Murder Past Due

EIGHTEEN

The floorboard creaked again, and then we heard the sound of footsteps in rapid retreat.

I strode over to the door, about six feet away, but whoever was listening to our conversation had disappeared. I walked down the hall and around by the stairs, but I still didn’t see anyone. Nor did I hear anything other than the muted sound of street traffic.

Melba and Diesel had followed me out of the staff lounge.

“That was peculiar.” Melba frowned. “And kind of creepy.”

“It was definitely odd.”

“I’m going back to my office and keep an eye on the door.” Melba stepped past me, smiling uneasily. “Don’t turn your back on anyone.”

I picked up Diesel’s leash. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

I waited until Melba disappeared into the director’s office suite. “Come on, boy. Let’s go upstairs.”

Before I unlocked the door of the archive office, I checked inside the storeroom. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. I shut the door and examined the lock. It looked sturdy enough, like the one on the office door.

The eleven boxes in the office hadn’t been touched, as far as I could tell. Diesel started sniffing around them again, and I had to push him gently away in order to uncover the unnumbered box. When I pulled it free, I restacked the three cartons that had been on top of it before picking it up and setting it on my desk.

Diesel hopped on top of the middle tier of boxes and watched while I cut open the box. After I pulled out the wads of paper used for packing material, I found several smaller boxes and trays of computer disks and even a couple of thumb drives. The disks probably contained the texts of Godfrey’s books and perhaps some of his correspondence.

I wondered why the box hadn’t been numbered. Perhaps this box hadn’t been intended for inclusion in Godfrey’s archive.

The master inventory in box number one ought to answer that question. I moved around my desk to check. The box I wanted was underneath the one Diesel was sitting on. I moved him aside to the sound of annoyed chirping.

I extracted box one and set in on the floor. I retrieved my scissors from the desk and cut open the box. Right on top, under more packing material, lay a small report folder labeled “Inventory.”

Back at my desk, folder in hand, I sat down and began skimming through it while Diesel played with the discarded packing material on the floor.

Calling these few sheets of paper a master inventory was a gross overstatement. Each box was listed, but there was little detail of the contents. Godfrey’s assistant had merely listed categories, like fan letters, business letters, reviews, awards, newspaper clippings, contracts, review copies, books in English, books in other languages, convention programs, and speeches. Nowhere in the inventory did the words disk or diskette appear.

It seemed fairly clear to me the box of disks had been shipped by mistake. Otherwise it would have been numbered and included on the inventory. The number of boxes in the inventory matched the quantity of numbered boxes received.

What should I do with it? Send it back to Ms. Enderby in California?

I found the two letters on my desk and scanned the one from Gail Enderby. There was a phone number included. I might as well call her and ask.

I used my cell phone, rather than the office phone, because I could never remember the long distance dialing code I was supposed to enter to authorize a call.

The call went to voice mail after five rings. A perky, young-sounding voice informed me that Gail Enderby was on vacation, and her stated return date was a couple of weeks away. She gave no alternate contact information. I wondered if she had seen the news yet about her boss’s death. I left a message, asking her to call.

That was that. The disks were in my custody for now. I replaced the packing material and re-taped the box. Instead of putting the box back with the others, I put it behind some shelves a few feet away from my desk. Perhaps the mysterious eavesdropper had spooked me, but the disks might be valuable. As long as I was the only one who knew they were here, I might as well keep it that way.

I picked up box one and placed it on my desk. Consulting the inventory list, I saw that this box contained fan mail. Curious, I pulled out one of the folders, dated twenty years ago, and began leafing through it.

The first couple of letters were full of praise for Godfrey.

“Trapped kept me up until three in the morning,” one fan wrote.

Another one said, “I had to get up and check all the locks in the house when I finished Midnight Killer.”

On most of the letters I examined there were notes that indicated when Godfrey responded, though copies of Godfrey’s answering letters were not in the folder.

The most interesting letter of those I read was one that took Godfrey to task for abandoning the gentler, more traditional mysteries he wrote at the beginning of his career in favor of “bloodthirsty, needlessly violent trash.” Godfrey’s note on this one was a terse “no response.”

I laid the folder aside and was about to pick up another one when my office phone rang.

“Good, you’re still here,” Melba said when I answered. “Peter wants to see you right away. I told him about the boxes.”

“I’ll be right down.” Sighing, I hung up. I wasn’t in the mood for a talk with Peter, but then I realized it was a good opportunity to do a bit of sleuthing.

I picked up the letters that came with the boxes and called to Diesel. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

I paused long enough to lock the office door behind me before following Diesel down the stairs. I found him in Melba’s office on top of her desk.

“It’s okay,” Melba said, flashing me a guilty look. “I let him get up there.”

“I guess there’s no point in arguing. You’ll keep an eye on him while I talk to Peter?”

“Of course.” Melba rubbed the cat’s head. “You go right on in.”

I knocked on Peter’s door and then opened it.

“Ah, Charles,” he said, rising from his chair. “Do come in.”

I took a seat, and Peter resumed his.

“Melba tells me that you have received a shipment of the late Mr. Priest’s archival material.” Peter tented his fingers together and regarded me owlishly.

“Yes, the boxes arrived today.” I leaned forward and handed him the two letters. “It’s all very well organized, so he must have been planning this for some time.”

Peter read through the letters quickly. He laid them on his desk. “No doubt. Given the colossal ego that man possessed, he would have assumed the college would accept his papers without demur.” He sniffed.

“I agree,” I said. “But he certainly had no idea he was going to die so soon, and in such a brutal fashion.”

“One cannot pretend to feel sorrow for such an unmitigated bastard, despite the distasteful manner of his death. The drivel he wrote will sell even better now, though he won’t be able to reap the benefits.” Peter smiled with grim satisfaction.

I never suspected our library director possessed such a deep streak of vindictiveness. He really had hated Godfrey.

“His sales will jump, for a while at least,” I said. “You’re probably right about that. But I wonder who will benefit.” Oddly enough, this was the first time I had stopped to think about the matter. Who would inherit Godfrey’s wealth? Justin?

“One can only hope he made suitable provision in his will to enable the college to house and process his collection of papers. Otherwise they will have to remain as they are.” Peter lifted his chin in a determined manner as he regarded me. “I trust we are in agreement on that point.”

“Certainly,” I said. I had more than enough to do as a part-time employee. I would far rather catalog rare books than process Godfrey’s papers, despite my curiosity.

“Excellent.” Peter beamed at me.

“Barring some provision in Godfrey’s will, do you think that letter is sufficient for the college’s ownership of the collection?”

“I should think so,” Peter said. He picked up the letter and read it again. “He states his intentions perfectly clearly, though it is a great pity he did not mention any pecuniary bequest to accompany it.”

“All this is going to generate a lot of publicity for the college and for the town,” I said.

“Sadly, I fear you are correct.” Peter frowned, his distaste evident. “Why the man had to come here to get himself murdered, I simply do not understand.”

Peter colored faintly, perhaps having realized the fatuousness of that remark. I decided to ignore it.

“The whole thing is very odd,” I said. “There are a lot of things I’m curious about. For one thing, that call Godfrey made to say he was too ill to attend the dinner in his honor last night. It seems a little too pat.”

Peter didn’t respond. He just stared at me.

“I wonder if it was Godfrey who really called?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Peter said, his fingers tapping on his desk.

I shrugged. “Just a thought. When Melba called me, she said Godfrey had called the president’s office to inform him. Then I guess someone from his office must have called you.”

Peter’s fingers ceased their rhythmless tattoo on his desk. “Actually, that is not quite accurate.”

“Why not?”

“Melba, I’m afraid, somehow misunderstood.” Peter paused for moment. “She quite often does because she fails to listen properly, and I have spoken to her severely on the subject several times.”

I waited, and after a moment he continued.

“You see, I was the one who spoke to Godfrey and who in turn informed the president’s office, at his request.”