As Diesel and I neared our house an unfamiliar car pulled up to the sidewalk ahead of us. I slowed my pace and kept a wary eye on it as the driver’s door opened and a dark figure stepped out.
The moment she turned to face me I recognized Kanesha Berry, and I relaxed.
“Good evening, Mr. Harris. You two out for a stroll? Seems a little chilly for it.” She stepped onto the sidewalk a few feet away as I paused.
“Coming home from dinner with a friend.”
I heard the faintest trace of humor in her voice as she replied, “And I reckon the cat was invited, too.”
“Naturally,” I said. I gestured toward the house. “Won’t you come in? I’m assuming that you’re here to talk to me.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry I couldn’t call you back sooner, but we had a couple of emergencies to deal with.” She preceded me up the walk to the front door. “I was on my way home and thought I’d stop by on the off chance you had a moment to talk.”
“You’re always welcome,” I said as I inserted my key in the lock. Diesel chirped at her, but she was still wary of him. She had her mother’s mistrust of cats, but I think Diesel was gradually winning her over.
“Come on in the kitchen. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” she said. “I won’t keep you long, just wanted to follow up on the message you left me. Plus I have a bit of news for you.” She took the chair I pulled out for her, and I sat down across from her. Diesel padded off into the utility room.
“You go first,” I said.
She shrugged. “Okay. I managed to get hold of one important piece of information about Vera Cassity’s death from a source I have. It was definitely murder because she didn’t fall. She had two big bruises on her back. Looks like the killer hit her pretty hard to knock her down the stairs. The rest of the bruising could be accounted for by the fall, but not the ones on her back, because of the way she fell forward.”
I felt sick at my stomach. I had seen the body on the stairs—only dimly because of the poor light—but it had a certain air of unreality about it.
Until now.
The mental image of the killer striking Vera that hard brought home the viciousness of the attack and the cold, heartless intent behind it.
Kanesha regarded me almost sympathetically. “Nasty, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Nasty and sad. You know, I don’t think there’s a single person who will mourn her passing.”
“Probably not. She didn’t work too hard on getting people to like her.” She paused. “One more thing, and this is good news. My same source tells me the sheriff is backing down on treating my mother as the only suspect.”
“That is good news. Maybe now he’ll get somewhere.” I recalled Tidwell’s visit to Morty Cassity this afternoon, and I told Kanesha about it. “Shouldn’t the sheriff have had another officer with him if he was going to question Morty?”
In my peripheral vision I noticed Diesel return from the utility room. Instead of coming over to sit by me, however, he left the kitchen and, I presumed, headed upstairs. He was ready for bed.
“He should have, to make it formal, but Tidwell likes to play the ‘good ole boy’ routine. Thinks it’ll get him what he wants faster, at least with some people. Like Morty Cassity, I reckon. They go hunting and fishing together a few times a year, so they’re buddies.” Kanesha didn’t sound too pleased about that.
“Tidwell wouldn’t look the other way if he found evidence that Morty was the killer, would he?” The whole good-ole-boy thing irritated the heck out of me, and it made me angry to think the sheriff was guilty of cronyism.
“He can’t afford to. He knows if he pushes things too far, the MBI will step in. I’ll see to that. I have a good contact there.” Kanesha smiled, and if Tidwell knew what was good for him, he’d better watch his back.
“What do you think of Morty’s attitude?”
“His whole image as a businessman is based on that kind of no-bull, down-to-earth talk. Haven’t you ever seen one of his commercials?”
“Probably.” I shrugged. “Frankly I don’t pay much attention to ads like that. I usually turn the sound off.”
“There isn’t any point to him acting grief stricken over Vera’s death. Everybody in town knows it wasn’t a happy marriage. Now, about my mother. Tell me again about the second talk you had with her.”
I did as she asked, and she listened, her eyes intent on my face.
“You think she knows something about Vera’s mother that she’s not telling? In addition to something she’s not telling about what she saw on the stairs last night?”
“Yes. It isn’t anything concrete, like I may have said to you before. I simply can’t shake the feeling that she’s holding back. In both instances.”
Kanesha shook her head. “And if she doesn’t want to tell you, she won’t. My mother could out-stubborn the stubbornest mule you ever met.”
“Laura wanted to try talking to her, but I discouraged her. One more person putting pressure on her to talk wouldn’t do any good, I think. It might make things worse.”
“I know Mama is pretty fond of your daughter, but the more you try to get Mama to do something, the less she’s inclined to do it. It’s best that Laura stays out of it.” Kanesha rose. “It’s bad enough that I had to involve you. I need to get home, so I won’t keep you any longer. Let me know anything you find out.”
“I will,” I said as I showed her to the front door. “I need to check the county and city records for anything regarding Essie Mae Hobson. But maybe it would be better if you did it.”
She paused on the doorstep. “No, it’s better if you do it. I need to keep my fingerprints off this investigation as much as possible, at least for now. The woman in the records office will help you. They get people looking in the records all the time, and she’s not going to think anything about your poking your nose in. Good night.” With that she turned and headed down the walk.
I waited until she reached her car before I closed the door and locked it.
The house was quiet as I climbed the stairs. It was only a quarter past nine, but I was more than ready for bed. There was no cat on the bed when I entered my room. Diesel was most likely with Laura. I left the door cracked so he could get in, whenever he deigned to join me for the night.
I dropped off to sleep quickly, too tired even to think much about the events of the past twenty-four hours. I awoke the next morning when the alarm went off. Diesel purred in my ear to make sure I didn’t try to roll over and go back to sleep.
Fat chance of that happening, not with a thirty-six-pound alarm clock always ready to pounce into action.
On the way downstairs about twenty minutes later I was surprised not to smell the usual odors of fresh biscuits and bacon or sausage wafting through the house. Surely Azalea was here. She had never missed a day since the day I moved in.
I found a note on the kitchen table. It informed me—in Azalea’s hand—that Azalea was unwell and couldn’t work today. Not a surprise, really. I thought she should have stayed home the day before, too, but she was too stubborn to give in. Today, though, it had all caught up with her. I hoped she took it easy and actually did rest at home, but I wouldn’t count on it.
Though I had the time, I didn’t feel like cooking a full breakfast. Instead I contented myself with cereal, toast, and some apple juice. It wouldn’t hurt me to miss one cholesterol-laden breakfast, that was for sure. I enjoyed the quiet as I read the paper, sipped my coffee, and finished my simple meal.
Diesel didn’t pester me for anything, once he realized there were no pancakes, bacon, or sausage to be had. He turned up his nose at mere wheat toast and bites of cereal.
As I was rinsing my dishes in the sink, Stewart bounced into the kitchen with a cheery “Good morning, Charlie. How’s my favorite landlord today?” He poured himself coffee, then leaned against the counter near me. His eyes sparkled with morning energy, and he grinned broadly between sips of coffee.