I glanced at my watch as I hurried down the stairs, Diesel ahead of me. It was 12:52. I would just about make it.
I had Diesel in his harness in record time, and then we headed out the door. It would be just as fast to walk to the college chapel as to drive and try to find a place to park, I reasoned.
We set off at a brisk pace, and the carillon on campus was chiming one as we approached the chapel, which was down the street from the library buildings.
Campus police were in evidence, as well as members of the sheriff’s department and the city police force. I spotted all three uniforms moving among the crowd of reports and photographers on the lawn outside the chapel. I should have realized that Godfrey’s memorial service would attract the media. As far as I knew, however, they were still unaware of my role in the case. I really owed Kanesha Berry for that.
Diesel and I weren’t the only late arrivals, though I was the only one accompanied by a cat. Diesel’s presence occasioned a few frowns, but I didn’t care. Justin mattered more than what these people thought.
A couple of reporters tried to get my attention, probably because of Diesel. I knew cameras were busy snapping shots of us as we hurried up the walk toward the front door of the chapel. One reporter with a microphone and a cameraman tried to step around the cordon the police had placed, but a campus officer quickly stepped in and forced her back behind the barrier. Diesel and I scooted into the chapel. I hoped we could avoid them again after the service.
I paused at the entrance to the sanctuary, trying to find Julia and Justin in the crowd. There were very few open seats, and the sanctuary could easily hold three hundred people. I spotted Melba Gilley and Peter Vanderkeller near the front. Willie Clark was here too, in the back row to my left. Jordan Thompson sat nearby, two rows in front of Willie. Standing in the back to my right was Kanesha Berry, dressed in a black skirt and jacket instead of her usual uniform. She saw me and acknowledged me with a brief nod.
I scanned the crowd again and finally picked out Julia and Justin about halfway down on the right in the middle of a pew. There was an empty space next to Justin, and I led Diesel toward it.
I mumbled, “Excuse me,” several times as Diesel and I made our way to the middle of the pew. One woman hissed, “Well, I never.” A vaguely familiar man with her told her to hush. “That’s the cat I told you about,” I heard him tell her in an undertone.
I flashed him a quick smile, and then I reached the empty space. I sat, and Diesel moved between Justin’s legs and stared up at him.
“Thank you,” Justin whispered to me. He bent forward and began to rub Diesel’s head. I just hoped the cat wouldn’t purr too loudly and annoy the people sitting around us.
Julia glanced down and shook her head, but smiled. She had her arm around her son’s shoulders.
The organist began playing. The service had started.
The choir sang two hymns, and the chaplain spoke briefly about Godfrey’s accomplishments and lamented a life cut short by violence. The president also spoke and said a few words about Godfrey’s generosity to the school over the years. Godfrey had always given money on condition of anonymity, and that surprised me. He always seemed to want to be the center of attention. Knowing this made me think slightly better of him.
The president introduced Godfrey’s agent, a petite blonde named Andrea Ferris, who said a few words about the effect of his death on his millions of fans around the world. She herself didn’t seem all that grief stricken, however. Perhaps she was simply putting up a brave front. The president stepped back in front of the microphone to invite everyone to move into the chapel meeting room for a reception in the dear departed’s memory.
Then it was over. It was mercifully brief, but the whole time I had been aware of the tension coming from mother and son beside me. There had been no mention of Godfrey’s recently discovered son during the service, and I imagined that both Julia and Justin were greatly relieved. The last thing they wanted right now was that kind of attention, especially with the media waiting right outside.
I remained seated with mother, son, and cat while the pews around us slowly emptied. Julia was making no move to leave, and I wondered if she planned to go home now and skip the reception.
“Are you leaving now?” I asked when most of the people around us were gone.
“No,” Julia said. “We should put in an appearance at the reception. And I want to have a word with Godfrey’s agent.”
“So do I,” I said, smiling briefly. “Shall we?” I stood.
I exited the pew, leading Diesel on his leash, and Justin and Julia followed me through the sanctuary to the meeting room behind.
Not everyone who attended the service stayed for the reception. There were only about a hundred or so people in the room, and I was thankful for that. I tended to be a bit claustrophobic when a large number of people occupied a small space, and this room wasn’t really designed to hold as many people as the sanctuary.
Mindful of my lack of lunch today, I followed Julia and Justin as they joined the line of people at the buffet table. From my place in line I could see some of the food. It appeared to be mostly cocktail party-type snacks. Not ideal, but enough. I could easily fill up on cheese and crackers and fruit. There were also deviled eggs, a staple of this kind of gathering—at least in Mississippi. I would have to watch Diesel, though, in case he decided he wanted to investigate the food. When he stood on his hind legs, he was tall enough to reach out and scoop something from the table.
We made it through the line without incident, and along with Julia and Justin I found a place to stand against the wall. While the two of them nibbled at the few things on their plates, I had to restrain myself from gobbling it down. I was hungrier than I realized.
I was chewing my last bit of cheese and cracker when Kanesha Berry approached us.
“Good afternoon.” Her voice was low, her demeanor wary.
I returned her greeting, echoed by Julia and Justin. Diesel chirped at her, and she glanced down for a moment. I could almost swear I spotted a brief smile, but when she looked up, her expression was blandly official.
“Julia has something she needs to tell you,” I said, eager to the point of rudeness. Now that the solution to the murder was so close, I really wanted to see things happen. Once Willie was arrested—for at this point I had no doubt he, as X, had the best motive for murder, and according to Julia he also had opportunity—we would all rest much easier.
Kanesha turned to Julia with an expectant look.
Julia frowned slightly. “I’m not sure this is the place,” she said.
Justin surprised us all by interrupting. “Mr. Charlie, would you mind if I took Diesel for a walk?” He had a slightly desperate look, and I wondered whether the occasion was proving too much for him.
I handed over the leash. “Sure, but why don’t you just go into the sanctuary? It should be pretty quiet in there, and I don’t think going outside right now is a good idea.”
“Yes, sir,” Justin said. “Come on, Diesel.”
I watched boy and cat make their way through the crowd. Poor kid. So much had happened to him so quickly. No wonder he wanted to find a quiet place.
“You have something to tell me?” Kanesha spoke firmly to Julia.
“I suppose so,” Julia replied with a sidelong glance at me. “During a chat with Charlie before the service, I recalled something that happened when I went to the hotel to see Godfrey.”
“I see. What was that?” Kanesha shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“It was talking about the writers’ group that brought it back to mind,” Julia said. “I remembered that, when I was leaving the hotel that day, I saw someone in the revolving door, entering as I was going out.” She paused for a moment. “It was Willie Clark. Charlie seems to think that’s significant for some reason.”
“How so?” Kanesha could have been discussing today’s weather, I thought. She didn’t seem particularly interested in Julia’s reve
lation.
I thought I could get her interested, however. I said, “Willie is X.”
THIRTY
Kanesha flashed me a warning look, her head moving ever so slightly in Julia’s direction.
“X? What does that mean?” Julia frowned at me. “Are you telling me that Willie murdered Godfrey?”
I was relieved that she kept her voice down, otherwise the people nearby would have heard it all.
“I really cannot discuss that with you, Mrs. Wardlaw. Do not repeat this conversation to anyone.”
Julia nodded. “Certainly I won’t.”
Kanesha was clearly annoyed with me for speaking in front of Julia. She took my arm and started leading me away. “I need to speak to Mr. Harris alone.”
I went without protest. I should have restrained myself and waited until I could speak to her alone, but sometimes I got a bit carried away. I recalled an expression my grandmother used when I did something like this as a child: “His head knows better, but his feet can’t stand it.”
In other words, despite knowing better, I sometimes put my foot in it.
Kanesha led me back out into the sanctuary. I spotted Justin and Diesel in the choir loft, away from the few people sitting in pews, eating and talking. Kanesha found a spot a good ten feet away from anyone else and pointed to a pew.
I sat.
She sat down beside me, about a foot away on the pew. Her right hand gripped the back of the pew in front of us, and I saw her knuckles tighten. “You cannot blurt out things like that.”
“I know,” I said, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry. It’s just that, now that I know who killed Godfrey, I want this to be over.”
Kanesha closed her eyes for a moment, and I wondered whether she was praying for patience. Her grip on the pew didn’t loosen.
“You know who killed Godfrey Priest?” Her eyes opened. “I suppose you think Willie Clark did it.”
“Yes,” I said, eager to atone for my goof. “Once I found out he was part of the writers’ group, and knowing what we know about someone else writing Godfrey’s books, it all fell into place.”
“How so?” Kanesha let go of the pew and folded her arms across her chest.
“The attitude toward women in the books,” I said. “Look, have you ever read one of the books?”
“Yes, a few of them,” Kanesha said. “I like to read them and find all the mistakes in police procedure.” She shook her head. “His books were pretty bad in that respect. But I know what you mean about the women in his books. He didn’t like them.”
“Well, that wasn’t Godfrey. From what everyone says, Godfrey truly liked women. He just couldn’t settle down with one. It’s Willie who’s the big-time misogynist. You should hear him talking to female staff and students sometimes. He can be a real jerk.”
“Okay,” Kanesha said. “He’s a misogynist. I’d need more evidence than that, though. Even if he did write the books. I have to have something that links him to the actual murder.”
“According to Julia, he was at the hotel that day. He had to have gone there to talk to Godfrey.” I was feeling a bit deflated by her lack of excitement. I thought surely she would see the picture as clearly as I did.
But she was an officer of the law, and I was a librarian. This was her job, not mine.
“I will ask him about it,” Kanesha said. “But unless he admits to being there, I’m going to need more than Mrs. Wardlaw’s glimpse of him in a revolving door to go on.”
“Of course,” I said. “You need physical evidence for a stronger case.” I had read enough mysteries to know that. “But at least now you have motive and opportunity.”
“There are other suspects who have motives and who also had the opportunity,” Kanesha said, her logic relentless.
“Okay, you win,” I said. Here I thought I had come up with the answer, and she was refusing to accept it.
What if I was wrong? That was an unwelcome thought. There were things Kanesha knew that I didn’t—if her investigation had turned up any kind of evidence from the scene of the crime. I didn’t even know what the murder weapon was.
“You did help—a little. I found out some things faster because of your interference.” Her tone was grudging, but I knew better than to expect outright gratitude.
I nodded.
“But you’re done,” she said. “Back off now, and leave me to finish this.”
I saw the glint in her eye. “You know who did it, don’t you?”
Kanesha regarded me for a moment. “I do. I have a few more things to check, however, and I don’t want you getting in my way again.”
“I won’t, I promise,” I said.
“Good.” Kanesha stood and made her way out of the pew. She disappeared through the door into the meeting room.
I sat there, thinking about our conversation. Kanesha seemed awfully sure she knew who the murderer was. Was that because of what Julia and I had told her about Willie? Or had she known already?
Perhaps that meant Willie wasn’t the killer.
Not knowing was going to annoy me to no end. I had a sudden suspicion that was why Kanesha had told me she knew the killer’s identity. If so, I supposed it was adequate payback for the annoyance I had caused her.
It was time to head back to the reception. I would have to be careful about what I said, and to whom, though. I had pushed Kanesha far enough.
I stood in the doorway and looked around, searching for Julia. After a moment, I spotted her in the far corner to my right, talking to someone, but I couldn’t see who it was. As I moved closer, I could peer through the crowd, and I recognized Godfrey’s agent, Andrea Ferris.
At the same time I also spotted one of the campus blowhards, an elderly English professor named Pemberton Galsworthy. Many suspected the name was his own invention because it was so pompous sounding. But in that respect it was apt. He was a self-important windbag who never had an opinion he wasn’t willing to share with anyone within hearing distance.
I almost turned away, knowing that I could be stuck there for an hour if I joined the group. Galsworthy never had conversations. He performed soliloquies.
But Julia caught sight of me, and I couldn’t ignore the plea in her eyes. I didn’t know why she thought I could do anything to stop the deluge of words. We had suffered through Galsworthy’s sophomore literature course together, and she knew him as well as I did.
I moved forward and sidled up next to Julia.
Galsworthy noticed me—in itself noteworthy—and interrupted himself to acknowledge my presence. He peered at me. “Harris, isn’t it? Librarian, aren’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he resumed his peroration, peering now at Godfrey’s agent. “Contemporary literature has obviously been bastardized to the point of utter banality. Crass commercialism, naturally. Publishing was once the profession of gentlemen—educated, sophisticated, cultured—who chose works for their literary merit and their ability to enlighten and transform. Not because they would sell in the millions and cater to the tastes of the lowest common denominator, so sadly low these days, one fears for the intellectual survival of the species.”
He had more to say in that vein, but I tuned him out for a moment, though I faced him with a rapt expression. I had learned to do it in his class, and thankfully it was a skill I hadn’t completely forgotten.
I sneaked a glance at Andrea Ferris, dressed smartly in a dark suit and spike heels that made her stand about five-two. She had that glazed look common to anyone in Galsworthy’s presence for more than ten seconds.
Julia nudged me, and I looked at her. She frowned and bobbed her head in Galsworthy’s direction. I knew what she wanted, but short of clapping my hand over the man’s mouth and shoving him into a closet, I didn’t know how to shut him up. We could simply have turned and walked away, but generations of Southern grandmothers would spin in their graves if we behaved so rudely. That was the curse of being raised to have good manners and to treat one’s elders with respect—no matter
how irritating they were.
I tuned back in at the sound of Godfrey’s name.
“. . . a sad example of a young man with a good mind—a good mind, you understand, not a fine one—but, yes, a young man with a good mind who could have accomplished something more lasting than such ephemera as he chose to create. Then there is his appalling portrayal of females in his work. One has little doubt that a psychiatrist could have helped the poor boy work through his obvious feelings of hatred toward women. Yet I have no doubt that his female readers little suspected his opinion of them.”
I exchanged amused glances with Julia. Galsworthy had obviously read some of Godfrey’s work, though one wondered why he had allowed his intellect to be sullied by entertainment of such dubious value to mankind.
Galsworthy blathered on, but I could see that Andrea Ferris was about ready to pop. She cut him off suddenly in mid-sentence.
“I’ll be delighted to share your observations of contemporary publishing with my colleagues in New York,” Andrea said, her tone deceptively sweet. “I have little doubt they will respond immediately by pulping anything that smacks of lowbrow entertainment and instead start printing—in huge quantities, of course—works that cannot fail to enlighten and transform. This will revolutionize publishing around the world, and your name, professor, will be on everyone’s lips.”
After his initial shock at being interrupted, Galsworthy appeared delighted to have his opinions received so well. But Andrea’s tone altered as she spoke, becoming more waspish by the syllable, until even Galsworthy had to recognize the sarcasm.
“Good day to you, young woman.” Galsworthy glared at Andrea, and so upset was he that he failed to include Julia and me in his farewell.
Julia and I both sighed audibly as he stalked off.
“What a pretentious snot,” Andrea said. She sniffed. “If I had a dollar for every one of his kind I’ve met, I could retire.” She turned to me and stuck out her hand. “Andrea Ferris, the late Godfrey Priest’s agent.”
“Charlie Harris,” I said. “Archivist here at the college. Like Mrs. Wardlaw, I went to school with Godfrey eons ago.”
Murder Past Due Page 21