Arsenic and Old Books Page 20

  Long didn’t seem to notice the lack of invitation. He smiled, exposing a set of perfectly formed, dazzlingly white teeth. “My mother shared with me the contents of the diary. Daryl and I would like to see it for ourselves. He’s going to take a few shots of the pages for a press release.”

  Exactly not what I needed to hear. My hopes of keeping the mayor from finding out I suspected the diary was a fake were fading quickly.

  In as bland a tone as I could manage, with my heart suddenly racing a mile a minute, I said, “I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible.” My mind raced along with my heart as I tried to come up with a plausible excuse for denying their request without revealing I didn’t have the diary in my possession.

  Long’s brow furrowed. “Why not? It will only take a few minutes.”

  “It’s not the time,” I replied. Inspiration struck. “Or rather, it is the time. Your timing, I guess I should say. The binding of that volume has some problems, and it’s in the process of being repaired. These problems had to be addressed immediately to insure the integrity of the binding for the future. I’m sure you understand. I know you wouldn’t want such an important resource to be damaged; nor would your mother.”

  I cut the babbling off as Long’s eyes glazed over. I wasn’t sure he understood what I was telling him; he looked so blank. His associate, Kittredge, however, caught on quickly.

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to go with the scans.” He reached in his jacket and pulled out a leather business card holder. He extracted a card and handed it to me. “If you could e-mail the scanned pages to me right away, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  Long frowned at his associate. “I don’t see what the big deal is about letting you take a few pictures. That’s not going to hurt an old book.”

  Kittredge looked slightly exasperated but then cleared his expression.

  “That’s the problem,” I said quickly. “Until the binding is fully repaired, you can’t open the book wide enough to take good pictures without damaging it.”

  “We understand,” Kittredge said. “How long before the repairs are completed?”

  “A week, I suppose.” I shrugged. I prayed that this would all be over well before a week passed.

  Kittredge nodded. He shook my hand. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Harris.”

  Long looked sulky as he in turn shook hands with me. “Yeah, thanks.”

  I watched them leave with great relief. I went back to my chair and sank down. Diesel meowed and tapped my shoulder with a paw. I turned to face him. He meowed again, and I rubbed his head. “Everything’s okay, boy. No need to fret.”

  Diesel and I sat quietly for a couple of minutes, until I heard another knock at the door.

  Deputy Turnbull walked in. “Morning, Mr. Harris. Ms. Gilley alerted me that Mr. Long was here, so I waited down in her office until he and his associate left the building.”

  “I’m glad to see you, Deputy,” I said. “It’s been a bit nerve-racking the last half hour or so. If you’ll come with me, I’ll retrieve the pages.”

  He nodded and then followed me next door to the storage room. I picked up the envelope with the pages inside, and we went back to my office.

  “It won’t take me that long to scan these,” I told the deputy. “Please have a seat if you like.”

  Deputy Turnbull shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll stand here in the door to keep an eye out for potential visitors.”

  “Good idea,” I said. While I readied the scanning station, Diesel got down from his spot and walked over to the deputy. He sat at the man’s feet, looked up, and meowed. Turnbull grinned and said hello to the cat. He rubbed Diesel’s head, and that apparently satisfied my boy. He left the deputy and came to sit beside me.

  I felt tense as I worked on the pages. The cotton gloves I wore made the process a bit slower as I took each page and scanned both sides. I was sweating by the time I finished. I reassembled the pages but did not paper-clip them. The paper clip could damage the pages. I advised Turnbull of this when I gave him the envelope. Then I remembered I should let Kanesha know what I’d told Long and Kittredge about the diary volume they wanted to photograph. “Sorry to load you down with messages for Deputy Berry,” I said when I finished.

  “Not a problem, Mr. Harris. I’ll pass it all along to her when I give her the envelope,” Turnbull said. He smiled briefly before he left the office.

  Before I shut down the scanning station I e-mailed the file of the scanned pages to myself and to Kanesha.

  I returned to my desk, where I collapsed in my chair, Diesel by my feet, and mopped my sweaty brow with my handkerchief. My rampant curiosity about the contents of the missing pages made me want to start reading right away, but my brain needed time to relax from the tensions of the morning.

  “I don’t know about you, boy, but I’m ready for lunch,” I said to the cat. “Let’s go home.” A good meal in the quiet of my house was what I needed right now.

  Diesel meowed loudly to indicate his approval, adding in a couple of the odd trills he made sometimes.

  Downstairs we stopped by Melba’s office to let her know we were going home for lunch.

  “I’m about to head out myself,” she said. “I’m going over to the bakery to meet a friend for lunch. Y’all want to tag along? I know Helen Louise would be happy to see you. As hard as she works, I reckon she doesn’t have a lot of free time.”

  Hearing Helen Louise’s name gave me a guilty start. Hadn’t I promised her last night we would come to see her at lunchtime today?

  I had promised her, I decided. “Thanks, we’d appreciate the ride,” I said. “Saves me from going home to get the car.”

  About fifteen minutes later Melba found a parking space on the square across from the bakery. We crossed the street, and I opened the door for Melba. The ever-tantalizing scents from the bakery filled the air.

  “There’s my friend,” Melba said, nodding in the direction of a lone woman seated at a nearby table. “Y’all enjoy your lunch, and we’ll head back in about forty-five minutes, okay?”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  Diesel and I made our way to our usual spot, the table near the cash register Helen Louise always kept reserved for us when we were expected.

  I didn’t see Helen Louise and figured she was in the kitchen. I sat, and Diesel stretched out under the table near my feet. We settled in to wait for Helen Louise.

  “Mr. Harris,” a voice called out over the low hum of conversation in the bakery. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

  I looked around to see Kelly Grimes advancing toward my table.

  “Hello,” I said when she stopped about three paces from me. “What can I do for you?”

  She smiled. She held out a slim book. “You can read this and tell me what you think.”

  I accepted the book and glanced at the cover. The title read: A Memoir of Mrs. Rachel Afton Long of Athena.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Where did you find this?” I had almost forgotten about Angeline Long’s reminiscences of her grandmother-in-law.

  Kelly Grimes pulled out a chair and sat. She set her briefcase on the floor beside her. Once she was settled, she reached over and pulled the memoir from my hands.

  “In a place that no one else remembered to search.” She regarded me coolly. “Marie Steverton’s carrel in the college library. I found it there several days ago. The day she was run down in the street, in fact.”

  I held my hand out for the book, but she shook her head. “No, I think I’ll hold on to this until we can come to an agreement.”

  “An agreement on what?” I said, irritated. I couldn’t believe the nerve of the woman.

  “I want an exclusive interview with you,” she said. “Because after you’ve read this, you can help me prove that th
e story about Jasper being descended from slaves is a lie.”

  I stared at her. She couldn’t possibly know that Stewart had determined the diary was a forgery. Then I focused on something she’d said. After you’ve read this, meaning the memoir. “What’s in the memoir that disproves the story in the diary?”

  She shook her head again. “Are you going to give me the interview?”

  I didn’t have a choice, I supposed. Although I could call Kanesha and she would probably be able to take the book as evidence in the case. I didn’t tell Ms. Grimes this. At the moment my curiosity had too strong a hold. I had to see what was in the memoir that made Ms. Grimes so certain of her position.

  I was about to reply when I thought of something. “I spoke to Jasper Singletary this morning, and he didn’t say anything about this. Surely you’ve told him you have this so-called proof that the story is a lie.”

  She looked disconcerted for a moment. “He’s been too busy the past two days, and I only read the memoir last night. I wanted to be certain before I told him.”

  I wasn’t sure I trusted her, but I wanted to get my hands on that book. There had to be a reason Marie had hoarded it away, and why someone had taken Miss Eulalie’s copy.

  “Okay, then, I’ll give you your interview,” I said. “Once I’ve read that memoir. And when the murderer has been identified. Not before.”

  “Fine.” She held the book out to me. “I think you’ll find the contents interesting.”

  “Contents of what?” Helen Louise asked. I looked up to see her standing behind the writer. Kelly Grimes started and half rose from her chair.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” Helen Louise said.

  The writer gave a polite smile. “Not at all. Mr. Harris and I are done for the moment. I’ll hear from you soon, I hope.” She picked up her briefcase and stood.

  I nodded. “When we agreed.”

  She stared hard at me for a moment before she turned and walked away.

  During that interchange, Helen Louise and Diesel were greeting each other. Once Ms. Grimes was out of earshot, Helen Louise slid into the chair next to mine. Her hand still on the cat’s head, she said, “What was all that about?” Her glance fell on the book I held. “Something to do with that?”

  “Yes.” I explained about the memoir as much as I could. I couldn’t discuss the diary’s claims about Jasper Singletary’s great-great-grandmother Celeste. “I’ll tell you the rest of it as soon as I can.”

  “All right.” Helen Louise smiled. “I bet it’s a doozy of a story. Now, how about lunch?” She glanced around the room. “I’m shorthanded today, so I’m not going to be able to eat with you.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Don’t worry about us. I’m sure you’ve picked out something wonderful as always.”

  She leaned over to brush my cheek with her lips. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Diesel watched her go, then turned his head to look up at me and meow.

  “She’ll be back with food,” I told him. “You’re going to get your treat like you always do. You’re not going to expire from starvation for another sixty seconds or so.”

  He regarded me solemnly for a moment before he positioned himself to watch for Helen Louise’s return.

  I had to confess to Helen Louise later that I couldn’t remember what she served me for lunch that day. My brain was so focused on the memoir, Rachel Long’s diary, and the murder of Marie Steverton and how they all connected, I couldn’t process much else.

  When Diesel and I both finished and Melba came to collect us for the drive back to campus, I at least remembered to wave good-bye to Helen Louise. She was busy with customers but gave me a quick wave back.

  Melba chattered about something she and her friend discussed over lunch but I barely heard her. Diesel warbled a few times from the backseat, and Melba laughed.

  “At least one of you is paying attention to what I’ve been saying.” She pulled her car into her parking space in the library lot and turned to grin at me.

  “Sorry.” I had the memoir clutched to my chest like a favorite teddy bear. “I didn’t mean to ignore you; I’m just really preoccupied right now.”

  “No kidding,” Melba said as we got out of the car. “It’s okay. I know you. Go on up to your office and start reading.”

  “Thanks, and thanks again for the ride to the bakery and back.” Diesel and I followed her into the building through the back door, and we parted ways in front of the stairs.

  “Come on, boy.” I jogged up the stairs, but Diesel made it up to the office door several seconds ahead of me. He thought I was playing, and he liked to race me on the stairs. Sometimes he acted almost like a dog.

  After I let us into the office, I locked the door behind us. I didn’t want to be surprised by any other visitors this afternoon while I dug into both the memoir and the missing diary pages.

  While Diesel got comfy on his windowsill, I sat at my desk and mulled over which one I should read first. After several moments of going back and forth between the two, I finally opted for the memoir, even though there were fewer diary pages.

  I picked up the memoir and opened it. The book had a frontispiece, a portrait-style photograph in black and white of Rachel Afton Long, taken near the end of her life. She would have been around seventy at that point.

  I studied the picture. Rachel’s rather stern gaze in partial profile made her look like a formidable old lady. I could tell from her bone structure that she had been a beautiful woman in her youth, though she did not seem to have aged well. Her mouth had a slightly petulant twist to it, as if Rachel resented being old. Perhaps it was simply the result of the tragedies of her life, the losses during the war and their effect on her.

  The book was published in 1911, the fiftieth anniversary of the beginning of the Civil War. By then Rachel would have been dead for about fifteen years.

  I turned the page to the foreword from the author, Angeline McCarthy Long. The book was based on “reminiscences of the life of a Southern gentlewoman during times of great strife and their aftermath.” That sounded typical for both the time in which the book was written and for the intent of such a memoir. Angeline Long went on to say that she had the privilege of knowing her husband’s grandmother intimately only the final two years of her life, but had been so in awe of Rachel’s experiences and character she wanted to share her love and admiration with others. She stated that she had first written the memoir three years after Rachel’s death in 1896 but had waited until the anniversary year to see it published. She ended the foreword by writing, “I know all the citizens of Athena will join with me in celebrating the life and contributions to our wonderful town and, indeed, our great state of Mississippi, as we remember those sad years of the war. From Rachel Afton Long may we all take inspiration for the future and model ourselves upon a woman whose charitable works enriched us all.”

  I couldn’t help but feel a bit cynical at the cloying sweetness of Angeline Long’s words. She made Rachel Long sound almost like a candidate for sainthood rather than a flesh-and-blood woman. Once I had time to read the complete diary, I thought it would be interesting to come back to the memoir and read it again after making my own assessment of Rachel’s character.

  The memoir was brief, only seventy-eight pages, and the print was good-sized. It wouldn’t take me long to read. If the rest of the book was as sickly sweet as the foreword, I’d be glad of the brevity.

  I plunged in and quickly discovered that the memoir consisted mostly of Angeline’s retelling of stories told to her by Rachel. The first of these was the tale of Andrew Adalbert Long, Jr.’s courting of Rachel Afton.

  Upon first glance Rachel knew that she was destined to share her life with this dashing young man. Though it meant leaving her family in Louisiana to head north to Athena, she went willingly. “He was everything most gallant and handsome,” Rachel once told me.
“The epitome of every manly virtue with none of the vices that bedeviled so many of his acquaintance.”

  Angeline went on to share certain details of the actual courtship and its successful conclusion, resulting in the couple’s wedding. Then she moved quickly forward to Rachel’s stories of life at Bellefontaine during the war. Some of the incidents sounded vaguely familiar, and I realized I had read about them in the forged diary.

  That was interesting. I wondered whether this book was the chief source the forger used.

  The more I read, the more convinced I became that I was right.

  When Angeline launched into the story of Rachel’s charitable acts—and in particular those involving the Singletary family—I no longer doubted it. The phrasing sounded very similar, and I knew if I compared some of the passages, they would be word for word the same.

  The story of the pitiful appeal from Vidalia Singletary on behalf of her children was identical as was Rachel’s response. Then I hit upon one detail that was significantly different from the story in the forged diary.

  According to Angeline Long, the girl Celeste was not a slave from the Afton plantation in Louisiana. Instead she was the daughter of the overseer there and had been sent north at her father’s plea to keep her from making an unsuitable alliance with a poor white farmer’s son there. Celeste did work for the Longs—as a seamstress.

  No wonder Miss Eulalie’s copy of this little book disappeared, I thought. Lucinda Long couldn’t afford to let anyone get hold of it.

  Then another question struck me. What had prompted Marie to take the college library copy and hide it in her carrel?

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I remembered that Marie Steverton knew about the diaries from the mayor before Mrs. Long brought them in. Marie had made her interest in them plain to me. She was evidently determined that Rachel Long’s diaries would finally help her earn tenure at Athena College, after failed attempts at other schools. So, my reasoning ran, she took the memoir from the library collection and hid it. Then she went to the circulation desk and told them it was missing. After a quick check by one of the staff—that was the usual procedure—the library declared it lost.