Arsenic and Old Books Page 21

  On a hunch I decided to call the circ desk and talk to the head of the department, Lisa Krause. She answered right away.

  After the preliminaries were out of the way, I said, “I know circulation information—who checks out a particular book—is confidential, but that’s not what I need to know. Here’s the situation. On Monday a book had its status changed to lost, and I wanted to double-check the procedure on that. At what point is the status actually changed?”

  Lisa said, “That’s easy enough. A student or professor comes to the desk and says, I can’t find such-and-such book. It’s not on the shelf. We ask them to fill out a search request, and then it gets passed on to one of the student workers, who will go into the stacks to look for the book. About half the time the book is simply mis-shelved somewhere nearby, and a diligent search is all that’s needed.” She laughed. “Professors in particular are usually in too much of a hurry to look beyond the spot on the shelf where the book is supposed to be.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, thinking of my own experiences as a volunteer at the public library in Athena and in the days when I was a public librarian in Houston. “How long is it after a person fills out a search request that the student actually goes and looks for it?”

  “That depends,” Lisa replied. “Usually they do it in the evenings. Most students are studying, and the desk isn’t that busy. Sometimes, if the person requesting the book makes it sound urgent, I’ll have a student go right away to look for it.”

  “That’s really helpful,” I said. “What I am about to ask next needs to be kept in confidence for now. Are you okay with that?”

  “Certainly,” Lisa said. “Is it anything to do with the murder of Dr. Steverton?”

  “Yes,” I said, and before I could pose my question, she continued.

  “Dr. Steverton came to the desk on Friday afternoon—I’ll have to check with the staff, but I’m pretty sure it was Friday—looking for a book. She wasn’t too happy it was missing, but then, she was never happy about anything. I can’t remember the title, but maybe the staff member she talked to will know.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I know the title. A Memoir of Mrs. Rachel Afton Long of Athena. Was that it?”

  “Yes, that was it,” Lisa said. “How did you know?”

  “Because I have the library copy on my desk right now. I think what happened is that Marie took it herself and then hid it. For some reason she didn’t just want to check it out. Instead she wanted it to look like the library’s copy was missing or lost.”

  “How strange,” Lisa said. “She was a strange woman, poor thing.”

  “Just to make sure I have all the details,” I said, “when did the student actually look for the book? Do you know?”

  “I can’t say for sure without checking, but it was probably over the weekend. Once the student finishes the search, he or she marks the search form accordingly; then it goes to one of the full-time circ assistants who changes the status in the online catalog.”

  “In this case, the status was changed on Monday.”

  “That sounds about right, for a search request placed on a Friday afternoon,” Lisa replied. “Is there anything else you need? I promise I won’t tell anybody about this.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s all for now. Someone from the sheriff’s department may want to verify all this with you later, though.”

  I put the receiver down and stared at the little book. My mind kept hopping from one thought to another. Was there any significance in the fact that Marie reported the book missing on the Friday before she was murdered? How long had she known about the diaries?

  The latter was a question I really wanted to put to Lucinda Long, but at this point I couldn’t. I ought to keep track of my questions, though. Accordingly I pulled out a notepad and pen to start jotting them down. I preferred writing to typing at times like this, because something about the physical act itself seemed to help clarify my thought processes.

  After further reflection, I added a few more questions to my list. Did Marie assist the mayor with the forgery? Was that the motive for her murder? Did she threaten to expose the scam?

  I recalled that Mrs. Long mentioned a phone call she had from Marie the night she died. Mrs. Long said Marie had been drinking heavily and was asking questions about the monetary value of the diaries. What was the figure the mayor mentioned? Fifty thousand dollars—yes, that was it. Was that conversation Marie’s way of letting the mayor know she wanted fifty thousand dollars to keep quiet about the forgery?

  That made no sense. Why would the mayor tell me about the conversation if Marie had been trying to blackmail her?

  Maybe the mayor did it to blacken Marie’s character. Mrs. Long might also have assumed that no one would figure out the one volume was a forgery, so she thought it safe to mention the conversation with Marie.

  I put the pen down for a moment because my hand started to cramp, trying to keep up with all the questions and thoughts streaming through my head.

  Back to the memoir, I decided. I’d read the rest of it instead of coming up with more questions I couldn’t answer. Then on to the removed diary pages—from the real diary. I might find some answers there.

  I didn’t spend long on the remainder of Angeline Long’s overblown prose. I recognized several incidents from the forged volume. Whoever the forger was, she had clearly used this memoir to include authentic-sounding details. Even to the extent of the green tarlatan fabric that Rachel gave to Vidalia Singletary for herself and her children.

  The final few paragraphs offered a pious summation of Rachel’s life of charitable works and extraordinary goodness. Her “piety and Christian love for all those around her was noted by all who met her.” I had to wonder what Rachel herself would have thought of this ersatz encomium. I repeated those two words to myself. Yes, I thought, they described this little tribute well.

  Before I started on the diary pages, I thought I ought to call Kanesha and give her an update. She needed to know I’d discovered the source of the information in the forged volume. I was about to pick up the phone when another, all-too-obvious question struck me.

  Why had the forger used Angeline Long’s memoir of Rachel rather than Rachel’s own diaries? Had the forger even read the original diaries?

  Every question I posed seemed to make the whole situation more impenetrable. I couldn’t follow a straight line of logic more than a point or two before hitting a dead end. This was beginning to drive me mad.

  It was all too complicated to get across in a phone call. Instead I decided to send Kanesha an e-mail. Then I would send a text message to alert her to the e-mail.

  For the next fifteen minutes I typed. I went through the message three times before I was satisfied that I’d included enough details along with the important questions I had. When I finally hit Send I was about ready for a hot shower followed by a couple of stiff shots of whiskey.

  Diesel warbled, and when I glanced at the windowsill, I saw him on his back contorted in a position that looked painful, with his head nearly under one shoulder and his chest thrust out at an angle. This was my signal to rub his belly and scratch his chin, and being the well-trained servant I am, I complied.

  After a couple of minutes of cat therapy I was ready to tackle the formerly missing diary pages. I located the file in my e-mail, saved it to the computer, then opened it. I increased the size by about 20 percent to make it easier to read.

  I picked up the volume from which the pages had been cut and opened it to the gap. I wanted to get a running start, as it were, on the scanned pages.

  The entry before the gap was dated August 10, 1863.

  This day began like so many before it, with prayers to our Lord to deliver us from the evil in which we daily found ourselves. The war drags on, and there are constantly rumors that the Union Army is about to descend upon us. Then there
came to us what at first looked like the Lord’s blessing, a wonderful gift.

  Words cannot express the sickness and horror I feel over the acts of betrayal perpetrated by one so dear. The blessing became a curse, one which we must keep to ourselves. The shame, if the truth should ever be known, is unthinkable. Already Father Long looks ill, and I fear that his heart cannot withstand this. Already weakened by the loss of his wife, my own dear mama-in-law, he cannot sustain such a blow. I can write no more for fear that my tears will soak the ink from the very page.

  The entry ended there. Rachel sounded as if she were upon the point of utter despair.

  What terrible thing could have happened? I wondered.

  The phone rang and startled me, and I uttered a word I thought I had excised from my vocabulary.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I sounded none too cordial when I answered the phone. I could have screamed in frustration at the interruption.

  “Catch you at a bad time?” Kanesha said coolly into my ear.

  “Sort of,” I said. “Sorry if I sound grumpy, but I’m reading the pages that were missing, and I was just about to find out something important when you rang.”

  “Sorry about that,” Kanesha said. “I haven’t had a chance to get to them yet. I did, however, read your e-mail. I wanted to alert you to the fact that I’m sending Turnbull to your office to pick up that library book. I am also trying to track down Kelly Grimes. I think it’s time I had another chat with her.”

  “Did I sound like a rambling fool in the e-mail?” I asked a bit nervously. “I gave you more questions than facts, I think, but this is the screwiest case I’ve ever seen.”

  “I was able to follow it,” Kanesha said. “It is a screwy case, but I’m beginning to see my way clear. As soon as you’ve finished reading those pages, call me.” She disconnected.

  She was beginning to see her way clear, she’d said. I wanted to bang something on the desk. That meant she was pretty sure she knew who killed Marie Steverton. I knew I couldn’t really expect her to confide in me before she was ready to make an arrest, but still, it was annoying.

  I shrugged that off and went back to the computer. I scrolled down until the beginning of the next entry, dated three days later, was at the top of the screen.

  I have been far too heartsick, and too worried about the state of Father Long’s mind and general health, to sit and write. I have no one in whom I can confide, for we cannot allow anyone to know what has befallen us. Though my heart at first rejoiced to have my husband returned to me, and whole of body, if not of spirit, it soon thudded painfully in my breast when my husband confessed his actions.

  My eyes went back to that phrase whole of body. According to Angeline Long, Major Andrew Long had been so grievously disfigured by his injuries he would allow no one to see him.

  The explanation came in the next paragraph.

  Andrew told us of the horrors of the battle that took place in early July near Gettysburg, which is in the Union state of Pennsylvania. The carnage, the bloodshed, the noise, the cries of the wounded and dying, he made them all seem much too real to us. I know Father Long was moved by this recital, and by Andrew’s sobs. The horror of it clearly overwhelmed him, and that I could understand, for what he described to us was a veritable Hell upon earth. Andrew had his own horse shot out from under him, but he was able to roll free and thus not be pinned beneath the dying beast. Andrew said he does not really remember what happened next. At some point he found himself away from the battlefield. How he came to be there he cannot, or will not, say, but he turned his back on his men and General Lee and walked away.

  Poor Andrew, I thought. I could not imagine the horror of that battle. Simply reading descriptions of it made me sick to my stomach. Gettysburg was truly the stuff of nightmares. I was not surprised that Andrew had walked away from it, but of course I knew his family and his fellow soldiers would not see it that way. I understood Rachel’s reaction, but my sympathy was with Andrew.

  I resumed reading although I wasn’t sure I wanted to know much more.

  Andrew begged his father for forgiveness. “You cannot imagine the demons that live inside my head,” he said. “All I knew is that I must find my way home again, in hopes the demons would leave my dreams, my every waking thought.”

  Father Long could not speak during Andrew’s confession. When Andrew fell to his knees before him, Father Long turned away from him. “No true son of mine would dishonor his name in such a cowardly fashion.” He walked from the room, and Andrew turned to me. I wanted to comfort him, but I did not know how. I too was stunned by his betrayal of his country and of his family, though my tender woman’s heart ached to see my beloved husband brought to such a state.

  Old Mr. Long’s reaction to his son’s desertion didn’t surprise me but it certainly saddened me. Dereliction of duty was a serious thing, and I couldn’t approve of desertion in wartime. I did, however, have compassion for Andrew. I understood the stress that drove him to walk away from the hell of war.

  I read on. Rachel’s entries after this one confided more of her distress over Andrew’s state of mind and his desertion from the Confederate Army. Mr. Long remained obdurate and refused even to speak to his son. Rachel came up with the idea to tell people that Andrew had been seriously wounded and had come home to convalesce. She also told them he did not want to be seen until such time as he felt he could face his friends and neighbors with composure.

  Rachel wrote several times of the nightmares that terrorized her husband and kept her from sleeping through the night. Andrew’s mental state deteriorated, along with his physical condition. Finally, one night when Rachel was sleeping soundly, Andrew slipped out of their bedroom, found some rope, and hanged himself from the rails of the staircase. Mr. Long found him, and the shock caused the stroke that led to his own death only three days later. Rachel was devastated.

  This double loss is almost beyond bearing, but I will trust my faith to see me through. I must remain strong for the sake of my son who is, I pray, still too young and innocent to understand the magnitude of his father’s actions and to feel the shame of them. I pray that Andrew is at peace with Our Lord, despite his taking of his own life, and that the demons that beset him are finally banished. Henceforth we shall put these tragic events behind us, never to be mentioned or recalled as long as I draw breath.

  With that entry I reached the end of the torn-out pages and had to consult the book to complete the final sentence. I closed the computer file and turned away from the screen.

  I stared at the diary on the desk in front of me. At the moment I did not have the mental energy to read further. Nor the emotional energy, I realized. Rachel’s recounting of the family’s shameful secret and its tragic consequences affected me deeply, even though the events occurred a century and a half ago.

  Once my head cleared a bit from the pathos of what I had just read, I found one thought going round and round in my brain.

  Lucinda Long obviously hadn’t read these diaries, or she would never have put them in my hands. The family wouldn’t want this made public. The fact that Major Andrew Long had deserted and come home only to commit suicide would constitute a huge embarrassment for a family that for generations had prided itself on its public service and attention to duty.

  If either candidate lost the election based on the contents of Rachel’s diary, it would be Beck Long, not Jasper Singletary.

  Why wouldn’t the mayor have read the diaries before she allowed someone outside the family to see them? The fact that she hadn’t done so baffled me. I couldn’t understand, then, why she went to the trouble of creating the forgery and making copies of Angeline Long’s memoir unavailable.

  Maybe Mrs. Long read the memoir and assumed that the story Rachel told Angeline was the truth, that Andrew had died of his severe wounds. Not a particularly intelligent assumption, but given the pride in their ancestry exhibited by the Longs,
the mayor probably never dreamed that the truth was so radically different.

  She was a busy woman and didn’t have time to read through the whole diary. It would have been slow going for her, I imagined, to read Rachel’s handwriting straight out of the diaries. I was able to read it more easily because I could increase the size of it on the computer. Also I had more experience reading documents like the diaries and quickly adapted to the cramped nature of Rachel’s penmanship.

  Could the answer be that simple?

  Maybe.

  My thoughts turned to Marie. Had she suspected that the diary held secrets that could embarrass the Long family? She had torn out the pages that revealed Andrew’s desertion. What had she intended to do with them?

  The obvious answer was blackmail. She could have threatened to make them public, knowing she had the mayor over a dangerous barrel. The Longs were reputedly worth millions, and Marie could have named a high price.

  There was something else she wanted badly, I realized. Tenure, and the respect that came with it.

  Professor Howell Newkirk, a power in the history department, was a great friend of the Longs. If Lucinda asked him to support Marie’s bid for tenure and told him it was vital that he do so, he might have done it. Marie would then have had the status she had desperately sought all throughout her academic career.

  I knew that would sound ridiculous to anyone outside the halls of academia. I thought, however, that Marie would have wanted both tenure at Athena as well as a nice sum of money from Lucinda Long.

  Another memory surfaced. Marie told me, in our first conversation about the diaries, that the mayor would do what she wanted and make sure Marie had exclusive access. She implied that the mayor didn’t dare say no. Why? I wondered.