Diesel trotted beside me up the walk, gazing curiously around. There was no verandah, but a small portico protected the front door. I knocked, and Sissy Beauchamp opened it moments later.
Her eyes widened in surprise as she recognized me, then saw Diesel. She smiled. “I think this is the first time Beauchamp House has ever had a cat come calling. Morning, Charlie, y’all come on in.”
Sissy led us through a bare hallway into a parlor that also seemed short of the usual furniture. Had they been selling antiques? I’d not been inside the house before, but according to local legend the Beauchamps had a fine collection of early American and Federal-style furniture.
Dressed casually in Capri pants, flat shoes, and a snug-fitting T-shirt, Sissy appeared comfortable though I found the room chilly. She patted Diesel’s head for a moment but didn’t seem all that interested in him.
“Have a seat.” My hostess plucked a man’s rumpled suit jacket from the back of a chair and indicated I should sit there. She draped the jacket over the arm of a threadbare sofa and sat on a particularly bald spot. “What can I do for you, Charlie?”
“I’m sorry to barge in on you unannounced and uninvited,” I said as Diesel settled on the floor beside my chair. “It’s about the gala.”
Sissy interrupted me. “Wasn’t it wonderful? All those gorgeous costumes and the food was awesome! It was a great party.” Her face clouded. “But the way it ended was real awful. Poor Morty. Losing his wife like that.”
“Yes, that was a shock,” I said.
“And how humiliating for Vera,” Sissy said with a frown. “I mean, if she had any idea how she died, she’d be mortified. Falling down the back stairs at River Hill. The
servants’
stairs, that is. Imagine that.”
I hadn’t thought of Vera’s death in that light, but I realized Sissy was right. Had the killer planned it that way? One final humiliation in death? That extra bit of viciousness was disturbing to contemplate.
“Sissy, have you seen my jacket?” Hank Beauchamp wandered into the room but pulled up short when he saw that his sister had company. “Oh, morning, Charlie. I see you brought your cat with you.” He didn’t sound pleased about it.
“Yes, he goes almost everywhere with me.” I kept my tone light and cheerful. “He’s well behaved, so you don’t have to worry about him scratching the furniture or causing any damage.”
Hank nodded, then his eyes lighted on his jacket. “There it is.” He picked it up, shook it in a vain attempt to get rid of some of the wrinkles, then slipped it on.
“That looks pretty messy,” Sissy said. “Are you sure you want to go to court dressed like that?”
“I don’t have any choice. Everything else is at the cleaner’s,
remember
?” There was an unpleasant edge to Hank’s voice and an odd emphasis on that last word.
Sissy stared at him blankly for a moment. “Sorry, forgot about that.” She turned to me with a bright smile. “What were we talking about? Oh, the gala.”
I nodded. “Yes, and we were saying how awful it was for Vera to die like that.” I watched Hank as I spoke, interested to see his reaction.
He winced. “The woman is dead. Why can’t everyone let it go? She was probably drunk and fell down the stairs. She was knocking back the booze the last time I saw her.”
I couldn’t believe either of them was naive enough to believe it was an accident. They had to be putting on an act for my benefit. I decided to drop a little bomb and see what happened.
“What if it wasn’t an accident?” I asked. They’d probably think I was a gossipy idiot, but that didn’t matter. “Know what I heard? I heard her husband pushed her down the stairs because she wouldn’t give him a divorce.”
“Who told you that?” Hank’s face reddened as he snapped out the words.
I shrugged. “Oh, it’s just something that’s going around.”
“That’s awful,” Sissy said, her voice cool. “Vera was a giant pain in the rear, but surely nobody would murder her.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” Hank glared at me. “The whole thing is ridiculous. I told you, Vera was drunk as a skunk. She fell. Morty would never kill her, no matter how much she provoked him.”
Sissy shrugged and addressed me. “No point in arguing with him.” She opened her mouth to continue, but Hank interrupted her.
“Has the garage called about my car?”
“No, not this morning,” Sissy said.
Hank swore. “They’ve had it for almost two weeks now. It can’t be that hard to fix.” He sighed. “Then I’ll have to borrow yours again. Before court this morning I have to run over to Oxford and get a deposition.”
“You know where the keys are.” Sissy turned to me. “What
was it you came about, Charlie? I don’t think you ever said.”
“No, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.” I offered them both a self-deprecating smile. “I’m here on behalf of the Friends of the Library. Miss An’gel asked me to help collect the pledges people made at the gala. With everything that happened, quite naturally some people forgot to make good on them that night.”
“I see.” Sissy shared an uncertain glance with her brother. “I thought you already took care of that, Hank.”
Hank responded in a testy voice, “I thought
you
took care of it. I have to get going or I won’t get to Oxford and back in time for court. You deal with it.” He whirled around and stomped out of the room.
Sissy glared at his retreating back. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s in the middle of a really difficult case right now, and he’s always tense when he has to go to court. He’d be a lot happier doing something else.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, but Sissy didn’t appear to need an answer. She excused herself, saying she’d be back with a check in a minute.
Diesel had moved under my chair during the tense moments between the Beauchamp siblings, and I almost wished I could join him. It hadn’t been pleasant. As I surveyed the room, I decided the rumors about financial problems were actual fact. The threadbare, skimpy furnishings and the chilly indoor temperature spoke loudly. Apparently they couldn’t even afford firewood.
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.
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 and returned it to the fridge. Diesel grumbled as he jumped to the floor and disappeared into the utility room.