Murder Past Due Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  FELINE INTUITION

  While I scanned the tiny handwriting of the registrar of the 1840s, I heard snatches of conversation. I paid them scant attention, focusing on my task. But when I heard the words murder and Priest, I started listening.

  I found the incident oddly unsettling, though I couldn’t say why. I supposed the conversation was about Godfrey Priest, since he was the hot topic in Athena at the moment. And hearing the word murder in conjunction with his name wasn’t that odd. The man did write murder mysteries. Then I heard the sound of a throat clearing on the other side of my desk. My eyes widened in surprise as I recognized the man. It was Godfrey Priest. What the heck was he doing here?

  “Good morning, Godfrey,” I said, extending a hand in greeting. Diesel padded right behind me. “It’s been a long time.”

  “What is that? A cat?” Godfrey asked, watching as Diesel made a slow circle around him. Evidently unimpressed, Diesel walked back to the window and jumped up to his bed. Yawning, he turned his back on both of us and settled down for a nap.

  “He’s a Maine coon,” I said. “They’re larger than most cats.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever been snubbed by a cat.” Godfrey laughed, but his expression revealed annoyance. “They always love me because they can tell I’m a cat person.”

  I tried not to laugh. “Diesel doesn’t take to everybody.”

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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.

  MURDER PAST DUE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Dean James.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18904-7

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My first thanks go to Michelle Vega and Natalee Rosenstein, for keeping me in the family. Their support means more than they will ever know. Nancy Yost, my agent, handles the really fun part of the business, so I don’t have to.

  The Tuesday night crew gave me valuable input on the early stages of the manuscript. Thanks to Amy, Bob, Joe, Kay, Laura, Leann, and Millie for their insights and advice. A special thanks goes to Enzo, Pumpkin, Curry, and their two-legged staff, Susie, Isabella, and Charlie, for allowing us to invade their home each week to critique in such a warm and inviting venue.

  I owe a very special thanks to Terry Farmer, Ph.D., proud mom of three Maine coons, Figo, Anya, and Katie, for serving 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. (I do have two cats of my own—but neither of them is a Maine coon.) Finally, my love and gratitude to two very dear friends who never fail to encourage me, Patricia Orr and Julie Herman.

  ONE

  A hurricane slammed through my kitchen this morning, and his name was Justin.

  I sighed, surveying the aftermath of my boarder’s breakfast. What had gotten into the boy?

  An open milk carton sat on the table, accompanied by a bowl, a spoon, and a box of cereal. Justin hadn’t closed the box, and he’d left a sprinkle of cereal on the table. Splatters of milk surrounded the bowl and an abandoned plate with a half-eaten piece of toast.

  I glanced toward the counter at an open loaf of bread and an uncovered butter dish, sitting in a beam of sunlight. Two pieces of bread occupied slots in the toaster, but from what I could see, Justin had forgotten to press the lever down. I strode over and picked up my newspaper from beside the sink. Justin had somehow managed to dribble water over the paper. I was glad I’d read it earlier, because now it was stuck together.

  I stared out the kitchen window into the backyard for a few seconds, calming myself. I turned back. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a hurricane. Just a minor tropical disturbance. I was not one of those neat freaks who hyperventilated at the first sign of a mess.

  Like most men, I can be messy—but I’m happier when things are clean and well kept. I really shouldn’t let myself feel so annoyed over something so trivial.

  Maybe Justin was in a hurry to make his first class, but the Athena College campus was only three blocks away. He could sprint there in five minutes tops.

  He was acting out of character, and that’s what was really bothering me. The eighteen-year-old had been boarding with me for a couple of months and usually was careful to pick up after himself. The past few days, however, he had become increasingly careless about leaving his things lying around the house and not cleaning up in the kitchen after his meals.

  Perhaps I should have expected something like this when I relaxed
my rule about accepting only older students, preferably those in graduate school, as boarders. They were generally much too focused on their work to cause any disturbances, and I valued the quiet, orderly life I had created for myself these past three years.

  But I had accepted Justin as a favor to an old friend. His mother, Julia Wardlaw, and I had known each other since high school and all the way through college. Justin, an only child, wasn’t ready for the rough and tumble of dorm life, she said. She wanted him to have a quieter, more homelike atmosphere for his first year in college. After the grilling Julia had put me through, I felt almost honored that she was entrusting her precious chick to my care.

  A large paw pushed against my leg. Diesel, my two-year-old Maine coon cat, chirped in sympathy when I looked down at him. He withdrew his paw and stared up at me.

  “I know, Diesel.” I shook my head. “Justin has a problem, or he wouldn’t be acting this way.”

  Diesel responded with another chirp—many Maine coons don’t meow like other cats—and I reached down to rub his head. He still had his lighter summer coat, soft as down. His neck ruff and tail were less bushy than they would be during the colder months ahead. The tufts on the tips of his ears stood out as he stared up at me, a patient expression on his face. He was a gray tabby with dark markings, and at the age of two hadn’t reached full maturity yet, weighing in at twenty-five to thirty pounds. With their broad chests and muscular bodies, Maine coons are the defensive tackles of the cat world.

  “We’ll have to have a talk with our boarder,” I said. Diesel liked Justin and often visited him in his third-floor bedroom. “Just think what Azalea would do if she came in some morning and found a mess like this. She’d skin both Justin and me.” Diesel returned my rueful glance with a solemn gaze.

  Azalea Berry, the housekeeper I inherited along with the house when my beloved Aunt Dottie died, had strict notions about keeping a clean home. She also had strong opinions about large cats as house pets, but she and Diesel somehow managed to reach detente when I brought him home with me a couple of years ago. Even when he was a kitten, Diesel had been smart enough to pick up on Azalea’s basic antipathy to cats.

  Azalea had more tolerance for college-age boys, but that didn’t mean she would allow Justin to get away with leaving the kitchen a mess, even a minor one. Maybe I could help him with whatever his problem was before he did it again and Azalea got after him.

  I couldn’t blame Azalea for her devotion to the house. Aunt Dottie had lavished her money—and her decorating abilities—on what she considered the center of any home. The kitchen occupied the southeast corner of the house, and the morning sun poured in through the large windows on both outside walls. Light suffused the room, helped by the pale yellow paint on the walls and the white ceramic tile on the floor. The cabinets shone a delicate blue and blended well with the darker hue of the table and chairs.

  I could almost smell the scent of the ginger cookies Aunt Dottie used to make when I was a boy. There were only happy memories in this room, but for a moment I ached with the loss of my dear aunt and of my beloved wife, Jackie. They both died within a few weeks of each other three years ago. I pictured them at the table together, laughing and chatting.

  Coming out of my reverie, I glanced at Diesel again, and I could swear he had a sympathetic look on his face. “Enough of that,” I told him. He twitched his tail, turned, and padded off in the direction of the utility room and his litter box.

  I cleared up Justin’s mess, and as I was putting the cereal box away in the cupboard, Justin popped into the kitchen.

  “Mr. Charlie,” Justin said, stopping in the doorway. “I was planning to clean up.” One hand clutched a worn backpack, and the other smoothed dark hair out of his eyes. The boy needed a haircut, or else he needed a ponytail.

  Diesel reappeared and rubbed against his friend’s jean-clad leg. Justin squatted for a moment, scratching the cat’s head but watching me through his bangs.

  “I thought you already left for your class,” I said. “If this was one of Azalea’s days, she might have a few things to say about finding the kitchen the way you left it.”

  I kept my tone mild, but Justin flushed anyway. Down went his head, and his hair swung forward, shielding his face. He mumbled something as he stood. Diesel sat beside him, staring up at his face.

  “What did you say?”

  Justin shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, more clearly this time, avoiding my gaze for the moment. “I really meant to clean up, but I just lost track of time.” He shot me a quick glance, then stared down at his feet again.

  “No real harm done, Justin. But it seems to me you’ve been a little careless the last few days. That’s not like you.”

  He shrugged. “Well, I’m gonna be late. Bye, Diesel.” He turned and disappeared down the hall. In a moment I heard the front door open. I was relieved not to hear it slam shut.

  We were definitely due for a chat, Justin and I. Something was bothering him, and he was bordering on rudeness. In the two months that he’d lived here, he hadn’t been the most outgoing young man, but he had been civil until recently.

  As the father of two former teenagers, I knew that a change in behavior could signal any one of several problems. I hoped this wasn’t a substance abuse problem. His father, a conservative Evangelical preacher, would probably yank him out of college and take him home if that was the case. Julia wouldn’t be too happy either, and might even blame me for letting him get in trouble.

  The last thing I wanted was to get involved in the life of one of my boarders. If Justin’s problem turned out to be serious, he would have to go home to his parents. I wasn’t ready to cope with anything big.

  Diesel padded beside me to the wall rack by the back door, and I lifted his harness and leash off the hook. He purred as I got him street-ready, emitting the rumbling sound that inspired his name. He loved going to work with me.

  “Let me get my coat and my satchel,” I said. I checked my tie for coffee and food stains and examined my pants for cat hair. Why did dark colors attract pet hair like magnets? I did a quick removal job with a lint brush, and then Diesel and I were ready to go.

  In the past two years, since I’d first found a shivering kitten in the parking lot of the public library, most people in my hometown of Athena, Mississippi, had grown used to seeing me walking my cat on a leash. As Diesel grew bigger, some of them wondered if he wasn’t part bobcat, but that’s only because no one in town—including me—had ever seen a Maine coon. What they’d think when he was fully grown in another year, I had no idea.

  Strangers sometimes stopped us on the street to ask if he was a weird-looking dog—and I’d swear Diesel looked offended when they did. He was a sociable critter, but he didn’t tolerate fools lightly—a trait I found endearing.

  I detected a hint of wood smoke in the crisp autumn air. It seemed early to be lighting a fire in the fireplace, but evidently one of my neighbors disagreed. The odor reminded me of times by the fire in my parents’ house on cold winter days.

  The homes on my street were over a century old, many occupied by the same families for generations. The graceful architecture, the classic landscaping, and the feeling of a real neighborhood gave me a sense of security after I lost my wife.

  Putting thoughts of Jackie aside, I started walking, Diesel preceding me by a few paces. The campus of Athena College—our destination this morning—lay three blocks to the east. A walk that should have taken five minutes usually took fifteen or twenty, because Diesel and I stopped several times so his many admirers could say hello. He took it all in stride, chirping and purring, putting smiles on faces, including my own. One or two even remembered to say, “Morning, Charlie,” so I wasn’t completely ignored.

  Jordan Thompson, owner of the Athenaeum, our local independent bookstore, was out for her morning run. She waved as she zoomed past. I had to admire her dedication to exercise, and wished I could emulate it.

  Diesel and I arrived at the college library
just as Rick Tackett, the operations manager for the two library buildings, was unlocking the front door. Eight o’clock on the dot, and not a second sooner. We stood on the veranda of the antebellum Greek Revival mansion that housed the library’s administrative offices, archives, and rare book collections. The main building, known as Hawksworth Library, stood next door.

  Rick nodded in response to my “Good morning” and stepped aside to let me and Diesel enter. About a decade my senior, Rick was pleasant though difficult to engage in conversation. Since he spent much of his time in the main building next door, I saw him only infrequently.

  Diesel led the way up the central stairs to the second floor. On the landing, he turned left and paused in front of a door with RARE BOOK ROOM emblazoned in gold leaf on the glass.

  When I unlocked the door and pushed it open, I dropped Diesel’s leash, then I went around the room turning on lights. By the time I finished, Diesel was settled on his favorite perch—a bed placed on the wide windowsill behind my desk. I unhooked his leash, coiled it, and stuck it beside his bed.

  Diesel purred while I readied myself for the workday. My jacket and satchel stowed, I sat at my desk, turned on my computer, and began to organize my day mentally.

  I worked two days a week here as a cataloger and archivist, although I enjoyed what I did so much that I never really thought of it as labor. During my career as a librarian in Houston, I had spent much of my time as an administrator. Being able to catalog again was almost heaven after dealing for so long with budgets and personnel. I was content to be here with Diesel and the rare books.

  I had barely begun to read my e-mail when I heard a tap at the door.

  “Morning, Charlie.” Melba Gilley advanced into the room. She was as sleek as she had been in high school. Spectacular figure back then, and she still did. I liked Melba a lot, and she liked me, but so far we had both been content with simply reestablishing our friendship. I wasn’t ready to date yet, and now that I was approaching fifty, I wasn’t sure when or if I would be. I didn’t want the emotional complications a new relationship would bring.