Murder Past Due

TWENTY-FIVE

Stunned by the contents of the letter, I stared blankly at the computer screen, trying to get my mind back into working gear.

If this letter wasn’t some kind of joke, then the implications were clear. Godfrey had stolen the work of another writer and published it as his own.

But how had he been able to get away with such a thing? Surely the writer, Mr. or Ms. X, would have figured it out. Godfrey even used the same title referenced in the letter.

I read through the letter again, more slowly this time, searching for any possible clues to the identity of the writer.

Here’s the manuscript I told you about when you were here a few months ago. Thanks for taking the time to read it. I hope you’ll like it enough to want to help me get it published. It’s different from your books—a lot darker and harder-edged—but you said you liked thrillers when you talked to the group. I call it Count the Cost, but that might not be the best title. Any suggestions you have about that would be appreciated, too. I know a catchy title seems to be important, but you know more about the business than I do. At least for now, that is. I’m hoping to know a lot more about it one of these days. Thanks again. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say.

There were no real clues to the letter writer’s identity, not even a hint of the gender. Two things might be helpful: “when you were here a few months ago” and “when you talked to the group.” There was no date in the text of the letter, but then I got the bright idea of looking at the date stamp in the directory of files on the disk.

Before I did that, however, I printed a copy of the letter. Once that was done, I called up the directory and looked at the date: August 3, nineteen years ago. The last time the file had been altered was nineteen years ago.

Nineteen years ago. I thought for a moment.

Justin was eighteen.

Godfrey would have been in Athena roughly nineteen years ago.

Could this mean the letter writer lived in Athena?

He or she must. There had to be a local connection to Godfrey’s murder. Otherwise, why was he killed here and not somewhere else?

Slow down, I told myself. You’re jumping to conclusions pretty fast.

I did a screen print of the directory and clipped it to the letter.

Before I examined any of the other disks, I wanted to check something. This computer was not connected to the Internet, so I went back to my desk. Diesel appeared sound asleep in the window when I glanced at him. I connected to the library’s online catalog and searched for Godfrey’s name. I wanted to check the publication dates for his books. The library should have all of them in the collection because he was a local writer.

No doubt Godfrey had a website that provided the information, and I would check that later. But I preferred the information from the catalog—it was probably more accurate than the website.

I performed the operations necessary to create a brief citation list of all of Godfrey’s titles and printed it out. The citation included publisher and date of publication.

When the printer finished, I examined the sheets. I had sorted the citations in ascending publication order, so I could trace Godfrey’s books as they were published, from the first one to the most recent.

His first five books were published within four years, and then there was a four-year gap before his sixth novel, Count the Cost. It was published seventeen years ago, and that meant a two-year gap, roughly, between the date stamp on the disk and the actual publication of the book.

Godfrey’s first five books were different in style and tone from the later books. Light, amusing, fluffy, they featured a bickering duo of amateur detectives who fought their attraction to each other as they stumbled over dead bodies. Count the Cost signaled an almost radical change, and if I had thought about it at all, I probably assumed Godfrey did it for commercial reasons. He wasn’t a bestseller before, as far as I was aware, but Count the Cost made the bestseller list. He had been a fixture there ever since.

In that letter was the reason for the abrupt shift in Godfrey’s work.

It wasn’t his, plain and simple.

But was that the only one? What about the other fifteen books published in the years since Count the Cost?

Diesel stood up from his perch, stretching and yawning. I reached over to rub his head. He rewarded me with a couple of happy chirps. He jumped down and accompanied me as I took the list of Godfrey’s books back to the other computer. The book published the year after Count the Cost was entitled Abide with Me. I checked the box of disks, and there were three labeled “Abide.”

I inserted the first one into the drive and looked at the list of files. Only numbers. I checked the second and third disks as well. Same thing. No letter this time. Diesel rubbed against my legs a few times before he wandered off to prowl around the office. He was not usually destructive so I let him have free run in the room.

I checked the next book on the list: Dead Men’s Plans. There were four disks for this one. This time I put the disk numbered four in and checked the contents.

Bingo. Another letter, again addressed simply to G. No signature. That was frustrating.

The arrangement seems to be working out pretty well, though I thought you were at least going to mention me in the acknowledgments. I don’t mind you getting all the attention from the media—I hate that kind of thing. But why couldn’t you at least include my name somewhere? I expected a bit more gratitude, frankly. The money’s good—I’m not complaining about that, but if it weren’t for me, your name wouldn’t be on the bestseller list, you know. I’m glad it’s time for a new contract. I’m going to want some changes, but I’ll let you know what they are after I’ve had a chance to think more about them.

The letter went on to describe, only in the briefest terms, the idea for the next book and asked for feedback on it.

This was pretty clear evidence that Godfrey was putting his name on another writer’s work. It also sounded like X was getting a bit restive over the lack of attention.

Why had Godfrey kept these disks? If he’d had any sense, he would have destroyed them years ago. They clearly weren’t intended to be part of his archive, since the box was not included on the inventory. Knowing the man’s arrogance, however, I figured he never thought it possible that anyone would find out about his deception.

Some overzealous person must have seen the box and simply included it with the rest. Godfrey would no doubt have had a fit if he had known.

But what a stroke of luck. I silently thanked whoever had stuck the box of disks in with everything else.

This was something Kanesha Berry needed to know about, and I planned to tell her.

First, though, I wanted to dig further and see if there were other letters. Had Godfrey continued to put his name to X’s work?

I realized I should also check the acknowledgments in all of the books to see if there were any clues in them.

Did his agent know? I wondered. I would have to start keeping note of the questions that occurred to me.

Back to checking the disks. I went through them chronologically. There was no letter included on the disks for the next book on the list. I went on to the fifth book.

Pay dirt. My eyes widened as I read this letter.

You bastard, I should have known better than to trust you. You haven’t changed, still intent on screwing anybody to get what you want. I thought a contract would protect me, but you saw to that, didn’t you? I can’t believe how naive and stupid I was. I should have talked to a lawyer, but you said it wasn’t worth the money. Did your agent really review the contract like you said? Frankly, I don’t believe it. I have a good mind to call her and have a little talk with her. But I can’t afford to pay back the money, you bastard, and you know that. I’m stuck, but this doesn’t mean I won’t try to find some way out.

What kind of contract had X signed? I wondered. Godfrey had only too obviously taken advantage of X’s naivete and lack of experience, but this sounded bad, even for Godfrey.

There was a mention of contracts in the inventory, but I suspected that there wouldn’t be a copy of the contract with X. Even Godfrey wouldn’t be arrogant enough—or stupid enough—to include something that potentially damaging with the rest of his papers.

That contract, however, could be the key to everything. Had X finally become so enraged over the unfairness and decided that Godfrey had to die? If only I could find it—or figure out some way of discovering who X was.

The answer might be in the box of disks. All it would take was time.

Stopping long enough only to walk home for a quick lunch, I spent most of the day at the computer, going through every disk in the box.

I found a few more letters, some of them filled with X’s anger over Godfrey’s behavior, others with a tone of resignation. Occasionally X mentioned the increasing profits the books brought. X apparently had no complaints there.

That was another point to consider. Godfrey had made millions from these books. Even I had read some of the articles in magazines about his lifestyle. X must have made some pretty significant money as well.

Was there someone in Athena living beyond his or her apparent means? Had X resisted the temptation to spend conspicuously? That would be something Kanesha could check better than I—once one of us could put a name to X, that is.

After all the time spent with the disks, I had no solid clue to the identity of X. X had obviously known Godfrey a long time, but there were plenty of people in Athena and elsewhere who had.

There was the mention of a group—probably a writers’ group—but there were such groups all over the place.

I believed there was a local connection, though. It was at least a place to start. I could talk to one of the librarians who had been at the public library for nearly thirty years. If there was a writers’ group in the area, she would know about it.

I finished printing copies of the letters on the disks and arranged them chronologically. I made sure the disks were organized in their containers as well.

Time to quit stalling, I told myself. I couldn’t put it off any longer, though I wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable explosion.

I went back to my desk, noticing Diesel once again asleep on the windowsill. I picked up the phone and called the sheriff’s department.