ELEVEN
I hadn’t expected to find any dirt on Porter Stanley and Oscar Reilly right away, and the fact that I did made me wonder how carefully the college HR department had run a background check on Oscar. I really thought I would have to dig deep to find anything juicy or helpful. Front-page headlines in a suburban Massachusetts newspaper, however, weren’t that hard to miss. I decided I should mention this to Penny Sisson. She needed to know that her staff hadn’t done a thorough enough job.
The Oscar Reilly who stared out at me from the newspaper photograph sported a black eye. His hands were behind his back, and I suspected from the context of the scene that they were in handcuffs. A uniformed policeman had a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Not more than three feet away, Porter Stanley, also escorted by a man in uniform, looked disheveled and disgruntled but otherwise unmarked. His hands, tightly clenched, were visible, and his expression as he regarded Oscar chilled me.
After absorbing the details of the visual, I read the article. The Stanleys were a wealthy, influential clan in Massachusetts, according to the paper. Otherwise I doubted this story would have received as much space in the paper. Porter Stanley’s sister, Eleanor, was Mrs. Oscar Reilly. Eleanor was reportedly in a nursing facility, having gone there after suffering from the strain of a bitterly contested divorce. I did not collapse from surprise when I read that Eleanor Reilly was divorcing her husband on the grounds of extreme mental cruelty, abuse, and neglect.
The situation in the photograph came about when Porter Stanley and Oscar met at Mrs. Reilly’s lawyer’s office. After a rancorous discussion during the meeting between the two sides, the dispute continued on the street when the men left the building. Allegedly Oscar, who had to be at least eight inches shorter and a good hundred pounds lighter than his brother-in-law, was the aggressor. The men tussled, and Oscar ended up with a black eye. Witnesses at the scene verified that Oscar threw the first punch.
I checked the date on the news story, and the events it recounted took place seven months ago. I checked for follow-ups to this story and found another article from the same paper. Eleanor Reilly received her divorce, and the prenuptial agreement Oscar agreed to when they married seven years earlier was nullified. The agreement apparently had a clause that made it void if there was evidence of cruelty or neglect.
What a stellar character we had to deal with, I thought. What kind of pathology was at work here? Oscar, at least in my opinion, was a disturbed man. And not safe to be around.
On that alarming thought I called Melba immediately. Even armed with her can of air freshener, she might still be in danger of physical harm.
To my relief she answered her office phone after only two rings. “Are you okay?” I tried not to sound panicky. “Where is Oscar?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “He’s gone. Got called over to the president’s office for a meeting. Why?”
I gave her a quick précis of the news articles. When I finished, she said, “What a scumbag.”
“Yes, and apparently one who can be violent,” I said. “I really think you should follow Chief Ford’s advice and go home. If Oscar comes back to the office, I don’t imagine he’s going to be in a good mood.”
“He’s not going to pull any crap with me,” Melba retorted. “I’ll spray him in the face, and then kick him where it hurts the most if he gets out of line.”
Diesel had been quiet, but now he could sense my tension. He meowed and rubbed his head against my leg. I patted him to try to reassure him, but my attention was focused on Melba.
I had to admire my old friend’s gutsiness, but I feared she was overconfident. I told her so.
She didn’t answer right away. After a few long moments, she said, “I guess you’re probably right. If you poke a hornet’s nest often enough, you’re going to get stung. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”
“Good.”
“Look, gotta go, the other line is ringing. I’d better see who it is before I leave.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
Thankful that she hadn’t been stubborn, I put down the phone. I stared at the laptop screen for a moment before I went back to the first article I found. I gazed at the picture of the two men. Why had Porter Stanley sought out his former brother-in-law after the divorce became final? Did Stanley have retribution in mind? I wondered how his poor sister fared after the divorce. I hoped she had recovered well.
There was no mention of children in the articles, so I supposed that meant there were none. The thought of Oscar as a father chilled me.
I shut down the computer and put it aside. Diesel still appeared unsettled, and I devoted a few minutes to reassuring him that everything was fine.
Once the cat settled down again, I found my thoughts reverting back to the subject of Oscar. I could only hope that the meeting he had been called to in the president’s office meant that the college was going to take action. If not to fire him outright, at least to remove him from the position as interim director of the library. Given the turmoil that surrounded his brief tenure, Oscar obviously was not the person for the job. Surely the president could see that.
On impulse I reopened the laptop. I searched for the articles I’d found earlier, copied and pasted their links into an e-mail message to Penny Sisson, and sent them to her with a brief message to check them out. I felt a bit like a tattletale, but I didn’t want Oscar back in the library. He had to be stopped somehow.
Azalea walked into the kitchen while I was pouring more tea for myself.
“I’m going to the grocery store.” Azalea headed into the utility room, where she kept her purse. When she returned, purse over her arm, she said, “Anything special you want? I’m going to make spaghetti and meatballs for your dinner tonight.”
“Can’t think of anything special,” I said. Diesel meowed loudly.
Azalea looked down at him. “I know you’re always wanting something special, Mr. Cat. And when did I ever forget to buy your food?” She shook her head. “You spoil that cat rotten, Mr. Charlie.”
Diesel meowed again, and I saw Azalea’s lips twitch. She pretended most of the time not to be amused by his attempts at conversation, but I knew that secretly she got a kick out of him. I had overheard her chatting to him numerous times when she didn’t realize I was nearby. She spoiled him every bit as much as I did. I was wise enough not to point that out, however.
“Well, you know, Azalea, that’s what cats are for.” I laughed. “And at least he tells you thank you, don’t you, boy?”
Diesel warbled, and this time Azalea smiled. She shook her head. “Ain’t got time to be standing here talking to a cat. I’ll be back in about an hour.”
Diesel followed her to the back door, and for a moment I thought he planned to go out with her. He sat and watched the door close, though, and stared at it for a moment. He then got up and padded back to me. I rubbed his head, and he purred.
After all the unrest at the library because of Oscar Reilly, I was grateful to be in my quiet home with my devoted feline friend. Now that I was a couple of years past the half-century mark, I appreciated all this even more. I had two wonderful children, a grandchild on the way thanks to my daughter and son-in-law, and a loving partner in Helen Louise.
Don’t get maudlin, I told myself mock-seriously. Time you were up and doing something else.
But what? I didn’t have any matter that needed my immediate attention. The problem of Oscar Reilly seemed to be on its way to a solution, I figured. Diesel and I should be able to go back to the archive tomorrow without interference or unpleasantness. Things could settle back into their nice, predictable routine.
I decided I might as well finish the book I was reading, Sharon Kay Penman’s Lionheart, about Richard I of England. I loved richly detailed historical fiction, and no one did it better than Penman. Immersing myself in the twelfth century for an hour or two would be a good tonic for the upsets of the past couple of days.
“Let’s go upstairs and read,” I said to Diesel. He chirped in response. He understood what I meant, and while I read, he would nap on the bed beside me. And if I dozed off, too, well, that would be fine. I would have a late night with Helen Louise probably, and a little snooze now wouldn’t hurt.
When my cell phone rang about half an hour later, I was deep in the twelfth century, and it took me a moment to emerge. I picked up the phone, noted that Sean was the caller, and answered.
“Hey, Dad,” he said. “Hope you’re not too busy at the moment. I need you to come over to the office for a little while.”
There was an odd note in his voice, and I couldn’t tell whether he was worried about something, or simply nervous.
“No, I’m reading, but I can get back to the book later.” I sat up on the side of the bed. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” he said. “Don’t worry. But I need to talk to you, and I can’t get away from the office right this minute.”
“I’ll be on my way in a few.” Before I could continue, he ended the call.
I set the phone down on the bedside table and turned to look at my sleepy cat. “Sean is being mysterious,” I told him. “He’s up to something, but I have no idea what. We’re going to his office, boy, so wake up.”
Diesel yawned and stretched while I put on my shoes. I went in the bathroom to brush my hair and freshen up, and a few minutes later we were in the car on the way to downtown Athena.
The law offices of Pendergrast and Harris occupied one floor of a Civil War–era building on the square. I found a parking place in front, and as I was getting Diesel out of the backseat, I noticed a familiar car a couple of spaces away.
“Looks like Laura is here, too, boy,” I said. Diesel perked up at the mention of her name. He adored Laura, and she him. I wondered how my boy was going to react, however, when the grandchild arrived. He would have competition for Laura’s attention.
We stepped out of the elevator on the second floor, and the office manager, Laquita Henderson, greeted Diesel and me with her usual perky smile. “Hey, there, Mr. Harris. Diesel, you’re handsome as ever.”
Diesel happily let the attractive young woman scratch his head, and he warbled for her.
“What’s all this about?” I asked. “Sean wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Laquita laughed. “Can’t say a word, or I’d be in trouble. Y’all go on into Sean’s office, and he’ll tell you.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling suddenly anxious. “Come on, Diesel.”
Sean’s office lay a few yards down the corridor and faced the square. His door was open, and Diesel and I walked in. There was no sign of Laura, however.
“Hello, Son,” I said. “What’s all this mystery?”
Sean looked up from his desk, and his expression was enigmatic. “Close the door, Dad, if you don’t mind, and then have a seat.”
While I complied with his request, he came around from behind his desk and perched on a corner near the chair I chose. He patted Diesel for a moment, then he faced me squarely.
“Alexandra and I are getting married this morning.” The words tumbled out. “We found out yesterday she’s having a baby, and we decided we should get married right away.”