Sissy came back, check in hand. I rose to accept it and thanked her. “We’ll be on our way now. I’m sure you have lots to do.” I tucked the check into my pocket without examining it.
She nodded and escorted us to the front door. “See you at the next board meeting.”
“’Bye until then.” I stepped off the portico and headed for the car, Diesel loping alongside.
As we drove back to the library, I replayed the whole thing in my mind. I had the odd feeling there was something I’d missed, but whatever it was, I couldn’t get it to surface. The best thing would be for me to get back to the archives and get on with my research in the Ducote papers. If it were truly important, whatever I had missed would come to me later.
Right now I was anxious to get back to the archives. I honestly didn’t expect to find anything that would shed light on Vera’s death, but the sooner I could rule this possibility out, the better.
TWENTY-SIX
I stuck my head in Melba’s office to let her know we were back. She was on the phone so I was able to escape temporarily. I figured she would be up later to grill me.
Diesel went straight to his water bowl when we reached the office. He meowed loudly to let me know it was empty. I took care of that, checked my e-mail and voice mail, and realized happily there was nothing that couldn’t wait. I left the cat napping in the window while I went to the room next door where most of the archival collections were stored.
Before I looked for the boxes of Ducote papers, I checked the climate control system. To maintain the materials properly required a constant temperature of no higher than seventy degrees Fahrenheit and a humidity level between thirty and fifty percent. Otherwise irreparable damage could occur. Both temperature and humidity were fine. I left the door closed but not on the latch, in case Diesel should come looking for me. He was strong enough to push the door open and enter.
I had checked the records earlier to find out how many boxes of materials made up the Ducote archives. I was relieved to discover that there were only eighteen. All but two of the boxes had been gifted to the archives before my tenure started nearly four years ago. I had looked through the two newer boxes when I accessioned them and listed their contents, and they contained papers from the last twenty years. I decided to leave them till last.
My search might be tedious, but each box contained a list of contents and approximate dates of materials, and I was hoping that a scan of the lists could save me time. I reasoned that Essie Mae Hobson could have been a maid or some other kind of employee at River Hill, and account books should reveal that. I had also narrowed the time frame to between seventy-five and eighty-five years ago, based on Vera’s age. I figured it reasonable that any association that Essie Mae Hobson had with the Ducotes probably occurred within the decade before Vera was born.
Boxes one through eight I ruled out quickly because of the age of the contents. They covered the early years of the Ducotes in Mississippi up through the end of the Civil War. I itched to read some of the letters and other materials, but they would have to wait.
The next four boxes contained a hodgepodge of dates and types of items. There were letters from the 1880s and the 1920s, as well as postcards, photos, and several account books. I would have to check each of them carefully, and I figured that would take me a couple of hours. Might as well bring them into my office next door where I would be more comfortable and could be with Diesel as well.
The cat eyed me sleepily as I settled into my chair. When he saw me open the first box, he perked up. He always wanted to investigate any kind of container, and that reminded me I should weight down the tops of the other three boxes while I searched this one. That way I could keep my nosy feline in check.
Diesel hopped onto my desk, and I had to grab a stack of papers to keep them from sliding off. He poked his head in the open box and was about to climb in—despite the lack of space—when I told him not to do it. He looked at me with that “who, me?” expression that cats have perfected over the millennia since they first decided to domesticate themselves.
“Back to the window.” I pointed. He meowed, but when I repeated my command, he jumped back onto the sill. “Good boy.” I gave him a treat from the stash in my desk as a reward for his good behavior.
Now to delve into the box. I started with the letters and skimmed them quickly. There were a few from Richard Ducote to his wife, Cecilia, the parents of Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce, from the first year of their marriage. I felt like a voyeur, but I scanned them so quickly for any mention of Essie Mae that I didn’t really absorb their meaning.
No luck with the letters, so I moved on to the account books. The Ducotes were meticulous record keepers, particularly when it came to household expenses. I resisted the urge to go through and compare 1920s prices to current ones. I had to focus on my goal. There were periodic entries for wages with employees listed by name, but I couldn’t find names or initials to match either Essie Mae Whoever or Essie Mae Hobson, nor even an Essie or a Mae.
I finally put that box aside. A check of the time revealed that it was a few minutes past noon. Thanks to the skimpier-than-usual breakfast I’d eaten that morning, I felt hungry. If I started on another box I could spend an hour or more with it, and I was ready for some food right then.
I remembered that I might have to provide my own lunch because Azalea was home sick. If no one else had beaten me to it, there might still be some of that delicious ham and potato salad I’d had the day before. That would do nicely.
When Diesel and I walked into the kitchen, appetizing odors, along with Laura and Stewart, greeted us. Stewart presided over the stove while Laura prepared a salad.
“Just in time for lunch.” Laura pecked me on the cheek. “And there’s my big beautiful boy.” She blew a kiss to the cat, and Diesel rubbed against her legs, warbling happily.
“Howdy, Charlie.” Stewart said. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“I sure am. I thought you were going to be a bum today, and here you are cooking.” I walked over to the stove to see what was cooking. “Beef stroganoff. I do hope that’s for lunch.”
“It is.” Stewart grinned. “When you told me Azalea wouldn’t be here today, I couldn’t resist the chance to get into the kitchen on a weekday.”
“I’m glad your resistance was low,” I said. “I was figuring on having leftover ham and potato salad.”
“Too late for that anyway.” Laura giggled. “I think Justin must have had it for a midnight snack last night.”
“Then I’m doubly thankful Stewart had the urge to cook.” I sat down at the table. I hoped the stroganoff would be ready soon. The aroma was driving me crazy with hunger.
“Sean is lunching with Alexandra,” Laura said as she placed the large bowl of salad on the table. “Justin’s gone to see his father, so it’s just the three of us.” She began to set the table.
“This will be ready in just a minute.” Stewart added a heaping tablespoon of sour cream and stirred it in. “Any further leads on who killed Vera?”
“Nothing concrete,” I said. “I think Morty is the best suspect, though. Get rid of Vera, no need for a divorce, and then he could marry Sissy.”
“Speaking of our beautiful Miss Beauchamp, I ran into her yesterday afternoon.” Stewart began ladling noodles and beef onto plates. “I was walking around the square, and out she popped from the Atheneum. The poor thing looked upset about something—which I never could winkle out of her though I certainly tried—so I invited her over to the ice cream shop for a milk shake to cheer her up.”
While Stewart related his story, I’d been watching the cat pace back and forth near the counter where Laura had prepared the salad. She hadn’t put away the bag of grated cheese when she finished, and the cat could smell it. All of a sudden he leaped onto the counter and tried to stick his head into the bag.
“Diesel, no! You get down from there. You know better than that.” At my sharp tone the cat turned to glare at me. Laura retrieved the bag a
nd returned it to the fridge. Diesel grumbled as he jumped to the floor and disappeared into the utility room.
“Poor kitty,” Stewart said. “He’s going to waste away to absolutely nothing if you won’t let him eat.” He set a plate of stroganoff in front of me, and Laura dished out the salad.
“Yes, he’s always on the point of starvation. Or at least he thinks he is.” I had to smile. After all, it did take a fair amount of grub to keep a thirty-six-pound cat in decent shape.
“How about some iced tea, Dad?” Laura held up a glass, and I nodded. She put it on the table and then took her seat. “I’m sorry Azalea wasn’t feeling well today. Do you think she’s really sick? Or just worn out from all she’s been through?”
“I think she was probably exhausted,” I said. “If she was truly ill I’m sure Kanesha would have called to let us know.”
“If she’s not back tomorrow I’m going to check on her,” Laura said.
“You might be able to get away with it,” Stewart said. “But you’re the only one. She really likes you. The rest of us she only tolerates.” He grinned.
Laura smirked. “Can I help it if Azalea is such a good judge of character?”
“Where is Dante?” It finally dawned on me the little dog was nowhere in evidence. Usually he was within a foot of Stewart at all times.
“He’s at the doggy beauty parlor, getting all fabulous,” Stewart said. “He was overdue for a cut and a shampoo. I’ll go pick him up after we finish lunch. Pardon the change of subject, but to get back to the murder for a moment. Laura told me about Azalea’s ordeal in the back stairs Tuesday night. Poor woman. I think that would give me nightmares.”
“Me, too,” Laura said. “Stewart and I have been discussing the case, Dad. He’s part of the family now, so he might as well be part of the investigative team, right?”
Stewart looked at her adoringly, and I grinned. He had become part of the family, though I certainly hadn’t expected it when he moved in the previous year. I didn’t think of him in a paternal way, however. He was more like a kid brother.
“Of course it’s okay, but I’m not sure about this investigative team. That makes us sound like a family of private eyes.” I wiped my mouth and put the napkin down beside my empty plate. “I know I can count on both of you not to go talking about this to anyone outside the family, though.” I gazed sternly at each of them in turn.
Neither of them paid any attention to that attempt at humor.
“Do you think she actually saw anything other than Vera falling?” Stewart picked up my plate and took it to the stove for a second helping. I didn’t protest.
“It’s hard to say. It must have been pretty dim in there. The one lightbulb gives off very little light, and it’s at the top of the stairs.” I tucked into my second portion of stroganoff.
“Have you thought about a reenactment?” Stewart asked. “I don’t know that Azalea would go for it, but you could try it to test whether a person at the top of the stairs would have been visible enough to identify.”
“That’s a terrific idea,” Laura said. “I’ll lend a hand, Dad. It will probably be creepy, but if it will help, I can handle it.”
“It is an excellent idea,” I said. Why didn’t I think of that myself? Then I realized there could be a problem. “The stairs might still be sealed off, and if they are, we’ll have to wait.”
“Can’t you call Miss An’gel and ask?” Laura said.
“Of course. Let me look up the number.” I got up from the table and went to the drawer where we kept the local phone book. I handed it to Laura. “Find the number and call it out to me. You can read those small numbers more easily than I can.”
Laura took the book eagerly and thumbed through the pages. “Here it is.”
I punched in the number and after four rings, the housekeeper answered. I identified myself and asked Clementine whether one of the Ducote sisters was available.
“Miss Dickce here somewhere. Let me get her.” Clementine set the phone down with a slight clunk, and I waited.
It took almost two minutes, but Miss Dickce eventually came on the line. We exchanged greetings, and then I asked whether the back stairs were still sealed off.
“No, they’re not. A nice young officer from the sheriff’s department removed everything this morning, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”
I explained Stewart’s idea, and she squealed into the phone. “Of course you must do that. How exciting. When can you come?”
“How about half an hour from now?” Laura and Stewart nodded enthusiastically when I glanced their way. “Good. We’ll see you soon.”
“Don’t you have to go pick up Dante?” Laura asked.
“It’s barely noon now,” Stewart said. “He won’t be ready until two at the very least, and they won’t mind keeping him an extra half hour or so. Besides, do you really think I’m going to miss out on this?”
We quickly finished lunch and put everything away. I drove, and on the way we discussed who would do what. I would play Azalea’s role, Laura would be Vera, and Stewart would be the killer.
Miss Dickce was waiting on the verandah when we arrived. She was fairly hopping with excitement, but she took time to coo over Diesel for a moment. Then she hurried us into the house and up the stairs to the second floor. We followed her down the hall to the back of the house, and she pointed out the entrance to the back stairs.
“You turn the light on here. There’s another switch downstairs to turn it off.” She pointed to a switch on the wall next to the door, then flipped it. “The fixture is on the wall to your right. There is another light down at the bottom, but there’s something wrong with the wiring. Since we don’t use these stairs anymore, though, we haven’t had it fixed.”
“Thank you.” I turned to my two assistants. “Give me at least two minutes before you open the door. I want my eyes to have time to adjust the way Azalea’s would have.”
Laura and Stewart nodded.
“Diesel, you stay here with Miss Dickce.” He meowed as if he understood, and Miss Dickce stroked his back. I took a deep breath before I opened the door and stepped into the stairwell.
The door shut behind me, and I peered down through the murky light to the bottom of the stairs. The light on the wall beside me did little to illuminate any farther than about a third of the way down, from what I could see. The musty odor made my nose twitch, and I hoped my sinuses wouldn’t pay me back later for this.
I started cautiously down the stairs, mindful of what I knew about the state of the wood beneath my feet. I reached out to grasp the handrail but then realized there wasn’t one. I had maybe two inches’ clearance on each side of me, and, as I discovered, not even that much space over my head. Claustrophobia began to kick in, worsening as I went further down, counting each step.
At number twenty-six I reached the bottom. These antebellum homes had higher ceilings than most houses did these days, and that accounted for the longer-than-usual staircase. I felt for the knob and grasped it. By now my eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, and I discovered that it was pretty dark at the bottom.
I turned to look up. Deep shadows covered the lower two-thirds of the run of stairs, and the light appeared even weaker than before from this vantage point. I turned and faced the door again, because I remembered Azalea’s telling me she was in that position when she heard someone enter at the head of the stairs.
The seconds stretched out, and I breathed in the damp air. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I sympathized with Azalea.
Finally I heard movement above me, and the floor creaked as Laura and Stewart entered the stairwell. I counted to five before I turned and looked up.
Laura was only a silhouette, and I couldn’t see Stewart at all. They were approximately the same height, so that wasn’t surprising. Laura started down the steps, and then I could see the edge of Stewart’s silhouette behind her, outlined by a faint nimbus of light. As I watched, I saw the silhouette behind Laura change sha
pe slightly.
“I’m pretending to shove her down now,” Stewart said, and I could just see the movement of his arms behind Laura. They were dark projections of his body. Then I focused on Laura as she pretended to pitch forward, and without thinking I started up the stairs toward her to break her fall.
She called out to me. “I’m okay, Dad. I’m not really falling.”
I stopped where I was, and as I did I realized I could no longer see anyone behind her on the stairs. Evidently Stewart had slipped back up the stairs and out the door while my attention was focused on Laura.
“Jeez, it’s dark in here,” Laura said. “That lightbulb must be an antique itself. Did they ever make ten-watt bulbs?”
“I don’t know, but we can look it up when we get home. Stay where you are for a moment.” I went back down to the bottom door and twisted the knob. It opened, for which I was deeply thankful. I stepped out into the kitchen, blinked rapidly in the bright light, then turned back to peer up the stairs.
With the added light I could see more, but this made me realize how difficult it would have been for Azalea to see much that night.
But what exactly had she seen?
More than she was telling, I was pretty sure.
How could I get her to tell me everything?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Laura joined me in the kitchen. “How eerie was that?” She rubbed her arms.
I nodded. “I’d hate to get stuck in there. Poor Azalea.”
Stewart called down to us from upstairs. “Are we done?”
I stepped back into the stairwell and shouted up to him. “Yes, come on down.”
“Okay.”
Laura and I moved out into the hallway and met Stewart, Diesel, and Miss Dickce at the foot of the main staircase.
“Was that helpful?” Miss Dickce asked.
“I think so,” I said. “At least now I have a better understanding of what it was like for Azalea in there.”
“Could you see anything?” Miss Dickce peered anxiously at me. “I’m glad you didn’t ask me to go in there. I can’t abide dark places. An’gel should either have the wiring fixed and the stairs replaced or shut the whole thing off permanently.”
Out of Circulation Page 17
