I paid them scant attention, lost in my thoughts.

Could Essie Mae Hobson have anything to do with Vera’s death? The chances seemed remote, but I was definitely intrigued. Sending me this copy of a photograph was a bizarre thing to do—unless Melba was right about Vera’s wanting help to find out more about her mother and her family.

I wouldn’t accomplish anything by sitting here at Melba’s desk. Time to go back to my office upstairs and get busy.

“Come on, Diesel, let’s go.” I stood and motioned for the cat to get out of Melba’s lap.

Melba scowled at me. “Can’t he stay down here with me for a bit? I’ll bring him up later.”

“If he wants to, I reckon it’s okay.” I trusted Melba to take good care of him. From time to time he visited with her down here while I worked upstairs.

Diesel jumped down and ambled toward the door. “Not today, I guess.” Melba sighed. “Men are so fickle, even the feline ones.”

I gave that the answer it deserved by ignoring it. “See you later,” I said. “And thanks for letting me know about the letter.”

Upstairs Diesel wasted no time in settling down in his napping spot in the window. I figured he was ready to snooze for a while; otherwise he would have stayed with Melba. Wished I could catch a few winks myself, even after the sound sleep I’d had last night.

I switched on the computer and checked my phone for voice mail from yesterday when I was out of the office. I hadn’t thought about it this morning, and I saw now that the message light was blinking. I turned the speaker on so I could listen while I checked e-mail.

The first two calls were basic reference questions, people looking for genealogical information. I’d get back to them later today or tomorrow.

The third call startled the heck out of me. I heard Vera Cassity’s strident voice. Talk about unnerving. Diesel sat up and meowed, just as disturbed by it as I was.

I missed the first part of Vera’s message, so I had to replay it.

“By now you ought to’ve received a letter I sent you. It’s a photograph of my mother. I know diddly-squat about her life before she married my father, because she never talked about those years. I want to know, and I figured you could help me. I think there was some kind of connection with the Ducotes, though, and if you won’t let me look in those papers, maybe you can do it for me. I’ll see you at River Hill tonight.”

That was the final message. More final than Vera could have known, I realized, and that creeped me out again.

I thought about the message. Did Vera really not know anything about her mother’s early life? Or had she intended to use her mother as a ploy to get into the Ducote papers?

As the archivist, I had access to the papers, and Vera had probably figured that out. But whether I could justify snooping in them on another person’s behalf was questionable.