Arsenic and Old Books (8 page)

“Evening, Marie.” I stood in the doorway and glared down at her upturned face. “What do you want?”

From the wild gleam in the woman's eyes, I knew I was in trouble. She put her head down and butted me in the stomach. Hard.

I stumbled back and almost tripped over Diesel. I managed to step around him. He darted up the stairs while I turned to face my attacker.

“Why did you do that, woman? Are you insane?” I rubbed the spot where her head had connected with my midriff. “I have a good mind to call the police and charge you with assault.”

“You already set the police on me.” Her pitch rose with every syllable. “I could kill you for what you've done to me. Why do you hate me? What have I ever done to
you
?”

To my dismay she broke into wild sobs. Tears rolled down her face. She stood there, arms hanging down listlessly, and continued to cry. Despite my anger at her attack, I felt a sneaking sympathy for her distress. I stepped around her to close the door, then came back to where she could see me.

“What happened?” I asked in a gentle tone.

Her chest heaved as she struggled to regain enough composure to respond to me. “The police showed up at my house this afternoon and accused me of theft. That's what happened. Then they tore my house apart looking for the diaries. You were responsible for it—I know you were—so don't try to deny it.” Suddenly she collapsed in a seated heap on the floor and started sobbing again.

I knelt by her. I was afraid to touch her because the good Lord only knew how she would react.

“Marie, I'm sorry for your distress,” I said. “I did report the theft of the diaries, and naturally I had to give the authorities the names of anyone I knew who had expressed interest in them. I didn't do it out of malice, I swear to you. It was simply the truth.”

“It was humiliating.” Her voice was so low I barely made out the words. The volume grew as she continued to speak. “Never in my life have I been so embarrassed. I'll be a laughingstock on campus because of this. And on top of everything else, the diaries have disappeared. Now I'll never get to work on them, and I won't get tenure.”

“Did you steal the diaries?” I asked her. Time for a tougher approach, I thought. Maybe that would force her to see sense, if anything would.

She glared at me, her expression full of loathing. “No, I did not. I've never stolen anything in my life.”

“Then stop acting like a drama queen trying to hide her guilt.” I stood and extended a hand. “Get up off the floor and come into the kitchen with me. I'll give you coffee or something stronger, and we'll talk about this.”

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at me, then at my hand. After a long moment, she grasped my hand, and I helped her get to her feet.

“How about brandy?” She sounded hoarse now from the crying and carrying on.

“I have some,” I said. Might as well have some myself, I decided. I glanced up at the stairs, but there was no sign of the cat. Diesel was probably under my bed. He would be okay until I had Marie calmed down completely and out of the house.

Marie pulled out a chair and plopped down. Her short legs barely touched the floor. I found the brandy in the cabinet and poured some for both of us.

“Thanks,” she said in a less than gracious tone before she knocked it back in one go.

I held up the bottle, and she nodded. This time she had a sip and set the glass down. “I'm waiting,” she said. “Talk. I want you to explain to me how you were careless enough to let someone walk in and steal those diaries.”

I set the brandy bottle down before I was tempted to slug her with it.

“Chief Ford examined the lock on the office door,” I said as evenly as I could. “He believes the thief picked it. I always lock the door whenever I leave the office, even for a few minutes. I'm sure I did that today when I left for lunch.”

Marie looked skeptical. “Why didn't you have them somewhere more secure, like a safe?”

“For one thing,” I said, “I don't have a safe in the archive. I could have put them in the storage room next door. It has a better lock on it, one that's difficult to get into.” I shrugged. “But there was no reason to. I had no reason to think someone would steal the diaries. They aren't that valuable.”

“I guess you're right,” Marie said. “At least about locking them up. They
are
valuable, though, extremely valuable. Not in terms of money, of course. To me they're priceless.”

“I can understand that they
could
be valuable to your research,” I said. “What I don't get is why you're so convinced they
will
be. You don't know there's anything interesting or worthwhile to a historian in them.”

Marie looked down at her hands. “No, I don't know for sure, but those diaries are still the best shot I have at finally getting tenure.” Her shoulders sagged. “And now they're gone. It isn't fair.”

She didn't look at me once while she spoke. Even now she appeared to be absorbed by her hands. I figured that meant she was lying about something. But what? I suspected that she had knowledge—just how, I didn't know—of the contents of the diaries. Either that or she was gambling against less than convincing odds.

“What is it you're not telling me?” I asked.

Her head shot up, her expression indignant. She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut while I stared hard at her.

“Come on, you do know something,” I said. “Tell me.”

She took a deep breath. “You might as well know.” Her tone was grudging. “I can't say specifically what is in those diaries, but I do have a source that gives some indication. According to the source, Rachel Afton Long had a lot to say about everything happening around her. Including less than savory things about the great families of Athena.”

Family scandals. That could explain a few things,
I thought.

“What is the source?” I asked, though I had an inkling of the answer.

When Marie didn't respond right away, I continued. “Your source wouldn't be Angeline McCarthy Long's memoir of her grandmother-in-law, would it?”

“You think you know everything, don't you?” The venom in her tone didn't surprise me. “Yes, that is my source. Angeline is pretty vague about some of the details, but she hints at an awful lot. Particularly about the juicy stuff. I figure she's talking about things that happened during the war. Things that some of the families around here would just as soon not have come to light.”

This could explain why the copy of the memoir in the library went missing, I thought. Tomorrow one of my priorities would be searching the Long collection in the archive for a copy of that little book.

“I ran across the memoir in the online catalog,” I said. “I also found out that it has been declared lost, as of yesterday. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“Why should I know anything about it?” Marie practically spit the words at me. “I told you I am not a thief. I would never steal a book from the library, and if you try to tell anyone that I did, I'll sue you for everything you have.”

I held up my hands in a placatory gesture. “I didn't say you stole the book. I simply asked whether you knew anything about its disappearance. For example, when was the last time you used it?”

Marie didn't appear mollified by my words, but she answered my question. “Four or five years ago. I had mostly forgotten about it until I overheard that dinosaur Newkirk talking about the diaries with the departmental secretary a couple days ago.”

“Do you know of any other copies of the memoir? Do the Longs have one?”

Marie shook her head. “I don't think so. Not that many were printed to begin with, and who knows what happened to them over the years. You're the librarian. Why are you asking me? Don't you have some database you can check?”

“Of course,” I said. “And I will check. I'm also going to talk to the mayor, because I'm beginning to think that little book might be an important clue as to what the heck is going on with the missing diaries. The sooner we can find another copy and analyze what the granddaughter-in-law wrote, the better.”

“If the diaries are destroyed, there won't be much point.” Marie sighed. “I'm afraid we'll never see them again.”

“That's possible,” I replied. “Try to remain positive, though. The authorities will find them, and you'll be able to complete your research and write your book.”

Marie didn't appear convinced. “As long as you were giving names to the police, did you tell them about that horrible writer?”

“If you're referring to Kelly Grimes, yes, I did. What is the beef between you two, anyway?”

“I can't stand her. She lied to me and used me. She has no ethics at all.” Marie grew red in the face. “If she ever steps in front of my car, I'll flatten her.”

“What did she do?”

“If you must know,” Marie said, “she interviewed me a couple of years ago for a feature article she was writing on feminist studies at the college. She'd been a student of mine for a semester before that. I gave her several hours of my time near the end of the semester when I already had more than enough to do, and then she ended up barely mentioning my name. Instead she wrote about that arrogant Geraldine Comstock in the English department.”

“That wasn't fair,” I said. “I don't blame you for being angry with her.” I did have to wonder, though, how much Marie's unpleasant personality and self-absorption influenced the outcome of the article.

“If anybody stole the diaries,” Marie said, “it was her.” She called Grimes a pretty nasty name. “I've got a good mind to track her down and beat the truth out of her.”

“I wouldn't advise that,” I said, a little alarmed. Marie was crazy enough to do it, but I didn't know how I could stop her, other than by calling the police.

She stood. “Thanks for the brandy. I've got work to do.” She stalked off in the direction of the front door. Before I made it out of the kitchen I heard the door slam behind her.

That was the last time I saw her. Early the next morning Kanesha Berry called to tell me that Marie had been run down and killed by a car in the street in front of her house.

I was only half-done with my breakfast when my cell phone rang that morning. I saw Kanesha Berry's name and number flash on the screen. Kanesha almost never called me with good news. When she told me Marie Steverton was dead, I couldn't take it in at first.

“What happened?” I asked. I stared at my plate, my appetite gone. Diesel warbled anxiously because he could still smell bacon. I patted his head absentmindedly as I listened to Kanesha's reply.

“Neighbor across the street heard a crash outside around two this morning. Ran downstairs and out onto the front porch. He saw the body in the street and taillights disappearing way down at the end of the street. He immediately checked on Ms. Steverton, but there was nothing he could do.”

“What was she doing out in the street at that time of the morning?” I couldn't understand any of this. Why would someone want to kill Marie? Despite her enormously irritating personality, and my own jokes about batting her over the head, I couldn't fathom her murder. I couldn't believe it was an accident, either.

“We have no idea yet,” Kanesha said. “How well did you know her?”

“We weren't friends,” I said. “I knew her, of course, from activities on campus, and a couple of years ago she did a few days' research in the archive.” I paused for a sip of coffee—my throat went suddenly dry and tight. “The past few days, however, I had several encounters with her over those diaries that are missing.”

“The ones Mayor Long gave you,” Kanesha said. “Still no sign of them, by the way.”

“That's so frustrating,” I said. I wanted to ask whether anyone had searched Kelly Grimes's home—or Jasper Singletary's, for that matter—but I didn't want to poke the bear too much. Kanesha could definitely resemble a grumpy bear on occasion. She would tell me only as much as she deemed necessary.

“I'll need to talk to you in-depth about the events of the past few days,” Kanesha said. “There has to be some connection between Dr. Steverton's murder and the theft of the diaries. Will you be in your office at the archive today?”

“Yes, from about eight thirty on. Come anytime you want.”

“I'll see you about nine.” Kanesha rang off.

“That my daughter on the phone?” Azalea asked when she walked back into the room with a load of freshly washed and dried dish towels. “Reason I ask is you got that look on your face you usually get when she calls you and reads the riot act.”

I had to suppress a smile. My relationship with Kanesha had been one fraught with conflict, though recently Kanesha tended to be more at ease with me.

“Yes, that was Kanesha,” I said. “Calling to share some terrible news.” I told my housekeeper about the hit-and-run murder of Marie Steverton.

Azalea set the dish towels on the counter, closed her eyes, and said a short prayer under her breath for Marie. “That poor lady,” she said aloud to me when she finished. The simple dignity of her action touched me deeply.

“Yes, it's horrible,” I said after a moment. “She was one of the most irritating women I have ever met, but I wouldn't have wished that on her.” I shook my head. “I pray her soul can find peace.”

“She's in the Lord's hands now,” Azalea said. She picked up the dish towels and placed them in the drawer where they resided.

Diesel, not pleased at being ignored while I talked on the phone and then with Azalea, stood on his hind legs beside me and reached onto my plate with one paw to steal a piece of bacon.

I caught his paw a second before he got hold of the bacon. “No, bad kitty,” I told him in a firm tone, one I knew he would recognize. “You do not take food off my plate. Bad kitty.”

I released his paw, and he stared at me for a moment. He warbled sadly, as if in apology, and I patted him on the head. I couldn't give him the bacon now, because I didn't want him to think he could act badly, be penitent, and then still get his way. He was like a five-year-old child sometimes.

“It's okay,” I told him. “But you'll have to be satisfied with your cat food this morning.” He trotted off to the utility room, no doubt in search of sustenance from his food bowls.

I pushed back my chair and stood. I gulped down the rest of my coffee. “Azalea, I'm sorry, but I can't finish my breakfast. Not really hungry anymore.”

“I understand, Mr. Charlie,” she said. “You going to come home for lunch today? I reckon by then you'll be feeling better and want something good to eat.”

I smiled. Azalea was always determined to keep me well fed. “Yes, Diesel and I will be home for lunch, as far as I know. If anything comes up to prevent it, I'll give you a call.”

Ten minutes later Diesel and I left the house to walk to the college. We made it to the archive right on the dot of eight thirty. Melba wasn't in when we went by her office, and I hoped I could put off talking to her until later in the day. Going through it all with Kanesha would be exhausting enough.

I felt sick at heart when I unlocked the archive door. The replacement lock hadn't been installed yet, but I didn't figure the thief would be back for anything more. She—or he—was interested only in the diaries, I was sure.

I flipped the light switch, then bent to release Diesel from his leash and harness. He went straight to the window and climbed onto the sill. I headed for my desk, and my eyes lit on four books lying on it.

I stopped, unable to believe what I saw there.

One of the four volumes of Rachel Long's diaries without its archival box.

My legs trembled for a moment, and I couldn't move from the spot. Then I gained control of myself and walked around the desk to sink into my chair. I continued to stare at the book.

My eyes strayed to the shelf. The other three volumes sat there as if they'd never been gone, but without the archival boxes I'd made for them.

This made no sense. Why would the thief steal the diaries one day, only to return them less than twenty-four hours later?

My mind felt stuck in a groove, with that thought going round and round. Then I realized that it was possible that the thief didn't bring them back. Some other person might have found them and decided to return them, for reasons unknown.

I shook my head. Either way, it was bizarre.

What would Kanesha say when I told her?

Thinking of Kanesha made me realize something that had my stomach twisting in knots.

The diaries were evidence in a crime. That meant Kanesha would take them away for testing. Would the technicians who examined them treat them with the care they deserved?

For a moment I was tempted to hide the diaries and not tell Kanesha they'd been returned. That way I could go ahead and start scanning them and find out what was in them that caused all this brouhaha. When I finished, I could say I found them back on the shelves.

Then I realized that wouldn't work, for two reasons. The first, and most important, was that I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't lie to Kanesha like that. The second was that, once the lock was changed, it would be extremely difficult for someone to get into the office to put them back. There wouldn't be a way around that inconvenient fact that I could see.

I checked my watch—already three minutes past nine. Kanesha ought to be here any second now. I sat back in my chair and tried to relax. Hearing the purring cat behind my head helped. Happy to be in one of his favorite spots, Diesel rumbled away as he lay there and stared out the window.

A few minutes later Kanesha walked in. “Morning, Charlie.”

I returned her greeting, then said, “You're not going to believe this.” I gestured toward the book on my desk. “The diaries are back.”

Kanesha stared at me as if she thought I'd lost my mind. She strode forward until she stood less than an inch from the other side of my desk. She looked from me to the book on my desk a couple of times.

“You've got all four of them?” she asked.

I nodded. “The other three are on the shelf there.” I pointed to them. “They were in archival boxes when they were taken, but they came back without them.”

Kanesha shook her head. “This is the craziest dang thing I've ever seen.” She pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. After a few moments she identified herself and then gave instructions for retrieval of the diaries for forensic examination. Call completed, she put away the cell phone and found a chair.

“I know you have to take these as evidence,” I said as I resumed my own seat, “but they really have to be handled with extreme care.”

“I understand that,” Kanesha said with a faint note of impatience. “The state crime lab is used to handling all kinds of fragile objects. I'll be sure they understand the importance of the diaries, and I'm sure they'll take all due care with them.”

That didn't completely reassure me, but I had no say in the matter. “How long do you think they'll take to complete their examination?”

Kanesha shrugged. “Ordinarily it could take several weeks to a few months. They're always busy. But the mayor might be able to call in a few favors and get them first in line. She knows a lot of influential people.”

Political clout was a good thing, I reflected, when used for a good reason.

“Helpful that they already have your prints on record.” Kanesha grinned.

I decided to ignore that little sally. I was about to ask her a question when I heard a knock at the open door. I glanced past Kanesha to see Lucinda Long in the doorway, her purse on one arm and a canvas bag hanging from the other.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” I said. “Please come in. I have some news I think you'll be happy about. Deputy Berry and I were just discussing it, in fact.”

The mayor moved forward. “Good morning, Ms. Berry. I've got news of my own that I think will make
you
happy, Mr. Harris.” She brandished the canvas bag. “I've found another volume of Rachel Long's diaries.”