Classified as Murder
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
PRAISE FOR
Murder Past Due
“Combines a kindhearted librarian hero, family secrets in a sleepy Southern town, and a gentle giant of a cat that will steal your heart. A great beginning to a promising new cozy series.”
—Lorna Barrett, New York Times bestselling author
“Courtly librarian Charlie Harris and his Maine coon cat, Diesel, are an endearing detective duo. Warm, charming, and Southern as the tastiest grits.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of the Bailey Ruth Mysteries
“Brings cozy lovers an intriguing mystery, a wonderful cat, and a librarian hero who will warm your heart. Filled with Southern charm, the first in the Cat in the Stacks Mystery Series will keep readers guessing until the end. Miranda James should soon be on everyone’s list of favorite authors.”
—Leann Sweeney, author of the Cats in Trouble Mysteries
“Murder Past Due has an excellent plot, great execution, and a surprising ending. This book is a must read!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Miranda James
MURDER PAST DUE
CLASSIFIED AS MURDER
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CLASSIFIED AS MURDER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Dean James.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-51435-1
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group
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In loving memory of my cousin,
Terry James (1955–2009), who left us far too soon.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The unfailing and ever-enthusiastic support of Michelle Vega, my editor, has made a difficult year bearable; I owe her more than mere words can express. Nancy Yost, my agent, has also been there when I needed a sympathetic ear, and I appreciate that very much indeed. Eloise L. Kinney, copyeditor extraordinaire, saved me from many gaffes.
The Tuesday night crew, as always, gave me valuable input on much of the manuscript. Thanks to Amy, Bob, Kay, Laura, Leann, and Millie for their unfailingly helpful suggestions. Once again, special thanks to Enzo, Pumpkin, Curry, and their two-legged staff, Susie, Isabella, and Charlie, for providing a pleasant and inviting place to gather and work.
Terry Farmer, Ph.D., proud mom of three Maine coons, Figo, Anya, and Katie, continues to serve as my technical advisor in all matters having to do with Maine coon cats. Any mistakes in my portrayal of Diesel and his behavior are mine and not hers. Carolyn Haines has gone out of her way to help launch this series, and as always, I am amazed and grateful for her unceasing generosity to other writers. As with every book I write, I must thank Patricia R. Orr and Julie Herman for being there to encourage me and egg me on. I couldn’t do it without them.
ONE
When I was a boy growing up in Athena, Mississippi, forty-odd years ago, the public library occupied a large one-story house built in 1842. The town bought it in 1903 and converted the front rooms to one large space, full of bookshelves, chairs, tables, and the checkout desk. Windows with shades protected the books and furnishings from the sun. I remember it as a cool, slightly dusty place where I could roam among the shelves to find all kinds of treasures. There was a feeling of age, of time reaching back deep into the past, in that house. The way a library should feel, I’ve always thought.
I moved back to Athena from Houston a few years ago, and after I settled into my late aunt Dottie’s house, I made a beeline for the library. To my dismay, I discovered the town had built a new library, a larger facility with little character and no distinguishing features—think 1980s “municipal bland.” The old library sat empty and ill kept, like a derelict widow who had outlived all her family. I never drove or walked past the place if I could help it. If buildings could look sad, this one surely did.
As much as I missed the charm of the original building, I would admit—if pressed—that the new building had a few advantages. More than one toilet, for example, and space bigger than a broom closet for an office. The new building provided several offices for a full-time staff of six. I shared one of them with Lenore Battle, a cataloger, the days I volunteered.
Having been head of a branch in the Houston system before retiring, I could turn my hand to just about anything that needed doing at the Athena Public Library. Sometimes I cataloged—my preference—but more
often I worked reference or the circulation desk.
Today I was filling in at the reference desk for the head of the department, who was off for two weeks on a well-deserved vacation. Teresa Farmer was a good friend, and I was more than happy to help her out. A few hours doing reference on a Friday was no burden to me.
Another good friend, sitting at my feet under the desk, chirped at me. I reached down to rub his head. “You’re a good boy, Diesel, for being patient while I work.”
My almost-three-year-old Maine coon cat gazed up at me. I knew that look well. Recumbent on the carpet, he had been napping, but now he wanted to visit his library buddies.
“It’s okay. Go ahead.” I scratched behind his ears, and he stood and stretched. He rubbed against my leg as if to say, Thank you, Charlie.
Diesel weighed almost thirty-three pounds now, and he was still not quite fully grown. I had thought he might top out at twenty or twenty-five pounds, but he kept growing—and he wasn’t fat. I remembered a woman I knew slightly in Houston, Becky Carazzone, who was a breeder of Maine coons. I e-mailed her through her website to ask about Diesel and his size. She was rather taken aback, because she had never seen a Maine coon so big. She reassured me, however, that as long as he was healthy I shouldn’t worry.
I glanced at my watch: only a bit past one-thirty. Too early yet for the after-school crowd. When they arrived, I kept Diesel close by me because there were plenty of small hands that wanted to play with the big kitty. Some children thought they could ride him because of his size. He was a gentle-natured feline and put up with a lot of attention. He did not, however, want to play horsey with rambunctious first- and second-graders dumped off at the library while Mommy or Daddy ran errands.
Diesel walked the few feet behind the counter shared by reference and circulation to where his buddy Lizzie Hayes sat, ready to check out or renew books or other items. Lizzie had an elfin face surrounded by a profusion of black curls. As she smiled down at Diesel, the cat stood on his hind legs, propping his front feet on the seat of Lizzie’s stool. He chirped a greeting, and Lizzie responded with an affectionate scratch of his head.
Lizzie laughed. “If you ever decide to find this guy a new home, Charlie, I want to be first on the list.”
In my best deadpan manner I replied, “If you saw my cat food bill, you wouldn’t say that. Plus he takes up most of my bed, and I have to hang on to the edge.”
Lizzie laughed again. “He’d be worth it.”
I had to agree. Diesel had appeared when I needed comfort badly. I found him as a young kitten in the library parking lot nearly three years ago, and I wouldn’t give him up for anything.
Diesel charmed most of the humans he met. As he grew, people were astonished at his size. No one expected to see a cat the size of a half-grown Labrador. Most people in Athena—including me—had never seen a Maine coon cat before. If I had the proverbial dime for every time someone asked me, “What is that?” I could donate a hefty sum to the library and solve some of its ongoing budget woes.
A gray tabby with dark markings, Diesel still had his winter coat. The thick ruff of fur around his neck, a distinguishing characteristic of Maine coons, made his head look even larger. Short tufts of hair sprouted from his ears, and the visible M over his eyes marked him indelibly as one of the breed. At the rate he was still growing, he might yet hit the forty-pound mark—unusual even for a Maine coon.
A patron claimed my attention then, and I spent about ten minutes showing her how to access and use one of the databases she needed for her genealogical research. Helping people find the door, so to speak, to the vast world of information available online these days is one of the more rewarding aspects of being a librarian.
Leaving the patron happily at a computer clicking through page after page of the U.S. Census for 1820, I moved back to the reference desk. Diesel sat patiently at her feet while Lizzie helped Mrs. Abernathy, an energetic octogenarian who visited the library every day of the week to check out three books. She brought them back the next day and checked out three more. She explained to me once the advantage of being “an old widow-woman.” She no longer had to listen to some old fool nagging at her to “turn off the light and put the dang book away.”
The late Mr. Abernathy, I gathered, had not been a reader.
I chatted with Mrs. Abernathy and Lizzie briefly. Ten minutes after Mrs. Abernathy bustled out, another of my favorite patrons entered. He paused in front of the reference desk and offered me a brief smile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Harris,” James Delacorte said. “How are you this fine afternoon?” His voice, with its rich Mississippi cadences, had a slight rasp.
Roughly the same age as the widow Abernathy, as far as I could tell, Mr. Delacorte was an old-school gentleman. He always dressed impeccably in a dark suit last fashionable during World War II. He must own a whole closet full of them, all the same style and color. They bore some signs of age but were well cared for, not worn and shabby, as one might expect. They gave off a faint aura of smoke from expensive cigars—perhaps the explanation for his voice.
“I’m doing fine, Mr. Delacorte.” I smiled. “And how are you?”
“Tolerable” was his inevitable reply. Never more, never less. He was personable, but reserved. I sensed a barrier between us when I talked with him. He was never rude or unappreciative, but he impressed me as a man who guarded his privacy and kept the world at a distance.
Ever since I first encountered him in the library, I never saw him use one of the computers, not even to search the online catalog. He was certainly literate, but he evinced no interest in the Internet or anything else to do with computers. The library staff looked things up for him and directed him to the print materials he needed. They all knew his habits.
He might be a Luddite where computers were concerned, but the range of his interests never ceased to astonish me. One month it was the economy of Latin America; the next it was the revolutions of 1848 in Europe. Last autumn he read whatever he could find on the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453, and after that he delved into the poetry of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their contemporaries. What would it be today?
“How can I help you? Would you like me to look something up on the computer for you?”
“Yes, thank you.” He regarded me with a faint smile. “Today I would like to find materials on the life of Louisa May Alcott and her family.”
“Let me see what we have.” I started searching the online catalog, building a list of books he could consult. The process took a few minutes, but he waited, ever patient. When I handed him a couple of pages of citations, he examined them carefully for at least a minute.
“You have been truly helpful, Mr. Harris.” He inclined his head, an old-fashioned gesture, but one I found charming. “The thirst for knowledge can lead one down so many interesting byways. I’ve traveled many of them over the years. You might say this library has been my travel agent.”
“That’s a delightful way to put it, Mr. Delacorte.” I smiled. “I started on my own travels as a boy in the old library.”
“As did I.” Mr. Delacorte frowned. “A shame, don’t you think, that the library outgrew its old home?”
“Yes, sir, but a bigger library is a benefit overall.”
“Assuredly.” He nodded. “To everything there is a season, after all. And the seasons pass, all too quickly—even without human intervention.”
I didn’t know how to respond. For a moment I had the feeling he had forgotten I was there. His eyes appeared fixed on some distant prospect as he gazed over my shoulder.
He blinked at me, as if he suddenly recalled my presence. “Pardon an old man’s woolgathering, please.” A faint, self-deprecating smile flitted across his face.
I nodded, with a gentle smile in return, and waited.
Mr. Delacorte glanced around, perhaps to see whether anyone was close enough to overhear our conversation. “I understand that you work for the college library. You are in charge of the rare b
ook collection.”
“Yes, sir. I work there three days a week.” This was the first time I could recall his ever making any kind of personal inquiry of me.
“Very good,” he said. “I would like to call on you there, if I might, to discuss something. I would prefer to do it in a more private setting.” Again, he surveyed the area, but no one was close enough to overhear. Lizzie had stepped away from the desk for a moment, and Diesel was gone, too.
“I’d be delighted,” I said. “Normally I’d be there next week, but it’s spring break. I’m afraid I won’t be in the office until the week after. Would you like to meet then?”
Mr. Delacorte frowned. “It is a matter of some urgency to me, but I suppose a week’s delay won’t matter.”
I felt that I was somehow letting him down. He did seem, for the first time in my acquaintance with him, uneasy about something. “How about tomorrow morning?” I said. “Say nine o’clock?”
“That is most kind of you,” Mr. Delacorte replied. “If you are sure I would not be imposing on you.”
“Not at all,” I said. Meeting with Mr. Delacorte would certainly be more interesting than weeding the front yard—my previous plan for tomorrow morning. “I’ll meet you at the front door of the building at nine.”
“Very good. I appreciate this deeply, Mr. Harris.” Mr. Delacorte nodded, offered a brief smile, then turned and headed for the stacks to track down his choices. He carried the battered leather dispatch case I never saw him without.
I wondered what he wanted to talk to me about. Something to do with rare books, no doubt. Perhaps he wanted to make a donation to the college, either money or books. I knew very little about the man, but I would have to wait until tomorrow morning to satisfy my curiosity.