“Why are you taking such an interest in Justin? He’s not your son.” Kanesha leaned back in her chair, her gaze cool, as if she were eying a specimen of some kind.
“No, he’s not. But he is in my care, in a way. He boards with me, and naturally I take an interest in the welfare of someone who lives under my roof. He’s also the son of an old friend.”
“I see” was all she said in response.
I decided to venture a question of my own. “Are you aware of how much Godfrey was disliked by people who knew him?”
A faint smile played on the deputy’s lips. “I’ve picked up on that, yes.”
“Then you must realize there were probably people who had far stronger motives to kill him than either Julia or Justin. Or me.” Mindful of Azalea’s plea to me this morning, I decided I had better share the gossip I had gleaned. I didn’t like having to implicate someone possibly innocent of Godfrey’s murder, but I had little choice if I was to help Justin.
“Such as?” She put her pen down on the desk and leaned back in her chair.
“Jordan Thompson for one. I spoke to Julia just now, and she said she told you about seeing Jordan at the hotel yesterday when she was leaving.”
“She did,” Kanesha said. “But I have no proof as yet that Ms. Thompson saw the victim yesterday.”
“Well, I have it,” I said, trying not to sound triumphant. “A signed copy of Godfrey Priest’s new book. It’s dated, too. Yesterday’s date.”
Kanesha blinked. That interested her. She picked up her pen and jotted something down. “How did you get this signed and dated copy?”
I told her about my visit to the bookstore this morning, including the gossip from Patty Simpson about Jordan’s affair with Godfrey. Kanesha scribbled more notes as I talked.
“Since Jordan saw Godfrey
after
Julia did, it seems to me she’s a better suspect. And one with a pretty strong motive, perhaps.”
“Possibly.” Kanesha laid the pen down again. “I’ll check it out, of course, but that doesn’t mean anyone else is off the hook now.”
“Of course,” I said, refusing to be nettled by her dismissive tone.
“Any other little tidbits you want to share?” Kanesha’s lip curled. “Especially since you seem to be so up on the latest dirt.”
She wasn’t making this easy.
With a quick mental apology to my boss I told her what I knew about Peter Vanderkeller’s intense dislike of Godfrey and the cause of it.
Once again she took a few notes, but this didn’t appear to impress her any more than the information about Jordan Thompson.
“I think that’s all, Mr. Harris. If I have further questions, I’ll be in touch.”
That was a bit abrupt, I thought. “Good day, then.” I stood, and Diesel jumped to the floor. Kanesha turned to her computer and started typing.
Azalea would be appalled at her daughter’s lack of manners, I thought. Kanesha could have at least thanked me for coming in after her peremptory summons.
Diesel and I left her office and headed back up the corridor to the reception area. We paused at the desk for the deputy to open the security gate. I could tell Diesel wanted to explore around the desk and visit with the deputy, but I couldn’t wait to get away from here.
“Come on, boy,” I said, tugging lightly at the leash. “Time to go back to work.”
“Bye, kitty,” the deputy said. Diesel rewarded him with a few trills as we moved toward the door.
Outside I blinked a few times, adjusting to the afternoon sunshine. Kanesha’s manner still rankled, but I supposed I shouldn’t have expected anything different. At least I had given her two new potential suspects to consider.
Back in the car, I drove to the college library and parked in the lot behind it. Diesel and I entered the house through the back door, near the staff lounge. I was thirsty, and I figured Diesel might be also. I led him into the lounge, unoccupied at the moment. I found an oversized mug in the cupboard and filled it from the cooler. I drank it down quickly and then refilled it and set it on the floor. Diesel lapped at the water. When he was finished I would wash out the mug in the sink.
“Hello, boys. What are you two doing here this afternoon?”
I looked up to see Melba Gilley in the doorway of the lounge. She advanced with a smile, a mug in her hand.
“There’s something I want to check on upstairs,” I said.
After she exchanged further greetings with Diesel, Melba filled her mug with coffee and took a sip. She made a face. “This has been sitting here awhile. But it’ll have to do.” She sipped again. “You talking about all those boxes? What the heck are they anyway?”
“They’re full of Godfrey’s papers,” I said. “He had them shipped last week.”
“Without even waiting to see if we’d take them.” Melba laughed. “Typical.” She shook her head. “I never dreamed when I called you last night that he was dead. Bizarre.”
“Yes, it is.” Diesel was finished drinking. I took the mug to the sink and turned on the hot water. Raising my voice over the sound of the water, I continued. “The whole thing is really bizarre. Godfrey probably ticked off a lot of people, but who hated him enough to kill him?”
“The Lord only knows.” Melba moved closer to the sink. “Maybe one of his ex-wives sneaked into town and did it.”
I squirted a little dish soap in the mug and scrubbed it with a brush. I gave it quick rinse and set it upside down on the draining board.
As I dried my hands on a towel, I said, “That’s possible, I guess, but why would one of them have waited until now to do it? I think it’s somebody right here in Athena.”
“You’re probably right.” Melba poured the remains of her coffee out and set the mug in the sink. “You think you’ll find anything interesting in Godfrey’s papers?”
“I might. I’m sure they’ll be interesting,” I said.
“Maybe there’s a clue to his murder.”
Before I replied, we both heard a floorboard squeak out in the hall.
Melba and I exchanged glances.
I waited a moment to see if whoever was in the hallway entered the room. No one did.
I took a step toward the door. “Who’s there?”
There was no answer.
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.