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"I suppose.”
"You seem embarrassed. Why? Everyone wants to know who they are. Everyone needs to belong to someone."
Leif stiffened. "No. I don't need a relationship with him. I just want to know who he is. Calliope admitted he didn't know about me and she wanted me to right that wrong. To fix it for her."
"That's a little selfish of her.”
"How?"
"She left the dirty work to you... and obviously gave you no idea of where to start. Why didn't she reveal his name?"
"She was dying. It wasn't a good death."
Hilda started walking again, her gaze fastened on the houses they approached. "Well, if you can forgive her, I certainly have no business criticizing. I'll do what I can to help you discover the truth."
"I don't want people knowing, especially since most think my mother's a murderer."
Hilda shook her head. "I never thought Calli could do something so heinous. Some people were willing to believe because money was involved.”
"My mother didn't care about money."
Hilda sighed. "Yes, but people are foolish. They like to believe the worst, and money always seems to be motive. Besides half the women in town disliked your mother solely because she was beautiful. They didn't like their farmers’ attention on another woman. Rumors ran rampant that spring and summer. Some implied your mother was more than a free spirit, more like a free woman."
"So she was painted a whore before she was painted a murderer?"
"Only by some small-minded people. Calli didn't like conventions and some people are scared of letting go of their godforsaken morals about what is right and wrong. For them, it was easier to cast your mother as some loose woman who sculpted naked people and nosed around after Harvey money."
They walked a little farther, nearing the two-story Victorian Hilda called home. "I'll try to remember who Calli ran around with. I'm sure Simeon kept some kind of record of the artists who were there. A few local boys chased her a bit, but I can't remember who tickled her fancy. I'll look through my old albums. I have pictures from the festival that year since I was the historian for the Laurel Woods Art Foundation. Maybe something will ring a bell. You can also talk to Carla Stanton. She now lives south of Baton Rouge but she worked for Simeon back then."
"Thank you. I figured I would talk to Mr. Desadier and see if he remembers my mother... or anything from the night Simeon died."
"Good plan. The person who would have the most knowledge is Bartholomew. He was there that night, but be careful. Bart gained a lot the night his great uncle died and he might not be willing to tell the whole truth. Know what I mean?"
Leif jerked his head around. "Do you think he's covering up something?"
"I'm not saying that. Just reminding you this is a small town and the Harvey family is still influential in this state. What Bart said, no matter that he was likely half-drunk with strong motivation to run your mama out of town, carried weight then...and still does now."
"I'm not afraid of the truth, Hilda. I'm willing to bet my next paycheck that my mother had nothing to do with Simeon's death. She might have been there that night, but being responsible? No." He climbed the front steps.
Hilda pulled her keys from her pocket and inserted one in the lock. "Just a friendly reminder be cause you're an outsider and, though Magnolia Bend is filled with hospitable people, they can close ranks pretty fast. Doesn't mean there's not a place for the truth, but you might not get much help."
He nodded. "I'd appreciate your discretion in regard to my father."
Hilda smiled. ''Oh, honey, I'm the soul of discretion, and I won't tell anyone about any potential button-popping because, Lord Almighty, that woman needs a good screwing."
"I never said I would," Leif said, entering the overly warm house, inhaling the cinnamon smell wafting from the kitchen.
"But I'd bet my next paycheck you will."
"Do you get a paycheck?" he asked.
''No, but if I did, I'd bet it," Hilda said, sweeping a hand toward the dining room shining with crystal and silver. "Let's eat, darling. I'm starved."
ABIGAIL washedthe dishes handing them over to Shelby to dry. Sunday dinner at her parents' house had been almost comforting in its normalness. Abigail, her brothers, and their families gathered after church every Sunday to dine on Cajun ham, gumbo, rump roast or some other equally delicious fare while catching up with each other. Another Beauchamp tradition.
"So are you excited about the art festival in March? John told me you're on the committee,” Shelby said as she brushed by Abigail to set the dried platter on the counter. They'd drawn cleanup duty after playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with Abigail's brothers, but she didn't mind. Standing at the sink of her childhood home always made her feel normal.
"It'll be good for Magnolia Bend."
