The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1)

by Carolyn Haines

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Reginald took his notes back to his room to memorize them. I borrowed the car from Uncle Brett and headed into town. There were a few things I needed to do, and talking with Pretta was only one of them.

  By the time I arrived in downtown Mobile, I’d firmed my resolve and found the offices of Dr. Langford Oyles, who served Mobile County as coroner. After a thirty-minute wait in a nicely appointed office where a young secretary cast annoyed glances at me, I was ushered into the doctor’s private office. He sat behind a massive oak desk. He didn’t rise when I entered and made it clear that his valuable time wasn’t to be wasted on mysterious females who refused to state their business. Had I revealed my intention to the secretary, I would have been turned away without half a chance.

  “I’d like to see the coroner’s report on Robert Aultman,” I said in a no-nonsense tone.

  “Don’t be absurd.” He stood up quickly. “Please leave. I have no time for such things.”

  “Why can’t I see it?”

  “Women have no need to worry themselves about such matters. This has nothing to do with you, so it’s best you leave before I call your”—he noted the wedding ring on my finger—“husband. I’m sure he’ll be upset to discover your antics.”

  “My husband is dead.” That took a bit of wind from his sails. “And I’m not leaving until I’ve read over the report. It’s a public record. I’m part of the public.”

  “I don’t know who you think you are, young woman, but such matters are not for females to dwell on. Now leave before I call the law.”

  “Dr. Oyles, Mr. Aultman was visiting my uncle when he died. His family has asked me to read the report.” I lied with such aplomb that I surprised even myself. “Now I intend to relieve their minds about this matter. If I need to call my uncle here, I will. As I said before, coroners’ reports are public documents, and I have every right to see this one.” It was a huge bluff.

  “I shall call your uncle myself.”

  “I’ll wait here while you get in touch with him. The telephone lines to Caoin House are up, but not entirely reliable. Otherwise I would have called to alert you of my pending arrival.” One lie fell off my tongue after the next. Phone lines had been installed and were truly unreliable, but I had never intended to warn the doctor of my visit. “I think you should know, my uncle will be upset that you doubted my word.”

  The doctor hesitated, a pained expression on his face and his hand over the telephone receiver. Abruptly, he pressed the buzzer on his desk. “Gladys, have you finished typing the inquest notes on Robert Aultman? Please bring them in if you have.”

  The door to the office opened, and the young woman I’d brazened my way past handed several typed pages to the doctor. When I reached for them, he withdrew them. “Not so fast. What is it you hope to find?”

  “Nothing in particular. I’m merely reporting to the family. I want to assure them the fall was an accident. As you know, my uncle could be held responsible, and that’s something we all want to avoid. Uncle Brett would be very upset if something in the report implied the tragedy was in any way his fault.”

  The truth was, if Dr. Oyles reported my visit—and gentle threats—to Uncle Brett, I’d be the one in trouble.

  The doctor handed over the report. “You may read it here. Do not take it from this room.” He left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  I’d never looked over a coroner’s inquest before, and I was surprised at the detail. The front page was a form that listed the time and date of the accident, Robert’s age and address, and the formal ruling of “accidental death.”

  The testimony by Sheriff Thompson was par for the course, telling of his arrival at the scene and what he found. It was difficult to read the specific details of Robert’s death, and I had to remind myself several times that he no longer felt pain. The sheriff had paid attention to the angle of the body and the way Robert had fallen, with the speculation that he was peering over the roof and down at the ground watching something, which resulted in the fall. His reasoning went that something happening on the front steps and perhaps farther back on the porch caught Robert’s attention. He leaned over the edifice to get a better view, overbalanced, and fell.

  All of that was known to me.

  It was Uncle Brett’s testimony—and Carlton’s—that caught me up short.

  Uncle Brett had launched an investigation into Robert’s past the day after the accident. Even more shocking was the revelation that Robert had been convicted of fraud in Kansas. The case involved a young widow who Robert wooed. He eventually involved himself in her financial affairs. He gradually shifted her wealth into his account and spent it. He’d served three years in the Kansas state prison, which explained why he’d managed to avoid military service.

  The pages of the inquest fluttered to the floor as I tried to control my emotional response. Robert had targeted me as a possible lonely mark who was primed for the picking. He’d pretended to care for me. He’d led me on simply because I was Uncle Brett’s niece, likely heir to his vast fortune.

  Heat flooded my body, and I had an almost irresistible urge to break something. Instead, I picked up the pages of the report and read Carlton’s statement. The lawyer had been privy to Uncle Brett’s suspicions about Robert and had hired a private investigator.

  Carlton and my uncle had discovered this, and no one had told me. I’d made a fool of myself, pining about Robert because I’d believed he cared for me.

  Carlton went on to say that his suspicions were first aroused when he caught Robert in one of the guest bedrooms when he was supposed to be participating in the treasure hunt. Carlton had pursued him through the house but lost him. Ten minutes later, when Carlton had returned to the festivities on the front lawn, Robert had fallen to his death.

  And all this had been withheld from me. Even to the point of Uncle Brett and Carlton pretending to be concerned about Robert’s death and the circumstances. The truth was that Robert had been attempting to rob my uncle’s guests and had fallen to his death in a cowardly attempt to evade capture.

  My first reaction was anger at Uncle Brett and Carlton. I should have been told. But as I put the coroner’s report on Dr. Oyles’s desk and took my leave, the anger faded. No one had known about Robert’s nefarious plan until after he was dead. Was there really any point in telling me then? I was safe from his clutches, so both men had chosen to spare me from the shame of my choice. How unfair to be angry at them for trying to protect me.

  When I left the coolness of Dr. Oyles’s office, I wandered down the street past the local peanut shop. On a whim I stopped and bought a bag of roasted peanuts and went across the street to Bienville Square, where benches had been strategically placed beneath the beautiful oaks. Absentmindedly, I fed the squirrels and pigeons as I tried to come to terms with what I’d learned about Robert. Soon I would be furious, but now I was merely wounded by his trickery. The whole thing was so calculated. And had Robert not become so greedy that he attempted to steal from the guests, he might still be in my life.

  “Raissa!”

  I turned to find Carlton striding toward me. I composed my expression as best I could and pasted on a smile. While I didn’t want to see anyone, Carlton had gone to great lengths to protect me. “Hello.” I rose and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “What brings you to town?”

  “I’m picking up supplies for the séance, and I wanted to stop and say hello to Pretta.”

  “Forging those female bonds of friendship, I see.”

  He assumed the best of me, and I was grateful for that. “Yes, you know how the weaker sex needs to gang up.”

  “Weaker sex, my eye. I’d match you up against any Samson.”

  I desperately wanted to ask him things about Robert, but I didn’t. If Dr. Oyles let on to Uncle that I’d seen the report, I could ask whatever I wished. Until then, though, I would play ignorant. “You overestimate us, but perhaps that’s merely wisdom.”
r />   He laughed. “May I take you to lunch?”

  “Yes.” I needed the diversion from my own dark thoughts. “And perhaps you can tell me a bit about the history of Caoin House.”

  “Seeking material on the ghosts?”

  “If there are ghosts, I’d certainly like to know their history.”

  “I don’t really believe in ghosts, but Brett has shared some of his experiences with me.” The humor was gone from his expression. “I can’t help but be worried about this séance. I’ll have to trust that Reginald can control this, because if he can’t, there could be dire results.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lunch was delicious fresh seafood brought right into the port not three hundred yards away from where we dined. I’d never tasted such sweet white fish. Carlton explained it was red snapper caught in the saltwater just off the coast in the Gulf of Mexico. “The fish are so plentiful they almost jump in the boats,” he said. “The Gulf is the nursery for seafood that feeds the world. We live in a place where God’s bounty is undeniable.”

  I hadn’t taken Carlton for a believer in a deity, but the truth was, I hardly knew him. Still shaken by the revelations I’d learned about Robert, I was twice as thankful for his solid friendship. I’d held Carlton at arm’s length. Now even my sadness for Robert’s untimely death had been curdled. I’d been on track to give my heart to a cad.

  Dwelling on such things would only make me emotional. I lifted my chin. “Tell me about the Whiteheads,” I requested. “Caoin House is remarkable. I can only imagine the people responsible for creating such an extraordinary house.”

  “Before and during the war, the Whiteheads were the cream of the crop of Southern gentility. While a lot of farmers came to wealth with sugarcane and cotton, Eli Whitehead was born to great wealth. His family fought for the British king in the First War of Scottish Independence. For his efforts he was rewarded with lands in Scotland, and through the centuries the Whiteheads were viewed, by the British at least, as Scottish royalty.”

  “To the conqueror go the spoils. War is always about greed.”

  My bitterness made Carlton pause, and he reached across the table and touched my hand. “It’s true that old men sit home and declare war while the young men die on the field, seduced with visions of bravery and patriotism.”

  “And it never ends.” I picked up my fork. “But let’s not ruin a lovely meal with such morbid talk. Tell me more about the Whitehead family.”

  “In the early 1800s, Morsey Whitehead came to America. He was something of the family black sheep.” Carlton leaned closer and whispered, “I hear he had a penchant for ladies of the night and gambling, so he was sent to the New World to carve out his own fortune or starve. Since he was a younger brother, he was disposable to the Whitehead dynasty.”

  I kept my comments about inheritance to myself. I was beginning to sound bitter and cranky, and Carlton was enjoying the spinning of a good yarn. Uncle Brett often held the floor when it came to local history, and it was pleasant to see Carlton expand into the role of raconteur.

  “Morsey knew a bit about sailing, possibly because he did a stint as a pirate, or so the story goes, and he ended up in the Port of Mobile. He was a handsome rascal, and he caught the eye of a young society girl. His marriage to her sealed his fortune. To the amazement of everyone, he settled down and became a partner in her family’s cotton-transport business. Morsey was quite the captain of industry and brought the first cotton gin to the Mobile area. He established a number of gins on the Alabama waterways, and had a virtual monopoly of cotton ginning and transport. Some said he was a financial genius.”

  “And just like that, he put aside his roving eye and love for the card table?” I kept my tone light.

  “Just like that. Another man felled by the charms of a Southern girl.”

  He did make me laugh, and it seemed like forever since I’d had cause to. “Yes, we know how to bring a rascal to his knees. So Eli was Morsey’s grandson?”

  “Often it’s the third generation that squanders a family’s money, but Eli was the exception. He invested in the slave trade and not only gained workers to harvest his crops, but he bought and sold slaves.”

  “I’m all for wealth, but selling slaves was—”

  “Blood money.” Carlton waved the waitress over and ordered apple pie for dessert. “Brutal, shameful business. You know the McKay family. Of course we were on the losing end of the battles with England, never owned a slave. We have earned our living by our wits and intelligence.”

  “As I hope to with my stories.” I bit my lip. “I brought my first tale to send it off today. It’s really the reason I came into town.” I’d vowed to tell no one I was mailing “The Unexpected Visitor” to the Saturday Evening Post for consideration. Yet here I was, telling Carlton my secrets.

  “A celebration is in order. And soon, with the séance, you’ll have material for even more stories.”

  “As I promised, I made a copy for you. Uncle Brett had some carbon paper.” I brought the neatly stacked pages from my purse and gave them to him.

  “I am deeply honored.” He read the first page. “And I’m already hooked into the story. I can’t wait to read it.”

  I took it from him and folded it. “Put it away, and please continue with your story of Morsey and Eli Whitehead.” I hadn’t meant to interrupt, but my ghostly tale had been burning a hole in my purse. Now I could relax and listen.

  “Eli married the most beautiful girl in the South. Eva Kemp was a descendant of Southern royalty. Her great-great-uncle was Thomas Jefferson, and she had kinship with Mrs. Jefferson Davis. Eli was prouder of her than a peacock with his tail. He set out to build the most elegant house in the Southeast for her. And he did. Caoin House has a reputation that extends well beyond the South. Architects from Europe have been to tour the house to examine the details. And that’s how your uncle came to know about it. A group of European investors was in Mobile looking at the modifications he’d made to the paddleboats on the river. They wanted to tour Caoin House, so Brett went with them. His decision to own it was rash.” He grinned. “But the house has served your uncle well. His parties are events of state. And he loves that.”

  “Eli must have loved Eva very much.” I thought of the ghosts haunting the property. If I were writing a fairy-tale ending, it would include two spirits so deeply in love they couldn’t let go of the land that bound them together. I knew better.

  “Stories in town tell how they were inseparable. He doted on her. And they were happy for a time. But then the war came, and no one in the South was happy. The devastation and destruction gutted the South for generations, Raissa. You were born into the latter part of the century, and some of the battle scars have healed. Not the racism or the bitterness. Those are still with us today.”

  “Yet the Negroes have the vote, and women do not.”

  Carlton exclaimed, “You are a sly fox, my dear! Nice way to maneuver that into the conversation. You must be taking lessons from Brett, but I will assure you that I support women’s suffrage and will cast my ballot for a woman’s right to vote.”

  “Thank you, Carlton.” I was a bit ashamed of my hard push. “I feel we should work to give the Negro equal opportunity as well as women. He may have the right to vote, but he is not considered equal by most people in these parts.”

  “Only time will bring about that change,” Carlton said. “No amount of force, whether federal or state, can legislate equality. It will happen only when the citizens wish it to.”

  I enjoyed Carlton’s sage approach to things, but our lunch was drawing to a close, and I sought a more lighthearted tone. “So what questions will you ask Reginald at the séance?”

  “Perhaps I’ll ask if the ghost of Eli guards the secrets of Caoin House.”

  “What secrets?” I wondered if he knew of the letters.

  “Surely there are secrets in that vast old place. There’s been much tragedy there.”

  “Eva Whitehead. She was kill
ed by Union deserters, right?” I was curious about Carlton’s take on the whole murder of Eva.

  “So the story goes.”

  “But you don’t believe that?” Carlton had surprised me yet again.

  “Because of Brett’s interest in the house, I did a bit of research. The last year of the war, things were very hard here in Mobile. People were starving. During that final summer, fear of a yellow-fever epidemic was high, and the population was weak from a lack of food. It is probable that Union deserters butchered and killed Eva. But it is possible that the slaves revolted and killed her, or that outliers from either army or simply desperate civilians happened upon Caoin House, saw the vast wealth, and decided to take what they wanted. Eva was a fighter. She would have tried to protect the house her husband built for her.”

  “Are there any Whiteheads left here?”

  “No, when Elise died without a child, that ended the line. Eli died in the oak grove at the age of forty-six. The death of Elise had left him deranged, to an extent. He became a recluse.”

  “How did he die?” I asked.

  “There are no records. His death is merely reported as ‘found dead.’ I searched and couldn’t find any details, which led me to conclude a possible suicide. A lot of paperwork was lost between the late 1800s and the present, though, so my assumption is mere speculation. There is solid evidence Eli was bereft after the death of his daughter. A depressed man, alone in an isolated house . . . it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “What about Eva’s family? Are the Kemps still in Mobile?”

  Carlton frowned. “I don’t know. Isabelle may know more about that than I do. Why the sudden interest in Eva and Eli? Are you researching for the séance? Does our handsome medium need a little help?”

  Carlton was shrewd, and I’d inadvertently given him a reason to suspect Reginald of being a fraud. “I’m sure Uncle Brett told you some letters were stolen in the break-in while we were in New Orleans.” Though his features were schooled, I thought I saw surprise. “At any rate, it occurred to me those letters would only be of value to someone related to the people who wrote them. Why not steal the silver or something of monetary value? Those letters could only have emotional value.”