Chapter 5
Cadie pulled away from the curb and merged into Charleston traffic. She thought of the coffee shop conversation, and how easy it was to talk to Barrett. He looked good with his lean, muscular build, and those dark eyes that seemed to see everything. He had the same quiet confidence she remembered.
She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of sexy images of Barrett. This wasn't the time to think about her attraction. Her aunt may have died under suspicious circumstances, so that was what mattered.
The attorney had given her keys to her aunt's home. He'd mentioned she could go there anytime to collect personal items or anything she wanted to keep. Her aunt's home wasn't far, and it was still early. She decided to go and look around, then maybe she'd understand the situation better.
After a few minutes, she turned onto a residential street of modest but elegant homes.
The house was a small single-story with pale yellow siding and white trim.
A front porch with wrought-iron railings stretched across the facade.
The yard was neat but not elaborate, with azalea bushes flanking the steps and a small garden bed along the front.
Cadie parked in the driveway and sat for a moment to look at the house. After her husband passed, her aunt had lived by herself. She might have been lonely or wished for family to visit more often. But it was too late to do anything about that.
She got out of the car and climbed the porch steps, then opened the door. The interior smelled of lemon polish and a floral scent. Cadie stepped inside and closed the door behind her, standing in the small foyer as her eyes adjusted to the low light.
To her left was a living room with furniture that had clearly been chosen decades ago.
A sofa with fabric upholstery sat against one wall, flanked by matching armchairs.
An upright piano occupied the far corner, its dark wood gleaming even in the subdued light.
Sheet music was stacked neatly on the music stand.
Cadie walked to the piano and ran her fingers over the keys without pressing down. Touching the piano made her feel closer to her aunt.
She turned and surveyed the rest of the space. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall, filled with books about music theory, biographies of composers, and collections of sheet music. A few novels were tucked among them, mostly classics. Framed photographs were arranged on the mantel.
Cadie moved closer to examine them. One was her father as a young man, standing beside Celia Ann, and both were smiling. The family resemblance was clear. Another photo showed Celia Ann with her husband Emory at what looked like a conservatory event.
Then Cadie saw a photograph of herself as a teenager, sitting at a piano with her hands poised over the keys.
She remembered when it was taken. Her father had brought her to Stratton House for a visit, and Aunt Celia Ann had insisted on taking pictures.
Her aunt had kept it displayed in a silver frame in a place of honor among the family pictures.
The kitchen was small and tidy. On the counter beside the stove was a medication organizer, the kind with compartments for each day of the week. It was empty, but labels were still affixed to the side to indicate morning or evening doses. The names of medications were clearly listed.
Cadie closed the pill organizer and moved through the rest of the house.
There was a small bedroom with a queen bed covered in a handmade quilt, and more photographs on the dresser.
Another room looked rarely used, so it was probably for guests.
The bathroom was equipped with old-fashioned fixtures and towels folded neatly on the rack.
Then she found the home office.
It was tucked into what might have originally been a sunroom at the back of the house.
Windows looked out onto a small garden with a birdbath and flowering plants.
A desk sat against one wall, its surface organized but not empty.
Papers were stacked in neat piles, a lamp with a green glass shade provided light, and a cup of pens was within easy reach.
More photographs hung on the walls. One was of Celia Ann with students at the conservatory, and another was of a group photo of a recital.
She approached the desk, running her fingers over the smooth wood surface, noting that everything was orderly.
A calendar lay open to the month before her aunt's death.
Appointments were written in careful script.
Coming up had been a doctor's visit, piano tuning at Stratton House, and a meeting with her attorney.
The desk had three drawers on the right side. Cadie opened the top one and found the usual office supplies of pens, paper clips, and envelopes. The middle drawer contained papers, such as utility bills, insurance papers, and bank statements.
The bottom drawer was locked.
Cadie stared at it. Everything else in the house was open and accessible. But her aunt had locked one drawer.
She remembered the key ring the attorney had given her and pulled it from her purse. One key looked like it might fit Stratton House. But there were several smaller keys.
Cadie tried one, but it didn't fit. Another slid into the lock and turned with a soft click.
She pulled the drawer open. Inside was a single item, a leather-bound journal with Celia Ann Stratton embossed in gold on the cover.
Cadie lifted it out carefully. The leather was soft with age and the binding worn from use. She could see bookmark ribbons in different colors sticking out from various sections. Her aunt had returned to certain pages multiple times.
She sat in the desk chair and cradled the journal in her lap. It was her aunt's personal journal, not meant to be read by another.
But Celia Ann had left instructions for an investigation. Maybe she had hidden the journal in a locked drawer to protect it, knowing that someday it might matter.
Cadie took a deep breath. "Forgive me, Aunt Celia Ann," she whispered, "but I need to understand."
She opened the journal. The entries spanned years. Cadie flipped through slowly, seeing glimpses of her aunt's daily life. She spotted notes about students, thoughts about music, even reflections on her husband after his death. There were mentions of Cadie and her father.
The entries from the past year were different. Most seemed routine, like notes about the conservatory's maintenance or concerns about funding for scholarships. Her aunt had scribbled reflections on aging and slowing down.
Then Cadie found notes that caught her attention. The date was three months before her aunt's death. The handwriting was Celia Ann's, slightly shakier than in earlier entries but still legible. Riveted, she read the entry, then read it again.
She flipped forward through the pages, scanning for more entries. There were others, but she needed time to read them properly. This one showed that her aunt had been lucid enough to write clearly and articulate what she was feeling.
Cadie pressed the journal to her chest. Barrett needed to see it.
She'd mentioned dinner but hadn't set a time or place. She had Barrett's number from the business card, so she texted: Pick me up at 6 pm for dinner.
His response came within a minute: I'll be there.
Cadie stood and placed the journal in her bag. She took one more look around the office, at the photographs and papers that told the story of her aunt's life. Then she locked up the house and drove back to her hotel.
*****
In her hotel room, Cadie showered then tried to decide what to wear.
She should wear something practical and professional to discuss the investigation.
Yet she chose the dress she'd packed. It was deep blue, simple but flattering, with a modest neckline and a hem that fell just above her knees.
She'd thrown it in her suitcase thinking she might need something nice if she had to meet with the attorney or other officials.
She held it up, considering her image in the mirror. She wanted to look good for Barrett, a thought that gave her pause.
This wasn't the time for attraction. Her aunt had just died, and Cadie was helping uncover the truth about what had happened. Romance had no place in the situation.
But her body warmed when she thought about seeing Barrett again. She couldn't forget the way he'd looked at her in the coffee shop, and how he'd steadied her at Stratton House. Her feelings couldn't be ignored.
Cadie slipped into the dress and checked her reflection. She looked nice, yet professional enough for a dinner meeting. She applied light makeup and left her hair down, the dark waves falling past her shoulders. A pair of simple silver earrings and a slim watch completed the look.
She put the journal, the one tangible piece of evidence she'd uncovered, in a book bag on the bed.
She sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath.
She would show Barrett the journal, then tomorrow they would talk to Olivia Stewart.
Eventually, they would find out what had happened to Aunt Celia Ann.
The knock on her door came at exactly six o'clock.
Cadie grabbed her book bag and opened the door.
Barrett stood in the hallway, looking drop-dead gorgeous.
He'd changed into dark jeans and a charcoal button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His dark hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered recently.
He looked casual but put together, and when his eyes met hers, she held her breath.
Barrett gazed at her, and she felt admiration. "You look beautiful."
"That's kind of you to say." Her voice came out softer than she intended. "You look nice too."
The chemistry between them was strong, but Cadie stepped back and grabbed her room key. "I have something to show you."
Barrett's attention sharpened immediately. He noticed the book bag. "What did you find?"