Rumpled. That was it.
Poor Hank was reduced to wearing that same suit, because all his other suits were at the cleaner’s. Probably a euphemism for having to sell them, or else he owed the cleaner’s so much money they wouldn’t release his clothes until he paid them.
Either way, Hank had only the one suit. No wonder it looked like it did.
There was another elusive memory. Where else had I seen that suit, or part of it?
It took me a minute, but then I had it.
Morty Cassity was wearing the jacket when he came to the door the day I went to take Vera’s plaque to him.
But how?
Then I remembered a chance remark Stewart had made. I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was only a few minutes till ten, and I knew Stewart stayed up late.
I slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb Diesel. I hurried up the stairs to the third floor and knocked lightly on Stewart’s door.
“Come in,” he called.
He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, still dressed as he had been at dinner, with Dante napping beside him. He put aside the book he’d been reading. “Hi, Charlie. What’s up?”
“Remember the other day, when you were talking about how you ran into Sissy Beauchamp on the square?”
Stewart nodded. “Sure.”
“Can you tell me approximately what time it was when you ran into her, and how long the two of you were together?”
“Okay, let me see. I’m sure you’ll tell me why you want to know this?” At my nod he continued, “Well, it was around one o’clock, as I recall. We must have spent about an hour together over our milk shakes, so it was probably after two when I left her.”
“I see.” If Sissy had been with Stewart while I was with Morty Cassity, then it wasn’t Sissy driving that pink car that day. It had to be Hank instead.
Hank.
Sissy wasn’t Morty’s lover, Hank was.
I sat down abruptly on Stewart’s bed.
“Charlie, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”
I nodded, my thoughts running amok in my head. “Give me a minute.” I started recalling the various things I’d heard about Sissy.
The Ducote sisters telling me how surprised they were to hear that Sissy was running around with Morty, when she’d never been known to do that kind of thing before.
Helen Louise saying much the same thing.
Stewart telling me, earlier this evening, that he was surprised to hear that Sissy was running around with Morty because he’d always thought she was gay like her brother.
It all made sense, though. Sissy was known to be willing to do whatever she could to help out her beloved little brother.
Even pretending that she was having an affair with a married man so that no one would suspect that Hank and Morty were lovers.
And, finally, pushing Vera down the stairs to clear the way for her brother and Hank—and on top of that, access to those millions for her brother and herself.
“Charlie, you’re beginning to worry me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I surfaced from my whirlpool of thoughts to see Stewart regarding me with concern. “I’m okay,” I said. “Just a bit stunned, that’s all.”
“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” Stewart started bobbing up and down on the bed. “Tell me, tell me, or I’m going to bust a gasket right here and now.” Dante sat up, disturbed by the bobbing, and started barking. Stewart put a hand on him to calm him, and he shut up.
“Okay. Here goes.” I launched into my explanation.
Stewart’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head at first, but then he started nodding. When I finished, he said, “I think you have to be right, Charlie. I never could see why Sissy would take up with Morty, but I sure can see why Hank would. He always did seem to have a thing for older men, and powerful men, too. Morty is certainly that, with all that money. I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself.”
“They were extraordinarily careful,” I said. “Sissy was the key, the smokescreen.”
“Pretty effective,” Stewart said.
“Yes, she was.” I felt drained all of a sudden.
“Charlie, do you think Hank and Morty were in on the murder, though? Was it Sissy acting completely on her own, or do you think they egged her on?” Stewart sounded troubled, and I was sure he didn’t want to think a former boyfriend of his was capable of inciting his own sister to murder.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “I bet they’ve figured out by now that she did it, but the other day Hank seemed awfully convinced that Vera was drunk and fell down the stairs on her own.”
“He’s a terrible actor,” Stewart said, his face clearing a little, “and a terrible liar. Trust me, I’ve had plenty experience with it. He must have really believed it was an accident.”
“Maybe so.” I was going to reserve judgment on that one.
“What are you going to do now? Call Kanesha?”
I shook my head. “Not tonight. For one thing, Azalea is in no condition right now to talk to the sheriff, and Kanesha can’t do anything about it without involving Tidwell. It can wait until morning.”
I was probably cavalier in making that decision, but I felt that it was the right one. Convincing Kanesha, and then Tidwell, could be a monumental task, and I didn’t have the mental or physical energy to tackle it at ten thirty at night.
“Not a word to anyone else about this,” I said as I got up from the bed. “Okay?”
“No one will hear it from me,” Stewart said. “It’s going to be one hell of a mess, though, when it all comes out. Morty Cassity turning out to be gay will be a huge scandal.”
“No doubt,” I said wryly. Athena would be buzzing for months to come, if not years.
Diesel sat up sleepily when I got back in bed. He meowed at me, and I reassured him that everything was fine. He settled back down, and I tried to emulate him. My stomach churned, and my head buzzed, and it took quite a while that night for me to calm myself enough to fall asleep.
After a restless night I woke up at six the next morning. Too nervous to think about food, I also decided that caffeine wouldn’t help, so I settled on a cold glass of milk. Diesel was disappointed that there was no bacon to cadge, and he wandered off, probably in search of another bed to snooze on.
I kept glancing at the clock, waiting until a decent hour to call Kanesha.
Finally, at eight o’clock, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I called Kanesha’s cell phone and was relieved when she answered straightaway.
“How is Azalea doing?” I asked.
“She had a good night,” Kanesha replied. “I think she’s really going to be okay, thank the Lord. They moved her into a room not long after you left, and they’ll probably keep her until tomorrow. But if she keeps on doing well, she can go home then.”
“That’s wonderful news,” I said. “If she can have visitors, I’ll come visit later this morning.”
“I think she’d like that,” Kanesha said. “Aunt Lily’s with her now, but she won’t stay long.”
“Are you at the hospital now?”
“No, I’m at home. Why? What’s up?”
“I’ve got it figured out,” I said. “I need to talk to you right away.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Kanesha said.
I felt a little better now and decided that I could eat something. I didn’t have the energy to cook, so I settled for cereal and toast. Probably better for my waistline, anyway, so long as I didn’t load down the toast with any of Azalea’s homemade apricot preserves or strawberry jam.
Kanesha was as good as her word. Ten minutes from when we hung up, she was at the front door. I set down the last bit of toast and went to let her in.
“Come on into the kitchen,” I said. “Can I offer you anything to drink?”
“I could use some coffee,” she said. She looked like she hadn’t slept much, and I could sympathize.
“Sure, won’t take but a few minutes. I was about to make some for myself,” I added to forestall any objections.