Berkley Prime Crime titles by Miranda James
Cat in the Stacks Mysteries
MURDER PAST DUE
CLASSIFIED AS MURDER
FILE M FOR MURDER
OUT OF CIRCULATION
THE SILENCE OF THE LIBRARY
ARSENIC AND OLD BOOKS
NO CATS ALLOWED
TWELVE ANGRY LIBRARIANS
CLAWS FOR CONCERN
SIX CATS A SLAYIN’
THE PAWFUL TRUTH
Southern Ladies Mysteries
BLESS HER DEAD LITTLE HEART
DEAD WITH THE WIND
DIGGING UP THE DIRT
FIXING TO DIE
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2019 by Dean James
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: James, Miranda, author.
Title: The pawful truth / Miranda James.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2019. | Series: Cat in the stacks mystery; 11
Identifiers: LCCN 2019004261 | ISBN 9780451491121 (hardback) | ISBN 9780451491138 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Traditional British. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3610.A43 P39 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019004261
First Edition: July 2019
Cover art by Dan Craig
Cover design by Katie Anderson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
This book is dedicated to the memory of my beloved aunt, Faye Williams Cook, 1940–2018.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, thanks to my editor, Michelle Vega, and the terrific team at Berkley—Jennifer Monroe, Tara O’Connor, and Elisha Katz—for taking such great care of Charlie, Diesel, and me. Special thanks also to my agent, Nancy Yost, and her amazing associates, Natanya Wheeler and Sarah E. Younger. Nobody does it better.
The support of friends makes everything better, and I have some pretty amazing friends: Patricia Orr, Terry Farmer, Julie Herman, Carolyn Haines, John McDougall, and Don Herrington. Thanks for all you do for, and give to, me. I am truly blessed. The readers who are so devoted to Charlie and Diesel (not necessarily in that order) make the hard days so much easier. Thank you for your continuing love and support for the series.
CONTENTS
Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Miranda James
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Epilogue
About the Author
ONE
What did you get yourself into?
That thought had run through my mind several times for the past few days, but never so often as it had during the ten minutes I waited for class to start.
Staring at the eager young faces and listening to the chatter of voices rise and fall around me, I felt increasingly out of place. I had not failed to notice the covert glances, the occasional grimaces, and the what is he doing here tilts of the head in my direction. Not much subtlety.
Stop being so self-conscious, I chided myself. You have every right to be here, even if you are three decades older than the rest of the class. Focus on why you’re here and remember the excitement you felt when you finally decided to do this.
Good advice, I realized, and I felt the tension begin to ebb away. I had long been fascinated by medieval history and sometimes wished I had majored in history, rather than in English, during my undergraduate days here at Athena. I had heard great things about the young professor who taught this course on the history of England from the end of the Roman occupation until the Norman Conquest. He offered a second course that picked up with the aftermath of the Conquest through the accession of the first Tudor monarch, Henry VII. When I saw the course listed for the spring semester, I decided to give myself a belated Christmas gift and sign up to audit it. If all went well with the first course, I would sign up for the second one the next time it was offered.
Dr. Warriner’s courses always filled quickly, I had learned. I managed to squeak in before the class closed admissions. I hoped he lived up to his reputation because I was so interested in the subject and anticipated filling in the gaps in my knowledge.
A late arrival caught my eye when she slipped into an empty seat to the left a row ahead of me. A voluptuous blonde with a head of curly hair, she appeared to be in her thirties. Still younger than I, but at least there would be one other older student in the class. As if she felt my speculative glance on her, she turned to look my way.
A cool, assessing gaze met mine. She smiled briefly, then turned back to face the front of the classroom. That one glance revealed a stunning face, makeup so expertly applied that she appeared cosmetics-free. Perhaps Dr. Warriner’s reputation had drawn her in as well, I mused. Or she might be a graduate student.
Conversation ceased suddenly as a tall, muscular man strode into the room to the front of the classroom. Had I not already seen Carey Warriner around campus a few times, I would have been more struck by his appearance. I heard the slow exhalation of sighs around me, and I glanced around. The female students raked him with their eyes, and I understood why. Warriner was easily the most handsome man I had ever seen in the flesh.
Broad shouldered, he st
ood at least six foot four and had the dark hair and eyes often referred to as black Irish. His chiseled features brought to mind the stars of Hollywood’s Golden Age. With his sleeves rolled up to expose bronzed forearms, he favored the class with an engaging smile as he surveyed the room. Perhaps it was my sometimes overactive imagination, but I thought the smile slipped briefly when his gaze rested on the attractive blonde to my left.
The smile quickly returned, however, and he perched on the corner of the long table at the front of the classroom. “Good afternoon, everyone. I am Professor Warriner. Welcome to my course on the history of early medieval England.”
His beautifully modulated baritone elicited a few more audible sighs from around the room, and his smile broadened. He appeared appreciative of this reaction. He reached for a folder he had laid on the table beside him.
“First things first, of course,” he said. “Let’s get the dull stuff out of the way. When I call your name, please raise your hand.”
He extracted a piece of paper from the folder and began to read the names. The blonde lifted her hand to the name Dixie Belle Compton. Talk about a Southern name, I thought. Dixie Belle. I noticed that Warriner did not look at the students when he called this name. Perhaps he already knew her? That would explain the brief change of expression.
So engrossed in contemplating this, I nearly missed my own name. I jerked my hand up, and Warriner nodded. He soon finished his roll call and laid the paper aside. He rose from his perch and went to the board. Here he wrote his e-mail address. Turning back to face the class, he said, “You will use this to submit your written assignments. You will find the syllabus for this course, if you haven’t already, on my page in the history department website. This course requires a substantial amount of reading, some of it translations of primary sources; others are monographs by historians covering particular subjects.” He paused to the sound of a few subdued groans.
“This course is no sinecure,” he continued. “If you don’t know the meaning of the word, I suggest you look it up. You will have to work, and work diligently, if you expect to do well in this class. If you aren’t willing to work, I suggest you go ahead and drop the class today.” He paused for a moment as he assessed the class with a measuring glance. “I am passionate about my subject, and while I don’t expect my students to share my passion to the same degree, I do expect dedication to your work in this course. There will be no online instruction in this course. I prefer the old-fashioned methods, and that means I expect to see you in class at every scheduled meeting, on time, and ready to participate. Do not be late.”
Warriner’s uncompromising expression did not daunt me. In fact, I admired his standards, well familiar with them from my own college years here, thanks to several of my toughest professors. I had to admit to a certain amount of surprise, however, because of the prevalence of online education these days and the use of chat rooms and so on for group assignments.
I heard the rustle of movement around me. No doubt a few students were squirming a bit, and I wondered how many of them would return for the second class. Might as well weed out the less serious students right away.
“Now,” the professor said, “on to the scope of this course. We begin with the departure of the Romans in the fifth century of the Common Era. We will not discuss in detail why the Roman Empire abandoned its province of Britannia. That is the subject of a course taught by my colleague Professor Fischer.”
A hand shot up from the front row.
“Yes, what is it?” Warriner asked.
“Um, I was wondering, you know,” a lanky young man said, his words hesitant, “if you’re going to talk about King Arthur? I mean, you know, this is the period when he lived, right? Once the Romans left, you know.” He stammered to a halt, and he appeared to shrink under the now-harsh gaze of the professor.
Warriner stood and folded his arms over his chest. He surveyed the room before he again focused on the student with the question. “This is not a course on fantasy and myth. A professor in the English department teaches a course on English folklore. I suggest you take that if you want to read about Arthur and his knights.” He paused briefly. “Now, back to reality. There well could have been a warlord in the aftermath of Roman withdrawal who attempted to take control of parts of Britain, but if he existed at all, he was nothing like the legends that have grown up around the fantasy of Arthur.”
I felt the tension in the room. Perhaps the young man had hit a sore spot with Warriner by asking his question. Based on my own reading, admittedly limited, I agreed with the professor, as much as I enjoyed tales of Arthur and the Round Table. I loved the movie Excalibur, for example, but I viewed it as fantasy, as I did Mary Stewart’s enthralling Arthurian tetralogy about Arthur that I had read years ago.
Warriner suddenly smiled, and the tension I had felt dissipated. “I get a similar question every time I teach this course,” he said to the student, “and thank you for getting it out of the way so quickly. Now we can begin to focus on the real meat of the course.”
The professor spent several minutes discussing the assignments for the course, from assigned readings and the reports to be written about them, to the number of tests, including the final exam, and the research paper due by the end of the course. Students could choose their topics, but he must approve them, and for those who needed help, he had a list of suggestions they could consult.
He paused for questions, and after he had answered three, he began his lecture. I had my pen and notebook ready. Many of the students, I had already observed, had brought laptops or tablets with keyboards with them. At first I found the clicking and tapping of keys and screens distracting, but I quickly became absorbed in Warriner’s lecture. My hand began to cramp after about twenty minutes. As accustomed to the keyboard as I was, I had not written this much by hand in years. I decided I would bring my laptop from now on.
I did my best to keep up with my note-taking, but occasionally I found myself so intent on the lecture I forgot to write anything. Warriner spoke with passionate interest in his subject and shared fascinating details about life in fifth-century Britain. His lecturing style made the past come alive, and I enjoyed every moment that he spoke. The bell rang far too soon.
“We’ll continue the topic on Friday,” Warriner said as students began to gather their belongings and stow away their devices.
I flexed my cramped writing hand and then massaged it. While other students filed out of the room, Warriner did not move from his position at the front of the room. I glanced up to find him regarding me. “Mr. Harris,” he said, “I would like to talk to you, if you have a moment.”
“Certainly.” I stuffed my notebook and pen in my briefcase and rose from the desk to join him at the front of the room.
Warriner perched again on the table and regarded me with a frown. For a moment I wondered if I had somehow offended him, or if he didn’t care for older students in his classes.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
The professor shook his head. “Not at all. I am wondering, however, why you are auditing my class rather than taking it for credit. Though we have not met before today, like everyone at Athena I am aware of your reputation for assisting in local murder investigations. Surely you’re not intimidated by the intellectual demands of the course.”
“No, it’s not that,” I said, somewhat defensively. His tone had not been dismissive or in any way negative, and I suddenly realized that my initial reaction was due to my own insecurities, not to his remarks. “I haven’t been in the classroom for over twenty-five years, and though I am thoroughly interested in the subject, I’m not sure I want to work that hard.”
“Doing well in this course takes effort and ability,” Warriner said. “Don’t underestimate yourself. I think you should consider taking the course for credit.”
I shrugged. “I’ll think about it, but I don’t believe I’ll change my mind.
If you’d rather I dropped the class because of that, I will, though I’d be deeply disappointed.”
Warriner flashed a smile. “No need for that. How about this? You turn in the first two assignments; let me see what you can do with them. If neither of us is satisfied with the results, I won’t push you into taking the class for credit, and you can audit.”
I considered that for a moment. I wondered why this mattered to him, but I had to admit he intrigued me with his offer. “All right, I’ll do that.”
“Good.” Warriner nodded and rose from the desk. “Then I’ll see you here on Friday.”
I nodded and turned away. At the door I almost ran into Dixie Belle Compton, who had apparently been lingering there. She brushed past me and strode into the room. She jostled my arm, and I dropped my briefcase. She didn’t pause in her progress, and I suppressed a rude comment.
As I bent to pick up my briefcase, I heard Warriner say, in a savage but carrying undertone, “What the hell are you doing in my class?”
TWO
I didn’t wait to hear Ms. Compton’s response to Carey Warriner’s question. I grabbed my briefcase and headed rapidly down the hall. I couldn’t help but speculate, however, about Warriner’s behavior. That he and Ms. Compton knew each other was obvious. I wondered how they knew each other, and how well. The tone the professor used had sounded both nasty and angry. What prompted it?
Not your business, I reminded myself. I walked quickly from the social sciences building back to my office in the antebellum mansion that housed the library director’s office, along with the archive and rare book collection. I would do better to focus on my work than to speculate idly on the private lives of people I barely knew.
Diesel ran out of the administrative suite as I approached the outer office where my friend Melba Gilley, the director’s administrative assistant, worked. My Maine Coon child, as I sometimes thought of him, warbled and trilled to let me know he was glad I hadn’t abandoned him after all. He walked beside me back into Melba’s office, chattering all the way. No doubt he was regaling me with his activities with his buddy Melba.
The Pawful Truth Page 1
