TWENTY-FOUR
“The evidence isn’t conclusive yet,” Kanesha went on after a brief pause. “I’m satisfied, though. I’d already figured Marie Steverton as the thief.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” I responded. Marie was one of two obvious candidates, the other being Kelly Grimes. “You obviously have some kind of proof. Can you tell me what it is?”
“As long as it doesn’t go any further,” Kanesha said.
“Of course,” I replied, a bit nettled that she even felt the need to mention it.
“Maybe you remember I mentioned we found a canvas bag in the street with the body,” Kanesha said. “There was residue in it from something, and I suspected it was flakes from the binding of those diaries.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, the flakes match, although the report isn’t official yet.”
“You’re sure the bag belonged to Marie?” I asked. I couldn’t resist needling her slightly in return for her earlier question.
“Had her name embroidered on a tag inside,” Kanesha said.
“I wonder why the person who took them from Marie left the bag behind.” I paused as another thought struck me. “Have you made any progress on finding the car that ran Marie down?”
“Nothing significant,” Kanesha replied. “The neighbor who saw the car disappearing wasn’t close enough to read the license plate number or really tell what make and model it is. All he could come up with was large and dark. And that it was a car, not a pickup.”
“Was there any damage to the car?” I asked.
“Pretty likely,” she said. “We found fragments that might have come from the vehicle. Also there will probably be minute paint fragments on the deceased’s clothing. They might even be able to figure out a make and model from that. In the meantime, we’re considering all possibilities.”
“That’s good. Do you have any idea when they’ll be finished with the diaries and I can get them back?”
“You should have them in your hands sometime Friday afternoon,” Kanesha said. “The mayor really pulled some strings, because they made this investigation a top priority.”
I couldn’t tell from her tone whether Kanesha was impressed or annoyed by this exercise of political heft.
“I’ll be glad to have them back,” I said. “In the meantime I finished scanning the volume the mayor brought the other day. I’ve been reading it, and it’s interesting.”
“Found a motive for murder yet?” Kanesha asked. This time I interpreted her mood easily—skeptical.
“Not yet.” I wished I could share Singletary’s tragic story with her, but I’d given my word.
“Give me a call if you do.” Kanesha ended the call.
I put the receiver down and turned back to the computer. Diesel warbled, and I focused on him instead. He batted a paw toward my arm, and I recognized the demand for attention. I stroked his head and along his back a few times. He meowed loudly, and I also recognized that sound. He was hungry.
A quick check of my watch told me why. At eleven fifteen it was close enough to lunch for us to take a break and head home to eat. “Come on, boy, I’m a little peckish myself.”
After a meal of scrumptious homemade chicken pot pie for me and more boiled chicken for him, Diesel and I made it back to the office around twelve fifteen. Melba’s door was closed, and that meant she was out to lunch. She would no doubt appear upstairs at some point in the afternoon, but not, I hoped, until I had made considerably more progress with Rachel Long’s diary.
The cat settled into this favorite spot while I called up the file. I found my place and started reading. Moments later, I hit upon another mention of the Singletary family.
Vidalia Singletary came to see me today while Father Long was occupied elsewhere, and that is just as well, for he finds the sight of the poor woman distasteful—almost as distasteful as that of her husband, for whom he has little good to say. That pains me, for I would have my husband be of a more Christian disposition toward these unfortunates. Vidalia appeared near exhaustion, and she burst into the most pitiable tears the moment I first spoke to her. It took me some several minutes to calm the poor woman enough that I might hear the extent of her troubles. The sum of them was simply that her husband was still too weak to work the farm. Franklin, the son by Mr. Singletary’s first wife, is rather a feckless boy and moreover is not himself strong, apparently suffering from a similar complaint of the heart as his father.
How could I not take pity upon one so wretched? My soul would be worth nothing in this life or the next were I not to help those so much less fortunate than we. Although I do see that difficult times are coming for us all, as we are feeling the effects of that d——d blockade (the Lord forgive me for swearing, but we are vexed terribly by this) of our ports. Yet with the shortages here, I know the situation is much more dire for Vidalia and her little ones. Vidalia herself is in rags, and the children fare little better.
In addition to victuals I also gave her a large bolt of cloth from which to make suitable garments for herself and the children. My charity is perhaps not as pure as the Lord would command, for I gave her the bolts of green tarlatan sent to me by my cousin Marianna from London. The shade is most complimentary to me, but the fabric does have a rather peculiar smell. I would rather not see it go to waste, and there is enough for Vidalia to make at least two suits of clothing for each of the children as well as a simple dress for herself.
I sat back for a moment and rubbed my eyes. Rachel Long still sounded like a charitable woman, even though one act of charity consisted in giving away something she did not particularly want herself. She had no intention to use the cloth, so she might as well give it to someone who could, odd smell aside. A few good washes, and the odor probably went away. I noted again the name of the fabric, tarlatan, and jotted it down on a notepad. I didn’t recall having heard that term before, and I would look it up later. Perhaps I could throw it into a conversation and impress Laura, who always found my lack of knowledge of women’s fashions amusing.
Back to work, I admonished myself. I focused on the screen. A few days later, on June 10, 1861, Rachel confided disturbing news to her diary.
Today Vidalia Singletary sent word by her husband’s son Franklin that her children are ill and she does not know how to doctor them. She begged me to come, as she herself is falling ill as well, but though it caused me much distress I could not go. Mother Long is suffering terribly from a fever, and I dared not leave her side. If only Doctor Renwick had not abandoned us all, but I know our valiant boys on the front lines have need of his skills, too.
I could not ignore Vidalia’s plea however so I instead sent my maid Celeste. The girl learned something of the ways of healing from her grandmother and mother on my own grandmother’s plantation in Louisiana. She is knowledgeable enough about herbs and so should be able to dose the children with something to alleviate their distress. I will of course pray for the speedy recovery of Vidalia and her children. Her husband, I fear, is past help by now.
I felt heartsick reading this. Rachel seemed to be a truly tender and caring woman, but without a doctor and with her own sick mother-in-law, she evidently did the best she could.
How skilled at herbal medicines was Celeste, though? I wondered also how old Celeste was. Rachel seemed to think the girl knew enough to help. According to present-day Jasper, however, Celeste did not help Vidalia and the children. Instead, or so he believed, she harmed them. Had she done so deliberately? Or accidentally, through lack of real skill and knowledge?
Only Rachel’s diary might hold the answers. I scrolled down to the next page and continued reading. Nothing about the Singletarys in the next couple of entries. Rachel had little time for her diary, for it seemed that her mother-in-law hovered near death’s door for several days before rallying miraculously. An exhausted Rachel turned the elder Mrs. Long’s care over to one of the slaves and went to bed herself with a fever, no doubt brought on by exhaustion.