Arsenic and Old Books

by Miranda James

  Azalea beamed fondly at my daughter. “Miss Laura, you know you’re welcome to any old thing you want to know about how I cook. You and me can surely come up with something to surprise Mr. Frank.”

  “The first surprise will be that I actually made anything without burning it or undercooking it.” Laura’s laugh was infectious, and both Azalea and I joined in. Diesel warbled loudly, determined not to be left out of the fun.

  “Mr. Charlie, you sit yourself on down there, and I’m going to have your lunch ready in a minute.” Azalea stared pointedly at me, and I sat. “Miss Laura, how about you? Can I tempt you into having some of my chicken and dumplings?”

  Laura groaned. “Azalea, nobody ever made better chicken and dumplings than you, so how I can I turn them down?” She sighed. “I’ll just have to run a few extra miles this week, I guess.”

  Diesel, having heard the word chicken, walked over to Azalea and sat down near her. He looked up at her with his most beguiling expression and gave her a couple of plaintive meows.

  Laura and I grinned, and I waited to see how Azalea would respond.

  Azalea put her hands on her hips and stared down at the cat. “You ought to be ashamed. You so fat already. You think I’m going to waste my good food on you.” She shook her head.

  Diesel meowed weakly. He was trying to assure her that he would expire shortly unless he had chicken.

  Azalea snorted. “You are the most pitiful cat that ever I did see. I reckon maybe I can let you have a little bit.” She turned back to the stove, and I would have sworn I saw her shoulders quiver. She liked to pretend that Diesel was nothing but a nuisance, but I knew she found him more entertaining than not these days.

  Diesel appeared satisfied. He left Azalea’s side and transferred his adoring gaze to Laura. She petted him while we talked.

  “So what’s new with you, Dad?” Laura smiled archly. “Any news on the Helen Louise front?”

  I shot her a look, the one I’d given her every other minute during her teenage years. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Actually, I’ve been really busy with work. I guess you probably haven’t heard the news about Marie Steverton.”

  Laura frowned. “That name is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her right now. Who is she, and what did she do?”

  “She is, or rather was, a professor in the history department. Women’s history.”

  “Oh, her,” Laura said with a tinge of exasperation in her tone. “She’s the one Frank told me about. He said there was a woman in the history department who had a fit when the college players put on The Taming of the Shrew. She even went to the president to try to get it stopped.” She paused. “Hold on—you said was. What happened?”

  “She was killed in a hit-and-run accident early this morning,” I said.

  “How awful,” Laura said. “I heard she drove people nuts, but to think that she died that way. So sad.”

  “The worst part is, it probably wasn’t an accident.”

  “Another murder?” Laura’s eyebrows rose. “Dad, don’t tell me you’re involved in this.”

  “Don’t start on that,” I said, perhaps a bit defensively. I was still sensitive from the ribbing Sean had given me. “If you’ll sit there and be quiet, I’ll tell you all about what’s been going on.”

  Laura nodded. “I will.”

  Before I could start my recital, Azalea served us both steaming bowls of chicken and dumplings. I was ravenous, and I remembered that I had eaten only about a third of my breakfast this morning. In between mouthfuls of the delicious food, I gave Laura the salient facts about my encounters with Marie.

  By the time I finished, I realized I had put away two bowls of chicken and dumplings to Laura’s one. Azalea rewarded Diesel with a small plate of boiled chicken breast, enough to keep him happy for an hour or two before the starvation pangs set in again.

  “Those diaries must be hot stuff,” Laura said. “Maybe Athena after the Civil War was a nineteenth-century Peyton Place.”

  “There’s no telling what’s in there,” I said. “The diaries are certainly a hot property. I’m praying, though, nobody else gets hurt because of them.”

  “Especially you.” Laura shot me a stern look. “You be careful while you’re working on them. I don’t want to get a call from somebody telling me you’re lying on a bed in the emergency room because you’ve been conked over the head.”

  “I’ll do my best to avoid your having to get that call,” I said. I pushed back my chair. “I need to get back to work. I want to finish scanning the one volume I have by the end of the day.”

  “You just be careful, Mr. Charlie,” Azalea said. “Miss Laura’s right. Ain’t going to do nobody no good if you end up in the hospital over some old books.”

  Laura gave me a triumphant smile.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be careful.” Sometimes Azalea made me feel like I was ten years old. I knew she was fond of me in her own way, but I was over fifty, after all. “Come on, Diesel, let’s go.”

  Diesel, still seated next to Laura’s chair, looked back and forth between my daughter and me. I could tell he was torn. He loved Laura and didn’t see her often enough these days.

  Laura understood. She rubbed the cat’s head. “You’d better go with Dad, boy. I’d love to stay here the rest of the afternoon and play with you, but I have to leave in about an hour. You go on, and I’ll see you again soon.”

  The cat chirped a couple of times before he got up and walked over to me. “Good boy,” I told him. I reattached his leash. Laura rose to give me a hug and a kiss, and I bade her and Azalea good-bye.

  Ten minutes later I unlocked the office door and let the cat inside and unleashed him. Then I went to the storage room next door to retrieve the diary.

  I woke up the computer and scanner and set to work. I really wanted to finish this by the end of my workday, around five o’clock, if not before.

  I didn’t know how much time had passed when a voice from the doorway interrupted my concentration.

  “Come in, Ms. Grimes,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Oh, really, that’s a switch.” She laughed as she approached me. Her eyes widened when she realized what I was scanning. “You got them back? That’s amazing.”

  I closed the book and stood. “I did get the diaries back. I found them here when I came to work this morning.” I ushered her toward the chair in front of my desk. “They are now in the custody of the sheriff’s department, on their way to the state crime lab for examination.”

  “That sucks,” she said, obviously disappointed. “How long will they keep them?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It could take weeks.”

  Ms. Grimes swore, and I shot her a look.

  “Sorry,” she said, although she didn’t sound all that penitent. She jerked her head in the direction of the scanner. “So what’s that you’re working on over there? Some other project?”

  “No, it’s a fifth volume of the diary that the mayor found last night. She brought it over this morning.”

  “When can I have a look at it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “In light of everything that’s happened, I’ll have to discuss that with the mayor and the sheriff’s department.”

  Ms. Grimes scowled at me. “You’re deliberately trying to keep me from looking at those diaries. Why are you making this so difficult?”

  I heard Diesel shifting around on the windowsill behind me. He had picked up on the tension, and it made him uneasy. I turned to rub his head for a moment in reassurance. Then I faced the writer again and did my best to keep my rapidly escalating temper from erupting.

  “Tell you what, Ms. Grimes. I’ll make a bargain with you. You stop lying to me, and maybe I’ll be a little more cooperative.”

  NINETEEN

  Kelly Grimes’s face reddened. “How dare you ac
cuse me of lying.” She jumped up from her chair and leaned forward over the desk.

  I didn’t flinch. I regarded her calmly as I replied, “I dare because you lied to me about being secretly engaged to Beck Long. You might be engaged, but if you are, I’d bet it’s to Jasper Singletary.”

  That took her by surprise. The red faded, and she stepped back. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sit down, Ms. Grimes,” I said. “I’m not in a mood to lollygag around over this. Marie Steverton was murdered early this morning, and I’m sure you know that, what with you being a writer.”

  Ms. Grimes jutted her chin out, and her eyes flashed fire. “I don’t appreciate the tone of that remark, Mr. Harris. I’m a damn good writer.”

  “What about journalistic ethics?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be fair and honest in gathering information? I looked that up, by the way, on the Society of Professional Journalists website.”

  The writer stared at me, evidently unable to frame a reply.

  “I want to know why you and Jasper Singletary are so interested in the contents of a diary kept by a woman who’s been dead for over a hundred years. If it had anything to do with the murder of Marie Steverton, I’m sure the sheriff’s department will be interested, too.”

  Behind me I heard Diesel muttering. I knew he didn’t like the tone of my voice. I hated for him to be upset, but I was determined to get through to this foolish young woman. While I waited for her response, I turned my chair toward the window and let Diesel climb into my lap. He sat with his body against my chest, his head rubbing up against my chin. I could feel him start to calm down.

  Together we turned back to face Ms. Grimes. “Well?” I said.

  The writer sighed. She looked tired. “Okay, so I lied to you about being engaged to Beck Long. I wouldn’t have done it, but Jasper asked me to help him. He’s feeling desperate because Beck has all the advantages in the race.”

  “Such as?” I asked. I already knew the answer, but I wanted to hear what she had to say, and how she said it.

  She cast me a glance of loathing. “You can’t be that naive. You grew up here, right? You know the Long family’s had a lock on politics in this town for several generations.” She laughed, a bitter, unpleasant sound. “They’re corrupt from decades of sitting in power, getting elected just because they have good looks, a lot of money, and facile tongues.”

  “What does Jasper Singletary have?” I asked.

  “For one thing, he graduated third in his law school class. Beck Long barely scraped through. If his daddy hadn’t pledged a lot of money to the school, he would have failed. Jasper is smart, Mr. Harris. We need intelligent men like him in our government.”

  I had heard stories about Beck Long’s lack of academic prowess, so I wasn’t surprised to hear Grimes bring up his law school performance. He wouldn’t be the first young man to skate by on good looks, money, and a family name.

  “If Beck Long gets elected,” Ms. Grimes continued in a heated tone, “it’ll just be more of the same. Jasper wants to lead this state forward, and he deserves a shot.”

  Her passionate loyalty impressed me, but I wasn’t ready to concede anything. We still hadn’t hit the root of the issue.

  “I’ll take that under consideration,” I said as Diesel nestled closer to me. I had to be careful not to get cat hair in my mouth when I talked. “Are you engaged to him?”

  Ms. Grimes’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, we’re engaged, but he wants to keep it private.” Her tone sounded a bit resentful, and I suspected she wasn’t happy about being kept in the background.

  “Why is your fiancé so interested in Rachel Long’s diaries? What can possibly be in them that could help him in a race against Beck Long?”

  “That’s not for me to say,” the writer said sharply. “Jasper will have to tell you, but I don’t know whether he will. I doubt he’ll think it’s any of your business.”

  “It might not be,” I said, “but it is the business of Chief Deputy Kanesha Berry. She’s in charge of the murder investigation. The diaries are linked to Marie’s murder, and to my mind, anyone as interested in the diaries as you and your fiancé are has to be connected somehow.”

  “How did you figure out about me and Jasper?” the writer asked.

  “Did you not see me sitting there in the bakery yesterday?” I asked. “I watched you on and off for quite a while. I had to wonder why a writer—a good one, that is—didn’t approach either Beck Long or Jasper Singletary when such a golden opportunity presented itself.”

  Ms. Grimes shrugged. “You can’t be badgering people all the time. Sometimes you simply have to leave them alone in a public place.”

  “Sure,” I said. I figured even Diesel heard the ironic inflection in that one syllable. “Then there was the business of the note you left on your table for him. He did it discreetly, but I still saw him stop by the table and palm the note.”

  The only response I got from that was a stony expression.

  “Is the bookstore a regular rendezvous spot for the two of you?” I asked. “I just happened to stop in there after I left the bakery, and I overheard a bit of your conversation. I recognized your voices. What I heard confirmed my suspicion that you’re involved with him and not with Beck Long.” I wanted to add that she would have a brief career if she ever went into espionage but I figured that would be twisting the knife a bit too hard.

  The silence lengthened, but I had said my piece. Now it was up to Ms. Grimes.

  Finally she spoke. “I can’t tell you anything, not without Jasper’s permission. It’s up to him whether he wants to talk to you. He won’t have a choice, of course, if you sic the chief deputy on him.”

  “She already knows there’s a connection between him and the diaries,” I said.

  Ms. Grimes uttered another vulgar word. I pretended I hadn’t heard.

  She stood abruptly. “I’ve got to talk to Jasper. He’ll be in touch.” She turned to go.

  “One more thing before you leave,” I said. She turned back and scowled at me. “Did you take the diaries, or bring them back?”

  She shook her head. “No, if I’d gotten my hands on them, I would have kept them as long as Jasper needed them.” She turned and walked out.

  I stared at the empty doorway for a few moments, the cat still in my lap. I didn’t, as a rule, browbeat people. I hated confrontations, but on occasion I had no choice. I didn’t like being lied to, and that made me angry enough to confront Kelly Grimes.

  She confirmed my notion that she was involved with Jasper Singletary and that he was interested in the contents of the diaries. Why, I still hadn’t a clue. He might decide to talk to me, or he might go straight to Kanesha.

  Whatever happened, I needed to get back to scanning the one volume I did have. As soon as the others came back from the state crime lab, I would work overtime if I had to in order to read them and find out what secrets they held.

  I turned my chair back to the windowsill and gently urged Diesel to reclaim his spot. “It’s all okay now, boy,” I told him. “Everything is fine.”

  The cat meowed as I lifted him, and I thought for a moment he would resist. Then he climbed onto the windowsill. I gave him a couple of head rubs before I got up and went back to the scanning station to resume my project.

  I took fewer breaks during the afternoon and probably strained my neck, shoulders, and back far too much, but by four thirty the scan was complete. I closed the book and set it aside. Next I e-mailed myself the files I had created during the scanning process. They were PDFs, and I could read them easily at home or here in the office.

  For the next few minutes I sat and massaged my neck and shoulders as best I could. I felt the tightness of the muscles loosen enough for me to do a head roll. I figured I should stand in a hot shower for a while when I got home. That ought to further the healing process.

>   Before we left, I took the diary back to the storage room and made sure it was secure. Then Diesel and I were ready to go.

  The afternoon was hot and sultry, typical of September. I would be happy when cooler weather arrived, and I knew Diesel would be, too. At least most of the way home was shaded by large, leafy trees.

  By the time we reached our destination we were both ready for water. I could hear him lapping it up while I drank my own, standing with my back against the sink.

  Azalea had left for the day—she usually finished with her chores by four at the latest—and the house and its quiet solace soothed me. Feeling more relaxed, I contemplated getting my laptop and sitting down to start reading Rachel Long’s diary. After a moment’s reflection, I decided more relaxation was in order before I glued myself to another computer screen. I also realized I was hungry, despite the big lunch I’d had.

  I checked the fridge and was delighted to see there was plenty of leftover chicken and dumplings for dinner. The next order of business, after a second glass of water, was a hot shower.

  Forty-five minutes later, muscles looser and neck- and backaches gone, I sat down to my chicken and dumplings. I found a bit more of the boiled chicken breast in the fridge. I doled it out while I ate, and Diesel was a happy kitty. We would both have to run up and down the stairs a few times to compensate for all the food, though.

  I had just settled down on the den sofa with my laptop, Diesel stretched out beside me, when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen before I answered.

  “Hey, Melba, how are you?”

  “Charlie, you’ll never guess who I ran into at the grocery store on the way home from work today.” Excitement bubbled in her voice.

  “Let me see now. Far as I know, Brad Pitt isn’t in Athena these days. Neither is George Clooney. So I’m stumped.” Melba often rhapsodized about the many attractions of these two movie stars, and I liked to tease her when an opportunity presented itself.