“That’s the end of it,” I said, my throat dry. “After that we all had to wait to talk to the sheriff, and then we were able to get home.”
Melba’s eyes narrowed. “I know you’re leaving out a lot. You can’t fool me.”
“I’ve told you all I can,” I said. “I’ll have to leave it at that, but I promise to tell you, as soon as I am able, anything else that I might have left out. Deal?”
Melba sighed and nodded. “You’re going to be nosing around again, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she reached into a drawer and pulled out an envelope. “Here’s your letter.”
The envelope was made of thick, quality paper, and Vera’s name and address were embossed in silver on it. My name and address were handwritten in block capitals.
I debated whether to open it in front of Melba, but I could always claim the contents were private. She might badger me, but I could handle that. Curiosity was eating at me, and I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Can I borrow your letter opener?”
Melba handed it across to me, and I slit the envelope. There was a single sheet inside, and I pulled it out.
I unfolded it to reveal the scanned image of a photograph. An old photograph, judging by the clothing of the woman in the picture. The words “Essie Mae Hobson” were printed underneath the photo. I had no idea who she was.
I showed it to Melba, and her eyes widened as she spoke. “Why would Vera send you a picture of her mother?”
TWENTY
I stared at the face of the woman in the picture. The photograph was cracked and faded, probably taken in the mid-1920s, to judge by the subject’s clothing. Essie Mae Hobson looked young here, perhaps no more than twenty. She sat in profile, her head bent shyly, so it was difficult to get a full impression of her.
I couldn’t see much of Vera in her, except perhaps the shape of her nose. Vera must have taken more after her father—unless the plastic surgery Melba told me about had altered her features significantly.
There was something elusively familiar, however, about Essie Mae’s face. Maybe Vera looked more like her mother than I realized.
“What do you know about Vera’s mother?” Melba knew most every family in Athena and the surrounding county, so she ought to be able to tell me something.
“Not much,” Melba said in a grudging tone. “She was married to Jedediah Hobson, who was a drunk and a fool, according to my grandma on my daddy’s side. She knew the family. About as redneck as they came, she said, and mean and stupid with it. Jedediah ran shine until he was killed in a car wreck when Vera was probably about twelve or thirteen, I think. Amory, Vera’s brother, would have been eight or nine. They didn’t have any money to speak of, until Essie Mae got her inheritance.”
Sounded like Vera had grown up in an unpleasant, if not sordid, environment, with a father like that. I looked at Essie Mae again, and my heart went out to her. Such a gentle, sweet-looking girl to end up with an ignorant moonshiner.
“Why on earth did Vera send me this picture?”
“Maybe she wanted you to help her do some research on her family,” Melba said. She frowned. “You know, come to think of it, I never heard anybody say where Essie Mae came from or even who her people were. That’s odd.” She cooed at Diesel, and he chirped for her.
I paid them scant attention, lost in my thoughts.
Could Essie Mae Hobson have anything to do with Vera’s death? The chances seemed remote, but I was definitely intrigued. Sending me this copy of a photograph was a bizarre thing to do—unless Melba was right about Vera’s wanting help to find out more about her mother and her family.
I wouldn’t accomplish anything by sitting here at Melba’s desk. Time to go back to my office upstairs and get busy.
“Come on, Diesel, let’s go.” I stood and motioned for the cat to get out of Melba’s lap.
Melba scowled at me. “Can’t he stay down here with me for a bit? I’ll bring him up later.”
“If he wants to, I reckon it’s okay.” I trusted Melba to take good care of him. From time to time he visited with her down here while I worked upstairs.
Diesel jumped down and ambled toward the door. “Not today, I guess.” Melba sighed. “Men are so fickle, even the feline ones.”
I gave that the answer it deserved by ignoring it. “See you later,” I said. “And thanks for letting me know about the letter.”
Upstairs Diesel wasted no time in settling down in his napping spot in the window. I figured he was ready to snooze for a while; otherwise he would have stayed with Melba. Wished I could catch a few winks myself, even after the sound sleep I’d had last night.
I switched on the computer and checked my phone for voice mail from yesterday when I was out of the office. I hadn’t thought about it this morning, and I saw now that the message light was blinking. I turned the speaker on so I could listen while I checked e-mail.
The first two calls were basic reference questions, people looking for genealogical information. I’d get back to them later today or tomorrow.
The third call startled the heck out of me. I heard Vera Cassity’s strident voice. Talk about unnerving. Diesel sat up and meowed, just as disturbed by it as I was.
I missed the first part of Vera’s message, so I had to replay it.
“By now you ought to’ve received a letter I sent you. It’s a photograph of my mother. I know diddly-squat about her life before she married my father, because she never talked about those years. I want to know, and I figured you could help me. I think there was some kind of connection with the Ducotes, though, and if you won’t let me look in those papers, maybe you can do it for me. I’ll see you at River Hill tonight.”
That was the final message. More final than Vera could have known, I realized, and that creeped me out again.
I thought about the message. Did Vera really not know anything about her mother’s early life? Or had she intended to use her mother as a ploy to get into the Ducote papers?
As the archivist, I had access to the papers, and Vera had probably figured that out. But whether I could justify snooping in them on another person’s behalf was questionable.
I didn’t entirely trust Vera, even in death. If I complied with her request, I could waste a lot of time on something that was a complete dead end.
What should I do? Ignore this and focus on other aspects of the case?
What other aspects did I have to focus on?
Morty Cassity and his desire for a divorce, for one.
Sissy Beauchamp’s alleged desire to marry Morty, for another.
I couldn’t rule out Hank Beauchamp, either. He might be just as interested in Morty’s money as his sister. I recalled the unpleasant little scene at Helen Louise’s bakery, when Hank’s credit card was declined.
Then there was Azalea, and potentially her sister Lily. Both of them despised Vera because of what had happened to Lily’s son, Johnny. But Lily wasn’t at River Hill last night, so far as I knew, and Azalea couldn’t have pushed Vera down the stairs.
That let Azalea out, but I couldn’t forget my feeling that she’d seen more than she’d been willing to admit to me this morning.
Kanesha. I needed to talk to Kanesha, let her know what her mother had told me and share with her the photograph and phone message from Vera.
I found the card with her private cell number and called it. Voice mail. I left a hasty message, stressing that it was urgent she call me back.
Within two minutes my phone rang—Kanesha returning my call.
“Are you where you can talk?” I asked.
“No. Where are you? I can meet you.” She sounded angry—not at me, I hoped.
“The archives. Come as soon as you can.”
“Right.” She ended the call.
I tried to settle down to work while I waited for her, but to no avail. My brain simply couldn’t focus on regular tasks. I kept hearing Vera’s voice in my head, and that wasn’t pleasant. The sooner I told Kanesha about this, the better. Maybe
then Vera’s voice would go away.
Either Kanesha broke the speed limit or she wasn’t far away when she called me back, because she walked in my office door within ten minutes.
“Shut the door,” I said. “I don’t want to be overheard.”
Diesel sat up and warbled a greeting at her, but she was so focused on me she didn’t appear to notice. Diesel resumed his nap, no doubt affronted at the slight.
“You talked to my mother,” she said as she slid into a chair.
“Yes, I did.” I launched into a full summary of Azalea’s story, and Kanesha did not speak until I finished. While I talked I tried to read her expression, but it was no use. She had the consummate poker face.
“Did she tell the sheriff everything she told you?”
I felt like an idiot. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.”
Kanesha’s lips tightened. “You’ve got to ask her that. I tried to get a look at the statements they took last night, but the sheriff is making sure I can’t.”
“I will. That aside, what is your impression of her story?”
“It all sounds like the way she’d behave in those situations. Overhearing the argument, then getting stuck in the dark at the bottom of those stairs.” She paused. “One thing at least. I’m more convinced than ever that Mama didn’t kill Mrs. Cassity.”
“I don’t see how she could have, unless, like Sean said earlier, she’s an Olympic-level gymnast.”
Kanesha ignored that. “The sheriff ought to be focusing on Morty Cassity. Surely Mama told Tidwell about the argument she overheard.” Her eyes flashed. “But of course he could always say she was making that up to divert suspicion from herself.”
“He can’t keep this up for long, surely.”
“He’d better not,” Kanesha said. “And for all I know he’s grilled Morty Cassity about all this. I can’t get any real info on what’s going on. Even Bates can’t find out, because no one will talk to him, either. He’s actually gotten to where he likes me, and right now that’s not a good thing in the department.”
I couldn’t blame Kanesha for feeling frustrated. The whole thing was petty and stupid, but it was all too human and believable.
“There’s one thing I haven’t told you about your mother’s story.” I paused for a breath, and Kanesha’s eyes narrowed. “I think Azalea might have seen something that she didn’t tell me. I may be totally off base on this, because it was simply an impression I had that she hesitated the tiniest fraction of a second before she answered my question. About whether she saw anyone or anything at the top of the stairs after Vera fell.”
“Why would she do that?” Kanesha didn’t sound angry, and that relieved me.
“I don’t know. Like I said, I could have imagined it, because Azalea is always such a straight shooter.”
“Yeah, right between the eyes.” Kanesha shrugged. “You could be right. If Mama saw something and she’s not talking about it, she has her reasons. They might not make sense to anybody else, but they will to her. Getting her to tell you, well, I don’t know.”
“I’ll try talking to her again when I go home for lunch,” I said. I glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it was nearly eleven. “There’s more I need to tell you.”
Kanesha leaned back in her chair and nodded. I handed her Vera’s letter and explained who the woman in the photograph was.
“What has her mother got to do with anything?” Kanesha stared down at Essie Mae Hobson.
“I don’t have a clue. Wait, though, I want to play you a message from Vera that came in yesterday. I don’t work here on Tuesdays, so I didn’t hear this until a little while ago.” I skipped to Vera’s message on my voice mail and played it for her.
When it ended I saved it and waited for Kanesha to comment.
“What did she mean about looking in the Ducote papers?”
“Sorry, I should have explained that. Vera came in here last week and demanded access to the Ducote archives, and I had to tell her she couldn’t have it. The papers are sealed, and no one can look at them without permission from the family or their legal representatives.” I paused. “She even threatened me because I denied her.” I shared the threats with Kanesha, but I did not mention what Vera had tried to do to Helen Louise. I didn’t see any point in bringing Helen Louise into this.
Kanesha handed back the photograph. “Are you allowed to look through the papers?”
I nodded. “As archivist, I can, basically to conserve and catalog them.”
“I think you should.”
“Why? How could Vera’s mother be connected to any of this?”
“I don’t know,” Kanesha said. “There’s something about that woman’s face. I get the feeling that there’s an interesting story there. Could be a false lead, but I don’t want to take a chance on missing anything important.” She stood. “Anything else to tell me?”
“That’s it for now.”
She headed for the door but paused before she opened it. She glanced back at me. “Thank you.” Then she was gone.
I felt a paw on my shoulder and turned to see Diesel yawning and stretching. “Looks like I’m going to be pretty busy, boy. I can count on you to help, can’t I?”
Diesel warbled, as if to say, “Of course,” and I grinned. The paw retracted, and Diesel stretched some more before settling down again.
I picked up the photograph and studied it. Kanesha was right. There was something about Essie Mae’s face. If only I could find a better picture of her I could figure out what was haunting me.
Then another thought struck me. What if this was the only photograph Vera had of her mother?
TWENTY-ONE
I managed to focus on regular work long enough to put in about forty-five minutes, but by then my stomach started rumbling. Time for lunch. I shut down the computer and roused Diesel from his nap.
On the walk home I thought more about Azalea’s story. Surely she must have told the sheriff what she’d told me. Otherwise why was the sheriff treating Vera’s death as murder? Without Azalea’s evidence of a third person in that stairwell, it could easily be considered an accident.
As Kanesha said earlier, though, the sheriff seemed to be using the case for his own personal and political ends.
My head ached from all the ideas bouncing around in my brain. I needed time to let the bouncing ideas subside. A good lunch would help.
There was no sign of Azalea when Diesel and I walked into the kitchen. I found a note on the table that informed me she had gone to the grocery store. My lunch was in the fridge.
Diesel sat by my chair and watched hopefully as I enjoyed my ham and potato salad. I picked out a few small bits of ham as a treat for Diesel, and that seemed to satisfy him. As long as he got even a small quantity of something from the table, he was happy. I supposed he didn’t want to feel left out.
Besides, I’m sure Azalea’s and Stewart’s cooking tasted far better than his cat food.
For dessert I had a nice big wedge of Azalea’s lemon icebox pie. I treated Diesel to a couple of licks of the pie from my finger, and he warbled happily. I agreed. This was my favorite dessert, and I’d never had better than Azalea’s recipe.
I wondered idly where everyone was. Sean was at work at the Pendergrast law offices. Until he could take the Mississippi bar exam in February, he was serving as an assistant—for that read gopher and researcher—for Alexandra and her famous father. Laura and Stewart were done for the semester, and I’d thought I might find one or both of them here.
Foolish hope in Laura’s case—she seemed to spend most of her spare time with Frank Salisbury. Since I liked Frank and thought he was good to my daughter, I didn’t quibble too much over the hours Laura was with him.
I was anxious for Azalea to return from shopping so I could pose my question to her. While I was at it, I might as well ask her if she knew anything about Essie Mae Hobson. Azalea knew as much, if not more, about the families of Athena as Melba did. There was a domestics networ
k that rivaled anything Melba and her cronies operated.
Dirty dishes put away in the sink, I checked my watch. Nearly twelve thirty. I should be back at the library by one, but frankly my heart wasn’t in it. As long as I was preoccupied by the mystery of Vera’s death and its implications, I wouldn’t be able to focus all that well on regular work.
I was reaching for the phone to call Melba and tell her I wasn’t coming back this afternoon when the front doorbell rang. Diesel shot off toward the front door. I’d call Melba later.
“Twice in one day.” Miss Dickce flashed a bright smile when I opened the door. “I hope you won’t get sick at the sight of us, Charlie. Hello, Diesel.”
I invited the Ducote sisters in, and Miss An’gel apologized for bothering me again so soon. She carried a large shopping bag, and she showed me its contents—the award plaque from the previous night—as I ushered them into the living room.
“We feel rather awkward about this,” Miss An’gel said as she took her seat on the sofa. Diesel jumped up between her and Miss Dickce and settled in for some serious attention.
“Clementine found it a little while ago, stuck behind a potted plant in the library,” Miss Dickce said. “We think Morty Cassity should have it.”
Miss An’gel interposed, “But we think it might be better if someone else took it to him. Morty is aware of the ill feelings Vera had toward us, and it might be more tactful if we kept ourselves out of it.”
I thought they were being overly sensitive, but far be it from me to tell them that. “Would you like me to deliver it to Mr. Cassity?”
“Thank you, Charlie. Yes, we would.” Miss An’gel exchanged a glance with her sister. “We also thought it would give you a good opportunity to have a little chat with Morty. As part of your investigation.”
“I see.”
And I did see—the Ducote sisters were intent on making sure that I didn’t slack off on my investigation.
They were a trip, as Sean might say. But a delightful one.
“I’ll do my best. I’ll see if I can talk to him this afternoon.”
“Excellent.” Miss An’gel beamed at me. Miss Dickce was busy cooing and petting Diesel. “Come along, Dickce. We mustn’t take up more of Charlie’s valuable time.” She took a moment to stroke Diesel’s back before she rose, and the purring doubled in volume.
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