Out of Circulation (25 page)

“Lily can help you as much as you need her,” I said. “I heard about her losing her job.” Belatedly I realized that was probably a mistake.

Sure enough, Azalea glowered at me. “How you be hearing about Lily losing her job? Ain’t nobody knowing about that but me and her and the Beauchamps.”

“Actually I heard it from Kanesha,” I said meekly. “I talked to her yesterday when I mentioned I’d been to see the Beauchamps about something. When I told her I was surprised the house was in bad shape and there wasn’t much furniture, she told me about your sister being let go. That was all it was.” I probably said too much. Azalea had that effect on me sometimes.

She appeared to be mollified, however. Maybe she wouldn’t rake Kanesha over the coals later for blabbing to me. “I forgot Kanesha knew. She and Lily be real close.”

That was a bullet dodged. Azalea turned away, and I tucked into my breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy. While I ate, Azalea followed her sister into the utility room, and they emerged several minutes later and headed upstairs.

There was still no sign of Diesel. I wished I could lie in bed till all hours sometimes, but this morning I had too
much to do. Before I reported for my volunteer shift at the public library at eleven I needed to get to the courthouse. And before I left for the courthouse I wanted to talk to Azalea.

I checked the clock. I had two hours and forty-three minutes to do all that. I chewed my final mouthful of bacon and biscuit, had a last sip of coffee, then hurried upstairs to get dressed.

I heard movement on the third floor when I came out of my bedroom ten minutes later, and I headed up the stairs. There were four bedrooms up there, an empty one on either end. Stewart and Justin occupied the other two, also at opposite ends of the floor. Azalea and Lily must be working in the vacant ones.

As I neared the open door of one bedroom I could hear voices.

“…such nice things Miss Dottie had,” Lily said with a catch in her voice. “Miss Sissy and Mr. Hank used to have, but they’s all about gone now. My heart be just about breaking for them, ’Zalea. That house look so pitiful now.”

I paused about three feet away from the door. Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to interrupt the sisters for my conversation with Azalea.

When I heard Lily start sobbing I beat a hasty retreat. I would talk to Azalea later.

Diesel greeted me on the second-floor landing. Laura’s door stood open, and she poked her head out. “Morning, Dad.”

“Morning, sweetheart. How are you this morning?”

“Fine.” She yawned. “Still sleepy, but okay. How are you?”

“Fine also, but I have a busy morning, and I need to leave Diesel here. I have some business at the courthouse, and I can’t take him with me.”

“I’m going to be here until lunchtime,” Laura said. “Is that long enough?”

“Should be. Thank you.” I looked down at the cat. “Diesel, I want you to stay with Laura this morning. I would take you if I could, but the person I need to see is allergic to cats.”

The one time before I had tried to take Diesel with me to the vital records section had been a disaster. The poor woman there sneezed so much that I took Diesel away after about three minutes. I explained this hurriedly to Laura.

“No problem, Dad. Come on, Diesel, come back in here with me.”

Diesel looked from me to her before, tail in the air, he turned and strode in majestic leisure down the hall to my daughter’s room. Laura and I exchanged grins before I hurried downstairs.

I couldn’t remember the name of the woman in the vital records office, but a nameplate told me that she was Laurel Sanders. I greeted her, and she looked up from her desk. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized me.

She frowned at me. “Did you bring your cat with you?”

When I assured her I hadn’t, she relaxed. “I actually do like cats,” she said. “I’m just horribly allergic.”

“No need to apologize,” I said. “I need your help this morning.”

She approached the counter, peering over the glasses that had slid down her nose. “What are you looking for?”

“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.

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 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.

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?