothing of further interest. I put it back in my desk and locked the drawer.
A check of the time alerted me that I had about twenty minutes to get home, pick up Diesel, and make it to the public library if I didn’t want to be late. I didn’t dare go to work without Diesel, because if the staff and the patrons had to choose between the two of us, I knew which one they would prefer.
There was no sign of Azalea or Lily when I entered the kitchen, and I assumed they were upstairs somewhere. I still needed to talk to Azalea, but that would now have to wait until I was done at the library.
I found Diesel and Laura in the den watching television. I explained to Laura that I was in a hurry, and she gave us each a quick kiss good-bye.
> My four hours at the library passed quickly enough. Fridays were generally busy, and today was no exception, despite the approaching Christmas holiday. Diesel was in his element, spending time with his friends Bronwyn Forster and Lizzie Hayes, going between the reference and circulation desks. I spent a couple of hours cataloging before finishing up with a stint at the reference desk.
I tried to keep focused on the tasks at hand, but I did find my mind wandering occasionally to the tragic—at least, that’s how it seemed to me—story of Essie Mae McMullen. It wasn’t that I didn’t have sympathy for Cecilia Ducote, because her husband’s determination to carry on his family bloodline at all costs had put her in a nearly untenable position. But she had wealth, social position, and two daughters everyone believed were hers.
Essie Mae had none of those things. She did have another daughter, Vera, and a son, but I couldn’t believe she could completely get over the loss of those two children. I wondered if she ever violated that agreement and spoke to the girls. I could imagine the temptation. She must have been a strong woman to survive such loss.
From the angle of the Ducote sisters and their motives for doing away with Vera, I came to the conclusion that they didn’t have one strong enough. Vera had no claim on their parents’ estate, and with no compelling monetary motive, I didn’t think they would resort to murder. There was no proof that Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce knew the truth about their birth mother, nor that Vera did. She might have suspected something, but I doubted she would have been foolish enough to make claims she couldn’t back up.
It was rather odd, though, that I had found the journal at all. How did it wind up in that box? I should check to see if it was listed as part of the contents of any of the unopened boxes. Perhaps it was simply misplaced.
I would have thought, however, that Cecilia would be careful not to let it be read by anyone else. Why didn’t she destroy it? Had she meant to but simply forgot?
What about Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce? Should I tell them of the journal’s existence? If I showed it to them, I might be able to discover whether they already knew about it.
Then again, if they didn’t know about it, I didn’t think it was my place to give them the means to discover their true parentage. This bore further thought, but like Scarlett O’Hara, I decided to think about it tomorrow.
By the time Diesel and I reached home, shortly after three that afternoon, I had a pounding headache—from tension. The last thing I felt like doing at the moment was talking to Azalea and trying to convince her to confide in me, but I really shouldn’t put it off any longer.
My decision was moot, as it turned out. Diesel and I found Lily in the kitchen, and she explained that Azalea had gone home early. She was still feeling “a mite poorly,” as Lily expressed it.
“I’m sorry she’s not feeling well,” I told Lily. “I hope she’s feeling more herself soon.”
In a way I was relieved, but I was also frustrated. Yet another delay. Unless I went to Azalea’s home—which I didn’t think she would appreciate at all—I would have to wait until she came back on Monday. I decided that was too long and resolved to call her in the morning and insist on talking to her.
Lily thanked me and then assured me that I wouldn’t have to worry about dinner. She knew what Azalea was planning to cook and she would prepare it for the family.
“I appreciate that, Lily. I’d rather not have to eat my own cooking.” I smiled and felt a little of the tension melt away.
“I’m mighty glad to help out,” Lily said. “Better to keep busy. Idle hands can get you in trouble.” She gazed down at Diesel, who in turn regarded her with interest. “Azalea told me about your cat. He sure is the biggest cat I ever did see.”
“He’s a Maine Coon,” I explained. “They can get to be pretty big, but Diesel is bigger than usual.”
“He sure is pretty, too.” She stretched out a tentative hand and stroked his head. Diesel pushed against her hand and purred, and Lily smiled. “He’s sweet. Can’t think why ’Zalea fusses about him.”
“I don’t think she likes cats all that much,” I said.
“Reckon not,” Lily said. “This one here is something special, though.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Miss Sissy and Mr. Hank had them a little dog, but he got sick and died about two years ago. He was a mess, but I sure did miss him.” Lily sighed. “Can’t believe I got attached to him the way I did. Like to broke Miss Sissy’s heart. Mr. Hank, too.” Suddenly she turned away, and I heard a barely suppressed sob.
I felt awkward. Lily obviously needed comfort, but I barely knew her. “I’m so sorry, Lily. I know what it’s like to lose a pet.”
“Not that, really,” Lily said, her voice muffled by the handkerchief at her mouth. “I done about raised Miss Sissy and Mr. Hank. I been with them since they was real little, and now I ain’t got no job no more.” Diesel meowed and rubbed against her leg, worried because she was upset. He obviously liked Lily or he wouldn’t have stayed near her.
All I could do was repeat how sorry I was. I wished I could offer her some other comfort, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Don’t pay no mind to me, Mr. Charlie. You go on now, and I’ll be fixing your dinner.” She put away her handkerchief and straightened her back. “You a sweet cat,” she told Diesel as she patted his head.
“Okay, Lily, but if you need anything, let me know. I’ll be upstairs.” As I walked out of the room I glanced over my shoulder to see whether Diesel would follow.
He didn’t. He stayed near Lily, and I saw her smile down at him. I knew he would help her feel better, more so than I could, so I left them together.
I decided a hot shower and some aspirin might take care of the tension headache, and they did. I felt much better a half hour later, and I headed back downstairs to see what was cooking and to get some iced tea. As far as I knew, Diesel was still in the kitchen with Lily. He hadn’t put in an appearance in the bedroom.
As I approached the kitchen I heard Stewart’s voice.
“So good to see you, Lily. It’s been way too long.”
“Mr. Stewart, I sure do miss you coming over to see Mr. Hank. Just ain’t been the same, you not visiting like you did.” Lily sounded truly regretful.
I paused in the hall, not wanting to interrupt, yet curious to hear more. I should have been ashamed of eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Well, Lily, things just didn’t work out. Hank and I saw things differently, I guess.” He sounded regretful, too. “Tell me, is he doing okay? Is he still gambling?”
“He swears he ain’t going to no more, but he said that before. I’m afraid they go’n’ lose everything, Mr. Stewart. They had to let me go, and they been selling the furniture. They ain’t hardly nothing left.”
“I didn’t know it had gotten that bad. If I could help, I would, but I’m the last person Hank would accept any help from.”
“And you the best friend he ever had. I can’t think what’s wrong with that boy. Now he done took up with, well, he done took up with somebody else, and I don’t think it’s right.”
“I didn’t know that. Who is this new ‘friend’ of his?” Stewart sounded both annoyed and curious.
“I don’t rightly know. You have to ask Mr. Hank that yourself,” Lily said, and she sounded evasive to me.
“Are you sure you can’t tell me, Lily?” Stewart would have his most winsome, wheedling expression on full force now, I was sure.
“No, I can’t, Mr. Stewart. Like I said, I don’t rightly know. You have to ask Mr. Hank.” Lily was stubborn in her refusal. I was sure she did know the identity of Hank’s new boyfriend, but for whatever reason she wasn’t going to tell Stewart.
Not that it was any of my business, or Stewart’s, for that matter. I had eavesdropped long enough. I backed up a few steps, called out, “Diesel, where are you?” then strolled into the kitchen.
“Hi, Stewart,” I said brightly. “Lily, is Diesel still her
e with you?” Diesel answered that question himself by warbling loudly as he walked around the table to greet me.
“Evening, Charlie,” Stewart said with an odd expression. Was he wondering whether I had overheard his conversation with Lily? “How are you?”
“Fine,” I said. “Are you going to be in for dinner?”
“Now that I know Lily cooked the dinner, I am,” Stewart said. “Lily is a fabulous cook, even better than Azalea. But don’t either of you dare tell Azalea that or she’ll never let me touch her food again.” He wagged a finger at Lily and me in turn.
Lily laughed. “No way I’m go’n’ tell ’Zalea that, Mr.Stewart. She like to think she the best at everything, and I ain’t about to argue with her.”
“Good,” Stewart said. “Now, if y’all will excuse me, I’m going to run upstairs and get Dante and take him for his walk.”
As he left the kitchen I turned to Lily and said, “I hope Diesel hasn’t pestered you. He always acts like he’s on the point of starvation and likes to beg food.”
“No, he been real good,” Lily said, her attention once again focused on the stove. “Friendly, but he ain’t been begging.”
“That’s good,” I said, “because there are some things that are bad for cats.”
“I know they ain’t supposed to have chocolate, but what else can’t they have?”
I gave her the quick list: raisins, grapes, onions, cheese, milk, green tomatoes, and raw potatoes.
“I be sure and remember all that,” Lily said. “Don’t want to go making no cat sick.”
“Thank you,” I said, “and Diesel thanks you, too.” Diesel meowed right on cue, and Lily laughed.
My cell phone rang, and I excused myself and walked into the hall to answer it. Kanesha was calling, strain evident in her voice when she spoke.
“I’m at the hospital with Mama, and she’s asking for you. Can you come?”
THIRTY-TWO
“What happened?” I asked, so startled I almost dropped the phone.
Out of Circulation (CAT IN THE STACKS MYSTERY) Page 20
