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

Lily’s hand trembled as she placed it in mine. She ducked her head shyly. “Thank you, Mr. Charlie. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Lily, why don’t you go on and be sorting out that laundry,” Azalea said. “Soon’s I finish up with breakfast we gonna start on the upstairs.”

Lily nodded and glanced at me before she disappeared into the utility room.

Azalea poured me a cup of coffee, then returned to the stove to plate my food. As she set it down, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Charlie. I appreciate you letting Lily help me today. She done lost her job and she can’t stand not being busy.”

“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.