“Not yet twenty as I recall.”
Back in those days—the early fifties—having a baby out of wedlock was viewed as pretty much the worst sin a young woman could commit, especially here in the South. Society had come a long way in publicly accepting unwed mothers, but even so, there were still some here who would look down their nose at a woman in such a situation.
“She passed on while giving birth to that baby, and her mama and daddy took charge of him.”
“Who was Haywood’s father? The name’s rubbed out on the family tree.”
“Not sure. Rupert had a boy about her age, perhaps a bit older, but he was at war when all this was going on.”
“Do you think the father could have been Rupert himself?”
He sipped from his glass and shrugged. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. He was a widower by then, but there was a good twenty-some-year age difference between the two. I never heard any talk about it. And small towns being small towns, word would have gotten around. If she had been seeing Rupert Ezekiel, I would have known. The town would have known. And we all would have known the baby she had was most likely his.”
Water dripped from the eaves as I bit my thumbnail, feeling like I’d hit another dead end. “How about a possible rift between Patricia Davis Jackson and Haywood? Do you know anything about that?”
“A rift?”
“Apparently, she doesn’t care for him.”
He cracked a smile. “I didn’t know, but I suppose that explains why she might have hit him over the head with a candlestick.”
Fidgety, I tugged on the cuff of my raincoat. “Our working theory is that she didn’t commit the crime. That she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Ice rattled as he took a sip of his drink. “Our?”
“Well, Dylan’s theory.” I bit another nail. “I’m still on the fence about her guilt. Camped up there on that fence, in fact. I might make some s’mores I’m so comfy up there.”
Laughing, he said, “Your caution comes from wisdom. Firsthand experience is a wise teacher. You have seen her worst. Others don’t possess such clarity.”
No, most didn’t, for which I was grateful. I could handle Patricia, but others would cower under one of her verbal attacks, as Avery Bryan had last night. I asked Mr. Dunwoody if he knew of her.
A bristly eyebrow arched. “Who?”
There went that hope.
I drummed my fingers on the chair arms and noticed Virgil sitting dejectedly at the curb. “I don’t suppose you know what became of Virgil Keane’s dog, Louella?”
Overdramatically, Mr. Dunwoody shuddered. “Meanest little dog I ever did meet. I haven’t seen her since Virgil passed on.”
He sounded relieved by that last part.
I said, “Virgil’s not going to cross over until he knows what happened to her.”
Mr. Dunwoody rocked slowly. “Check with Doc Gabriel. If anyone would know, it’s him.”
It was an excellent suggestion. Not only because Doc’s vet practice was also in charge of the town’s animal control, but because he was married to Idella Deboe Kirby, one of the Harpies. He might know something about the Ezekiel house and Haywood’s murder that he’d be willing to share . . . or that I could trick him into admitting.
The only rub was that his practice wasn’t open on Sundays, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to call on him at home.
Tomorrow would be soon enough. I’d stop by to see him first thing in the morning.
“Thanks for all the help, Mr. Dunwoody.” Standing, I bent and gave him a kiss on his cheek before I put my sunglasses back on.
“Anytime, Carly Bell. Anytime. Where are you off to now?”
“Just going home.” I wanted to see what I could learn about Avery Bryan online.
“That’s right. The hibernation. Much safer inside with all the ghosts out and about.”
“It definitely is,” I agreed. But as I walked away, I had the uneasy feeling that at this point the ghosts were the least of my problems.
? ? ?
I returned home to find my mama and daddy in my kitchen.
They’d been busy in the short time I’d spent with Eulalie and Mr. Dunwoody. My daddy was hard at work creating quite the Sunday breakfast spread. Buttermilk waffles, bacon, griddled potatoes. He was the best cook I knew, and I was suddenly famished.
Mama was busy, too . . . reading through the stack of paperwork Dylan and I had copied at Haywood’s house.
“Well slap me nekkid and sell my clothes!” Mama exclaimed as I kicked off my boots. She held up a photocopy of the Ezekiel family tree. “Is this true? Was Haywood Dodd the heir to the Ezekiel mansion?”
“It looks that way,” I said as I kissed my daddy’s cheek and gave my mama a hug hello. “This is a surprise, seeing you both here.”
Raising pencil-drawn eyebrows, Mama tipped her head and oh so sweetly said, “It wouldn’t have been if you’d answered your phone this morning.”