Bette looked up from the phone and put one arm of her glasses in her mouth, trying to drum up a forgotten thought. “Now, I’ve also heard that old Mr. Cottonwood did her in when he was drunk. That man, by all accounts, never passed up the chance to tilt a bottle. And he gambled his wife’s money away…well, much of it, anyway. But that was so long ago, it’s hard to know what the truth is and what is simply plain old rumors. You know what they say, ‘Nothing makes a Southern story better than a stretch of time and a few glasses of gin.’” Bette pursed her lips and shook her head; her curls bounced around her face. She handed me back my phone, too polite to ask for copies of the pictures. I was thankful, as I’d have had to say no.

I asked, “Tell me about Mrs. Stuart. What was she like, and why did she become so obsessed with Miss Cottonwood’s fate?”

“Emily was her name, Ashland’s mother. She was from a very fine family from the northern part of the county. Remember? She was a Hunter, and later she discovered the Hunters were a part of the Beaumonts, one of Mobile’s oldest families.” After dropping that bomb on me, Bette kept talking. “Emily was tall and athletic; she beat me more than once in tennis, but she was very much a lady. I remember when she first got married—oh, she was the talk of Mobile. So lovely in that big old chiffon gown. You know, back in the ’60s, it wasn’t a wedding gown if it didn’t have umpteen ruffles.”

I nudged the conversation along. I would circle back to the Beaumont comment in a minute or two. I didn’t want to be rude. “You say you two played tennis together?” I poured more syrup on my French toast; I wasn’t really hungry any longer, but I desperately wanted this conversation to continue.

“Our husbands were members of the same country club; we played doubles a few times. His name was Gerald. I wasn’t crazy about Mr. Gerald Stuart—he liked to talk over her too much. Sometimes I would ask her a question, about her son or something else, and he’d answer for her. That drove me crazy! She did love that boy, though. He was her everything.”

I took a sip of my coffee and ignored the clock. It was getting late, but the conversation was riveting. “So is Ashland an only child?”

“Yes. I think she wanted to have more—she did love children, but he was the only one. When her husband died, I half thought she’d marry again. Mr. Stuart had a cousin that she seemed especially fond of—handsome man, can’t remember his name, but nothing happened. However, Mr. Stuart left her an extremely wealthy woman, as well he should have, as unkind as he was at times. Drive through Mobile, and you’ll see the Stuart name all over the place.”