Murder Past Due Page 17

  “So old man Priest was a ladies’ man, too?”

  “From what my mama told me, he was,” Melba said. “But they stayed married, even if he did run around on her. She got paid back for running out on her son like that.”

  “They sound like such lovely people,” I said, my tone sour. I had no respect for men who behaved like that. Or for women who ran off and left their children for some man. I didn’t know all the details, so I could be misjudging Rick and Godfrey’s mama, but still.

  “Mrs. Tackett, as she was then, was the organist at her church, and her sister was the preacher’s wife. That sure caused some talk.”

  “I guess Peyton Place had nothing on Athena,” I said.

  “Not then, or now,” Melba said. “People don’t change that much. They’re always gonna get themselves into all kinds of messes.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “But what I have to wonder is, could one of those messes be related to Godfrey’s death? What about Rick, for example?”

  “Like I said, I don’t think he and Godfrey ever had much to do with each other. I never heard that they did, anyway. Rick, though, has had a pretty hard life.”

  “I don’t really know anything about him,” I said, knowing that Melba would fill in the details.

  “For one thing, he was in Vietnam, right at the tail end of the war, and the Lord only knows how that affected him,” Melba said, the pity obvious in her voice. “Old Mr. Tackett was a hard man, they say. He was a farmer, and you know that’s not an easy life. Rick worked on the farm until he was old enough to enlist in the army.”

  “Couldn’t wait to get away, probably,” I said. “That’s what it sounds like.”

  “Probably,” Melba said. “Rick’s been married a couple of times too, and has three kids, I think.” She paused for a moment. “Yeah, three. Two boys and a girl. He had another daughter, though, but she died when she was only nine or ten.”

  “That’s awful,” I said. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than the death of one’s child.

  “She had some kind of cancer,” Melba said. “They took her to St. Jude in Memphis, and I reckon they did everything they could for her. But they couldn’t save her.”

  “Poor Rick,” I said.

  “Yeah, he’s had a hard row to hoe all his life,” Melba said. “And there’s his half brother, rich as all get out from his books, and Rick struggling to raise his family and get them through school.”

  “Godfrey probably never did a thing to help them,” I said. I couldn’t imagine Godfrey being that charitable. Of course, Rick might not have wanted anything from his brother.

  “Not that I ever heard,” Melba said. “Those kids are smart, though, and one of them’s really talented. I heard her sing in the church choir. She has a beautiful voice, and the last I heard she was off to one of those high-toned music schools back east. I think she wants to be an opera singer.”

  That wouldn’t be cheap, I thought. Godfrey’s money could make all the difference, if he were inclined to help.

  I chatted a few minutes longer with Melba, but she had no further skeletons to reveal. I finally ended the call and put my phone aside.

  Diesel was sound asleep in my lap, and my legs were beginning to ache a bit from his weight. I woke him gently and shifted him off my lap to the floor. He blinked up at me, yawned, and hopped on the bed where he went back to sleep.

  I got up and stretched my legs before going into the bathroom for a drink of water. My throat was dry after the long conversation with Melba.

  After I brushed my teeth I climbed into bed beside Diesel, thankful that for once he had left me plenty of room, so I didn’t have to move him.

  I lay there in the dark for a while, thinking about all Melba had told me. Godfrey had caused a lot of heartache—as had his mother and father, apparently. But out of all those sad little stories, was there one relevant to Godfrey’s death?

  The one that seemed like the only real possibility was that Godfrey had a half brother. I could see where Rick might resent his brother, especially since Godfrey had become rich and famous while he had to struggle just to get by.

  Even if Rick resented Godfrey, though, was that a strong enough motive for murder? From what Melba told me, it didn’t sound likely to me that Godfrey would have put Rick and his family in his will. There was probably no monetary gain, then, from Godfrey’s death.

  Or could it have been the product of sheer envy, turned deadly by years of disappointment and resentment?

  Troubled by these questions, I had a hard time going to sleep. Eventually I drifted off, Diesel by my side.

  When the alarm sounded the next morning, I felt groggy and inclined to stay in bed. My sleep hadn’t been restful, and I knew I’d be logy all day. Diesel poked his nose close to mine and warbled at me. When I didn’t move, he put a paw on my arm and warbled again.

  I opened my eyes and glared at him. “Oh, all right. I’ll get up. I’m sure you’ll faint from hunger if I don’t get up and feed you right this minute.”

  Diesel walked across me and jumped down onto the floor, ignoring my grunt of pain as he stepped on my stomach. That put me in my place, so I got up.

  Downstairs I put the coffee on, filled up Diesel’s bowls, and cleaned the litter box. While the cat munched happily on his food, I retrieved the paper from the front lawn and sat down to read it. That coffeepot better hurry up, I thought. I needed the caffeine to kick-start my brain into gear.

  Godfrey’s death was still front-page news, though I was pleased to see the article mentioned no names of suspects. I’d have to thank Kanesha Berry later for keeping my name, as well as those of Julia and Justin, out of the paper. I realized then that the local reporter had not been pestering me any further either, so I owed Kanesha for that, too.

  Azalea came bustling in while I was finishing my second cup of coffee.

  “Good morning,” she said, and I returned her greeting.

  “How’s Kanesha doing?” I asked.

  “Sore as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs,” Azalea said. “She better get this thing figured out soon, else I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

  “She’s under a lot of pressure,” I said. “I can understand why she might be feeling stressed out.”

  “That’s why I been hoping somebody might find out something to help her with,” Azalea said with a pointed look at me.

  “I’m doing my best,” I said. “I’ve been digging, but so far I haven’t come up with anything solid. Godfrey managed to make a lot of people angry with him over the years, and it seems like his parents did, too.”

  Azalea sniffed. “With that trashy mama of his, and that hound dog of a daddy, it ain’t no wonder.”

  “Did you know them?” From the disdain in her voice, I thought Azalea must have had personal experience of the Priests.

  “I sure did,” Azalea said with a pained expression. “Worked for that woman six weeks or so when I was sixteen. You ain’t never heard so much yellin’ and cussin’ in your life as the two of them, and that poor child having to hear it all. No wonder he turned out like his daddy.”

  “Sounds pretty awful,” I said.

  “It was,” Azalea replied. “Wasn’t no amount of money worth working for them folks, let me tell you. I got me another job fast as I could. That’s when I come to work for Miss Dottie.” Her face softened with a smile. “She was a true lady, and I loved every minute of working for her.”

  I knew that Aunt Dottie had treasured Azalea, but I didn’t dare say so. This was about as sentimental as I had ever seen Azalea, and I didn’t want to offend her by some well-meant but unwelcome comment.

  Instead I said, “Yes, she was one of a kind.”

  Azalea turned back to the stove. “I’m going to be scrambling some eggs and frying up some bacon.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said. “I think I’ll head upstairs for my shower. I’ll be back down in about fifteen minutes.”

  Azalea nodded, and I le
ft her in the kitchen. Diesel followed me up, but he kept on going when I stopped on the second floor. He would make sure Justin was up in time for breakfast.

  I was almost finished eating by the time Justin appeared. He ate quickly, explaining that he needed to get to the library before class to meet a friend for a study date. The way he bolted his food down, I doubt he tasted much of it, but I remembered the hasty meals of my own student days and forbore commenting.

  Diesel and I spend three Fridays a month at the public library where I volunteer. I fill in as needed, helping with reference, doing a bit of cataloging, and running one of the reading groups for retirees. Today, however, was not one of those Fridays, so I decided to go instead to the archive and poke around some more in Godfrey’s papers.

  By the time Diesel and I reached the campus, the building was open. I debated seeking Rick out and talking to him about Godfrey, but what pretext could I use? Nothing that wouldn’t make me sound like a tabloid journalist on the hunt, I realized. I decided to wait and see if a good opportunity presented itself. Perhaps Rick would attend the memorial service tomorrow.

  We made it upstairs without Melba spotting us. I would just as soon she didn’t know—at least for a while—that Diesel and I were here today. I wanted to focus on Godfrey’s papers, and Melba would only be a distraction.

  I shut the door behind us and turned on the lights. The boxes of Godfrey’s papers appeared undisturbed, and I hoped that the change of locks would keep them that way.

  Diesel made himself comfortable in the window. I eyed the inventory as I sat down at my desk. Where to start?

  I didn’t want to read more letters this morning, so I decided against starting on Godfrey’s business correspondence. While I sat there, I remembered the box of computer disks. I might as well see what was on them and start making an inventory of their contents.

  I retrieved the box and set it on my desk. I pulled out one of the containers of disks from inside and opened it. They were the large floppy disks that hadn’t been used for years. Under normal circumstances these disks would cause a problem, since few people these days had computers that could accommodate them.

  The archive, however, was prepared for just such a contingency. I had a computer that could handle them, and it was loaded with various word-processing programs. I ought to be able to read the contents of the disks with one of them.

  This computer was on a desk in a corner, behind a range of bookshelves. I took all the disks with me and turned on the computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I examined some of the disks. They were labeled, and I recognized the words as the titles of some of Godfrey’s early books. There were also dates on them, so I could put them in chronological order.

  When the computer was ready, I inserted the earliest disk of the group and executed a DOS command to see the directory of its contents. Judging from the file extensions, I didn’t think I’d have any trouble opening them. I scanned the directory. There were only twelve files, and they all had numerical names. Chapters one through twelve no doubt.

  I opened the file named “one” and scanned through it. I recognized the text of what I thought was Godfrey’s first thriller, Count the Cost. The change in style from his early, more traditional mysteries, was clear. I closed the file and removed the disk. I didn’t see much point in reading through the text of the books, because I wasn’t interested in analyzing Godfrey’s prose.

  There were three disks labeled “Cost.” I inserted the third one in the drive and executed the directory command. There were more files names with numbers, but there was one file called “letter.” I opened it and began to read.

  The letter was addressed simply to “G.” I presumed that meant Godfrey. The writer stared by thanking G for taking time to read the manuscript and expressed the hope that G would like it enough to help get it published. The letter referred to the title Count the Cost.

  By the time I finished the letter—unsigned, unfortunately—I was convinced Godfrey had not written a book that bore his name.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Stunned by the contents of the letter, I stared blankly at the computer screen, trying to get my mind back into working gear.

  If this letter wasn’t some kind of joke, then the implications were clear. Godfrey had stolen the work of another writer and published it as his own.

  But how had he been able to get away with such a thing? Surely the writer, Mr. or Ms. X, would have figured it out. Godfrey even used the same title referenced in the letter.

  I read through the letter again, more slowly this time, searching for any possible clues to the identity of the writer.

  Here’s the manuscript I told you about when you were here a few months ago. Thanks for taking the time to read it. I hope you’ll like it enough to want to help me get it published. It’s different from your books—a lot darker and harder-edged—but you said you liked thrillers when you talked to the group. I call it Count the Cost, but that might not be the best title. Any suggestions you have about that would be appreciated, too. I know a catchy title seems to be important, but you know more about the business than I do. At least for now, that is. I’m hoping to know a lot more about it one of these days. Thanks again. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say.

  There were no real clues to the letter writer’s identity, not even a hint of the gender. Two things might be helpful: “when you were here a few months ago” and “when you talked to the group.” There was no date in the text of the letter, but then I got the bright idea of looking at the date stamp in the directory of files on the disk.

  Before I did that, however, I printed a copy of the letter. Once that was done, I called up the directory and looked at the date: August 3, nineteen years ago. The last time the file had been altered was nineteen years ago.

  Nineteen years ago. I thought for a moment.

  Justin was eighteen.

  Godfrey would have been in Athena roughly nineteen years ago.

  Could this mean the letter writer lived in Athena?

  He or she must. There had to be a local connection to Godfrey’s murder. Otherwise, why was he killed here and not somewhere else?

  Slow down, I told myself. You’re jumping to conclusions pretty fast.

  I did a screen print of the directory and clipped it to the letter.

  Before I examined any of the other disks, I wanted to check something. This computer was not connected to the Internet, so I went back to my desk. Diesel appeared sound asleep in the window when I glanced at him. I connected to the library’s online catalog and searched for Godfrey’s name. I wanted to check the publication dates for his books. The library should have all of them in the collection because he was a local writer.

  No doubt Godfrey had a website that provided the information, and I would check that later. But I preferred the information from the catalog—it was probably more accurate than the website.

  I performed the operations necessary to create a brief citation list of all of Godfrey’s titles and printed it out. The citation included publisher and date of publication.

  When the printer finished, I examined the sheets. I had sorted the citations in ascending publication order, so I could trace Godfrey’s books as they were published, from the first one to the most recent.

  His first five books were published within four years, and then there was a four-year gap before his sixth novel, Count the Cost. It was published seventeen years ago, and that meant a two-year gap, roughly, between the date stamp on the disk and the actual publication of the book.

  Godfrey’s first five books were different in style and tone from the later books. Light, amusing, fluffy, they featured a bickering duo of amateur detectives who fought their attraction to each other as they stumbled over dead bodies. Count the Cost signaled an almost radical change, and if I had thought about it at all, I probably assumed Godfrey did it for commercial reasons. He wasn’t a bestseller before, as far as I was aware, but Count the Cost made the bestseller list. H
e had been a fixture there ever since.

  In that letter was the reason for the abrupt shift in Godfrey’s work.

  It wasn’t his, plain and simple.

  But was that the only one? What about the other fifteen books published in the years since Count the Cost?

  Diesel stood up from his perch, stretching and yawning. I reached over to rub his head. He rewarded me with a couple of happy chirps. He jumped down and accompanied me as I took the list of Godfrey’s books back to the other computer. The book published the year after Count the Cost was entitled Abide with Me. I checked the box of disks, and there were three labeled “Abide.”

  I inserted the first one into the drive and looked at the list of files. Only numbers. I checked the second and third disks as well. Same thing. No letter this time. Diesel rubbed against my legs a few times before he wandered off to prowl around the office. He was not usually destructive so I let him have free run in the room.

  I checked the next book on the list: Dead Men’s Plans. There were four disks for this one. This time I put the disk numbered four in and checked the contents.

  Bingo. Another letter, again addressed simply to G. No signature. That was frustrating.

  The arrangement seems to be working out pretty well, though I thought you were at least going to mention me in the acknowledgments. I don’t mind you getting all the attention from the media—I hate that kind of thing. But why couldn’t you at least include my name somewhere? I expected a bit more gratitude, frankly. The money’s good—I’m not complaining about that, but if it weren’t for me, your name wouldn’t be on the bestseller list, you know. I’m glad it’s time for a new contract. I’m going to want some changes, but I’ll let you know what they are after I’ve had a chance to think more about them.

  The letter went on to describe, only in the briefest terms, the idea for the next book and asked for feedback on it.

  This was pretty clear evidence that Godfrey was putting his name on another writer’s work. It also sounded like X was getting a bit restive over the lack of attention.