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

“No matter,” Miss An’gel said, dismissing my apology with a wave of one elegant, beringed hand. “We knew we could rely on you.”

“How did you find the grieving widower?” Miss Dickce asked. “Not grieving too deeply, I’m sure.” She kept one hand on Diesel’s head as we talked, and Diesel purred, adding his rumbling voice to the conversation.

“No, he wasn’t, I have to say.” I gave them a brief account of my interview with Cassity. I did not mention, though, that I’d seen Sissy Beauchamp’s car parked behind the house.

The sisters shared a look, one I couldn’t interpret, then Miss An’gel turned back to me. “We have another little favor to ask you, Charlie. We know you’re busy, but if you wouldn’t mind handling one other little matter for us, we’d appreciate it.” Miss Dickce nodded as her sister spoke.

“I’d be happy to do whatever I can, Miss An’gel.” I smiled, though I could feel the start of a dull ache across my forehead.

“It’s the money for the gala, you see.” Miss Dickce leaned forward in her chair. “Usually everyone gives us their contributions before the end of the evening.”

Miss An’gel took it from there. “With the events of that night, naturally, not everyone fulfilled their promises. Dickce and I will be calling upon most of them, except in one case. We would like you to handle that one.”

“Besides,” Miss Dickce broke in, “it will give you a chance to snoop around a little.”

“Dickce.” Miss An’gel glared at her sister. “You make it sound sordid.”

“Don’t be so persnickety, Sister,” Miss Dickce said. “We asked Charlie to be a snoop, so call it what it is.”

That ache in my forehead grew stronger. “Whom would you like me to call on, ladies?”

“Sissy and Hank Beauchamp,” Miss An’gel replied.

“And good luck getting the money out of them,” Miss Dickce said.

That remark started another squabble about manners, and I let them carp at each other while I considered what they wanted me to do.

Lovely, I thought. Now I can add bill collector to my resume.

TWENTY-FIVE

If the sisters sensed my hesitation, they didn’t let on when they stopped dickering after a few minutes.

“Can you go this morning, Charlie?” Miss An’gel smiled at me while Miss Dickce sulked.

“I don’t see why not.” Might as well get it over with, then perhaps I could get back here and start looking in their family papers for information about Essie Mae Hobson. I felt a surge of guilt over that, but I quickly suppressed it. If I were going to investigate thoroughly, I couldn’t afford to overlook anything, no matter how tenuous it might seem.

“Thank you. We promise to leave you alone the rest of the day.” Miss An’gel glanced at her sister. “Though my sister phrased it poorly, we are aware that the Beauchamps are having certain financial difficulties. If they aren’t able to come up with their contribution, we can overlook it.”

“We are also aware”—Miss Dickce matched her sister’s prim tone—“of the talk about Morty Cassity and Sissy, and we certainly remember the scene she and Vera caused at the gala. We hate to think of Sissy as a common gold digger, but we understand the depth of her loyalty to her brother and to her family name.”

I could understand it, too, though I couldn’t condone going to extreme lengths to preserve the family honor.

“What is so surprising,” Miss Dickce continued, “is that Sissy has never behaved like this before. She has always been a sensible girl, the kind of Southern lady she was raised to be. Why would she turn her back on everything her parents taught her?”

“Where certain kinds of men are involved, anything is possible. Sissy is only human, after all, and Morty is an attractive, virile man.” Miss An’gel rose. “Come along, Dickce. We have more calls to make, and Charlie is a busy man. Good-bye, Diesel. Make sure Charlie brings you to visit us soon.”

Diesel followed them to the door, warbling and meowing the whole way, to the sisters’ evident delight. I called my good-byes after them.

The cat padded back while I stared blankly at the top of my desk. Might as well get it over with, I figured. “Come on, boy, we’re going home to get the car and then take a little ride.” I decided to call Melba rather than stop by her office to let her know I had to go out for a while. That way I could forestall questions more easily.

Twenty minutes later Diesel and I were in the car headed for Beauchamp House.

Built over a decade before either River Hill or Ranelagh, at around the time Mississippi became a state in 1817, the Beauchamp family home occupied a large lot on Main Street a few blocks from the town square. I had always admired the simple, graceful Federal-style architecture, but I noticed the house looked decidedly shabby as I pulled the car to a stop in front of it. I wondered how long it had been since the house was painted. The grounds seemed to be suffering from neglect as well, though the autumn weather obviously had taken a toll. Hedges were uneven, and some of the elderly oak trees had dead branches. In fact there was one whole tree that needed to be cut down. Sissy’s pink convertible provided the only color in the whole drab landscape.

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.”