Arsenic and Old Books (18 page)

“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 the 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?

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.

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.