Murder Past Due

by Miranda James

  When I turned onto my street, I glanced ahead and swore under my breath. A strange car, a late model Jaguar, sat on the street in front of my house. It could only be Godfrey.

  SIX

  I was tempted to drive right by. Justin needed some time to himself, I thought. But this meeting with Godfrey was inevitable. Maybe it was better to get it over with.

  As I passed the car I looked inside. Sure enough, Godfrey waved as I turned into the driveway. I clicked the garage door opener. Justin stirred as I drove inside.

  I turned off the car and clicked the opener again. The door came down behind us.

  In the dim light provided by two windows high in the wall in front of us, I examined Justin’s face. He still bore signs of strain from his time with Ezra.

  “That’s him in the car out there, isn’t it?” Justin unbuckled his seat belt.

  “If you’re not ready to talk to him, you don’t have to.”

  Justin blinked a couple of times. “No, I want to talk to him.” He paused. “But what do I call him?”

  “Only what you feel comfortable with. He’ll understand if you call him Mr. Priest. You both need to know each other better before you decide anything else.” I smiled at him.

  Justin nodded. He opened his door and got out.

  I followed him into the house, and sure enough, Diesel was waiting near the kitchen door. Justin knelt on the floor beside the cat and rubbed Diesel’s head.

  “You talk to Diesel for a few minutes,” I said. “I’ll let Godfrey in. I want to have a word with him first if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” Justin said. Diesel climbed into his lap and was butting the boy’s chin with his head.

  For a moment Justin looked much younger than eighteen, and I worried about the burdens piling up on those boyish shoulders.

  Godfrey was waiting on the doorstep. I motioned him inside.

  “Hi, Charlie. Where have y’all been?” As he stepped past me into the hallway, he showed no signs of his fight with Ezra.

  “At the hospital,” I said, closing the door behind him. “Julia called and asked Justin to come.”

  “The hospital?” Godfrey shook his head. “Man, I didn’t hit Ezra that hard, did I?”

  “They wanted to make sure his nose isn’t broken,” I said. I led the way into the living room and motioned for Godfrey to sit down in one of the two overstuffed armchairs. I sat in the other, and we regarded each other for a moment.

  “Ezra will probably be fine,” I said. “Though I don’t think Julia’s very happy with him at the moment. Or with you.”

  “Julia.” Godfrey leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t have recognized her, she’s changed so much since the last time I saw her.” He was frowning.

  “We’re all fifty years old,” I said, my tone deliberately harsh. “You don’t look like you did thirty years ago either, you know.”

  Godfrey scowled at me. “You think I don’t know that? I wasn’t criticizing Julia, anyway. It was just a bit of a shock.”

  “Forget about Julia and Ezra for the moment. Let’s talk about Justin.”

  “Where is he? I really want to see him.” He turned in his chair, half rising, and looked toward the door.

  “He’s in the kitchen with Diesel. He’ll be here in a minute. I wanted to talk to you first, though.” I held up a hand, and Godfrey sat back.

  “So talk.” Godfrey folded his arms across his chest. “What are you going to lecture me about now?”

  “I’m not going to lecture you,” I said, wanting to add an epithet or two but restraining myself. “Julia has entrusted Justin to my care, and I simply wanted to tell you to move slowly with him. He’s had a rough day so far, and he doesn’t need you charging into his life like a bull in a china shop. You need to focus on what Justin needs, and not so much on what you want.”

  “Yes, Mr. Harris. Thank you for telling me what to do.” Godfrey’s tone mocked me, but I ignored that.

  “I have no reason to expect that you’ve changed much in thirty years, Mr. Priest,” I said just as mockingly. “You never did think much about anyone but yourself. But you have a son now, and that has to change.”

  Godfrey stared at me. “Lord, I had no idea you despised me so much. What did I ever do to you?”

  I almost laughed in his face. The man had a colossal ego. “We don’t have enough time to go into that. Just stop and think for a moment about what you did to Julia nineteen years ago. Walking away and leaving her pregnant, knowing she would probably marry Ezra. You have a lot to answer for.”

  Godfrey’s face whitened, and I knew I was right. He had lied about not knowing Julia was pregnant when he left her. To his credit, he didn’t try to deny it now.

  “I’ll go get Justin,” I said, rising from my chair. “And you take it easy with him.”

  Godfrey didn’t answer. I left him gazing at the wall.

  In the kitchen, Justin and Diesel were still on the floor. Justin’s face was buried in Diesel’s neck, and Diesel was muttering away. “Are you okay?” I stopped a few paces away from the pair.

  Justin looked up at me, his face slightly tearstained. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why don’t you wash your face and hands?” I said. “Do you still want to see Mr. Priest?”

  Nodding as he got his feet, Justin went to the sink and splashed his face with water. After patting himself dry with a towel, he washed his hands.

  “I’m ready,” he said as he turned to me.

  I put a hand on his shoulder and kept it there as he preceded me out of the kitchen and to the living room. His steps were slow but steady.

  We paused in the doorway of the living room. Godfrey stood, facing us as we came into the room.

  Justin stopped several feet away from his biological father, and Godfrey drank in the sight of his son like a man who hasn’t had water for weeks.

  “Justin, this is Godfrey Priest. Godfrey, this is Justin Wardlaw.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Justin said. He took a step forward, his hand out, but Godfrey didn’t move. Justin faltered.

  Godfrey started to speak. He stopped to clear his throat. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” He finally held out his hand, and Justin stepped forward to take it.

  Godfrey shook his son’s hand, his eyes still fixed on the boy’s face. Now that I saw the two of them together, I spotted certain features they shared. Justin had Julia’s coloring and her eyes, but his nose and cheekbones were just like Godfrey’s.

  Godfrey drew Justin toward the couch, and they both sat down, neither one of them speaking, each simply staring at the other.

  “What happened to your face?” Godfrey asked.

  I turned and stole away, leaving father and son alone together. I would let Justin explain the bruise.

  Back in the kitchen, I picked up the phone and punched in Melba Gilley’s number. I had called her earlier, before I took Justin to the hospital, to tell her I might not be back this afternoon. As Diesel rubbed against my legs, I glanced at the clock. It was now almost two-thirty.

  “Hey, Melba, it’s Charlie.” I listened for a moment as I leaned back against the kitchen counter. “I’m not sure. I might be back a little later. Oh, so you’ve already heard about that?”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that news of Ezra’s set-to with Godfrey had already hit the Athena grape-vine. And trust Melba to be one of the early grapes on the vine.

  “Yes, I do know what it’s all about. I’m surprised your informant didn’t tell you that, too.”

  Melba squawked a bit in my ear.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” I hated the fact that this scandal would be all over town, and all over the college, before long. Justin and Julia deserved some privacy, but thanks to Ezra and Godfrey, they had lost all chance of that.

  “I’ll tell you more about it when I see you,” I said. She might as well have the real story from me instead of who-knew-what wild rumors were flying around.

  Diesel had his paw on
my thigh now. He chirped at me.

  “Gotta go now. I’ll talk to you later.” I listened a moment longer and then hung up the phone.

  “What is it, boy?” Diesel was talking away.

  Then I heard the front door close.

  Diesel followed me from the kitchen into the hallway. The living room was empty.

  “Justin? Where are you?”

  There was no answer. I went to the window and looked out in time to see Justin getting in the car with Godfrey.

  “Well, they’re gone,” I said to Diesel. “That’s what you were trying to tell me, weren’t you?”

  Diesel looked up at me as if to say, Of course.

  “I really wish they hadn’t,” I said, heading back to the kitchen. “But nothing I can do about it now. Guess we’ll go back to work, okay, boy?”

  About fifteen minutes later, back in my office, Diesel and I were settled in for the remainder of the afternoon. I planned to work till around six, then we would head home. I needed to change for the big dinner tonight, an occasion I did not anticipate with much joy.

  I had hardly sat down in my chair before Melba popped in, eager to get the scoop from me. I gave her a bare outline of the facts, and her jaw dropped a couple of times.

  “Poor Julia,” she said when I finished. “That Godfrey is a rat bastard, if I do say so myself. Running off and leaving her pregnant like that.”

  I hadn’t needed to spell it out for Melba. Anyone who knew Godfrey in our high school days wouldn’t be a bit surprised.

  Melba left after a few more comments on Godfrey and his behavior, and I was able to work for a while with no interruptions.

  Around four o’clock I realized I was thirsty. I rummaged in my bag, but I had forgotten to bring any bottled water with me. Taking a large plastic mug with me, I headed downstairs to the staff lounge for the filtered water cooler there. Diesel yawned at me, declining to come with me.

  The walk down and up the stairs would do me good. I spent so much time hunched over the computer that my back generally ached by the time I got home at night. I hardly ever remembered to get up and stretch the way I should.

  I rounded the bottom of the staircase and walked down the short hallway to the back of the house. The room that had once been the study-cum-office of the master of the house had been converted into a congenial space where library employees could eat lunch, have some coffee, and relax.

  I hadn’t expected to find anyone in the lounge at this time of the afternoon, but Willie Clark sat at one of the tables, frowning down at the legal pad in front of him. He put down his pen as he heard me enter and scowled at me.

  Since this was Willie’s general greeting to everyone, I took no offense. He, too, had been one of my classmates in high school. He had never been friendly, but that probably wasn’t his fault. He was the kid who was always the butt of the joke, the one the football team—Godfrey was captain our senior year—never failed to harass. Even those who, like me, tried to be nice to him didn’t get very far. He hadn’t changed much as an adult, sad to say.

  “How are you, Willie?” I regarded him with a smile as I filled my mug from the cooler.

  “Fine,” he snapped back at me. For someone who served as the head of the library’s reference department, Willie was lacking in people skills. “Trying to work, if people will let me.”

  As long as I had known him, Willie had been scribbling words on pieces of paper. I presumed he wanted to be a writer, but I never heard that he managed to publish anything.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you,” I said. I turned to leave, but Willie spoke again, and I turned back.

  “Godfrey Priest came to see you,” Willie said. “Heard he got into a fight, too.” He smirked.

  “Yes, he did,” I said. “I guess the whole town has heard about it now.”

  “Too bad Ezra didn’t put Godfrey in the hospital,” Willie said, his face dark with hatred. “Or in the grave, where he belongs.”

  SEVEN

  Willie was so often the target of Godfrey’s bizarre practical jokes in high school, it didn’t surprise me that he harbored intense feelings against his old nemesis.

  But wishing Godfrey dead?

  “That’s a bit strong,” I said, trying to keep a mild tone.

  Willie sucked at his prominent front teeth—an irritating habit—as he glared at me. I remembered that Godfrey started calling Willie “Bugs” because of those teeth. The nickname stuck, unfortunately for Willie.

  “Godfrey’s a colossal jackass, and you know it.” Willie slapped a hand down on his legal pad. “He made you look like a fool more than once.”

  “Yes, he did,” I said. “I don’t like him either, but that doesn’t mean I wish he was dead.”

  “More fool you, then.” The contempt in Willie’s voice surprised me. “You don’t know everything he’s done. No one does. But I do.” He stood, pushing his chair back with a violent gesture, grabbed his pad and pen, and stalked out of the room.

  The nickname “Bugs” was cruelly apt, because physically Willie was a rabbit-like specimen. Godfrey and I both towered over him, and I knew Willie resented us for that. Godfrey hadn’t been content with physical domination, however. He enjoyed tormenting Willie because Willie always reacted. That simply egged Godfrey on.

  I wasn’t the only one who tried to make Godfrey leave Willie alone, but Godfrey wouldn’t—or couldn’t—stop.

  Having Godfrey in Athena was bringing back too many unpleasant memories from the past, and I had an uneasy feeling more unpleasantness lay ahead, as long as Godfrey stayed around. I wondered briefly what Willie had been talking about when he said “everything he’s done.” Probably his own list of grievances against Godfrey, and I had no doubt they were legion.

  I left the staff lounge and was about to mount the stairs when a voice hailed me. I turned to see Peter Vanderkeller, the library’s director, standing in the doorway to his office suite.

  “Afternoon, Peter,” I said. “Did you want to see me?”

  “Yes, please,” he said before he turned and disappeared.

  I suppressed a sigh of irritation and followed him. Conversations with Peter on occasion lasted an hour or more. Melba rolled her eyes at me as I passed her desk—her signal when our boss was in one of his odd moods.

  “Please shut the door behind you,” Peter said when I entered his office.

  I did as he asked and then advanced toward his desk. Peter stood behind it, hands on hips, so thin he made me think of the old TV character Gumby. If Peter were green, he’d give a fair imitation. I dismissed the foolish notion as Peter gestured to one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk.

  This was my favorite room in the house. Originally, Peter’s office and Melba’s had been one larger room, the front parlor. The high ceilings with their ornate moldings bore witness to the era in which the house was built. A magnificent mahogany dining table served as Peter’s desk, though he used a contemporary office chair with it. I envied Peter that table. The machines of modern technology—computer, printer, and telephone—looked sadly out of place. If I closed my eyes for a moment, I could easily conjure up the figure of a woman in a hoop skirt, her beau paying court.

  “What can I do for you?” I sipped at my water while I waited for a response.

  Peter removed his horn-rimmed glasses and twirled them idly by one earpiece. He blinked at me. “It has come to my attention that our eminent alumnus and hometown boy wishes to endow our institution’s archive with his papers, accompanied by a considerable sum of money. It has also come to my attention that he has discussed this matter with you.”

  “Yes, on both counts,” I said. Listening to Peter made me want to be as terse in response as a character in a Dashiell Hammett novel. “I should have told you about it right after Godfrey spoke to me. But I guess I just got busy and didn’t think about it.”

  “That is quite okay.” Peter waved my apology away. “No doubt the man believes he has bestowed an honor of great magnitu
de on his alma mater.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “If it were in my power to do so, I would tell Mr. Priest we don’t wish to house the work of a man who has prostituted himself to the bestseller lists.”

  I had no idea Peter held such a low opinion of Godfrey and his work. I had never considered Peter a literary snob, either. He read fiction widely and counted several Mississippi mystery writers, like Carolyn Haines and Charlaine Harris, among his favorites. They had both spoken at Athena College, and Peter had been beside himself with excitement during their visits.

  Why did he have such disgust for Godfrey Priest, then?

  “I don’t think the president would be very happy if you did such a thing,” I said.

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Peter replied. “More’s the pity. Athena College has always prided itself on its rich literary heritage.” He smiled sadly. “And now, having to add the work of a hack to our archives is a sad comedown and a none-too-subtle comment on the priorities of our current administration.”

  “It’s not so bad. We also have the complete works of that nutty doctor from the nineteen fifties who fancied himself the next Walt Whitman.” One hundred and twenty-three privately bound, handwritten volumes of poetry so execrable it made rap songs sound like Shakespearean sonnets—but the man had left the college three quarters of a million dollars along with his so-called art.

  Peter ignored that. “I should thank you, I suppose, for confirming the awful truth for me. And so I do. I know that I can leave the matter in your more-than-capable hands, Charles.”

  “You certainly may, Peter,” I said. Peter never unbent so far as to call me Charlie. I stood. “If that’s all, then?”

  Peter nodded. “I suppose I shall see you tonight at this absurd fête the president has planned?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  Nodding again, he turned his attention to the papers on his desk.

  I retreated to the door and let myself out, careful to close it softly behind me.

  When I turned, I saw Diesel on top of Melba’s desk. Woman and cat were enjoying a conversation.