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.

“Thank you,” she said. “So tell me. What was it that Mama saw that night? I thought a lot about it, but I couldn’t get it.”

As I prepared the coffeemaker, I reminded her about Sissy’s Yorkie wrist corsage, and she nodded. “Got you. It would make a weird shadow. And maybe it shed some of its hair on Vera when she pushed her. That could help prove she did it.”

I hoped she was right. Then I went on to explain the realization I had come to about the true nature of the relationship among Sissy, Hank, and Morty.

Kanesha apparently didn’t have any trouble believing it. “Makes sense to me,” she said. “The main question will be whether they were accessories.”

“I’m glad I won’t have to be the one to decide that,” I said. The coffee was ready, and I poured cups for both of us. She took hers without cream or sugar. I had to have both in mine.

“What will you do now?” I asked after she’d had a few sips of her coffee.

“I’ll have to go to Tidwell,” Kanesha said. “Not looking forward to that, but he’s in charge. I just don’t want him to harass Mama about this.”

“I don’t imagine either you or Dr. Sharp will let that happen.”

Kanesha smiled faintly. “You’re right about that.” She drained her coffee and put the cup aside. “Thank you, Charlie. For the coffee and everything.” She stood. “I can’t put this off. I’ll give you a call later, but the sheriff may be in touch with you first.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll be here.”

I showed her to the door and walked tiredly back to the kitchen. I debated whether to go back to bed but decided I might as well stay up.

I poured myself more coffee and thought about Vera’s murder. A terrible tragedy all the way around.

Most of all I felt sorry for Vera, and also for her mother, Essie Mae. I thought about the Ducote sisters and wondered whether they knew the truth about Essie Mae, or if they even remembered her at all.

Should that skeleton stay in the closet? Was it my place to tell the sisters about it? Whatever I decided, I knew I would be haunted by Essie Mae for a long time.

THIRTY-FOUR

I spent a restless morning as I continued to debate with myself whether I should give the diary to the Ducote sisters, and once I had decided that I must, how I should explain my having read it in the first place. Poor Diesel watched me pace around my bedroom for an hour before he had enough and abandoned me for someone who would give him more than the occasional pat on the head.