James, Miranda - Out of Circulation (CAT IN THE STACKS MYSTERY)

“She did,” Melba said. “Dirt-poor. But Vera’s mama inherited some money from some old aunt in Georgia, or maybe it was Florida, around the time Vera was almost thirty. Then her mama died and left it all to Vera. Morty came calling soon after, and he used Vera’s money to get started in business.”

“He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen at that point.”

“He wasn’t,” Melba said. “But they got married, and within ten years Morty had three car dealerships. He’s got seven now, I think. Loaded, and it all started with Vera’s mama’s money.”

Diesel, tired of being ignored, crawled into Melba’s lap, and she laughed. “Sweetie, I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you.” She loved on him as she continued, “I got you sidetracked, Charlie. Go on, tell me the rest of it.”

I spent another fifteen minutes talking, until I got to the point where I found Azalea and Vera’s body in the stairwell.

“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.