No Cats Allowed

FOURTEEN

I stared at my phone for a moment. I suspected what the bad news was, thanks to Melba’s revelations. No doubt I was being let go as part of Reilly’s plan to sell off the rare books. I sank down on the bed and thought about that.

I had already told myself I was willing to quit, rather than deal with Reilly any longer. That, however, would have been my decision, and I’d thought I would be leaving the rare book collection and the archives intact. With Reilly apparently unchecked, though, I was probably about to be fired, and the collections to which I had devoted several years of work were to be dismantled.

Did I really believe that the rare books and archives would be sacrificed to make up the library budget deficit? No, as I continued to think about it, I didn’t believe they would. A significant portion of the archive’s contents had been given by families who still wielded influence. In other words, they were alumni with deep pockets, like the Ducotes.

No, Reilly wouldn’t succeed with that part of the plan.

But he had succeeded, I had no doubt, in firing me. The president had thrown Melba and me under the bus—perhaps along with a few other library staff—thanks to the combined efforts of Peter Vanderkeller and Oscar Reilly.

Might as well get it over with, I told myself. I returned Penny Sisson’s call, and she answered right away. I identified myself and said, “I’m pretty sure I know what your bad news is.”

“I’m really sorry, Charlie,” Penny said, and I appreciated her sincerely rueful tone. “Your department is being closed, effective immediately. There are no other openings, either, or else you might have been reassigned.”

“I understand,” I replied. “Frankly, there isn’t anywhere else in the library that I’d care to work.”

“I don’t blame you,” Penny said. “And please don’t repeat this, but I thought there would be quite a different outcome to the situation that’s been brewing in the library.”

“I thought there would be, too,” I said. “But that’s neither here nor there. When can I go in and clean out my office?”

“Would tomorrow morning work for you?” Penny asked. “You’ll need to come to my office first. There are a few things we have to go over, and I should have everything ready then. You’ll get a small severance package.” She paused for a moment. “Then a campus police officer will escort you to your office and stay with you while you pack your things. It’s standard procedure.”

I bit back the sarcastic comment I wanted to make about how being treated like a potential criminal who had to be spied on was the cherry on top. Penny wasn’t its target anyway. I might sit down in a few days and pen a pointed letter to the president of the college and the board of trustees about all this. I wouldn’t go as quietly as Reilly probably hoped I would.

“Yes, tomorrow morning is fine,” I said. “How about nine or nine thirty? Would either of those times work for you?”

We agreed on nine thirty, and I ended the call. I set the phone down on the nightstand and flopped backward, my feet still on the floor. I stared at the ceiling. Had I been given to cursing, I would have indulged in an extensive session of it, casting aspersions on the ancestry of Reilly and the college president. Peter Vanderkeller would receive his share, too.

The bed shook as a thirty-six-pound cat landed on it near my head. Diesel stared down at me, looking anxious, and trilled.

“I’m okay, sweet boy, only a little angry,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.” I pushed myself to a sitting-up position again, and Diesel moved closer, his body now against my side. I put my arm around him, and he rubbed his head against my chest and warbled.

Tomorrow morning, I decided, I should probably leave him at home. I would have a couple of boxes to deal with, and I wouldn’t be in the best of moods. Diesel was better off staying with Azalea while I packed up my things. I had a sudden, sickening thought. I hoped I didn’t see Reilly tomorrow when I cleared out my office. I might not be able to restrain my occasionally unruly tongue if I did.

I decided I need not explain to Azalea why I would now be home instead of going to work until tomorrow morning. Right now I didn’t feel like talking about it with anyone. Helen Louise was the exception to that, but I’d have to wait until tonight to share my news with her.

I caught a glimpse of the bedside clock and realized it was past my usual lunchtime. I didn’t feel particularly hungry, but I probably ought to eat something. “Come on, Diesel,” I said. “Let’s go downstairs and find lunch.”

Diesel meowed and jumped to the floor. I remembered to pick up my cell phone this time and stuck it in my pocket before we left the bedroom.

After lunch—a ham and cheese sandwich with a small salad—I decided a nap was in order. I read for about ten minutes, until my eyelids began to droop and the hefty Penman book got heavy. Book set aside, cat sound asleep beside me, I drifted off.

* * *

That evening, over the dinner table at Helen Louise’s house, I brought her up to date on the situation at the college library. Helen Louise was an alumna of the school, and her expression grew angrier with every sentence.

When I finished, she set down her wineglass, her expression fierce. “I have a good mind to call the president’s office tomorrow and tell him I am withdrawing my pledge to the alumni scholarship fund. And I’ll tell him exactly why.”

I reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “Thank you, love, for your loyalty and support. I’m thinking of writing a letter along the same lines. I’ve no doubt that when a few others hear about this, they’ll express their displeasure, too.”

“Like Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce, you mean.” Helen Louise grinned. “You know they adore you, don’t you? And not just because of Diesel.”

Hearing his name, the cat roused from his boiled chicken–induced coma and meowed. Helen Louise and I laughed. She spoiled Diesel badly, insisting on cooking chicken for him when we dined together like this.

“I’m fond of them, too. They have become good friends.” I shook my head. “I can only imagine what my parents would say, because they thought the Ducote sisters were royalty. And as we were only the common folk, we didn’t mix. They didn’t have much chance to get to know one another, even though my dad worked at the bank and they came in often.”

“My parents were the same,” Helen Louise said. “Funny how that can be in small towns like this. We’re supposed to be a classless society, but we’re not.”

“It all comes down to money, which the Ducotes have always had a gracious plenty of,” I said, “while the rest of us had a lot less.”

“Things have changed, though,” she replied. “Some of the barriers have fallen, or at least lowered.” She laughed. “How did we get off on this sociological tangent?”

I shrugged. “Talking about support for the college, I guess. I’m tempted to call the sisters myself, though earlier I told myself I wouldn’t do it.”

Helen Louise picked up her wineglass and drained it. She poured more for herself and then gestured with the bottle. I shook my head. I still had half a glass, and I felt stuffed from the excellent meal of spinach, cheese, and onion quiche and salade niçoise.

She picked up her glass again and stared into it. “I don’t imagine you’ll have to. My guess is they’ll be calling you soon enough. The grapevine in this town is amazingly swift.”

“True.” I supposed it was the same in every small town in the country, or in any kind of small community. Like a college. A sudden thought struck me. “You know, I hadn’t thought about the history department. They will be up in arms against Reilly’s plans. The contents are a gold mine for their grad students in Southern history.”

“There will be all kinds of allies,” Helen Louise said. “Wait until the word has got around. A hornet’s nest will have nothing on it.” She forked the last bite of quiche on her plate and ate it. When she finished, she said, “Tell me about the wedding. I really hated that I couldn’t be there.”

“I wish you could have been there, too,” I said. “Sean and Alex were disappointed you couldn’t come, but they’re planning a big party for when her father gets home from Australia.”

We chatted for a few minutes more about the wedding. I declined dessert, though I knew it would have been heaven on the tongue. My pants had been feeling a little tight lately, and between Azalea and Helen Louise, my taste buds remained locked in mortal combat with my waistline. The taste buds had been winning more often than not. I heard Stewart’s voice in my head.

The gym, Charlie. Come with me and I’ll get you started.

One of these days I really ought to pay more attention to Stewart.

Helen Louise had to be up at four the next morning, so Diesel and I reluctantly bade her good night at eight thirty. We were lucky she managed to squeeze in the occasional night like this during the week for dinner together. I always looked forward to Saturday nights, because the bistro was closed on Sundays.

On the short trip home, Diesel and I walked briskly. There was a chill in the air, not unpleasant, but it didn’t encourage us to linger. Along the way I thought about what it would be like when Helen Louise and I married. We hadn’t actually discussed it, but the time was approaching when we ought to. We’d been comfortable so far with the way things were. Her demanding work schedule meant we didn’t have a lot of time together, and I didn’t expect that to change with marriage. She loved her business, and I wouldn’t ask her to give it up.

There were definitely a number of issues to consider before we took that step. Soon, I realized, we really had to talk.

Once home—quiet and empty except for Diesel and me—we went up to my bedroom. I changed out of my clothes into the worn T-shirt and pajama shorts I favored for sleepwear. I turned down the ringer on my cell phone to a low but still audible setting and picked up my book. Thanks to the nap earlier, I didn’t feel that sleepy, so I would be able to get considerably further into the adventures of Richard the Lionheart before I drifted off.

The musical signal of an incoming call on my phone woke me. As I fumbled for the phone, I squinted at the clock. A few minutes after six. The caller ID told me my son was calling.

“Morning, Sean.” I yawned. “You’re calling really early. Is everything okay?” A terrible thought occurred to me, and I jerked upright on the bed, disturbing Diesel, who meowed sleepily. “Alex is okay, isn’t she? She’s not sick, I hope.”

“No, Dad, Alex is fine, and so is the baby,” Sean said. I could hear the barely suppressed irritation in his voice. “I’m afraid I have shocking news. Oscar Reilly was killed sometime last night, and I’m about to head to the county jail to meet Melba. They’ve taken her in for questioning.”