The Pawful Truth

by Miranda James

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m back to take this rascal off your hands.”

  Melba looked up from her computer to grin at me and the cat. “He’s been a perfect gentleman, as always. Haven’t you, sweet boy?”

  Diesel trotted forward to rub his head against Melba’s outstretched hand. He looked at me, his expression smug—or so I interpreted it.

  “I’m sure he has,” I said. “I appreciate your looking after him while I’m in class.”

  “Glad to do it,” Melba replied. “How was the class?”

  “Fine. He’s an excellent lecturer.” I debated whether to tell her what I had overheard between the professor and Ms. Compton. If anyone in town knew of any connection between professor and student, Melba would.

  “He has a great reputation,” Melba said, rubbing along Diesel’s spine. “He’s about the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, but he doesn’t act like he’s the Lord’s gift to women, I’ll say that for him.” She giggled. “Not like some men I know who aren’t anywhere near as good-looking as that man is.”

  I laughed. “There were plenty of young women in class today, and I heard them sighing when he walked into the room.” I hesitated again, about to mention the other mature student, as we were called to my chagrin, but Melba forestalled me.

  “His wife is every bit as beautiful as he is,” Melba said. “From everything I’ve heard, she’s nice, too. Teaches medieval English lit, I think.”

  “Irene Warriner.” I nodded. “I believe she’s a specialist in Anglo-Saxon literature.”

  “Everyone says they’re devoted to each other.” Melba looked hesitant.

  “You’re obviously dying to tell me something,” I said. “What have you heard to the contrary?”

  “Do you know Viccy Kemp?” Melba asked, but continued before I could respond. “She’s the administrative assistant in the history department, and she and I go back a long way together. I had lunch with Viccy last week, and she brought along Jeanette Larson, who’s the admin in the English department.” She paused to look at me expectantly.

  “I’ve spoken to Ms. Kemp,” I said, “when I went by to ask a question about auditing the class. I don’t know Ms. Larson.”

  “They’re just about two of the biggest gossips on campus.” Melba wrinkled her nose. “They’re like this.” She twined two fingers together. “Anyway, what one of them doesn’t know, the other one does, and they don’t hesitate to talk about it to anyone who’ll listen.”

  “And you were listening.”

  Melba shrugged. “I couldn’t very well tell them to stop talking.”

  Not when you were dying to hear what they had to say. I prudently kept that to myself, however. “Go on,” I said. “What did they have to say about the Warriners?”

  “Jeanette said that Carey Warriner has taken one of the English professors to lunch several times lately,” Melba said. “She wasn’t talking about his wife. It was Barbara Lamont.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t recognize the name. “Maybe they’re just friends.”

  “Could be,” Melba said. “But then Viccy chimed in to say that Irene Warriner has been going out to lunch with one of her husband’s colleagues in the history department, Daniel Bellamy.”

  “I don’t know him,” I said. “I haven’t met him, but I read one of his books on Regency England.” I laughed. “You know, that’s probably the reason Irene Warriner is having lunch with him. The Regency connection.”

  Melba shook her head, obviously puzzled. “What are you talking about? What Regency connection?”

  “The Regency period in the early nineteenth century when George the Third was mad and his son served as his regent,” I said.

  “Okay,” Melba said, “but I still don’t see the connection.”

  “Remember that book by Lucy Dunne I gave you a few weeks ago?” I asked.

  Melba nodded. “I haven’t gotten to it yet. What about it?”

  I grinned. “I can’t believe I know something you don’t about someone on campus. Lucy Dunne writes historical romances set in the Regency period. Lucy Dunne is Irene Warriner.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Melba muttered. “I had no idea she was a writer. Guess I’ll have to read that book next. So I guess you think Dr. Bellamy is helping her with her books?”

  I nodded. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? The period she teaches is many centuries earlier than the Regency, and he is an accomplished historian. The Lucy Dunne books are excellent, and I think you’ll enjoy the one I lent you.”

  “Why doesn’t she write about what she already knows?” Melba asked.

  “The market is better for Regency- and Victorian-set romances,” I said. “At least, according to Jordan Thompson, and she ought to know. Jordan told me not long ago that she—Irene Warriner, I mean—had recently signed a big contract for more books. She didn’t know how much, but apparently it was at least a healthy six figures. So she must be doing really well with her books.” Jordan Thompson owned the local independent bookstore, the Athenaeum, and I had always found her extremely helpful and knowledgeable about books of any genre.

  “Okay, so maybe that explains Mrs. Warriner having lunch with another man besides her husband,” Melba said, “but what about her husband having lunch with another woman?”

  “Could be something similar, I suppose, but I don’t know what Barbara Lamont’s specialty is.” I had a feeling this one might be more difficult to explain than the Warriner-Bellamy connection.

  “Hang on a minute, and I’ll look her up.” Melba turned to her computer and started tapping at the keys. After a few clicks of the mouse, she evidently found what she wanted to know. “Barbara Lamont teaches twentieth-century American literature,” she announced. “Her specialty is Edith Wharton. Also Henry James, it says here.”

  “Maybe Carey Warriner is a big Edith Wharton or Henry James fan. The two of them knew each other, I believe,” I said. “There are probably a dozen reasons—perfectly innocent reasons—that the two of them might have lunch together. Men and women can be friends without there being anything more than friendship between them. Like you and me, for example.”

  “I know that,” Melba said. “And I pointed out that exact same thing to Viccy and Jeanette, but they don’t believe it. According to Viccy, Carey Warriner has a roving eye.”

  I debated again whether to tell Melba about the incident between Carey Warriner and my fellow student Dixie Belle Compton. I decided I wouldn’t. No need to fan the flames of gossip any further, although I knew Melba wouldn’t share it with her friends if I asked her not to.

  “That may well be,” I said, “but as long as it doesn’t interfere with his duties as a teacher in the class I’m taking, I’m not going to spend any time thinking about it.”

  My tone must have been sharper than I realized, because Melba shot me an injured look.

  “You don’t need to get all pious on me,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound that way.” I offered a rueful grin, and her expression lightened.

  “I can’t stay mad at you, Charlie.” She laughed. “If you weren’t interested in what I know about people, you wouldn’t hang around here listening to me, now, would you?”

  “‘A hit, a very palpable hit,’” I quoted—my daughter Laura’s influence, for she liked to quote Shakespeare, and I had picked up the habit from her.

  Melba ignored my little sally and glanced around her feet and mine. “Where’s Diesel?”

  I squatted to look under her desk. My cat was snoozing on the carpet. “He’s napping.” I stood. “Come on, boy, let’s get upstairs to the office. Time to get some work done. It’s already two thirty, and you’ll be leaving in an hour.”

  Diesel emerged from beneath the desk and yawned. He paused to stretch before he trotted to the door. “See you later,” I said as I followed him out of the offi
ce and up the stairs.

  I unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Diesel headed for his litter box and water bowl, both placed discreetly out of sight in a corner behind a low range of shelves. After a quick check of my e-mail, having found nothing that needed an immediate reply, I set to work cataloging more Southern fiction given to the rare book collection the previous year.

  As a librarian, I loved nothing better than cataloging old books. I never knew what surprises lurked between their pages. I had found old tissues, bookmarks of various kinds, more than a few pressed flowers, and many inscriptions and annotations. The latter made each book a special object to me and not simply a generic copy of a title like its many fellows printed at the same time. Occasionally a book contained a review by a previous reader, either written in the book itself or on a card stuck between the pages. My favorite of these reviews, found several weeks ago inscribed in the front flyleaf of a novel, was Utter hogwash, but good hogwash nevertheless, followed by initials and a date.

  I focused on the task at hand and spent a pleasurable hour cataloging while Diesel napped in the wide window embrasure behind my desk. He loved this particular perch because there were trees outside the window. I heard the occasional muttering when he spotted a bird or a squirrel, but he was smart enough to know that he couldn’t reach the creatures. Muttering at them seemed to satisfy him, for which I was grateful. He had on occasion gone hunting in the backyard at home and brought me trophies, like small lizards, mice, and unlucky birds. Although I thanked him for the gifts, I quickly disposed of them, much to his consternation.

  My cell phone rang a few minutes after three thirty, moments after I had put away the book I had finished cataloging. I recognized the number as that of the bookstore, the Athenaeum—Jordan Thompson or one of her staff no doubt calling to tell me they had books for me.

  Jordan Thompson greeted me, and after an exchange of pleasantries she informed me that she had several items for me. “Plus, when you get here, I’ll tell you about a special event we just added today. I know you’ll want to attend.”

  “What is it?” I asked, intrigued.

  Jordan laughed. “I’ll tell you when you come in. Bye.”

  I would have gone by the bookstore anyway this afternoon—I never could resist the lure of new books—but Jordan’s comments added piquancy to my decision.

  Melba was not at her desk when Diesel and I reached the ground floor, so we headed out the back to the small parking lot next to the building. I had driven to work today instead of walking as I usually did because I had an errand to run. Conveniently for me, that errand would take me to the town square, where the bookstore was situated. I decided I’d go to the bookstore first.

  For once I found a parking space directly in front of the bookstore. I held the car door open for Diesel, and he jumped to the pavement and onto the sidewalk with alacrity. I had already told him we were going to visit his friend Jordan, and he was looking forward to the treats she never failed to provide.

  I swung open the door to the bookstore, and Diesel loped inside. I paused, however, my attention caught by an announcement taped to the inside of the door, facing outward. Lucy Dunne would be appearing at the store this Saturday evening to sign her newest release, A Night of Dark Deceptions. Appearing with the author would be noted Regency expert Dr. Daniel Bellamy of Athena College, for a discussion of the historical background to Ms. Dunne’s books.

  So much for romantic intrigue between the two professors, I thought. They had been lunching to discuss their presentation at the bookstore. What a perfectly ordinary—and innocent—explanation. I’d have to text Melba about it later.

  THREE

  When Diesel and I walked into the kitchen after our bookstore visit, we found Azalea Berry, my housekeeper, singing to the latest addition to my family. Ramses, an orange tabby kitten about five months old, watched Azalea while she worked and sang at the stove. His tail twitched almost in time to the rhythm of the old hymn.

  Azalea broke off when she realized Diesel and I had entered. I tried not to chuckle. This wasn’t the first time we had caught the housekeeper singing to the kitten. Unlike Diesel, Ramses didn’t go to work with me. The kitten was far too mischievous, and even with Diesel’s willing help, I’d never accomplish much in the office while trying to keep track of Ramses.

  After greeting Azalea and Ramses, I set my bag of books on the kitchen table. Somehow, I always managed to bring home two or three times as many books as I intended to purchase when I entered the bookstore. Jordan always had just one more I really should consider. Given that she had rarely steered me wrong over the years, I didn’t often demur when she told me I needed to read a particular title. She knew my likes and dislikes well.

  “Has Ramses been behaving himself?” I watched Diesel and the kitten greet each other. My large Maine Coon considerably dwarfed his adopted sibling. Ramses rubbed his head against Diesel’s chin, and my big boy allowed this. He tolerated the kitten’s antics better than I had expected.

  “Oh, he’s always trying to get into something,” Azalea said. “I had to put him in time out at least three times today. He is a scamp, but he is mighty entertaining to have around.”

  Azalea’s time out for Ramses consisted of shutting him in the utility room with his food, water, and litter box for about ten minutes at a time. She swore it was effective—at least for a few hours.

  “You can’t get bored with Ramses around,” I said. “Is he still trying to climb into your bag?”

  In addition to her leather handbag, Azalea always brought a large woven straw bag, the contents of which remained a mystery to me. Ramses had been fascinated by this bag from the get-go and tried to get into it at every opportunity. He had even sneaked into it and gone home with Azalea several times without her realizing it until she reached her house. After the first time, Azalea told me not to worry about retrieving him. She would keep him overnight and bring him back the next morning.

  “Every chance he gets.” Azalea chuckled. “Reckon I ought to put it up in a high cabinet somewhere, but that little imp would probably still find a way to get into it. The good Lord only knows why he likes that bag so much.”

  “With cats, you never know.” I chuckled. “They get these fixations sometimes, but most of the time, they do wear off.” Privately, I thought Ramses liked Azalea better than he liked me, though he was affectionate enough with me. Azalea was the one who slipped him treats, however. That little belly showed no signs of diminishing anytime soon.

  A couple of times I had almost suggested the idea of Ramses’s going to live with Azalea, but while she tolerated the kitten on the occasional sleepover, I wasn’t convinced that she wanted him as her own. Before I could give the kitten away, however, I felt I needed to consult the young person who had first given Ramses to me. I wouldn’t want him to think I hadn’t appreciated his gift. The next time he dropped by to visit Ramses and Diesel I would broach the idea with him, I decided.

  Diesel headed for the utility room, and Ramses, shadowlike, accompanied him. “I’m going to put these books away in the den,” I said to Azalea. “Have you heard from Laura or Alex today?”

  “They both dropped by a little while ago with the babies,” Azalea replied. “Thank the Lord Miss Alex is doing so much better. She’s looking almost back to her old self again.”

  Alex, married to my son, Sean, struggled with postpartum depression after the birth of their daughter three months ago. Thanks to the help of a therapist and the support of family and a live-in nanny, Azalea’s niece, Alex had improved significantly. Charlotte Rose Harris, whom we all called Rosie, was thriving. Her cousin Charlie, aka Charles Franklin Salisbury, the son of my daughter, Laura, and her husband, Frank, was several months older. Laura thankfully hadn’t suffered the way Alex did. Both mother and child were healthy and happy.

  “Too bad Diesel and I missed them,” I said. “It’s been a few days since I�
�ve seen either of the babies.” Every time I gazed down into those small faces, I felt a sense of wonder. My grandchildren, I thought, still a bit bemused by the fact that I was a grandfather.

  “Little Charlie and Ramses played some,” Azalea said. “Made Miss Alex laugh, and that was good.”

  I smiled at that. “Yes, that’s great.” I picked up the sack of books and carried them with me to the den. My cell phone rang while I pulled out my purchases and stacked them on the desk. I answered the call, happy to see by the caller ID that Helen Louise Brady was on the line.

  “Hello, love,” I said. “How are you? Worn out from the lunch crowd?” Helen Louise owned one of the most popular lunch spots in Athena, a French bistro on the town square.

  “Mais oui,” she said. “I’m getting too old to be on my feet this much.”

  “Now, now,” I said teasingly, “you’re several months younger than I am, and I’m not old.”

  Helen Louise laughed. “True, but you sit at your job. I don’t.”

  “These days I do.” During my years in the public library system in Houston, Texas, I spent much of my time on my feet. I was happy now to have a more sedentary job, working with archives and rare books.

  “Maybe it’s time to think about adding another part-time worker for the lunch shift,” I said. “Business is holding steady, isn’t it?”

  “Thank the Lord, yes,” Helen Louise said. “With college classes back in session, it’s better than ever. I’ve been thinking about putting an ad on the website and in the local paper. I should bite the bullet and get it done.”

  She had been saying she was cutting back on the hours she worked ever since she hired a full-time manager and another full-time staff person. Some weeks she did manage to take time off, but she had a hard time letting go of control of her business. I understood that. She had worked hard to establish it and took great pride in her accomplishment, as well she should. She needed time for a personal life, though, and as that personal life involved me, I was definitely in favor of her cutting back. I didn’t want to pressure her, however, because I knew it had to be her decision.