Murder Past Due

ONE

A hurricane slammed through my kitchen this morning, and his name was Justin.

I sighed, surveying the aftermath of my boarder’s breakfast. What had gotten into the boy?

An open milk carton sat on the table, accompanied by a bowl, a spoon, and a box of cereal. Justin hadn’t closed the box, and he’d left a sprinkle of cereal on the table. Splatters of milk surrounded the bowl and an abandoned plate with a half-eaten piece of toast.

I glanced toward the counter at an open loaf of bread and an uncovered butter dish, sitting in a beam of sunlight. Two pieces of bread occupied slots in the toaster, but from what I could see, Justin had forgotten to press the lever down. I strode over and picked up my newspaper from beside the sink. Justin had somehow managed to dribble water over the paper. I was glad I’d read it earlier, because now it was stuck together.

I stared out the kitchen window into the backyard for a few seconds, calming myself. I turned back. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a hurricane. Just a minor tropical disturbance. I was not one of those neat freaks who hyperventilated at the first sign of a mess.

Like most men, I can be messy—but I’m happier when things are clean and well kept. I really shouldn’t let myself feel so annoyed over something so trivial.

Maybe Justin was in a hurry to make his first class, but the Athena College campus was only three blocks away. He could sprint there in five minutes tops.

He was acting out of character, and that’s what was really bothering me. The eighteen-year-old had been boarding with me for a couple of months and usually was careful to pick up after himself. The past few days, however, he had become increasingly careless about leaving his things lying around the house and not cleaning up in the kitchen after his meals.

Perhaps I should have expected something like this when I relaxed my rule about accepting only older students, preferably those in graduate school, as boarders. They were generally much too focused on their work to cause any disturbances, and I valued the quiet, orderly life I had created for myself these past three years.

But I had accepted Justin as a favor to an old friend. His mother, Julia Wardlaw, and I had known each other since high school and all the way through college. Justin, an only child, wasn’t ready for the rough and tumble of dorm life, she said. She wanted him to have a quieter, more homelike atmosphere for his first year in college. After the grilling Julia had put me through, I felt almost honored that she was entrusting her precious chick to my care.

A large paw pushed against my leg. Diesel, my two-year-old Maine coon cat, chirped in sympathy when I looked down at him. He withdrew his paw and stared up at me.

“I know, Diesel.” I shook my head. “Justin has a problem, or he wouldn’t be acting this way.”

Diesel responded with another chirp—many Maine coons don’t meow like other cats—and I reached down to rub his head. He still had his lighter summer coat, soft as down. His neck ruff and tail were less bushy than they would be during the colder months ahead. The tufts on the tips of his ears stood out as he stared up at me, a patient expression on his face. He was a gray tabby with dark markings, and at the age of two hadn’t reached full maturity yet, weighing in at twenty-five to thirty pounds. With their broad chests and muscular bodies, Maine coons are the defensive tackles of the cat world.

“We’ll have to have a talk with our boarder,” I said. Diesel liked Justin and often visited him in his third-floor bedroom. “Just think what Azalea would do if she came in some morning and found a mess like this. She’d skin both Justin and me.” Diesel returned my rueful glance with a solemn gaze.

Azalea Berry, the housekeeper I inherited along with the house when my beloved Aunt Dottie died, had strict notions about keeping a clean home. She also had strong opinions about large cats as house pets, but she and Diesel somehow managed to reach detente when I brought him home with me a couple of years ago. Even when he was a kitten, Diesel had been smart enough to pick up on Azalea’s basic antipathy to cats.

Azalea had more tolerance for college-age boys, but that didn’t mean she would allow Justin to get away with leaving the kitchen a mess, even a minor one. Maybe I could help him with whatever his problem was before he did it again and Azalea got after him.

I couldn’t blame Azalea for her devotion to the house. Aunt Dottie had lavished her money—and her decorating abilities—on what she considered the center of any home. The kitchen occupied the southeast corner of the house, and the morning sun poured in through the large windows on both outside walls. Light suffused the room, helped by the pale yellow paint on the walls and the white ceramic tile on the floor. The cabinets shone a delicate blue and blended well with the darker hue of the table and chairs.

I could almost smell the scent of the ginger cookies Aunt Dottie used to make when I was a boy. There were only happy memories in this room, but for a moment I ached with the loss of my dear aunt and of my beloved wife, Jackie. They both died within a few weeks of each other three years ago. I pictured them at the table together, laughing and chatting.

Coming out of my reverie, I glanced at Diesel again, and I could swear he had a sympathetic look on his face. “Enough of that,” I told him. He twitched his tail, turned, and padded off in the direction of the utility room and his litter box.

I cleared up Justin’s mess, and as I was putting the cereal box away in the cupboard, Justin popped into the kitchen.

“Mr. Charlie,” Justin said, stopping in the doorway. “I was planning to clean up.” One hand clutched a worn backpack, and the other smoothed dark hair out of his eyes. The boy needed a haircut, or else he needed a ponytail.

Diesel reappeared and rubbed against his friend’s jean-clad leg. Justin squatted for a moment, scratching the cat’s head but watching me through his bangs.

“I thought you already left for your class,” I said. “If this was one of Azalea’s days, she might have a few things to say about finding the kitchen the way you left it.”

I kept my tone mild, but Justin flushed anyway. Down went his head, and his hair swung forward, shielding his face. He mumbled something as he stood. Diesel sat beside him, staring up at his face.

“What did you say?”

Justin shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, more clearly this time, avoiding my gaze for the moment. “I really meant to clean up, but I just lost track of time.” He shot me a quick glance, then stared down at his feet again.

“No real harm done, Justin. But it seems to me you’ve been a little careless the last few days. That’s not like you.”

He shrugged. “Well, I’m gonna be late. Bye, Diesel.” He turned and disappeared down the hall. In a moment I heard the front door open. I was relieved not to hear it slam shut.

We were definitely due for a chat, Justin and I. Something was bothering him, and he was bordering on rudeness. In the two months that he’d lived here, he hadn’t been the most outgoing young man, but he had been civil until recently.

As the father of two former teenagers, I knew that a change in behavior could signal any one of several problems. I hoped this wasn’t a substance abuse problem. His father, a conservative Evangelical preacher, would probably yank him out of college and take him home if that was the case. Julia wouldn’t be too happy either, and might even blame me for letting him get in trouble.

The last thing I wanted was to get involved in the life of one of my boarders. If Justin’s problem turned out to be serious, he would have to go home to his parents. I wasn’t ready to cope with anything big.

Diesel padded beside me to the wall rack by the back door, and I lifted his harness and leash off the hook. He purred as I got him street-ready, emitting the rumbling sound that inspired his name. He loved going to work with me.

“Let me get my coat and my satchel,” I said. I checked my tie for coffee and food stains and examined my pants for cat hair. Why did dark colors attract pet hair like magnets? I did a quick removal job with a lint brush, and then Diesel and I were ready to go.

In the past two years, since I’d first found a shivering kitten in the parking lot of the public library, most people in my hometown of Athena, Mississippi, had grown used to seeing me walking my cat on a leash. As Diesel grew bigger, some of them wondered if he wasn’t part bobcat, but that’s only because no one in town—including me—had ever seen a Maine coon. What they’d think when he was fully grown in another year, I had no idea.

Strangers sometimes stopped us on the street to ask if he was a weird-looking dog—and I’d swear Diesel looked offended when they did. He was a sociable critter, but he didn’t tolerate fools lightly—a trait I found endearing.

I detected a hint of wood smoke in the crisp autumn air. It seemed early to be lighting a fire in the fireplace, but evidently one of my neighbors disagreed. The odor reminded me of times by the fire in my parents’ house on cold winter days.

The homes on my street were over a century old, many occupied by the same families for generations. The graceful architecture, the classic landscaping, and the feeling of a real neighborhood gave me a sense of security after I lost my wife.

Putting thoughts of Jackie aside, I started walking, Diesel preceding me by a few paces. The campus of Athena College—our destination this morning—lay three blocks to the east. A walk that should have taken five minutes usually took fifteen or twenty, because Diesel and I stopped several times so his many admirers could say hello. He took it all in stride, chirping and purring, putting smiles on faces, including my own. One or two even remembered to say, “Morning, Charlie,” so I wasn’t completely ignored.

Jordan Thompson, owner of the Athenaeum, our local independent bookstore, was out for her morning run. She waved as she zoomed past. I had to admire her dedication to exercise, and wished I could emulate it.

Diesel and I arrived at the college library just as Rick Tackett, the operations manager for the two library buildings, was unlocking the front door. Eight o’clock on the dot, and not a second sooner. We stood on the veranda of the antebellum Greek Revival mansion that housed the library’s administrative offices, archives, and rare book collections. The main building, known as Hawksworth Library, stood next door.

Rick nodded in response to my “Good morning” and stepped aside to let me and Diesel enter. About a decade my senior, Rick was pleasant though difficult to engage in conversation. Since he spent much of his time in the main building next door, I saw him only infrequently.

Diesel led the way up the central stairs to the second floor. On the landing, he turned left and paused in front of a door with RARE BOOK ROOM emblazoned in gold leaf on the glass.

When I unlocked the door and pushed it open, I dropped Diesel’s leash, then I went around the room turning on lights. By the time I finished, Diesel was settled on his favorite perch—a bed placed on the wide windowsill behind my desk. I unhooked his leash, coiled it, and stuck it beside his bed.

Diesel purred while I readied myself for the workday. My jacket and satchel stowed, I sat at my desk, turned on my computer, and began to organize my day mentally.

I worked two days a week here as a cataloger and archivist, although I enjoyed what I did so much that I never really thought of it as labor. During my career as a librarian in Houston, I had spent much of my time as an administrator. Being able to catalog again was almost heaven after dealing for so long with budgets and personnel. I was content to be here with Diesel and the rare books.

I had barely begun to read my e-mail when I heard a tap at the door.

“Morning, Charlie.” Melba Gilley advanced into the room. She was as sleek as she had been in high school. Spectacular figure back then, and she still did. I liked Melba a lot, and she liked me, but so far we had both been content with simply reestablishing our friendship. I wasn’t ready to date yet, and now that I was approaching fifty, I wasn’t sure when or if I would be. I didn’t want the emotional complications a new relationship would bring.

“Morning, Melba,” I said. “How are you?”

Melba plopped into the chair by my desk, picked a nonexistent piece of fluff from her immaculate aubergine pantsuit, and said, “Excited. Aren’t you?” She looked past me at the window. “Morning, Diesel, honey.”

Diesel warbled a response but didn’t leave his bed.

“About what?” I frowned. What had I forgotten?

“The big reception tonight. What else would I be excited about?” Melba smiled. “It’s not every day Athena welcomes home a golden boy.”

“Oh, that,” I said. “Big deal.”

Melba shook her head at me. “Charlie Harris, you can’t tell me you’re not curious to see what Godfrey Priest is like after all these years. I know y’all didn’t get along in high school, but surely you want to see a famous author in the flesh.” She laughed.

I shook my head at her. “He was a jerkwad thirty-two years ago, and he’s probably an even bigger jerkwad now, just a rich one.”

“He’s had four wives,” Melba said. “Or so I hear tell. But I guess he can afford the alimony, as much as he makes off his books.”

“He hasn’t made much off me,” I said. “At least not since his first few books came out.”

“So you have read his books.” Melba almost crowed in triumph.

“I’ll admit it,” I said. “I was curious, like everybody else in Athena. And I even liked the first few. They were entertaining. But then he started writing those violent thrillers, and the plots got more and more unbelievable.” My mouth twisted in distaste. “Not to mention the violence against women. Surely you don’t still read him?”

Melba shook her head. “No, I quit a few books back. Same reasons as you.”

“Then why are you so excited?”

“He’s a bestseller, a celebrity,” Melba said. “How often does a celebrity come to Athena? We could use some excitement.”

I rolled my eyes. “Surely you’re not forgetting the time Roberta Hill spray-painted her husband pink when she caught him dead drunk and naked in Liz Graham’s trailer? I hear tell that was exciting, especially when he woke up and chased her with an ax down Main Street.”

Melba hooted with laughter. “Oh honey, I wish you’d been here. I’ve never seen anything so funny in my life. Delbert all pink, and his personal bits flopping all over the place. I was coming out of the bank when he and his wife went flying by. He’s lucky Roberta didn’t do something worse, like take that ax to his weenie.”

I laughed too, trying not to think about an axed weenie. From behind me I heard Diesel purring, like he was laughing along with us.

Melba’s cell phone rang. Grimacing, she pulled it from the holster at her waist. She handled it like a gunslinger with years of practice, twirling it in her hand before holding it still to read the display. “His Majesty wants me.” She answered the call to assure our boss she’d be with him right away. Then she ended the conversation and replaced her phone after another twirl.

“Duty calls,” she said as she stood. “I swear, that man couldn’t find his tiny rear end if I wasn’t there to show him where it was.” She snickered.

“That’s why you’re such a valuable administrative assistant,” I said. “You know where everything is.”

Melba grinned. “See you later, hon.”

I chuckled. Peter Vanderkeller, the director of the library, resembled nothing more than a garden rake. His size thirteen feet seemed out of proportion to his emaciated six-foot-four frame. Melba swears she’s never seen him eat anything, and most of the time I believe her. I’d never seen him put anything in his mouth other than a pen or a pencil. He invariably chewed on one during meetings.

The silence after Melba’s departure felt good. Quiet is the last word anyone would use to describe her.

I turned back to my e-mail, wincing my way through Peter’s weekly letter to the troops, as we library employees not-so-fondly called it. Last year at Halloween several of us dressed up in uniform for a staff meeting. Peter didn’t get the joke. He never did. I felt sorry for him sometimes.

The subject of this week’s homily was recycling. Peter exhorted everyone to stop bringing bottled water to work and to use instead the filtered tap water in the staff lounge. I glanced at my satchel. It usually contained at least two bottles of water. I resolved to use those bottles for refills from the tap once they were empty. Perhaps that would satisfy the boss.

The last e-mail I read reminded me of the gala reception tonight in honor of our celebrity at the president’s house. I’d been telling myself I wouldn’t go, but I knew curiosity would get the better of me. As much as I detested Godfrey Priest, I wanted to get a look at him after all this time.

Back in high school, I’d let Godfrey intimidate me. He was taller and better looking and was always flaunting his success with girls. I resented him in high school and in college—we were both alumni of Athena College—but that was long ago. Surely I’d left all that behind me?

Perhaps I hadn’t, but if living well truly was the best revenge, I wanted to show the jerkwad I was doing fine.

Shaking my head over my foolishness, I turned away from the computer to examine some papers on my desk. Where had I put that letter? I lifted one or two of the piles until I had located what I wanted.

Besides cataloging, I also handled certain kinds of reference questions, those that related to some historical aspect of the college or the library’s archives and rare books. Yesterday I had received a request from an elderly woman in Vicksburg who was trying to track down a stray twig on her family tree. Said twig was supposed to have attended Athena College back in the 1840s, not long after the school was founded.

Glancing through the letter, I found the name I needed. Laying the letter aside, I left my desk and approached a shelf of reference materials to the left of the door. What I sought was an old book of attendance records that should answer the question. One of these days I hoped to get a grant to have the records computerized, but until that happened, the old-fashioned way would have to do.

I pulled the book off the shelf and gently turned the pages until I found the years I wanted. Sounds from other parts of the library drifted up. The acoustics often behaved oddly, the grand stairway and the high-ceilinged foyer serving to bounce voices around.

While I scanned the precisely formed but tiny handwriting of the registrar of the 1840s, searching for one Bushrod Kennington, I heard snatches of conversation. I paid them scant attention, focusing on my task. But when I heard the words murder and Priest, I started listening.