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

I asked Lily to eat with us, even though I halfway expected Azalea to rise up out of her hospital bed and come after both of us if Lily accepted. She declined politely and said she wasn’t hungry but might eat later.

That was that, so I thanked her for the delicious-looking meal of pork chops, green beans, mashed potatoes, and homemade rolls.

“You’re welcome,” she said, ducking her head shyly.

“Why don’t you go on home,” I said. “It’s been a long day, and Stewart and I will clean up afterward.”

Lily looked like she wanted to argue, but I think tiredness won out. “All right, Mr. Charlie,” she said. “Now, if you need me this weekend, you just let me know.”

I promised I would, and after making sure she had a ride home—she had Azalea’s car—I bade her good-bye. Then Stewart and I tucked into the meal. It was every bit as tasty as it looked.

After a few mouthfuls I put my fork down for a moment. “You weren’t kidding earlier,” I said. “About Lily being such a good cook. Everything tastes wonderful.”

“Yes, I had more than a few opportunities to sample Lily’s cooking,” Stewart said.

“When she was working for the Beauchamps?” I said.

Stewart nodded. “You might as well know, Hank and I were together for a couple of years. It didn’t work out.”

“I sort of gathered that from that little episode the night of the gala,” I said, trying to make light of it.

“Not one of my better moments, I’ll admit,” Stewart said. “It’s too bad, because Hank can be a really great guy. He just has this little problem. Oh, well, he’s moved on, according to Lily, though I don’t know to whom.” He shrugged. “Good for him. And good for Sissy, too. We all thought she would never have a life of her own.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I really don’t know her, but as gorgeous as she is, surely she’s never lacked for attention from men.”

“No, I guess not,” Stewart said. “But she was stuck in that house for years, looking after that nasty grandmother of hers, then it was her mother, and finally her father. Old man Beauchamp was too cheap to hire extra help besides Lily, so poor Sissy got stuck being the dutiful, unpaid drudge of a daughter. Made Hank angry, but Daddy was the one with the money, and whenever he said ‘Leap, frog,’ they just asked, ‘How high ? ’”

“That’s too bad. Beauchamp Senior died about three years ago, didn’t he?”

“Yes, and it was about ten years too late, if you ask me.” Stewart grimaced. “Nasty, unfeeling old bastard. He gave Hank hell for being a pansy , as he called it. Hank did his best to stand up to him, but it was hard. Of course, Sissy helped. She’s always done anything and everything for her little brother.” He fed Dante a bite of pork chop, and the dog barked excitedly. Stewart told him to hush.

“I’m sorry things were so rough for them,” I said. “Their father sounds like a nightmare. At least they can live their own lives now, and according to the gossip I’ve heard about Sissy and Morty Cassity, she’s making up for lost time.”

Stewart shrugged. “I guess so. But that’s the strange thing to me. I always figured Sissy was just as queer as her brother. Surprised the heck out of me when I heard she was slipping around with a married man.”

“She doesn’t have to slip around any longer,” I said, “with Vera permanently out of the way.”

“No, she doesn’t. Well, it’s no business of mine.” Stewart attacked his food, and conversation languished. Dante barked occasionally, and Stewart admonished him, but as long as he kept rewarding the behavior with bits of food, the dog would never learn not to do it. I didn’t share this with Stewart, however.

We worked together once we finished eating to clean up the kitchen and put everything away. Diesel had several bites of pork chop, just like his little buddy Dante, and he was a happy kitty as we trudged up the stairs later on.

I got ready for bed, Diesel already comfortable on his side, and found a notepad and pen. I wanted to make notes about the costumes my chief suspects wore the night of the gala. I was hoping that inspiration would strike as I worked on remembering everything I could.

I started with the Ducote sisters, a.k.a. Amelia Peabody and Jacqueline Kirby, then moved on to Morty Cassity, Hank Beauchamp, and finally Sissy.

As I scanned the details, one item leaped out at me. I focused on creating a mental image of that dark stairwell, and then I was convinced I was right. I was pretty sure I knew what Azalea had seen and who had worn it.

THIRTY-THREE

That absurd stuffed Yorkie Sissy had attached to her like a wrist corsage had to be what Azalea saw. It was the only thing on the list that I could imagine would cast a shadow like the one Azalea described.

That settled it in my mind. Sissy had pushed Vera to her death on those stairs.

With Vera out of the way Sissy was free to marry Morty—and gain access to Morty’s millions. No more genteel poverty for her or her beloved little brother, Hank.

A fairly simple solution after all. Money lay at the root of it.

The motive was easy, but where was the proof? Azalea would tell the sheriff what she saw, and I could explain it, but a good defense lawyer would probably make nonsense of it in court.

The explanation did sound faintly ridiculous, even though I was convinced of the truth of it. It all came down to the accessories of a costume.

Costume.

Something else was niggling at me, something to do with another costume.

I looked at the list again, poring over the descriptions I’d compiled. What was nagging at me?

I lingered over the details of Hank Beauchamp’s costume as the rumpled but clever Victorian policeman, Thomas Pitt.

Rumpled. That was it.

Poor Hank was reduced to wearing that same suit, because all his other suits were at the cleaner’s. Probably a euphemism for having to sell them, or else he owed the cleaner’s so much money they wouldn’t release his clothes until he paid them.

Either way, Hank had only the one suit. No wonder it looked like it did.

There was another elusive memory. Where else had I seen that suit, or part of it?

It took me a minute, but then I had it.

Morty Cassity was wearing the jacket when he came to the door the day I went to take Vera’s plaque to him.

But how?

Then I remembered a chance remark Stewart had made. I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was only a few minutes till ten, and I knew Stewart stayed up late.

I slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb Diesel. I hurried up the stairs to the third floor and knocked lightly on Stewart’s door.

“Come in,” he called.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, still dressed as he had been at dinner, with Dante napping beside him. He put aside the book he’d been reading. “Hi, Charlie. What’s up?”

“Remember the other day, when you were talking about how you ran into Sissy Beauchamp on the square?”

Stewart nodded. “Sure.”

“Can you tell me approximately what time it was when you ran into her, and how long the two of you were together?”

“Okay, let me see. I’m sure you’ll tell me why you want to know this?” At my nod he continued, “Well, it was around one o’clock, as I recall. We must have spent about an hour together over our milk shakes, so it was probably after two when I left her.”

“I see.” If Sissy had been with Stewart while I was with Morty Cassity, then it wasn’t Sissy driving that pink car that day. It had to be Hank instead.

Hank.

Sissy wasn’t Morty’s lover, Hank was.

I sat down abruptly on Stewart’s bed.

“Charlie, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”