Chapter 9
Cadie woke to soft morning light filtering through the hotel curtains. For a moment, she lay still, her mind drifting back to the night before at the restaurant with its candlelight and jazz. The conversation had flowed so easily with Barrett—and then the kiss.
She touched her lips, remembering the warmth of Barrett's mouth on hers and the way he cradled her face with his hand, gentle but certain.
Her body tingled with the memory. She had wanted him to stay and had almost asked him inside.
Yet she'd held back. It was her fear of moving too fast and losing him.
Anyway, there was no time to indulge in romantic daydreaming. Her aunt deserved answers, and the investigation was far from complete. The music community contacts in her aunt's planner were waiting, and Barrett was already out pursuing his own leads. She needed to focus.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand, but there were no messages. Barrett would be busy all day. He was doing further investigation, so she'd have to see him later.
That day, Cadie planned to meet with a few people who knew her aunt well.
After she showered and dressed, she went to the office of Duggan Johnson, who was listed in her aunt's planner as the concert director.
His office was on the third floor of a business building near the waterfront.
She wasn't sure what she hoped to learn, only that she needed to understand her aunt's final months from every angle possible.
The door to his suite was open when she arrived.
A man in his late sixties sat behind a desk covered with papers and concert programs. He had silver hair and a distinguished bearing, and was dressed in a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt.
Posters from past performances lined the walls, and a piano was in one corner of the spacious room.
When she stood in the doorway, he looked up. "Ms. Ladd?"
"Yes." Cadie stepped inside. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Johnson."
He rose and extended his hand. "Please, call me Duggan, and it's no trouble at all. Your aunt was a dear friend and colleague. The least I can do is spare some time for her niece."
Cadie shook his hand and took the seat he offered across from his desk. The office smelled of old paper and coffee, comfortable and lived in. Through the window, she could see Charleston Harbor glittering in the morning sun.
"I was sorry to hear about her passing," Duggan said, settling back into his chair. "Celia Ann was one of a kind. The conservatory won't be the same without her."
"I hadn't seen her often in recent years."
Duggan waved a hand. "She understood and was proud of what you accomplished in New Orleans."
He talked for a while about Celia Ann's contributions to Charleston's music scene, the concerts she'd organized, and the students she'd mentored. Duggan's affection for her was evident in each story he told. Celia Ann had been more than a colleague to him—she'd been a friend.
Then his expression grew more serious. "Your aunt mentioned once that she worried about the building's future. She was quite adamant about it."
Cadie leaned forward. "Did she say why she was worried?"
"She brought it up several times in our last conversations. It seemed to weigh on her." Duggan paused. "I told her not to worry, that she had years left to ensure the building's future. But she seemed uncertain, almost anxious about it."
A movement in the hallway caught Duggan's attention. He looked past Cadie and smiled. "Tom…come in here a moment."
A man appeared in the doorway, middle-aged, with an energetic presence. He wore a casual jacket over a button-down shirt, and his hair was slightly disheveled in a way that suggested creative distraction.
"Tom Graves, this is Cadie Ladd," Duggan said. "Celia Ann's niece. She inherited Stratton House."
Tom's expression shifted to sympathy. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Your aunt was a remarkable woman."
"Thank you." Cadie shook his hand. "I understand you worked with her at the conservatory?"
"Yes, and she was the heart of that place." Tom glanced at Duggan, as if he wanted to say more.
Duggan motioned toward a chair. "Tom, why don't you sit for a moment? Ms. Ladd is trying to understand her aunt's final months."
Tom took the chair beside Cadie. "You know, Celia Ann mentioned something to me about six months ago."
"What did she say?" Cadie asked.
"She said she felt 'not herself' but couldn't explain it. She wondered if her medications were affecting her thinking." Tom shook his head slowly. "I told her to talk to her doctor, but I don't know if she did."
"Did she say anything else or seem worried?"
"She seemed confused, kind of uncertain." Tom met Cadie's eyes. "That wasn't like her. Celia Ann was usually sharp and decisive. But that day, she seemed lost. I should have pressed harder, followed up with her. I regret that I didn't."
Cadie absorbed the information. The timeline in her aunt's notes aligned with that. It seemed that she'd been reaching out to people, trying to understand what was happening to her. And no one had realized how serious it was.
"Thank you for telling me," Cadie said. "It helps to know what she was experiencing."
Tom nodded. "If there's anything else I can do, please let me know."
Cadie exchanged contact information with both men and thanked them for their time. As she left the building, the weight of what she'd learned settled over her. Her aunt had been trying to tell people something was wrong. But no one had listened closely enough.
*****
Her next appointment was with Carmine Thompson, a piano teacher who lived in a quiet residential neighborhood. The house was pale green with white trim, and flower boxes lined the windows. A small sign near the door read, Piano Instruction by Appointment.
Cadie parked on the street and walked up the front path. Before she could knock, the door opened to reveal a woman in her sixties with silver-streaked hair and an elegant bearing. She wore a silk blouse and tailored slacks, and her smile was warm and welcoming.
"You must be Cadie. Please, come in."
The interior was beautiful, with hardwood floors and antique furniture. A piano dominated the living room, its polished surface gleaming in the afternoon light. Sheet music was stacked neatly on a side table, and framed photographs lined the mantel.
"Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Thompson."
"Call me Carmine, please." She gestured toward a comfortable seating area near the piano. "Can I offer you some tea?"
"That would be lovely."
Carmine disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a tray. She settled into a chair across from Cadie. The atmosphere was peaceful, unhurried.
"Your aunt and I worked together for many years," Carmine said. "She was a gifted teacher and a dear friend. I miss her terribly."
"I'm trying to understand her final months," Cadie said, "how she was doing, what she was experiencing. Is there anything you remember could be helpful?"
Carmine considered the question. "I saw her regularly at the conservatory, even after she stopped teaching full time. We would have lunch together, discuss students, plan concerts." She paused, her expression thoughtful. "She was sharp as ever, even at eighty-one. Her mind was clear."
Cadie set down her teacup. "You're certain? She didn't seem confused or forgetful?"
"Not at all." Carmine's voice was firm. "Celia Ann was one of the most intelligent women I've ever known. She could discuss music theory, politics, literature. Whatever the topic, she engaged with it fully." She shook her head. "If she seemed confused to others, that wasn't the Celia Ann I knew."
The observation contradicted what Olivia had implied about confusion being expected at her aunt's age. Either Carmine had seen a different side of Celia Ann, or something had been causing the confusion that Olivia attributed to natural decline.
A knock at the door interrupted them. Carmine rose to answer it, and a young woman in her early twenties entered. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she carried a folder of sheet music.
"Cadie, this is Allison Williams," Carmine said. "She knew your aunt also. Allison, this is Celia Ann's niece."
Allison said, "I'm so sorry for your loss. Mrs. Stratton was wonderful."
"Thank you." Cadie stood to shake her hand. "You were a student at the conservatory?"
"I was, for several years." Allison's voice held genuine sadness. "She stopped teaching about a year ago, when her health declined. We all missed her. She had a way of making you feel like you could accomplish anything."
The timeline matched what Cadie had been piecing together. A year ago, her aunt's decline had become noticeable enough that she could no longer teach. Six months ago, she had started mentioning concerns to people like Tom. And then the decline had accelerated.
Cadie thanked Allison and turned back to Carmine. "I should let you get to your lesson. It's good to meet you."
Carmine walked her to the door. "If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to call. Your aunt was special to me. I want to help however I can."
*****
The drive back to the hotel gave Cadie time to process what she had learned.
The music community had painted a picture of her aunt that contradicted Olivia's version.
Celia Ann had been sharp, clear-minded, and engaged with the world around her.
The confusion she experienced hadn't been a gradual decline.
In her hotel room, Cadie sat on the bed and pulled out her aunt's journal. She had skimmed portions of it before, but now she needed to read it thoroughly, noting every observation or concern her aunt had documented.
She opened to the first relevant entry and began to read.
The earliest entries were routine notes about the conservatory and daily life.
But as Cadie moved forward in time, the tone shifted.
Her aunt mentioned fatigue that seemed excessive, energy that didn't return no matter how much she rested.
She wrote about dizziness that came without warning and hands that trembled when she tried to play.
The symptoms troubled her, but Olivia had assured her that they were normal for her age and condition. Her aunt accepted that at first. She trusted her caregiver, believed Olivia had her best interests at heart.
But the entries continued as months passed.
Celia Ann wrote about feeling off in ways she couldn't describe.
She mentioned confusion that frightened her, moments when she couldn't remember conversations or appointments.
She wondered if her medications were right, if something had been changed without her knowledge.
She had tried to call her doctor but learned she hadn't been seen in months, despite Olivia claiming otherwise.
She had asked questions about her medications but received only reassurances that everything was correct.
She had reached out to friends and mentioned her concerns, but no one had connected the dots.
The final entries, dated just two weeks before her death, were the hardest to read.
She wrote about fear she couldn't explain, a sense that something was terribly wrong even though she couldn't prove it.
She mentioned leaving instructions with her attorney, just in case.
She hoped someone would ask questions if anything happened to her.
Her aunt had known—not the specifics, but she had sensed that something was wrong. She had documented her experience, hoping someone would discover the truth.
Cadie went through the entries a second time, more slowly.
She noted dates, symptoms, and discrepancies between what Olivia had told her aunt and what the records showed.
The pattern was clear. The journal was evidence.
Combined with the pharmacy records Barrett had found and the observations from the music community, it painted a picture that was impossible to ignore.
Cadie needed to share the new information with Barrett. She reached for her phone and typed a message: When will you return to the hotel?
She stared at the screen, waiting. A minute passed, then two. Finally, his response appeared: Before dinner. Learning a lot.
She held back from asking more. Whatever he'd learned, he would share it when they were together.