I probably gaped at him after that little verbal bomb. “Are you serious? Vera is your godmother?”
Stewart shrugged. “Sadly, yes. She and my late mother were best friends in high school. They both grew up on the wrong side of the tracks.” His left eyebrow arched. “They both ended up marrying money. Of course, my father inherited his, while Morty had to earn it by the sweat of his fevered brow.”
“Marrying into it is so much simpler, naturally.” I grinned, and Diesel warbled right on cue.
Stewart laughed. “Naturally. I have to say this for my mother, she stuck by Vera in the years before Morty had a pot to pee in—pardon the elegant expression, but it fits the subject so well.” His left eyebrow quirked upward again. “When I came along, charming bundle of joy that I was, my mother insisted on naming her best friend as my godmother.”
“Then you know Vera well?” This connection between Stewart and Vera really surprised me.
“Well enough, I suppose.” Stewart didn’t sound thrilled about it. “Vera was never that fond of me, nor I of her, but when she finally figured out I was gay, she had as little to do with me as possible.” He shot me a sardonic glance. “And of course I was completely devastated.”
“I’m sure it marked you for life.” I kept my tone serious.
Stewart snorted. “Just another example of the way Vera endears herself to people.” He paused for coffee, then set his cup on the table. “I do feel sorry for her sometimes. She tries to get people to like her; she just doesn’t understand the basic principle—that you have to be nice to people yourself. Plus, she has a chip the size of Mount Rushmore on her shoulder about growing up dirt-poor. She’s so sure people resent her because of Morty’s money, she comes across like a lion getting ready to feast on an arena full of terrified Christians.”
“Surely she’s not that bad.” I had no reason to be fond of Vera, based on our previous interactions, but I wouldn’t compare her to a voracious wild beast.
“Well, probably not.” Stewart chuckled. “She seriously needs to take a chill pill, especially around Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce. The way they were bickering last night really got to you, didn’t it?” Stewart often pretended to be a complete flibbertigibbet, but he was far shrewder and more observant than he liked to let on.
“I don’t like conflict, especially conflict that open.” The cat meowed, and I smiled. “Neither does Diesel.”
“Par for the course with Vera and the Ducote sisters.” Stewart rolled his eyes. “I guess everybody else is just used to it. If Vera didn’t push the sisters so hard, they wouldn’t resent her so. They’re really not the self-absorbed aristocrats they sometimes appear to be.”
I could concur with that. In my limited experience with them I had seen their true kindness and concern for the welfare of others.
Stewart echoed my thoughts as he continued, “They work very hard, and if they were thirty years younger they’d probably be running their own companies. A lot of people have reason to be grateful to them for the good works they do.” He paused for a moment. “Instead of just pitching in and getting the work done, Vera wants to be in charge. I think she wants the glory, like she has to prove herself to someone, but she doesn’t want to soil her hands with actual work.”
“Perhaps she needs to prove something to herself,” I suggested.
Stewart nodded. “You’re probably right. Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce care about helping people, and that’s the point of it all. They regard it as their duty. It’s how they were brought up to think.”
“Vera loathes them.” I paused. “At least, that’s my impression.”
“Maybe she does,” Stewart said. “She sure as heck resents them because they thwart her all the time.”
“Like with the gala. They sent out the invitations yesterday, before the meeting.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” Stewart laughed. “No flies on those two old girls.” He glanced at his watch. “Time I was heading off to campus. Can’t keep the president waiting.” He pushed back his chair, stood, and then took his coffee cup to the sink behind me.
I turned in my chair to face him. “One quick thing, before you go.” I was about to be incredibly nosy, but curiosity had the better of me.
Stewart nodded. “Sure, what is it?”
“I mentioned earlier to Azalea that Vera was here last night, and I thought she was going to have a conniption fit over the woman. Do you have any idea why she would hate Vera so much?” Azalea had once worked for Stewart’s family, although it was many years ago now, and I thought he might know something.
Instead of answering, however, Stewart blinked at me several times in rapid succession and tilted his head a tiny bit.
Taking his cue, I turned back to the table to see Azalea standing a few feet away.
“You best be mindin’ your own business, Mr. Charlie.” Her fierce expression hit me like a laser, and it took all I had not to crawl under the table to escape from those eyes. Diesel did disappear under there. “What’s between me and that woman ain’t nobody’s business in this house. Ain’t never gonna be.” She stomped past me and moments later I heard the thud of her feet on the stairs.
FIVE
I felt about three inches tall, and to judge by Stewart’s expression, he was experiencing a similar amount of chagrin.
Stewart pushed away from the counter. “Guess I’d better head to my meeting, discretion being the better part of valor and all that.” He headed for the front door after treating me to a pale imitation of his usual cocky grin.
“Guess you and I had better hop it up the stairs, boy, and dress for work.” I got up from the table, and Diesel trotted toward the hall. With a rueful glance at my unfinished breakfast I followed the cat upstairs. With any luck I could get out the front door without encountering Azalea again. I was frankly surprised she hadn’t given me notice, but I supposed it would take more than my nosiness to make her relinquish her job.
While I got ready for work, I thought more about Azalea’s reaction to my nosiness. Vera must have done something terrible to merit such loathing. I would have to be careful about mentioning Vera’s name in front of my housekeeper. I didn’t want to exacerbate the situation. I’d embarrassed myself enough already. Maybe if I tiptoed lightly around her, Azalea would eventually forgive me. Otherwise her baleful presence might be too much to live with.
I continued to mull over the issue while Diesel and I walked to work, but I was simply treading the same ground over and over. While I divested myself of my coat and scarf, Diesel leaped into the window behind my desk and settled down to gaze outside and eventually to nap. He meowed twice as I sat and switched on the computer. I obliged with a few rubs on his head and ears, and he rewarded me with a loud purr.
After dealing with various e-mails, several of which required detailed responses, I focused my attention on cataloging. The Delacorte Collection was my current project, and I got a tiny thrill every time I touched one of the often-rare volumes, like the first editions of titles as diverse as Pride and Prejudice and Whose Body? I regretted the manner in which the college had obtained the books—a legacy from the late James Delacorte who had been murdered—but the opportunity to work closely with such gems was such stuff as catalogers’ dreams are made on.
I smiled. Laura would appreciate my slight misquotation of Shakespeare, no doubt.
Diesel dozed in the window behind me, and other than the occasional yawn or lazy warble, I heard only the music I played while I worked. Today I listened to Telemann horn concertos. The precision of Baroque music, I generally found, provided a certain orderliness to my thought processes.