No Cats Allowed: A Cat in the Stacks Mystery (8 page)

I stared at my phone for a moment. I suspected what the bad news was, thanks to Melba’s revelations. No doubt I was being let go as part of Reilly’s plan to sell off the rare books. I sank down on the bed and thought about that.

I had already told myself I was willing to quit, rather than deal with Reilly any longer. That, however, would have been
my
decision, and I’d thought I would be leaving the rare book collection and the archives intact. With Reilly apparently unchecked, though, I was probably about to be fired, and the collections to which I had devoted several years of work were to be dismantled.

Did I really believe that the rare books and archives would be sacrificed to make up the library budget deficit? No, as I continued to think about it, I didn’t believe they would. A significant portion of the archive’s contents had been given by families who still wielded
influence. In other words, they were alumni with deep pockets, like the Ducotes.

No, Reilly wouldn’t succeed with that part of the plan.

But he had succeeded, I had no doubt, in firing me. The president had thrown Melba and me under the bus—perhaps along with a few other library staff—thanks to the combined efforts of Peter Vanderkeller and Oscar Reilly.

Might as well get it over with
, I told myself. I returned Penny Sisson’s call, and she answered right away. I identified myself and said, “I’m pretty sure I know what your bad news is.”

“I’m really sorry, Charlie,” Penny said, and I appreciated her sincerely rueful tone. “Your department is being closed, effective immediately. There are no other openings, either, or else you might have been reassigned.”

“I understand,” I replied. “Frankly, there isn’t anywhere else in the library that I’d care to work.”

“I don’t blame you,” Penny said. “And please don’t repeat this, but I thought there would be quite a different outcome to the situation that’s been brewing in the library.”

“I thought there would be, too,” I said. “But that’s neither here nor there. When can I go in and clean out my office?”

“Would tomorrow morning work for you?” Penny asked. “You’ll need to come to my office first. There are a few things we have to go over, and I should have everything ready then. You’ll get a small severance package.” She paused for a moment. “Then a campus police officer will escort you to your office and stay with you while you pack your things. It’s standard procedure.”

I bit back the sarcastic comment I wanted to make about how being treated like a potential criminal who had to be spied on was
the cherry on top. Penny wasn’t its target anyway. I might sit down in a few days and pen a pointed letter to the president of the college and the board of trustees about all this. I wouldn’t go as quietly as Reilly probably hoped I would.

“Yes, tomorrow morning is fine,” I said. “How about nine or nine thirty? Would either of those times work for you?”

We agreed on nine thirty, and I ended the call. I set the phone down on the nightstand and flopped backward, my feet still on the floor. I stared at the ceiling. Had I been given to cursing, I would have indulged in an extensive session of it, casting aspersions on the ancestry of Reilly and the college president. Peter Vanderkeller would receive his share, too.

The bed shook as a thirty-six-pound cat landed on it near my head. Diesel stared down at me, looking anxious, and trilled.

“I’m okay, sweet boy, only a little angry,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.” I pushed myself to a sitting-up position again, and Diesel moved closer, his body now against my side. I put my arm around him, and he rubbed his head against my chest and warbled.

Tomorrow morning, I decided, I should probably leave him at home. I would have a couple of boxes to deal with, and I wouldn’t be in the best of moods. Diesel was better off staying with Azalea while I packed up my things. I had a sudden, sickening thought. I hoped I didn’t see Reilly tomorrow when I cleared out my office. I might not be able to restrain my occasionally unruly tongue if I did.

I decided I need not explain to Azalea why I would now be home instead of going to work until tomorrow morning. Right now I didn’t feel like talking about it with anyone. Helen Louise was the exception to that, but I’d have to wait until tonight to share my news with her.

I caught a glimpse of the bedside clock and realized it was past my usual lunchtime. I didn’t feel particularly hungry, but I probably
ought to eat something. “Come on, Diesel,” I said. “Let’s go downstairs and find lunch.”

Diesel meowed and jumped to the floor. I remembered to pick up my cell phone this time and stuck it in my pocket before we left the bedroom.

After lunch—a ham and cheese sandwich with a small salad—I decided a nap was in order. I read for about ten minutes, until my eyelids began to droop and the hefty Penman book got heavy. Book set aside, cat sound asleep beside me, I drifted off.

*   *   *

That evening, over the dinner table at Helen Louise’s house, I brought her up to date on the situation at the college library. Helen Louise was an alumna of the school, and her expression grew angrier with every sentence.

When I finished, she set down her wineglass, her expression fierce. “I have a good mind to call the president’s office tomorrow and tell him I am withdrawing my pledge to the alumni scholarship fund. And I’ll tell him exactly why.”

I reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “Thank you, love, for your loyalty and support. I’m thinking of writing a letter along the same lines. I’ve no doubt that when a few others hear about this, they’ll express their displeasure, too.”

“Like Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce, you mean.” Helen Louise grinned. “You know they adore you, don’t you? And not just because of Diesel.”

Hearing his name, the cat roused from his boiled chicken–induced coma and meowed. Helen Louise and I laughed. She spoiled Diesel badly, insisting on cooking chicken for him when we dined together like this.

“I’m fond of them, too. They have become good friends.” I shook my head. “I can only imagine what my parents would say, because they thought the Ducote sisters were royalty. And as we were only the common folk, we didn’t mix. They didn’t have much chance to get to know one another, even though my dad worked at the bank and they came in often.”

“My parents were the same,” Helen Louise said. “Funny how that can be in small towns like this. We’re supposed to be a classless society, but we’re not.”

“It all comes down to money, which the Ducotes have always had a gracious plenty of,” I said, “while the rest of us had a lot less.”

“Things have changed, though,” she replied. “Some of the barriers have fallen, or at least lowered.” She laughed. “How did we get off on this sociological tangent?”

I shrugged. “Talking about support for the college, I guess. I’m tempted to call the sisters myself, though earlier I told myself I wouldn’t do it.”

Helen Louise picked up her wineglass and drained it. She poured more for herself and then gestured with the bottle. I shook my head. I still had half a glass, and I felt stuffed from the excellent meal of spinach, cheese, and onion quiche and
salade niçoise
.

She picked up her glass again and stared into it. “I don’t imagine you’ll have to. My guess is they’ll be calling you soon enough. The grapevine in this town is amazingly swift.”

“True.” I supposed it was the same in every small town in the country, or in any kind of small community. Like a college. A sudden thought struck me. “You know, I hadn’t thought about the history department. They will be up in arms against Reilly’s plans. The contents are a gold mine for their grad students in Southern history.”

“There will be all kinds of allies,” Helen Louise said. “Wait until the word has got around. A hornet’s nest will have nothing on it.” She forked the last bite of quiche on her plate and ate it. When she finished, she said, “Tell me about the wedding. I really hated that I couldn’t be there.”

“I wish you could have been there, too,” I said. “Sean and Alex were disappointed you couldn’t come, but they’re planning a big party for when her father gets home from Australia.”

We chatted for a few minutes more about the wedding. I declined dessert, though I knew it would have been heaven on the tongue. My pants had been feeling a little tight lately, and between Azalea and Helen Louise, my taste buds remained locked in mortal combat with my waistline. The taste buds had been winning more often than not. I heard Stewart’s voice in my head.

The gym, Charlie. Come with me and I’ll get you started
.

One of these days I really ought to pay more attention to Stewart.

Helen Louise had to be up at four the next morning, so Diesel and I reluctantly bade her good night at eight thirty. We were lucky she managed to squeeze in the occasional night like this during the week for dinner together. I always looked forward to Saturday nights, because the bistro was closed on Sundays.

On the short trip home, Diesel and I walked briskly. There was a chill in the air, not unpleasant, but it didn’t encourage us to linger. Along the way I thought about what it would be like when Helen Louise and I married. We hadn’t actually discussed it, but the time was approaching when we ought to. We’d been comfortable so far with the way things were. Her demanding work schedule meant we didn’t have a lot of time together, and I didn’t expect that to change with marriage. She loved her business, and I wouldn’t ask her to give it up.

There were definitely a number of issues to consider before we took that step. Soon, I realized, we really had to talk.

Once home—quiet and empty except for Diesel and me—we went up to my bedroom. I changed out of my clothes into the worn T-shirt and pajama shorts I favored for sleepwear. I turned down the ringer on my cell phone to a low but still audible setting and picked up my book. Thanks to the nap earlier, I didn’t feel that sleepy, so I would be able to get considerably further into the adventures of Richard the Lionheart before I drifted off.

The musical signal of an incoming call on my phone woke me. As I fumbled for the phone, I squinted at the clock. A few minutes after six. The caller ID told me my son was calling.

“Morning, Sean.” I yawned. “You’re calling really early. Is everything okay?” A terrible thought occurred to me, and I jerked upright on the bed, disturbing Diesel, who meowed sleepily. “Alex is okay, isn’t she? She’s not sick, I hope.”

“No, Dad, Alex is fine, and so is the baby,” Sean said. I could hear the barely suppressed irritation in his voice. “I’m afraid I have shocking news. Oscar Reilly was killed sometime last night, and I’m about to head to the county jail to meet Melba. They’ve taken her in for questioning.”

Oh, no, not another murder
. I felt sick. Then the last part of what Sean said sank in. “Melba! Why have they taken her in for questioning?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” Sean sounded grumpy, whether with me or the early call to the jail, I didn’t know.

“Sorry, of course,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not at the moment,” Sean said. “If they don’t hold her, I will bring her to your house. I know she’ll want to see you and talk to you about it. I wanted you to be prepared.” He broke off. “Look, Dad, I’m pulling up to the jail. I’ll call as soon as I can.” He ended the call.

I wished I could break him of talking on his cell phone while he drove, but at least he wasn’t doing it on a freeway in Houston anymore. I had nightmares about him and Laura talking and driving when we lived there.

My rambling thoughts focused on Melba. Other than the fact
that she had been Reilly’s administrative assistant, at least until yesterday afternoon, why did they take her in?

An appalling thought popped into my head.

They would take her in if they found some kind of evidence at the scene that suggested she was present.

I refused to believe that my dear friend from childhood had killed Reilly, no matter the provocation. They couldn’t arrest her, surely. There couldn’t be sufficient evidence.

I realized I had no idea how—or where—he was killed. Frustrated by my lack of knowledge and my inability to do anything constructive to help Melba, I felt like pulling my hair. Poor Diesel picked up on my tension, and talking to him and reassuring him calmed me down as well.

“Our friend Melba’s in trouble,” I said. “But we’ll help her, won’t we?”

He recognized Melba’s name and meowed in response.

I yawned again. I was tired. I didn’t know exactly when I’d fallen asleep last night, but I had read until pretty late. The last time I remembered looking at the clock, it was nearly one.

“Come on, boy, let’s wash our faces and then get downstairs for some caffeine. I have a feeling I’m going to need a few gallons of it this morning.”

On the way downstairs I recalled my meeting with Penny Sisson. I hadn’t remembered it in time to tell Sean I would be out of the house for a while this morning.

As my foot hit the bottom step, I realized that the meeting would have to be put on hold. With Reilly’s murder, everything changed. Perhaps I wouldn’t lose my job after all.

I chided myself for my lack of compassion while I filled the
coffeemaker with water. A man was dead, and by foul means, and here I was thinking about myself.

A little voice reminded me how much I loathed the dead man, and that false piety over his death was hypocritical. Then I decided I still wasn’t awake enough for these kinds of philosophical discussions with myself. I put coffee in the basket and hit the button.

The back door opened, and Azalea walked in. “Good morning, Mr. Charlie. You’re up early today.” Hearing a loud meow, she looked around to see the cat approaching from the direction of the utility room. “Good morning to you, too, Mr. Cat.”

I returned her greeting and then explained why Diesel and I were downstairs before our usual seven or seven thirty. Occasionally eight.

“Lord have mercy, Mr. Charlie.” Azalea shook her head. “I reckon you’re going to be involved in another murder. You and my daughter.”

Azalea’s daughter, Kanesha Berry, was chief deputy in the Athena County Sheriff’s Department, and their principal homicide investigator. The city had too small a police force to run a homicide investigation, and the sheriff’s department stepped in for murder cases. If necessary, they might call in the state cops, the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation.

If the murder occurred on campus, though, the campus police would be involved as well. Talk about complications. Thankfully for me, I didn’t have to worry about jurisdiction issues.

Kanesha was a tough, experienced, and smart investigator. I knew I could trust her not to take the easy route and try to railroad Melba if the evidence wasn’t convincing.
Whatever it is
, I thought,
it has to be circumstantial, and hopefully Melba will be able to explain it easily.

“Poor Miss Melba.” Azalea pulled an apron from her capacious bag and put it on. She stowed the bag on top of the refrigerator. She had learned early on not to leave it in a more accessible spot if she didn’t want a cat trying to climb into it. “With Mr. Sean there being her lawyer, she’ll be okay. He’s not going to let anything bad happen to her.”

“No, he won’t,” I said, feeling a swell of pride for my capable son. I put my earlier thoughts about her daughter into words. “Kanesha isn’t going to prefer charges if the evidence isn’t there.”

“No, she won’t.” Azalea and her daughter often butted heads. They were too much alike not to, but you could never get either of them to recognize that fact. Nevertheless, I knew Azalea was fiercely proud of her daughter and her accomplishments. Azalea and her late husband had worked hard to make sure Kanesha had the education and the opportunities they hadn’t had, and she had fulfilled their dreams for her.

Except that she wasn’t married and hadn’t provided any grandchildren. That was a touchy subject, as I knew all too well.

My mind kept flitting all over the place this morning. I needed that caffeine more than I realized. I checked the machine, and it had finished gurgling. I poured myself a cup, added cream and sugar, and had that first heavenly sip. I fancied I could feel my brain start to settle down and focus already.

“Now, you sit on down there.” Azalea nodded toward the table. “I’ll get breakfast on right now. You okay to wait for biscuits, or you want toast with your eggs and bacon instead?”

I was torn. I occasionally had dreams about Azalea’s biscuits—light, fluffy, dripping with butter and her homemade muscadine jelly. I thought about my too-tight pants and decided dry toast was the better option.

“A couple of scrambled eggs, please,” I said, “and three pieces of dry toast. No bacon.”

Azalea harrumphed. “Not much of a breakfast to set you up for the day.” She shook head. “But if that’s what you want, all right then.”

I started to say it wasn’t really what I wanted, but if I did, I’d be eating eggs, biscuits, and bacon this morning. I weakened slightly, however. “Maybe biscuits tomorrow instead.”

Azalea nodded and turned to preparations for my breakfast. I drank more coffee before I fed Diesel his morning wet food. Then I went out to retrieve the newspaper.

I found it hard to concentrate on the paper. There was no mention of Reilly’s murder. The news would have broken too late, but there would be plenty of coverage tomorrow. I wouldn’t have to wait that long, though, for details, thanks to Sean. That thought set me to worrying about Melba again, but Azalea soon distracted me with my breakfast.

I thanked her and tucked into my meal. Diesel had watched Azalea’s preparations carefully. He was disappointed not to smell bacon, I knew. Azalea usually slipped him a few bites when she thought I wasn’t looking.

After breakfast I went back upstairs to shower. I took the cell phone into the bathroom with me and set it on top of the toilet tank. That way I would hear it if Sean or anyone else called.

My shower went uninterrupted, except for an inquisitive feline head that poked around the shower curtain a couple of times. Both times Diesel meowed loudly, as if to ask why I was taking so long. “Silly kitty,” I told him.

By the time I’d finished dressing, the bedside clock read seven forty-five. I decided I would call Penny Sisson at home at eight. If
our meeting was no longer necessary, there was no point in my going over to the campus. Besides, I needed to wait at home for Sean and Melba. If the layoff plan wasn’t affected by Reilly’s death, I would arrange to go later in the day to clear out my office.

With those arrangements settled—in my mind, at least—I went back downstairs to the den, where I booted up my laptop to check my e-mail. Diesel left me and headed for the kitchen, no doubt to try to con Azalea out of a treat or two.

I logged into my work e-mail first—at least my account had not been disabled, so that was a good sign. As I expected, there was an announcement from Forrest Wyatt’s office about the tragedy that had occurred on campus last night.

The message revealed that the library was the scene of Reilly’s murder, and that surprised me. No further information was offered, and I wondered where in the library the crime had taken place. The library was closed today, until the officials investigating the crime had finished with the scene.

In the old days, before the advent of the electronic journals and databases, the closing would have been a major disruption for everyone. Now that so many faculty members and students could access what they needed from their homes and offices, the most significant inconvenience would be to those who came to the library for a quiet place to study.

I thought about calling Helen Louise to share the news with her, but I knew she was too busy to have time to chat on the phone with me. Instead, I focused on reading the rest of my e-mail.

There were two requests for reference assistance with regard to materials in the archive, and another from a person who wanted to examine a copy of an early medical textbook that had belonged to one of Athena’s doctors in the 1830s. I thought about how to
reply to them and came up with a cautiously worded message that stated the archives and rare books were temporarily unavailable due to unforeseen circumstances. I couldn’t offer a definite time frame for availability, and I concluded by saying that I would be in touch as soon as I had more information.

The final new message in my in-box was from Delbert Winston. I did not know him that well, although he did occasionally forward e-mail inquiries from alumni and others who had books they wanted to donate, if the books were of sufficient age to be of value to the rare book collection. We would chat briefly at library meetings, but I really knew little about the man.

Here, though, in my in-box was a message from him saying that he needed to discuss a personal matter with me.
Urgently
was the word he used.
Discuss urgently
. He gave me his cell number and asked me to call whenever I received his e-mail.

I checked the date and time on the message and noted that he had sent it shortly before five this morning.

Was this urgent matter of his connected to Reilly’s murder?

I pulled out my phone and punched in his number.

To my aggravation the call went to voice mail immediately. After the beep I told him I’d received his message and gave him my cell number. I concluded with, “Call me at your earliest opportunity.”

I checked the time on my phone. Seven minutes past eight. I retrieved a copy of the local phone book from my desk and looked up Penny Sisson’s home number.

She answered on the second ring.

“Morning, Penny.”

She didn’t give me time to say anything. “Charlie, have you heard the news about the murder?” I managed a
yes
before she hurried on. “Isn’t this horrible? What if we have a deranged killer wandering the
campus? I am not going into the office today. Will that upset your plans?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “In fact, I really need to stay home.” I couldn’t explain why. I wasn’t going to be sharing Melba’s business with anyone outside the immediate family.

“Thank you,” she said. “I just don’t think I can face the office today. I’m going to have nightmares because it was such a brutal murder. He wasn’t a nice man, but to die like
that
. It’s horrible to contemplate.”

“Do you know how he died?” I asked.

“You mean you haven’t heard?” Penny said, her surprise obvious in her voice. “Oh, Charlie, it was horrendous. The poor student worker who found him had to be taken to the emergency room, she was so upset. She apparently has panic attacks, and finding Reilly like that caused a bad one.”

“Finding him like
what
?”

“Crushed to death in the compact shelving in the basement,” Penny replied. “Horrible, just horrible.”