“Nonsense,” she said, her hand on the cat’s head. “Let’s go into the parlor and have a chat.” She led the way, Diesel by her side, and I brought up the rear.
Her parlor reminded me a lot of the one at Riverhill, the antebellum mansion that belonged to the Ducote sisters, Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce. From what I could see, the furniture dated from the same era as theirs, right down to the Aubusson carpet on the hardwood floor. A portrait of a floridly handsome gentleman in evening dress—perhaps Miss Eulalie’s father—had pride of place over the mantel. Framed photographs occupied most of the flat surfaces in the room.
Miss Eulalie motioned for me to take a seat in a club chair while she chose a sofa. “I see you’ve noticed all my pictures,” she said. “Family and former students and their families.”
I recalled that she taught history at the high school for twenty years before she decided to become a librarian and archivist. Even though I entered high school about a decade after she left teaching, I heard any number of stories about her and how tough but wonderful she was. From what I heard, I often wished she had been my teacher.
I told her that, and she beamed at me as she continued to stroke the cat’s head. Diesel sat on the floor beside her, and I was glad he hadn’t tried to climb on the sofa with her. The deep ruby velvet of the upholstery would show the cat hair starkly.
“I have iced tea and cookies.” Miss Eulalie indicated a tray near her on a side table. “Please have some.”
“Thank you,” I said. After the walk, the cold drink was welcome. I went over and picked up a glass and stared down at the plate of oatmeal raisin cookies. I had a weakness for them, and they looked homemade.
“I made them this morning,” my hostess said. “Please, have as many as you like.”
“Thank you.” I gave in to temptation and placed three on a small serving plate. I took my food and drink, along with a linen napkin, back to my chair.
“Now, I didn’t ask Melba for any details about this fuss over those diaries,” Miss Eulalie said with a grin, “because I wanted to get home from the grocery store the same day I went.”
I laughed. “I know what you mean. I think the whole business is strange, frankly. When the mayor brought them to me, she said she thought they might be helpful with her son’s state senate campaign. Then I found out that Jasper Singletary was interested in them, too, for much the same reason. Now, I can just about see the point with the Longs, but how could it affect Jasper Singletary?”
Miss Eulalie looked thoughtful as she sipped her tea. “There’s been bad blood between the Longs and the Singletarys for decades,” she finally said. “Even I don’t know the details, but I gather it dates from the nineteenth century.”
“That’s a long time to hold a grudge.” I munched on the second cookie. They were so delicious I could easily devour the whole batch. I told myself firmly that three was more than enough. My eyes kept focusing on the plateful, however.
“Yes, it is. Ridiculous, if you ask me. Now, have more cookies if you like.” She glanced at the lone cookie on my plate. “The Longs have always been wealthy, of course, and as far back as I know of, the Singletarys have been just the opposite. Small farmers who have to struggle every year and who somehow never seem to get ahead.” She sighed. “That kind of disparity rankles, I suppose, and that’s what has nurtured the feud all these years.”
“If the Singletarys hate the Longs because the Longs are rich, do they also hate people like Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce Ducote?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Miss Eulalie replied. “They have reason to be grateful to An’gel and Dickce anyway.” She noticed my look of inquiry. “They gave Jasper the scholarship that put him through Athena College.”
That sounded like the sisters. They did so many good things in Athena, it was hard to keep track. They performed their charitable works as quietly as possible because they never sought the limelight. I said as much to my hostess, and she agreed with a smile. I realized then she was a contemporary of the Ducotes and had probably known them all her life.
“I guess it’s possible the diaries might reveal the source of the bad blood between the two families,” I said. “Maybe it’s so scandalous that one side thinks the other might be embarrassed badly if it came to light.”
“Thereby affecting the state senate race.” Miss Eulalie frowned. “Sounds outlandish, doesn’t it? But roots and memories run deep here, and if it’s terrible enough, it could have an effect.”
“Terrible enough to kill for?” I asked, thinking of poor Marie Steverton.
Miss Eulalie nodded. “Where family pride is involved, especially in the South, never underestimate the lengths someone will go to protect their name.”
“I can’t wait to work on the diaries,” I said. I got up to help myself to two more oatmeal raisin cookies. I told the little voice in my head to shut up about the calories. “In the meantime, the mayor found a fifth volume. I scanned it today, and I’ll read through it to see what it might be able to tell us.”
Miss Eulalie nodded. “Yes, I heard about that. I also have something that might shed light on this. Did you know that Rachel Long’s grandson’s wife wrote a memoir of the old lady?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “The library at the college had a copy, but it’s apparently been lost.”
“How aggravating,” Miss Eulalie said as she rose from the sofa. “I happen to have a copy, though, and if you’d like to borrow it, you’re perfectly welcome. I read it many years ago.”
“Thank you. I would like to,” I said.
My hostess nodded. “Sit there and enjoy your cookies. It’s in my study. I’ll fetch it.”
Diesel had been remarkably well behaved so far, but the moment Miss Eulalie left the room he came over to me and begged for a bite of my cookie.
“Sorry, boy,” I said. “The raisins are bad for you. No cookie for you.”
He meowed and stared at me, so I repeated what I told him. He turned and went back to his spot next to the sofa, tail high in the air.
Miss Eulalie returned then, empty-handed. Her expression was blank. “I’m sorry, Charlie; you must forgive me. I seem to have misplaced the memoir.” With her right hand she fidgeted with a broach pinned to her bosom.
“That’s too bad,” I said. Something didn’t seem quite right with her. She appeared flustered.
“I’ll keep looking for it,” she said. “I apologize, but I’m coming down with one of my bad headaches.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Eulalie. I hope you feel better soon. Diesel and I will get out of your hair. Thanks for the delicious cookies and the information.”
“Thank you for your visit,” my hostess said. She remained silent while she escorted the cat and me to the front door. I turned on the verandah to bid her good night, but she had already shut the door.
That was a rude thing to do, and Miss Eulalie would never be rude—unless she was powerfully worried about something.
In this case, the missing memoir. I didn’t think it was a coincidence.
TWENTY-ONE
I didn’t believe for a minute that Miss Eulalie had misplaced her copy of the memoir of Rachel Long. She was every bit as sharp as the Ducote sisters, and I’d bet she could easily find any book in her study. She wouldn’t have been so flustered over simply mislaying a book.
She couldn’t find the memoir because someone took it. I’d also bet she knew who took it, and that was what upset her. Obviously a person she considered a friend; otherwise she would have been angry and not so eager to get me out the door.
By the time Diesel and I reached home, I had settled on two likely candidates: Lucinda Long and Jasper Singletary. I didn’t have to think twice about the mayor—Miss Eulalie probably taught her in high school. I couldn’t be completely sure about Jasper, but if I went by her tone of voice when she told me about how the Ducote sisters helped him get through college, she had warm feelings for him. I sensed tacit approval of him in her manner.