“Oh, yes,” Marcelline replied. “She told me she was Arletta Jackson. Mrs. Lonnie Jackson. She stressed that part, that she was married, I mean, but she said to tell Mr. Marshall it was Arletta Kemp asking for him.”
“Did Mr. Marshall talk to her?”
“He talked terrible when I told him, bad words I’d never even heard before. He was in the library by himself, and he swore me up and down that I wouldn’t tell Mrs. Turner about this. I promised, although I know Mrs. Turner got to know about it later. He wasn’t too good with hiding things from her.”
“Do you know what Mrs. Jackson wanted to talk to him about?” An’gel suspected she knew exactly what Mrs. Jackson and Marshall Turner talked about, but she needed to hear it from the housekeeper.
“I did, but I didn’t do it on purpose,” Marcelline said. “I wasn’t the type of girl who tried to find out everybody’s business, but when you overhear things, it’s not your fault.”
“No, I suppose not,” An’gel said. “Go on.”
“Mrs. Jackson had a little boy, she said, just turned two years old, and she was asking Mr. Marshall for the money he promised her for their son. That’s exactly what she said, their son.” Marcelline shook her head. “That was the first I heard tell of Mr. Marshall getting his women pregnant, but I sure wouldn’t be surprised if there’s others out there besides that boy and Miss Mary’s poor dead father.”
An’gel wouldn’t be surprised either, although she figured it was more in the late Marshall Turner’s style to pay the woman in question to get rid of the baby. Lord, what a nasty man he had been, she thought in distaste.
“What happened after that?” An’gel asked.
“I reckon Mr. Marshall gave her some money,” Marcelline replied. “I never saw her again, not even after Mr. Marshall died. I’ve been trying to remember what she looked like. I kept getting a funny feeling I’d seen this Alesha Jackson somewhere before, and I finally figured it out. She must be that Arletta Jackson’s granddaughter. She’s not old enough to be her daughter.”
“Thank you for telling me about this,” An’gel said. “I won’t say anything to Mary Turner either. First, of course, the relationship would have to be proven, but a blood test can do that. Ms. Jackson may not want anyone to know she’s related. I don’t really think it would bother Mary Turner all that much, you know. She heard about her grandfather and his behavior, and she’s smart enough to know there could have been consequences, shall we say, of the old goat’s philandering.”
“Maybe so.” Marcelline looked doubtful. “But I had to tell you in case it was this Alesha Jackson who caused Nathan’s death.”
“At the moment I don’t know what her motive might be,” An’gel said. “But all the angles need to be considered. This is certainly an unexpected one.”
“I reckon her being that lady’s granddaughter might account for how she knew about me being married,” Marcelline said. “I was still wearing a ring back then, and I remember Mrs. Jackson saying something about it now. Something like it might not protect me. I knew what she meant, of course.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Jackson is still living,” An’gel said.
“Don’t see why not,” Marcelline said. “She wasn’t all that much older than me at the time. She’d be maybe seventy-five now.”
“I’m going to be talking to Alesha Jackson later, and I’ll see what I can find out about all this,” An’gel said. “You leave it to me.”
“Thank you, Miss An’gel.” Marcelline rose to go. “I won’t say anything to anybody about it.”
“Good. Now, I’ll have to tell my sister about it,” An’gel said. “She and I always discuss things like this.”
“Don’t matter to me,” Marcelline said. “I’ll be going now. Got to start working on something for dinner tonight.” She left the room, obviously relieved to have shared her burden with someone else.
An’gel was inclined to believe that Marcelline was right, that Alesha Jackson was Arletta Jackson’s granddaughter. That fact would certainly explain Alesha Jackson’s interest in Cliffwood. An’gel had never really bought into the idea that the so-called psychic had heard the spirit of Cliffwood calling to her. She didn’t believe the woman had a psychic bone in her body, now that Marcelline had exposed her. Her grandmother could easily have told her about the people at Cliffwood and about meeting the young Marcelline. It wouldn’t have taken much work for Alesha Jackson to find out details about the current inhabitants. The two maids who did most of the heavy cleaning could well be the source.
The forthcoming interview with Ms. Jackson promised to be interesting, and An’gel looked forward to it. She had the advantage now because Ms. Jackson would have no idea that An’gel knew who she really was. Would the woman admit it, though? Perhaps Benjy could dig up information on the family, now that An’gel had the putative grandparents’ names.
Benjy ought to be here soon. An’gel decided she had better rouse her sister and fill her in on the fascinating information from Marcelline. She met Benjy in the hall, laptop under his arm, Endora on his shoulder, and Peanut on the leash.
“Go on in,” An’gel said. “I’m going to get Dickce.”
A few minutes later, the group was comfortably situated in An’gel’s room. Dickce occupied the other armchair, Endora in her lap. Peanut lay stretched out beside Benjy, who was sitting on the floor, his computer open on his lap. An’gel related the story of Arletta Jackson, and both Dickce and Benjy were astonished.
Benjy started tapping the keys on the computer and was quickly engrossed in a search for details about the family of Alesha Jackson.
While he worked, An’gel and Dickce talked.
“If all this is true,” Dickce said, “what do you think her motive is in coming here? And why didn’t she just explain who she really is, do you think?”
“She might have been intending simply to scam Mary Turner for the money she was asking for ridding the house of its ghost,” An’gel said. “Or she might want more. If her father really was Marshall’s son, Alesha might feel that he should have part ownership in the house and in anything Marshall Junior inherited.”
“At the time Marshall Senior died, that would have been a significant amount,” Dickce said. “But by the time Marshall Junior and his wife died, basically all they had left was this house.”
“And the business they turned it into,” An’gel said. “It’s a pity that Marshall Junior didn’t inherit his father’s head for business or his knack for making money.”
“No, he was too much like his mother in that regard,” Dickce said. “They managed fine on what Marshall Senior left until Junior was grown, at least.”
“Alesha Jackson might think there’s money somewhere besides the house,” An’gel said.
“If Marshall Senior didn’t mention his other son in his will, I don’t see that Alesha has any legal claim, nor does her father. I wonder if he’s still living.”
“He isn’t,” Benjy said. “He died three months ago. I found an obituary, and it mentions the surviving family members. ‘Survived by his mother, Mrs. Arletta Jackson; his wife, Laura Ann; and his daughter, Alesha. Preceded in death by his father, Lonnie Jackson, and a sister, Aretha Jackson.’” He looked up from the computer. “They lived in a town called Port Gibson.”
“Not far from Natchez,” An’gel said.
“Maybe Alesha didn’t know about her grandfather until her father died,” Dickce said. “Do you think that’s possible? And maybe his death set her onto finding about her father’s other family?”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” An’gel said. “I intend to find out when we talk to Ms. Jackson later.”
“You think there might be another motive, besides money, I mean?” Benjy said. “Like revenge?”
“Possibly,” An’gel said. “I think her motives in coming here are complex. The desire for money, revenge, recognition maybe.”