Murder Past Due Page 2

  “Morning, Melba,” I said. “How are you?”

  Melba plopped into the chair by my desk, picked a nonexistent piece of fluff from her immaculate aubergine pantsuit, and said, “Excited. Aren’t you?” She looked past me at the window. “Morning, Diesel, honey.”

  Diesel warbled a response but didn’t leave his bed.

  “About what?” I frowned. What had I forgotten?

  “The big reception tonight. What else would I be excited about?” Melba smiled. “It’s not every day Athena welcomes home a golden boy.”

  “Oh, that,” I said. “Big deal.”

  Melba shook her head at me. “Charlie Harris, you can’t tell me you’re not curious to see what Godfrey Priest is like after all these years. I know y’all didn’t get along in high school, but surely you want to see a famous author in the flesh.” She laughed.

  I shook my head at her. “He was a jerkwad thirty-two years ago, and he’s probably an even bigger jerkwad now, just a rich one.”

  “He’s had four wives,” Melba said. “Or so I hear tell. But I guess he can afford the alimony, as much as he makes off his books.”

  “He hasn’t made much off me,” I said. “At least not since his first few books came out.”

  “So you have read his books.” Melba almost crowed in triumph.

  “I’ll admit it,” I said. “I was curious, like everybody else in Athena. And I even liked the first few. They were entertaining. But then he started writing those violent thrillers, and the plots got more and more unbelievable.” My mouth twisted in distaste. “Not to mention the violence against women. Surely you don’t still read him?”

  Melba shook her head. “No, I quit a few books back. Same reasons as you.”

  “Then why are you so excited?”

  “He’s a bestseller, a celebrity,” Melba said. “How often does a celebrity come to Athena? We could use some excitement.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Surely you’re not forgetting the time Roberta Hill spray-painted her husband pink when she caught him dead drunk and naked in Liz Graham’s trailer? I hear tell that was exciting, especially when he woke up and chased her with an ax down Main Street.”

  Melba hooted with laughter. “Oh honey, I wish you’d been here. I’ve never seen anything so funny in my life. Delbert all pink, and his personal bits flopping all over the place. I was coming out of the bank when he and his wife went flying by. He’s lucky Roberta didn’t do something worse, like take that ax to his weenie.”

  I laughed too, trying not to think about an axed weenie. From behind me I heard Diesel purring, like he was laughing along with us.

  Melba’s cell phone rang. Grimacing, she pulled it from the holster at her waist. She handled it like a gunslinger with years of practice, twirling it in her hand before holding it still to read the display. “His Majesty wants me.” She answered the call to assure our boss she’d be with him right away. Then she ended the conversation and replaced her phone after another twirl.

  “Duty calls,” she said as she stood. “I swear, that man couldn’t find his tiny rear end if I wasn’t there to show him where it was.” She snickered.

  “That’s why you’re such a valuable administrative assistant,” I said. “You know where everything is.”

  Melba grinned. “See you later, hon.”

  I chuckled. Peter Vanderkeller, the director of the library, resembled nothing more than a garden rake. His size thirteen feet seemed out of proportion to his emaciated six-foot-four frame. Melba swears she’s never seen him eat anything, and most of the time I believe her. I’d never seen him put anything in his mouth other than a pen or a pencil. He invariably chewed on one during meetings.

  The silence after Melba’s departure felt good. Quiet is the last word anyone would use to describe her.

  I turned back to my e-mail, wincing my way through Peter’s weekly letter to the troops, as we library employees not-so-fondly called it. Last year at Halloween several of us dressed up in uniform for a staff meeting. Peter didn’t get the joke. He never did. I felt sorry for him sometimes.

  The subject of this week’s homily was recycling. Peter exhorted everyone to stop bringing bottled water to work and to use instead the filtered tap water in the staff lounge. I glanced at my satchel. It usually contained at least two bottles of water. I resolved to use those bottles for refills from the tap once they were empty. Perhaps that would satisfy the boss.

  The last e-mail I read reminded me of the gala reception tonight in honor of our celebrity at the president’s house. I’d been telling myself I wouldn’t go, but I knew curiosity would get the better of me. As much as I detested Godfrey Priest, I wanted to get a look at him after all this time.

  Back in high school, I’d let Godfrey intimidate me. He was taller and better looking and was always flaunting his success with girls. I resented him in high school and in college—we were both alumni of Athena College—but that was long ago. Surely I’d left all that behind me?

  Perhaps I hadn’t, but if living well truly was the best revenge, I wanted to show the jerkwad I was doing fine.

  Shaking my head over my foolishness, I turned away from the computer to examine some papers on my desk. Where had I put that letter? I lifted one or two of the piles until I had located what I wanted.

  Besides cataloging, I also handled certain kinds of reference questions, those that related to some historical aspect of the college or the library’s archives and rare books. Yesterday I had received a request from an elderly woman in Vicksburg who was trying to track down a stray twig on her family tree. Said twig was supposed to have attended Athena College back in the 1840s, not long after the school was founded.

  Glancing through the letter, I found the name I needed. Laying the letter aside, I left my desk and approached a shelf of reference materials to the left of the door. What I sought was an old book of attendance records that should answer the question. One of these days I hoped to get a grant to have the records computerized, but until that happened, the old-fashioned way would have to do.

  I pulled the book off the shelf and gently turned the pages until I found the years I wanted. Sounds from other parts of the library drifted up. The acoustics often behaved oddly, the grand stairway and the high-ceilinged foyer serving to bounce voices around.

  While I scanned the precisely formed but tiny handwriting of the registrar of the 1840s, searching for one Bushrod Kennington, 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.

  TWO

  I kept listening but could discern no other words. The voices faded.

  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.

  I stopped listening and resumed my search until I located old Bushrod.

  Back at my desk I made a few notes, planning to respond to the letter after lunch. This morning I intended to spend my time cataloging. I retrieved the truck of books I’d been working on and pulled the next book to catalog. After logging in to the cataloging module of our integrated library system (or ILS, in library parlance), I began to examine the book.

  Part of a collection of nineteenth-century medical books, this particular volume was an 1807 treatise on midwifery by Thomas Denman. The binding was in excellent condition, but I opened the book with great care, as always. By now I was accustomed to handling books two centuries old and even older, but I still felt a sense of wonder when I touched them. So sturdy, able to survive two hundred years with proper care, but at the same time so fragile, so easily destroyed. A faint mustiness tickled my nose, and my fingers caressed the cool softness of the pages.

  The particular fun of cataloging something this old was noting anything about the copy in hand—inscriptions, stamps, notations—that
would set it apart from another copy. In the book I held, the front free endpaper bore, in faded ink, a previous owner’s name and date: “Dr. Francis Henshall, March 18, 1809.” As I delved further into the book, I found notations in ink in the same handwriting. Dr. Henshall had added comments to the text, based on his own patients.

  I turned to the computer and called up the record I had previously downloaded into our system from a bibliographic utility. All the basics were there—title, publisher, date, and so on—and I added the notes to identify the copy in hand.

  Engrossed in my work, I started when I heard the sound of a throat clearing on the other side of my desk.

  I suppressed my irritation at the interruption as I turned to face the newcomer. Then my eyes widened in surprise as I recognized the man.

  Hastily saving my work, I mumbled, “Just a moment.”

  “Take your time, Charlie,” Godfrey Priest said, his voice booming in the quiet of the rare book room.

  Beside me, Diesel stretched and yawned. He enjoyed visitors, and he hopped down from his perch to welcome Godfrey.

  What the heck was he doing here? We hadn’t been that close in high school or college, so why seek me out?

  “Good morning, Godfrey,” I said, standing. I came around the desk and extended a hand in greeting. Diesel padded right behind me. “It’s been a long time.”

  “It sure has,” Godfrey said, his tones still hearty. He clasped my hand in his bigger one and gave it a firm squeeze and a shake. “You’re looking good.”

  “You, too,” I said, trying not to wince. I flexed my fingers slightly when Godfrey released my hand.

  He was even taller than I remembered. I glanced down at his feet and I could see why. He was wearing an expensive pair of cowboy boots with heels that made him about two inches taller than his normal six-four.

  “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. I’d give him a treat later.

  “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. Don’t pay any attention.”

  I continued to take in my visitor. Though we were the same age, he looked ten years older. His skin resembled leather, and years of exposure to the sun had added lines to the skin around his eyes. His hair, now a bleached straw mop, had suffered, too. His clothes screamed designer labels, and the Rolex watch he consulted ostentatiously, along with a chunky gold bracelet, made the point that he had plenty of money.

  “What can I do for you, Godfrey?” I went back to my desk to sit down. With a wave I indicated he should sit, too. “Did you drop by to talk about the good old days?”

  “I have it on good authority that you are the archivist here,” he said, patently ignoring my little dig. He settled his long frame into the chair and crossed his arms.

  “I am,” I said. Pompous as ever. I waited.

  Godfrey glanced past me toward the sleeping Diesel. “They let you bring that cat to work?” His fingers tensed on his arms, and his eyes searched the room. He seemed nervous, but I had no idea why.

  “Obviously.”

  Godfrey’s cheeks reddened as he faced me. I remembered that he had never cared for sarcasm, particularly when it had been directed at him.

  “When did you return to Athena?” Godfrey asked. “I don’t get here often myself. My schedule is so demanding—book tours, interviews, talking to guys in Hollywood.” Again his gaze roved around the room. Was he ever going to get to the point of this visit? How much self-aggrandizement would I have to endure?

  “I moved back three years ago,” I replied, trying not to sound impatient. Did he think I’d be impressed by his busy life? “Not long after my wife died, my aunt left me her house here.”

  “Your Aunt Dottie?” Godfrey asked, frowning. “So your aunt died, too?”

  “Shortly after my wife.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Godfrey said. “That’s too bad, their dying so close together.”

  “It was rough.” Then a memory surfaced. “You lived with Aunt Dottie for a couple of semesters, didn’t you?”

  Godfrey nodded. “That would have been my senior year. My parents sold up and moved to Alabama, to Fairhope, and I didn’t want to live in the dorm anymore. I was lucky Miss Dottie had a room available. She was a wonderful lady.” His face softened with a reminiscent smile.

  “She certainly was.” This was a side of Godfrey I didn’t remember seeing. He had obviously been fond of my aunt. “You’re doing well these days. Bestseller list with every new book. That’s pretty exciting.”

  “Thanks. My last seven books have debuted at number one,” Godfrey said, the smile giving way to a smug look. “And that’s kind of why I’m here.”

  “I heard you’re getting an award for being a distinguished alumnus,” I said.

  Godfrey shook his head. “That’s not what I meant, although that’s the ostensible reason I’m back in town. No, I meant the reason I was here talking to you.”

  Finally. “And that would be . . . ?” I asked, my voice trailing off.

  “The archive,” Godfrey replied. “I am giving my papers to the university archive. I plan to make the announcement tonight at the dinner.” He stared at me. “How do we do this?”

  The university administration would be delighted by such a gift, and I thought it was an excellent idea. On one condition. “I know the university would love to have your papers,” I said. “But giving them is one thing. Are you willing to donate money to help with the preparation, cataloging, and maintenance?”

  “Sure,” Godfrey said. “What do you have to do, other than put them on the shelves?” He waved a hand in the direction of the bookshelves. “And how much money? I’m sure I can afford it.”

  “The papers have to be organized and cataloged,” I said, ignoring that last sentence. “That could take some time, depending on the extent of the collection. I’m the archivist, but I work only part-time. It could take years to get your papers done, considering all the other books and collections waiting to be processed here.”

  “If I give enough money, could you hire someone to catalog my papers and get them done sooner?” He frowned. “I don’t want them sitting in boxes, gathering dust.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “We have a tiny budget, and we rely on donations.”

  “How much?”

  “How many papers are we talking about?” I pointed to a nearby box, roughly the size of a box of computer paper. “How many boxes of stuff?”

  Godfrey stared at the box. After a moment, he answered. “There are manuscripts of all my novels, and I’ve published twenty-three. Then there’s correspondence, plus copies of my books, in English and other languages.” He paused. “Say fifty-four boxes.”

  That was oddly precise, I thought. Had he already boxed everything? He would never imagine the university would turn down his gift.

  “And you would continue to add to it,” I said, doing some mental calculations.

  “Sure,” Godfrey said. “I’ll be writing for a long time to come, knock on wood.” He rapped my desk with his knuckles.

  I found a pad and pencil and made some rough calculations. I named a figure, and Godfrey didn’t blink.

  “Sounds good,” he replied. “I’ll double it, just to be safe. That should take care of things for a few years, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. Hearing the voice of my boss in my head, I added something, though I didn’t like doing it. “And of course you might want to put a bequest in your will, too. It never hurts.”

  Godfrey laughed. “You have to say that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, t
rying to suppress a sour expression.

  “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. People are holding their hands out for money all the time.” He grinned. “I’ll call my lawyer this afternoon and take care of it.”

  “You’ll need to talk to some of the administrative people tonight after you make your announcement,” I said.

  He nodded.

  I thought our business was done, but Godfrey didn’t move from the chair.

  I waited a moment.

  “You’re living in Miss Dottie’s house, huh?” Godfrey said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you taking in student boarders like she did?” He stared past me at the window where Diesel still slept.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s what she wanted, and it’s not so bad having someone in the house, now that my own two children are grown and out of the nest.”

  “You have two kids?” Godfrey glanced at me, an odd look on his face.

  “A son and a daughter,” I replied. “Sean is twenty-seven, and Laura is twenty-three.”

  “That’s nice,” Godfrey said, his voice soft. “Having kids, I mean.”

  Maybe I had accomplished something Godfrey hadn’t. As far as I knew, he didn’t have any children. I was lucky, even if I wasn’t a rich writer.

  Godfrey shifted in his chair. “What are the boarders like, the ones living there now?”

  “Both nice young men,” I said, puzzled by the conversation. Why was he asking about my current boarders?

  “One of them is named Justin, right?” Godfrey examined his hands with care.

  “Yes, there is a Justin boarding with me. The other one, Matt, is actually spending a semester in Madrid, doing research for his dissertation.” I was getting more and more uneasy. “Look, Godfrey, what’s going on here? Why these questions? Do you know Justin?”

  “No, I don’t,” Godfrey replied. “But I’d like to.” He paused for a deep breath. Then he faced me. “He’s my son, Charlie, but he doesn’t know it.”