I tried to keep focused on the tasks at hand, but I did find my mind wandering occasionally to the tragic—at least, that’s how it seemed to me—story of Essie Mae McMullen. It wasn’t that I didn’t have sympathy for Cecilia Ducote, because her husband’s determination to carry on his family bloodline at all costs had put her in a nearly untenable position. But she had wealth, social position, and two daughters everyone believed were hers.
Essie Mae had none of those things. She did have another daughter, Vera, and a son, but I couldn’t believe she could completely get over the loss of those two children. I wondered if she ever violated that agreement and spoke to the girls. I could imagine the temptation. She must have been a strong woman to survive such loss.
From the angle of the Ducote sisters and their motives for doing away with Vera, I came to the conclusion that they didn’t have one strong enough. Vera had no claim on their parents’ estate, and with no compelling monetary motive, I didn’t think they would resort to murder. There was no proof that Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce knew the truth about their birth mother, nor that Vera did. She might have suspected something, but I doubted she would have been foolish enough to make claims she couldn’t back up.
It was rather odd, though, that I had found the journal at all. How did it wind up in that box? I should check to see if it was listed as part of the contents of any of the unopened boxes. Perhaps it was simply misplaced.
I would have thought, however, that Cecilia would be careful not to let it be read by anyone else. Why didn’t she destroy it? Had she meant to but simply forgot?
What about Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce? Should I tell them of the journal’s existence? If I showed it to them, I might be able to discover whether they already knew about it.
Then again, if they didn’t know about it, I didn’t think it was my place to give them the means to discover their true parentage. This bore further thought, but like Scarlett O’Hara, I decided to think about it tomorrow.
By the time Diesel and I reached home, shortly after three that afternoon, I had a pounding headache—from tension. The last thing I felt like doing at the moment was talking to Azalea and trying to convince her to confide in me, but I really shouldn’t put it off any longer.
My decision was moot, as it turned out. Diesel and I found Lily in the kitchen, and she explained that Azalea had gone home early. She was still feeling “a mite poorly,” as Lily expressed it.
“I’m sorry she’s not feeling well,” I told Lily. “I hope she’s feeling more herself soon.”
In a way I was relieved, but I was also frustrated. Yet another delay. Unless I went to Azalea’s home—which I didn’t think she would appreciate at all—I would have to wait until she came back on Monday. I decided that was too long and resolved to call her in the morning and insist on talking to her.
Lily thanked me and then assured me that I wouldn’t have to worry about dinner. She knew what Azalea was planning to cook and she would prepare it for the family.
“I appreciate that, Lily. I’d rather not have to eat my own cooking.” I smiled and felt a little of the tension melt away.
“I’m mighty glad to help out,” Lily said. “Better to keep busy. Idle hands can get you in trouble.” She gazed down at Diesel, who in turn regarded her with interest. “Azalea told me about your cat. He sure is the biggest cat I ever did see.”
“He’s a Maine Coon,” I explained. “They can get to be pretty big, but Diesel is bigger than usual.”
“He sure is pretty, too.” She stretched out a tentative hand and stroked his head. Diesel pushed against her hand and purred, and Lily smiled. “He’s sweet. Can’t think why ’Zalea fusses about him.”
“I don’t think she likes cats all that much,” I said.
“Reckon not,” Lily said. “This one here is something special, though.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Miss Sissy and Mr. Hank had them a little dog, but he got sick and died about two years ago. He was a mess, but I sure did miss him.” Lily sighed. “Can’t believe I got attached to him the way I did. Like to broke Miss Sissy’s heart. Mr. Hank, too.” Suddenly she turned away, and I heard a barely suppressed sob.
I felt awkward. Lily obviously needed comfort, but I barely knew her. “I’m so sorry, Lily. I know what it’s like to lose a pet.”
“Not that, really,” Lily said, her voice muffled by the handkerchief at her mouth. “I done about raised Miss Sissy and Mr. Hank. I been with them since they was real little, and now I ain’t got no job no more.” Diesel meowed and rubbed against her leg, worried because she was upset. He obviously liked Lily or he wouldn’t have stayed near her.
All I could do was repeat how sorry I was. I wished I could offer her some other comfort, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Don’t pay no mind to me, Mr. Charlie. You go on now, and I’ll be fixing your dinner.” She put away her handkerchief and straightened her back. “You a sweet cat,” she told Diesel as she patted his head.
“Okay, Lily, but if you need anything, let me know. I’ll be upstairs.” As I walked out of the room I glanced over my shoulder to see whether Diesel would follow.
He didn’t. He stayed near Lily, and I saw her smile down at him. I knew he would help her feel better, more so than I could, so I left them together.
I decided a hot shower and some aspirin might take care of the tension headache, and they did. I felt much better a half hour later, and I headed back downstairs to see what was cooking and to get some iced tea. As far as I knew, Diesel was still in the kitchen with Lily. He hadn’t put in an appearance in the bedroom.
As I approached the kitchen I heard Stewart’s voice.
“So good to see you, Lily. It’s been way too long.”
“Mr. Stewart, I sure do miss you coming over to see Mr. Hank. Just ain’t been the same, you not visiting like you did.” Lily sounded truly regretful.
I paused in the hall, not wanting to interrupt, yet curious to hear more. I should have been ashamed of eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Well, Lily, things just didn’t work out. Hank and I saw things differently, I guess.” He sounded regretful, too. “Tell me, is he doing okay? Is he still gambling?”
“He swears he ain’t going to no more, but he said that before. I’m afraid they go’n’ lose everything, Mr. Stewart. They had to let me go, and they been selling the furniture. They ain’t hardly nothing left.”
“I didn’t know it had gotten that bad. If I could help, I would, but I’m the last person Hank would accept any help from.”
“And you the best friend he ever had. I can’t think what’s wrong with that boy. Now he done took up with, well, he done took up with somebody else, and I don’t think it’s right.”
“I didn’t know that. Who is this new ‘friend’ of his?” Stewart sounded both annoyed and curious.
“I don’t rightly know. You have to ask Mr. Hank that yourself,” Lily said, and she sounded evasive to me.
“Are you sure you can’t tell me, Lily?” Stewart would have his most winsome, wheedling expression on full force now, I was sure.
“No, I can’t, Mr. Stewart. Like I said, I don’t rightly know. You have to ask Mr. Hank.” Lily was stubborn in her refusal. I was sure she did know the identity of Hank’s new boyfriend, but for whatever reason she wasn’t going to tell Stewart.
Not that it was any of my business, or Stewart’s, for that matter. I had eavesdropped long enough. I backed up a few steps, called out, “Diesel, where are you?” then strolled into the kitchen.
“Hi, Stewart,” I said brightly. “Lily, is Diesel still here with you?” Diesel answered that question himself by warbling loudly as he walked around the table to greet me.