The Pawful Truth

by Miranda James

  “I think it’s a good idea to place those ads,” I said. “You’re run off your feet during busy times, and you don’t want customers to feel like they’re kept waiting too long for service.”

  “You’re right.” Helen Louise sighed. “Thanks for always helping me put things in perspective, sweetheart. Having you there for me makes all the difference.”

  “That works both ways,” I said. “Are you going to be free for dinner tonight? I’m not sure what Azalea has on the menu, but it’s bound to be good.”

  Helen Louise chuckled. “Lure me away from work with good old-fashioned Southern cooking, is that your game? This time, it’s going to work. Yes, I’ll be there around six.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll let Azalea know, but I’m sure she’s cooking enough for the two of us and several more besides.”

  We said good-bye, and I headed back to the kitchen to tell Azalea that Helen Louise was coming for dinner.

  My boarder Stewart Delacorte, a professor of chemistry at Athena, arrived home around five thirty.

  “How was the second day of classes?” I asked after he greeted the four of us in the kitchen.

  “No more exciting than the first day,” Stewart muttered darkly. “I’m getting too old to put up with freshmen anymore. They seem to be getting younger and younger, and more ill-mannered every year.”

  “You said the same thing last year,” I said in a mild tone.

  “And I’m another year older,” Stewart replied, obviously intent on being grumpy.

  “Retire then,” I said without much sympathy.

  “I’d like to retire from teaching freshmen,” he said. “The juniors and seniors are fine, and I’m happy with my crop of graduate students this year.”

  “Then talk to the department chair and ask not to teach the freshmen again.” We went through a similar routine at the beginning of each new semester. Even Diesel, normally sensitive to any kind of intense emotion, ignored Stewart in this mood. Instead he focused on slapping at Ramses.

  I knew Stewart needed to blow off a little steam, so I played along. In another week he would be in a better mood, after terrifying the freshmen in his classes into what he considered proper classroom behavior. He was a tough professor, I had heard from more than one source, but I knew that his students had a high rate of acceptance into top graduate programs and medical schools.

  Suddenly Stewart grinned at me and Azalea. “Thanks for listening. I’d better run up and get Dante out for his walkies. Haskell won’t be here for dinner. All deputies got called in for some kind of meeting. He couldn’t tell me what the meeting is about.” He headed out of the kitchen, and moments later I heard him run up the stairs. He, Haskell, and Stewart’s poodle, Dante, occupied a suite on the third floor of the house.

  I sniffed appreciatively while I set the table for three. To judge by the aroma wafting from the oven, Azalea had made one of her staple chicken casseroles with the addition of rice, cheese, spinach, and mushrooms. A good old rib-sticker, as my father would have called it.

  Helen Louise arrived a few minutes after Stewart returned from walking Dante. Azalea set the casserole on the table, along with salad and hot, freshly baked rolls. After ensuring that we were all happy with the meal, Azalea retrieved her purse and the straw bag—sans Ramses—and headed out the door. I had tried in the past to get her to have dinner with us. I knew she and my late aunt Dottie had often shared meals, but for whatever reason, she always declined.

  After a few minutes of the usual polite dinner-table chitchat—along with the surreptitious offerings of chicken to Diesel, Ramses, and Dante—Helen Louise asked me how my first day as a student had gone.

  “Fine,” I said. “The professor is a great lecturer. I can see why his classes are so popular.”

  Stewart shot me a look of feigned disbelief. “You mean he actually has something interesting to say? Students aren’t there just to ogle the movie star of the history department?”

  I rolled my eyes at Stewart.

  Helen Louise laughed. “I’m sure Charlie isn’t there to ogle, so the professor must be good.”

  “I have no doubt some students are there to sigh and gaze at Warriner,” I said. “He is handsome, I grant you, but he has a brain.”

  “Like me.” Stewart sighed in dramatic fashion.

  “I’ll come to one of your classes and ogle you.” Helen Louise batted her eyelashes at Stewart.

  He grinned. “I have a better idea. Let’s go to Charlie’s class with him and ogle Warriner. He is almost too beautiful to be real.”

  “I’ve seen him,” Helen Louise said. “He and his wife come into the bistro on a regular basis.”

  “That’s interesting,” Stewart said. “Whenever I’ve seen Mrs. Warriner out and about, she’s always with another man. Their body language makes me think they’re really into each other. Touching each other’s arms and gazing at each other without talking.” He shrugged. “Makes me wonder about the state of her marriage.”

  Helen Louise glanced down at her plate. When she looked up again, her expression was troubled. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but she’s come into the bistro a few times recently with another man. I’ve noticed the same kind of behavior.”

  I put down my fork. “Irene Warriner is a novelist and writes as Lucy Dunne, you know. She’s doing a talk with Daniel Bellamy, a history professor whose specialty is Regency England, for the bookstore soon. I’m sure they were just meeting to discuss their program.”

  Stewart shook his head. “I know Dan Bellamy. The man I saw her with is someone else entirely.”

  FOUR

  I prepared for bed half an hour after Helen Louise went home. Diesel already lay stretched out on his side of the bed, his head on the pillow, with Ramses curled up beside him. I couldn’t help smiling at the picture the two cats made, one so large, the other still quite small in comparison. That smile aside, however, I felt troubled by the gossip Helen Louise, Stewart, and I had discussed over the dinner table.

  Though I barely knew Carey Warriner and knew his wife only by her novels, I disliked the thought that their relationship might be complicated by an extramarital affair. I hated to see unhappy couples, since my marriage to my late wife had been a truly happy one. I also, rather selfishly, didn’t want to have to deal with a distracted professor this semester after I had finally decided to audit a history course.

  After reflection I determined that, should Carey Warriner start behaving erratically in class, I would simply withdraw from the course. This was taking a pessimistic view of what might be nothing more than a mare’s nest, as the old saying went. The fact that Helen Louise and Stewart had each seen Irene Warriner in the company of different men who were not her husband could have a perfectly innocent explanation. Men and women could be good friends, with nothing romantic or sexual attached to the relationship. Melba and I served as an example.

  Suspicious minds—those who preferred always to look for a seamy side to any innocuous situation—might think Melba and I were more than friends. Anyone who knew either Melba or me at all well would find that laughable. At least, I hoped they would. I couldn’t be responsible for the way others might interpret my actions.

  And you should stop trying to interpret the actions of people you don’t even know.

  I could hear Aunt Dottie’s voice almost as clearly as if she had been in the room with me. I knew what else she would say. Other people’s messes—if they are messes—aren’t your business.

  No, they weren’t, I told myself firmly. I turned off the bedside lamp and made myself comfortable. Sometime later I dropped off to sleep with Diesel and Ramses lying quiet beside me.

  The next morning I woke resolved to put all thoughts of the Warriners and their private lives out of my mind. During breakfast Diesel begged for bacon, and Ramses generally followed his big brother’s example. I saw Azalea slip t
idbits to Ramses when she thought no one could observe and smiled. As long as she didn’t overdo it, I didn’t have a problem with her giving treats to either of the cats.

  Diesel and I left for work at the archive office at the usual time. We walked this morning because the day bid fair to turn out sunny, although a little cool. Diesel loved the walk because we invariably ran into someone who wanted to talk to him and give him attention. For that reason I allowed for several extra minutes for the brief walk up the street the few blocks to campus.

  We stopped to wish Melba a good morning before we continued upstairs to my office. The moment I unleashed Diesel he loped toward the window and jumped into his spot. I racked my coat and got ready for the day’s work.

  Perhaps half an hour later, while I was engrossed in deciphering the cramped handwriting in the margins of the book I was cataloging, the office phone rang. After identifying myself, I said, “How may I assist you?”

  Melba said, “You’ve got a visitor this morning. Is it okay to send her on up?”

  “Who is it?” I didn’t have any appointments that I could recall. The few visitors I had were usually students or the occasional potential donor of books or papers for the archives.

  “A Ms. Dixie Compton,” Melba said.

  I could tell by my friend’s guarded tone that there was something about this Ms. Compton that bothered her. “Yes, send her up,” I said. “Thanks, Melba.” Frowning, I puzzled over the visitor’s name, then recognition came. The blonde woman from Carey Warriner’s class. Why did she want to talk to me, of all people?

  I cradled the receiver and turned to Diesel. “We’ve got a visitor this morning, boy.”

  Diesel yawned and stretched, all the while regarding me with an expression of mild interest.

  I remembered that Ms. Compton had stayed after class yesterday to talk to the professor and that his reaction to her presence in the class had sounded angry. The incident puzzled me at the time, but I had let it go. Now that it came back to me, I was even more curious to find out why Ms. Compton had sought me out like this.

  I rose as she entered the office. “Good morning, Ms. Compton.” I moved around the desk to take her outstretched hand. “Please, won’t you sit?” I indicated the chair in front of my desk.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harris.” She set her purse on the edge of my desk. “I know you’re wondering why I just popped up out of the blue, so to speak, but I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” I replied. Diesel had jumped down from his perch in the window and walked around the desk to examine the visitor. She glanced down at him and smiled.

  “This is my Maine Coon cat, Diesel,” I explained. “He comes to the office with me.”

  Ms. Compton nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard about him. If you’d had him with you in class yesterday, I wouldn’t have had to ask anyone who you were. Even I’ve heard of you and your cat.” She held out her hand and let Diesel sniff her fingers. After a moment, Diesel rubbed his head against her hand, and Ms. Compton scratched behind his left ear. He chirped for her before going back to his window. “He’s a gorgeous cat.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “He goes almost everywhere with me, but I didn’t think the classroom would be suitable.” Diesel had obviously approved of my visitor, otherwise he would have stayed in the window. Usually he stayed beside people he approved of, but evidently he wasn’t interested enough in Ms. Compton to forgo the pleasures of napping in the window and watching any birds or squirrels nearby.

  “What is it you’d like to talk about?” Now that we sat face-to-face, I had a clear look at her and could watch her expressions. At the moment she appeared nervous, though I couldn’t imagine why. The fingers of her right hand played with the necklace of irregular-shaped blue and green stones she wore, alternately rubbing and fingering them.

  “It’s about the class we’re taking,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s been a long time since I was in school.” She broke off.

  When she didn’t continue right away, I said, “I understand. It’s been even longer for me. It can be intimidating coming back after an absence.” I chuckled, hoping to set her at ease. “I’m only auditing the class at the moment. Are you taking it for credit?”

  Ms. Compton nodded. “Yes, along with another one in the English department, the one that goes with it, I guess. You know, the one about Old English and medieval literature.”

  “I saw that course in the catalog. Beowulf and Anglo-Saxon poetry,” I said. “It looked interesting, but I was more curious about the history, I guess.” When would she get to the point of this conversation?

  “They’re both interesting,” Ms. Compton said, “but I’m wondering if I maybe got in over my head by taking two classes. Maybe I should have stuck with just one.”

  Given what I had overheard yesterday after class, I had begun to wonder if she had chosen courses by husband and wife deliberately. She obviously had some connection to Carey Warriner, one that had angered Warriner. The inevitable interpretation had already occurred to me. Had Warriner and Ms. Compton had an affair?

  “You can always drop one if you decide that it’s too overwhelming for you.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I can, but I don’t want to. Now that I’ve got up my nerve to go back to school, I want to stick with it. I really want to finish my degree.”

  “Very admirable,” I said.

  “The thing is,” she said, then seemed to falter. After a brief pause she resumed while she continued to fiddle with her necklace. “The thing is, I might need someone to study with. And you being the only other mature student.” She broke off with a sudden laugh. “I hate that term, don’t you?”

  I nodded and smiled, and she continued. “Anyway, I can’t see myself buddying up with one of the kids in the class, and I wondered whether you might be interested in having a study partner.”

  After she mentioned mature students, I had guessed where she might be headed, so I wasn’t surprised by her request. Unless I did as the professor urged and enrolled in the course for credit, there didn’t seem to be any point in my having a study partner. I had never done that in the past, and I hadn’t given it any thought for the present situation.

  I understood her reason for wanting to work with another older student, but I had little desire to do it. I wasn’t sure how to respond. I had trouble saying no when asked for help, and even now I hesitated to say it outright. Then another thought struck me. How would Helen Louise react if I told her I had a study partner? A young, attractive woman study partner?

  I decided I had better say no this time. “Since I’m only auditing,” I said, “I probably won’t be taking any tests or writing any papers. It’s really kind of you to think of me, but I don’t really need a study partner for auditing.”

  Ms. Compton sighed. “I guess not.”

  I decided, on impulse, to probe a little, though I could almost hear Aunt Dottie whispering in my ear that I should mind my own business. “I’m sure if you talk to the professor about your concerns, he can probably suggest someone who could work with you.”

  That earned me a startled glance from my visitor, and her expression hardened, but only briefly. She emitted a short, guttural sound that could be interpreted as a laugh.

  “Yes, I could do that,” she said. “Tell me, do you know much about him?”

  “Warriner?” I shook my head. “I met him for the first time yesterday. I’ve heard great things about his courses, though.”

  “Yeah, I guess he’s supposed to be good in the classroom,” she said. “But outside it?” She shrugged.

  “Then you must know him personally.” I took those three words to mean that she did—and they weren’t on the best of terms, if the beginning of the confrontation I had overheard was anything to go by.

  “Yes, I know him,” Ms. Compton said. “Let’s just say I have pe
rsonal reasons for not wanting to talk to Dr. Warriner about it.”

  What lay behind all this reluctance? Had Warriner and this woman had a really personal relationship? I couldn’t help but wonder.

  I kept my tone bland as I responded. “In that case, you should talk to your advisor,” I said. “Surely you have one.”

  Ms. Compton nodded. “Yes, I have one.” She rose abruptly. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Harris. Thank you for talking with me.” She grabbed her purse and left my office in a hurried manner, barely giving me time to respond.

  “You’re welcome,” I called after her.

  Behind me Diesel meowed as if he were asking me a question. I swiveled in my chair to regard him thoughtfully.

  “I wish I knew, boy. That was a strange conversation.”

  The cat meowed again, perhaps in agreement.

  “What did she want?”

  I turned back to see Melba approaching my desk. She took the seat so recently vacated by Dixie Compton.

  “Did you let her get out the front door before you made a beeline up here?” I asked.

  Melba rolled her eyes at me and then waited for an answer to her question.

  “She says she’s concerned about the class we’re both taking,” I said. “She was wondering if I would be interested in having a study partner.”

  Melba frowned. “You turned her down, I hope.”

  “I did, actually,” I replied. “What would have been your objection if I hadn’t?”

  “Because that woman is nothing but trouble, and you’d better not have anything to do with her.”

  FIVE

  “That’s pretty strong,” I said in response to Melba’s assessment of Dixie Compton. “What do you know about her?”