Murder Past Due (13 page)

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“She gone need some help.” Azalea, for the first time in my acquaintance, looked worried.

“Kanesha?”

Azalea nodded.

“She seems pretty capable to me,” I said. “She seems to know what she’s doing.”

“She’s a smart girl, I know. Always worked real hard. Ambitious, too.” Azalea smoothed her apron, and I waited for her to continue.

“But people ain’t gonna talk to her. You know what they’re like.” Azalea looked at me expectantly.

“You mean because she’s black.” There was no other way to say it, and I knew what Azalea meant. Old attitudes die hard, and many people in Athena weren’t used to the idea of a young black woman in a position of such authority. That could cause Kanesha some problems.

“I sure do,” Azalea said. Her eyes bored into mine. “That’s why you got to help her, only don’t let on like you’re doing it.”

Showered, shaved, and dressed, I contemplated the day ahead. Wednesday is my day for errands. I worked at the college library on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and on Fridays I volunteered at the public library.

Justin had gone off to his classes, and Azalea would be here most of the day working and keeping an eye on things. She had already taken another phone call from the local reporter, Ray Appleby, and I doubted he would call back anytime soon.

Before I went upstairs, Azalea extracted a promise from me to help Kanesha as discreetly as possible. I knew there was some truth to what Azalea said, and I couldn’t help being curious about who had killed Godfrey and why. Everyone else in town would be talking about it, so there was no reason I couldn’t, too. And slip in the occasional question.

Was this how the Hardy Boys got started? I laughed at myself in the mirror. I didn’t have a famous detective for a father, but I had read hundreds of mystery novels. I would poke around, but I wasn’t planning to investigate houses on cliffs, old mills, or secret caves anytime soon.

Diesel followed me to the room next to my bedroom, another bedroom that Aunt Dottie had converted into a sitting room for herself. With a few small changes I had turned it into an office of sorts, mainly by adding my computer and printer.

The cat jumped up onto the desk by the computer—his usual spot—and watched as I turned the computer on and got comfortable in my chair. I had a little time to kill—an unfortunate phrase, I realized—before shops would open, so I might as well check my e-mail.

The first message I opened was from my daughter Laura, who had moved to Los Angeles two years ago to pursue a career as an actress.

The news about Godfrey had apparently hit the media in California last night, because Laura’s message was full of questions. She had no idea, of course, how closely involved I was in the case. I glanced at the time stamp on her message. She had sent it around two A.M. Pacific time.

I replied to her message at some length, explaining what I knew about Godfrey’s death and my own involvement. I knew there would be many questions to come, because Laura loved mysteries as much as I did. As a ten-year-old she wrote her own plays based on the Nancy Drew books, and naturally she starred as Nancy. If I wasn’t careful, she’d hop on the first plane home, determined to help me.

Then I remembered she was in a successful play at the moment, so I was safe from her enthusiastic assistance. Smiling, I clicked the SEND button.

There was no message from my son, Sean, but that wasn’t unusual. Much more taciturn than his younger sister, Sean wrote me an e-mail every week or so and called about as often. He and his mother had been very close, as Laura and I are, and I knew he was still struggling to come to terms with Jackie’s death.

Finished with e-mail, I shut down the computer. Diesel yawned at me, and I reached out to scratch his head.

“Are you ready to go, boy? It’s almost ten.”

The cat hopped to the floor and rubbed against my legs. He knew the word
go
.

Downstairs I heard Azalea running the vacuum in the living room. I fastened Diesel into his harness, and soon we were on our way in the car. I had decided not to walk this morning, despite fine weather, in case I needed to get somewhere quickly.

My first destination this morning was the independent bookstore, the Athenaeum. Some locals and visitors might scratch their heads over the name, but I thought it was clever. Its present location was on the town square, across from Farrington House, but it had started life about twenty years ago in a house on a street near downtown. The present owner, Jordan Thompson, had inherited it from her father, and when I moved back to Athena, I was delighted to find it thriving.

It was a few minutes past ten when I pulled my car into a spot directly in front of the store. The neon OPEN sign was on. Diesel hopped down from the car, eager to go inside. Jordan always made a fuss over him and gave him a kitty treat or two. Or five. Diesel sometimes went into starving-cat mode around her, and I pretended not to notice.

I paused at the front window. There was a large pile of Godfrey’s latest book, a hardcover with a garish cover, on display. It would probably sell even more copies now that he was dead.

With that morbid thought, I entered the bookstore, Diesel stepping ahead of me. The bell hung from the door handle jangled and, as usual, Diesel swatted at it until I pulled him away.

“Good morning.” I called out the words because I didn’t see any staff members in evidence.

The head of one of Jordan’s assistants popped up from behind the counter. “Let me know if you need help with anything.” The head disappeared.

“Thanks.” The head belonged to Jordan’s younger brother, Jack, who was about the same age as Justin. He was always in a hurry, it seemed, and I took no offense at his abrupt manner.

The Athenaeum occupied about four thousand square feet, and there were thousands and thousands of books lining the shelves. I could easily spend two hours here—and often had—such was the wealth of the printed word available. I headed for the mystery section, where I usually started. I had been here the previous Saturday, so there might not be anything new in. It never hurt to look, though.

I was checking the
H
s for three of my favorites—Haines, Harris, and Hart—when I heard a voice behind me.

“Good morning, Diesel. What a beautiful boy you are.”

Diesel tugged at the leash, and I let him go as I turned to greet Jordan.

“Good morning, Charlie,” she said, bending down to give my cat an affectionate greeting.

Her long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, Jordan looked younger than thirty-one. Tall and willowy, she was a striking woman, with flawless skin and flashing green eyes. “Good morning,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, standing up. “Can Diesel have a treat or two?”

“Sure,” I said. “You spoil him, you know.”

Jordan laughed. “He’s a big guy. Needs to keep up his strength.”

I passed over the leash, and Diesel padded happily after Jordan.

I hoped that by the time Jordan brought Diesel back I could figure out an approach. I scanned the bookshelves in front of me, as if I could find inspiration there.

I heard the bell on the door, and then a voice called out, “Morning, everybody. I brought doughnuts.”

Recognizing the voice of Patty Simpson, I smiled. With Patty here it shouldn’t be too hard to steer the conversation around to the death of the town’s famous writer.

I left the mystery section for the front counter. Her back to me, Patty was setting down a box of doughnuts along with a purse and a bag of books. Jack Thompson had disappeared from behind the counter.

“I finished the galley of that new thriller you gave me,” Patty said without turning her head. “It was pretty awful, so I don’t think you should order more than one.”

Then she turned and saw me. “Oh, sorry, I thought it was Jordan. How are you, Mr. Harris? Would you like a doughnut?”

I would very much have liked a doughnut, but after the breakfast I had consumed, I knew I shouldn’t. “No, thank you,” I said, surprised that the words actually came out of my mouth.

“There’s plenty,” Patty said.

“No, really, I’m okay. But thanks for the offer.”

“I’ll be right back.” Patty grabbed her purse and scurried off in the direction of the back room.

While I waited, I turned my back on the doughnuts, lest I be tempted further. Instead I focused on a nearby display of diet cookbooks. I ought to buy one, but I knew I’d never cook anything out of it.

When Patty returned, she eyed the box of doughnuts. She helped herself to one, stuffing half of it in her mouth. Judging from the plumpness of her figure, she wasn’t interested in diet cookbooks any more than I was.

“Have you heard the big news?” She popped the rest of the doughnut into her mouth while she waited for my reply.

There was no point in playing coy. Sooner or later everyone would know I found the body.

“Yes, I have. Poor Godfrey.”

Patty swallowed. Her expression turned sour, and I didn’t think it was from the doughnut.

“He was a colossal jerk, that’s what he was.” Patty reached for a second doughnut before pulling her hand back.

“I went to school with him,” I said. “He wasn’t always a nice person. Did you know him?”

“Only through the bookstore. And from things my Aunt Melba has told me about him.” She shot me an arch look. “I know you know my Aunt Melba. Don’t you think she looks good for someone her age?”

I suppressed a laugh. Patty was anything but subtle. “She sure does.”

Patty grinned, and I knew the minute I left she’d be on the phone with Melba, reporting my comment.

“So Godfrey came to the store to sign books, I guess.” If I didn’t steer the subject back to Godfrey, no telling what Patty, trying to get a response from me, would say about Melba next.

“Not as often as he should have.” Patty frowned. “You’d think Mr. High-and-Mighty Bestselling Author would have the decency to help out his hometown bookstore. But not him. He was too good for us.”

“You mean he wouldn’t sign here?” That was rather ugly of Godfrey, if it was true.

“Well, he did sign a couple of times,” Patty said. “But the last time he was going to come, he canceled at the last minute and went over to that big chain bookstore out on the highway instead. The jerk.”

“What are you talking about?” Jordan and Diesel walked up to us, and I could tell that Jordan wasn’t happy as she gave Diesel’s leash back to me. Diesel stared back and forth between us, sensing the sudden tension in the room.

“About Godfrey Priest,” Patty said, not the least fazed by Jordan’s forbidding expression. “And about the dirty trick he played on us the last time he was supposed to sign here.”

“We all have better things to do with our time than talk about that jackass,” Jordan said. “You need to finish checking those backlist orders.” She turned and stalked off.

Patty waited until Jordan was safely out of earshot before moving a step closer to me and Diesel. “She used to be in love with him, you know.”

“Really?” I felt awkward. This was the kind of thing I had come for, but it suddenly seemed a bit embarrassing.

Patty was not embarrassed. “Oh yeah, she would go off to those mystery conventions, when he was still showing up at them, and I think they had a big ol’ fling. But then he must’ve dumped her.”

“That’s too bad. He did have a terrible reputation with women, though.” I kept an eye on the back room. Jordan might reappear at any moment, and I didn’t want her to catch us.

“And that was when he stopped coming to the store.” Patty sounded triumphant, as if she’d just solved a puzzle.

That was interesting. Hell hath no fury, etc. Not to mention a bookstore owner whose business could be hurt by the defection of a big-selling writer.

Jordan stuck her head out of the back room. “Patty, have you started on that backlist order yet?”

“Just starting it now.” Patty’s tone was cheerful in reply. She winked at me. “If you need help with anything, you just let me know.” She turned to look around the counter for something. She picked up a printout and brandished it at me. “I have to go through the romance section and decide what we need to reorder. I’m the expert for that section.”

As she turned, her foot caught on something, and she stumbled toward me. I put out a hand to steady her, and Diesel scooted out of the way.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now what’s this doing here?”

She stooped down and picked up a box of books that had been sitting on the floor behind the counter. She set the box, labeled with Godfrey’s name and the title of his new book, on the counter next to the doughnuts.

Julia’s words from last night flashed into my mind. “Could I have a look at one of those? I haven’t read it yet.”

Shrugging, Patty pulled one out of the box and handed it to me. “It’s pretty awful. I gave up after fifty pages.”

I heard her only dimly as I opened the book to the title page. There, below the printed name, was Godfrey’s signature.

And yesterday’s date.

“This is pretty interesting.” I held the book out to Patty.

She took it from me and glanced down at the title page.

“Whoa. This is going to be worth something, let me tell you.” She snapped the book shut and stuck it back in the box.

“I suppose so.” I was annoyed she hadn’t given the book back to me, but perhaps she was so surprised she didn’t realize her rudeness.

“So that’s where she was.” Patty muttered the words under her breath, but I was close enough to make them out.

“What
are
you doing?”

Neither of us had heard Jordan approach. Patty stared at her boss like a fox caught in the proverbial henhouse, while I mustered as innocent-looking a smile as I could.