You can’t wait too long in this heat, and you telegraphed you wouldn’t be here for a while.” He looked at me reproachfully. “There was a likely crowd in attendance, worthy of a Bondurant. Of course, some came out of curiosity. That’s not worth denying. Folks were mighty nosy about Miss Amalia, always had been, ’cause nobody but me and Ezra and Aunt Polly had been inside Avoca for twenty, thirty years. Us and maybe Maggie Lott. Bayard Lott, too. Who’s to say? After all, he was there at the end. Anybody else come calling, Miss Amalia’d turn them away, tell them she was in the middle of spring housecleaning. Didn’t matter if it was spring, summer, fall, or winter. She wouldn’t accept invitations, either. Miss Amalia had her reasons. People said she was too proud. Myself, I think she didn’t need other folks. No, you do not know Natchez women.”
“And she made her living selling goat’s milk?”
Mr. Satterfield leaned back in his swivel chair and folded his hands under his chin. “That’s what people think, and yes indeed, she sold milk. But Miss Amalia had a tidy little sum in the bank. She did not unduly care to have Natchezians know about it.”
“Then why—”
Mr. Satterfield waved off the question. He seemed about to tell me a third time about not understanding Natchez women, so I interrupted. “Tell me about her murder. It was in the newspaper, but there weren’t many details.”
Mr. Satterfield took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. He lifted the pistol and pushed the newspaper clippings across the desk to me. “Here’s you the newspapers. I saved them for you.” He opened the gun and removed a handmade bullet, which he tossed from hand to hand. “Shot dead by Bayard Lott, the old rascal,” he said, setting down the bullet in order to push the top clipping to me with the gun. “And when Bayard saw what he done, he turned the gun on himself. Did I tell you he used an Odell derringer, made right here in Natchez.” He held out the revolver to me.
“That one?”
“No, ma’am. One just like it. This one was my daddy’s. He carried it in the War, along with a rifle, a bowie knife, and a pistol. The captain had an Odell, too. I believe Bayard used his to shoot one of Miss Amalia’s goats. There’s some who say that is what caused this tragedy.” Mr. Satterfield put the gun back on his desk, and I pushed the barrel aside with my finger so that it did not point at me. “Oh, it don’t hold but one bullet,” he said. “Now when you think about it, that means Bayard shot Miss Amalia; then he reloaded in order to shoot himself. Bayard must have done some heavy thinking while he did that. He killed himself a’purpose.”
“One of the stories in the Denver paper reported the sheriff didn’t find a dead goat.”
“Oh, it did, did it? Well, maybe Ezra hauled it off and him and Aunt Polly cut it up. Had you thought of that?”
“No.” I wondered if Mr. Satterfield had, or if the words had just come out of his mouth. Shifting in the chair, which wobbled a little, I asked, “Was it murder-suicide?”
“You could call it that. I don’t know what else you could call it.”
“Is that what the sheriff called it?”
“It is. Like I said, Bayard shot Miss Amalia, then reloaded and shot himself. We know how he done it, but we don’t know why. I guess we never will.”
I asked about Mrs. Lott, since one of the stories speculated that she might have killed them both.
Mr. Satterfield sat up straight and slapped his knee. “Magdalene Lott? She was a beauty in her time, and in Natchez, that counts for something—more than something, in fact, although not as much as money. But it was enough to make up for the fact that she was never quite as bright as day. Why, in a million years, she couldn’t have shot Miss Amalia, reloaded, killed Bayard, and then have put a gun in his hand. And old Bayard would not have stood there while she did it. Poor old soul. I guess she lived in
“And she made her living selling goat’s milk?”
Mr. Satterfield leaned back in his swivel chair and folded his hands under his chin. “That’s what people think, and yes indeed, she sold milk. But Miss Amalia had a tidy little sum in the bank. She did not unduly care to have Natchezians know about it.”
“Then why—”
Mr. Satterfield waved off the question. He seemed about to tell me a third time about not understanding Natchez women, so I interrupted. “Tell me about her murder. It was in the newspaper, but there weren’t many details.”
Mr. Satterfield took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. He lifted the pistol and pushed the newspaper clippings across the desk to me. “Here’s you the newspapers. I saved them for you.” He opened the gun and removed a handmade bullet, which he tossed from hand to hand. “Shot dead by Bayard Lott, the old rascal,” he said, setting down the bullet in order to push the top clipping to me with the gun. “And when Bayard saw what he done, he turned the gun on himself. Did I tell you he used an Odell derringer, made right here in Natchez.” He held out the revolver to me.
“That one?”
“No, ma’am. One just like it. This one was my daddy’s. He carried it in the War, along with a rifle, a bowie knife, and a pistol. The captain had an Odell, too. I believe Bayard used his to shoot one of Miss Amalia’s goats. There’s some who say that is what caused this tragedy.” Mr. Satterfield put the gun back on his desk, and I pushed the barrel aside with my finger so that it did not point at me. “Oh, it don’t hold but one bullet,” he said. “Now when you think about it, that means Bayard shot Miss Amalia; then he reloaded in order to shoot himself. Bayard must have done some heavy thinking while he did that. He killed himself a’purpose.”
“One of the stories in the Denver paper reported the sheriff didn’t find a dead goat.”
“Oh, it did, did it? Well, maybe Ezra hauled it off and him and Aunt Polly cut it up. Had you thought of that?”
“No.” I wondered if Mr. Satterfield had, or if the words had just come out of his mouth. Shifting in the chair, which wobbled a little, I asked, “Was it murder-suicide?”
“You could call it that. I don’t know what else you could call it.”
“Is that what the sheriff called it?”
“It is. Like I said, Bayard shot Miss Amalia, then reloaded and shot himself. We know how he done it, but we don’t know why. I guess we never will.”
I asked about Mrs. Lott, since one of the stories speculated that she might have killed them both.
Mr. Satterfield sat up straight and slapped his knee. “Magdalene Lott? She was a beauty in her time, and in Natchez, that counts for something—more than something, in fact, although not as much as money. But it was enough to make up for the fact that she was never quite as bright as day. Why, in a million years, she couldn’t have shot Miss Amalia, reloaded, killed Bayard, and then have put a gun in his hand. And old Bayard would not have stood there while she did it. Poor old soul. I guess she lived in
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