Arsenic And Old Books

THIRTY-FIVE

I remembered that Marie Steverton knew about the diaries from the mayor before Mrs. Long brought them in. Marie had made her interest in them plain to me. She was evidently determined that Rachel Long’s diaries would finally help her earn tenure at Athena College, after failed attempts at other schools. So, my reasoning ran, she took the memoir from the library collection and hid it. Then she went to the circulation desk and told them it was missing. After a quick check by one of the staff—that was the usual procedure—the library declared it lost.

On a hunch I decided to call the circ desk and talk to the head of the department, Lisa Krause. She answered right away.

After the preliminaries were out of the way, I said, “I know circulation information—who checks out a particular book—is confidential, but that’s not what I need to know. Here’s the situation. On Monday a book had its status changed to lost, and I wanted to double-check the procedure on that. At what point is the status actually changed?”

Lisa said, “That’s easy enough. A student or professor comes to the desk and says, I can’t find such-and-such book. It’s not on the shelf. We ask them to fill out a search request, and then it gets passed on to one of the student workers, who will go into the stacks to look for the book. About half the time the book is simply mis-shelved somewhere nearby, and a diligent search is all that’s needed.” She laughed. “Professors in particular are usually in too much of a hurry to look beyond the spot on the shelf where the book is supposed to be.”

“I can imagine,” I said, thinking of my own experiences as a volunteer at the public library in Athena and in the days when I was a public librarian in Houston. “How long is it after a person fills out a search request that the student actually goes and looks for it?”

“That depends,” Lisa replied. “Usually they do it in the evenings. Most students are studying, and the desk isn’t that busy. Sometimes, if the person requesting the book makes it sound urgent, I’ll have a student go right away to look for it.”

“That’s really helpful,” I said. “What I am about to ask next needs to be kept in confidence for now. Are you okay with that?”

“Certainly,” Lisa said. “Is it anything to do with the murder of Dr. Steverton?”

“Yes,” I said, and before I could pose my question, she continued.

“Dr. Steverton came to the desk on Friday afternoon—I’ll have to check with the staff, but I’m pretty sure it was Friday—looking for a book. She wasn’t too happy it was missing, but then, she was never happy about anything. I can’t remember the title, but maybe the staff member she talked to will know.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I know the title. A Memoir of Mrs. Rachel Afton Long of Athena. Was that it?”

“Yes, that was it,” Lisa said. “How did you know?”

“Because I have the library copy on my desk right now. I think what happened is that Marie took it herself and then hid it. For some reason she didn’t just want to check it out. Instead she wanted it to look like the library’s copy was missing or lost.”

“How strange,” Lisa said. “She was a strange woman, poor thing.”

“Just to make sure I have all the details,” I said, “when did the student actually look for the book? Do you know?”

“I can’t say for sure without checking, but it was probably over the weekend. Once the student finishes the search, he or she marks the search form accordingly; then it goes to one of the full-time circ assistants who changes the status in the online catalog.”

“In this case, the status was changed on Monday.”

“That sounds about right, for a search request placed on a Friday afternoon,” Lisa replied. “Is there anything else you need? I promise I won’t tell anybody about this.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s all for now. Someone from the sheriff’s department may want to verify all this with you later, though.”

I put the receiver down and stared at the little book. My mind kept hopping from one thought to another. Was there any significance in the fact that Marie reported the book missing on the Friday before she was murdered? How long had she known about the diaries?

The latter was a question I really wanted to put to Lucinda Long, but at this point I couldn’t. I ought to keep track of my questions, though. Accordingly I pulled out a notepad and pen to start jotting them down. I preferred writing to typing at times like this, because something about the physical act itself seemed to help clarify my thought processes.

After further reflection, I added a few more questions to my list. Did Marie assist the mayor with the forgery? Was that the motive for her murder? Did she threaten to expose the scam?

I recalled that Mrs. Long mentioned a phone call she had from Marie the night she died. Mrs. Long said Marie had been drinking heavily and was asking questions about the monetary value of the diaries. What was the figure the mayor mentioned? Fifty thousand dollars—yes, that was it. Was that conversation Marie’s way of letting the mayor know she wanted fifty thousand dollars to keep quiet about the forgery?

That made no sense. Why would the mayor tell me about the conversation if Marie had been trying to blackmail her?

Maybe the mayor did it to blacken Marie’s character. Mrs. Long might also have assumed that no one would figure out the one volume was a forgery, so she thought it safe to mention the conversation with Marie.

I put the pen down for a moment because my hand started to cramp, trying to keep up with all the questions and thoughts streaming through my head.

Back to the memoir, I decided. I’d read the rest of it instead of coming up with more questions I couldn’t answer. Then on to the removed diary pages—from the real diary. I might find some answers there.

I didn’t spend long on the remainder of Angeline Long’s overblown prose. I recognized several incidents from the forged volume. Whoever the forger was, she had clearly used this memoir to include authentic-sounding details. Even to the extent of the green tarlatan fabric that Rachel gave to Vidalia Singletary for herself and her children.

The final few paragraphs offered a pious summation of Rachel’s life of charitable works and extraordinary goodness. Her “piety and Christian love for all those around her was noted by all who met her.” I had to wonder what Rachel herself would have thought of this ersatz encomium. I repeated those two words to myself. Yes, I thought, they described this little tribute well.

Before I started on the diary pages, I thought I ought to call Kanesha and give her an update. She needed to know I’d discovered the source of the information in the forged volume. I was about to pick up the phone when another, all-too-obvious question struck me.

Why had the forger used Angeline Long’s memoir of Rachel rather than Rachel’s own diaries? Had the forger even read the original diaries?

Every question I posed seemed to make the whole situation more impenetrable. I couldn’t follow a straight line of logic more than a point or two before hitting a dead end. This was beginning to drive me mad.

It was all too complicated to get across in a phone call. Instead I decided to send Kanesha an e-mail. Then I would send a text message to alert her to the e-mail.

For the next fifteen minutes I typed. I went through the message three times before I was satisfied that I’d included enough details along with the important questions I had. When I finally hit Send I was about ready for a hot shower followed by a couple of stiff shots of whiskey.

Diesel warbled, and when I glanced at the windowsill, I saw him on his back contorted in a position that looked painful, with his head nearly under one shoulder and his chest thrust out at an angle. This was my signal to rub his belly and scratch his chin, and being the well-trained servant I am, I complied.

After a couple of minutes of cat therapy I was ready to tackle the formerly missing diary pages. I located the file in my e-mail, saved it to the computer, then opened it. I increased the size by about 20 percent to make it easier to read.

I picked up the volume from which the pages had been cut and opened it to the gap. I wanted to get a running start, as it were, on the scanned pages.

The entry before the gap was dated August 10, 1863.

This day began like so many before it, with prayers to our Lord to deliver us from the evil in which we daily found ourselves. The war drags on, and there are constantly rumors that the Union Army is about to descend upon us. Then there came to us what at first looked like the Lord’s blessing, a wonderful gift.

Words cannot express the sickness and horror I feel over the acts of betrayal perpetrated by one so dear. The blessing became a curse, one which we must keep to ourselves. The shame, if the truth should ever be known, is unthinkable. Already Father Long looks ill, and I fear that his heart cannot withstand this. Already weakened by the loss of his wife, my own dear mama-in-law, he cannot sustain such a blow. I can write no more for fear that my tears will soak the ink from the very page.

The entry ended there. Rachel sounded as if she were upon the point of utter despair.

What terrible thing could have happened? I wondered.

The phone rang and startled me, and I uttered a word I thought I had excised from my vocabulary.