Arsenic and Old Books

by Miranda James

  “How dare you say such a thing.”

  Neither Singletary nor I was aware that the mayor stood in the doorway. She had obviously heard the young man’s words. Her eyes glinted with anger as she advanced into the room. To my surprise, she wasn’t alone. The tall figure of her son loomed behind her.

  Singletary got to his feet and regarded Mrs. Long coolly. “I dare say it, Your Honor, because according to my family, it’s the truth. Only, the Long family has been able to cover it up all these years.” He shrugged. “Maybe now the truth will come to light.”

  Beck Long stepped past his mother, who for once seemed at a loss for words. “Listen here, Singletary, I know you’re desperate because your campaign is going nowhere. Unless you want to have your behind hauled off to jail for libel, you’d better stop spouting crap like that.”

  Singletary laughed harshly. “Your family really did waste money by sending you to law school.”

  Long’s face reddened. He turned to his mother. “What is he talking about?”

  Mrs. Long’s expression was enigmatic as she regarded her son. “The events he’s talking about must have taken place well over a century ago, so anyone he’s accusing of the crime has been dead a long time. You can’t libel the dead, so he can accuse Rachel Long or anyone else from her time of being a murderer.”

  “Oh, yeah, that,” Beck Long said. “Well, he’s still trying to ruin our family name. That ought to count for something.”

  Singletary turned to me. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Harris. I look forward to hearing from you.” He turned back to nod at the mayor and her son. “Sorry I can’t stay and chat, but I have meetings to get to.” He strode out of the room.

  All during the foregoing exchange, I could feel Diesel becoming more and more restless. The tension in the room had mounted steadily, ever since Singletary began telling me his story. Now, with this open hostility, he was not happy. He climbed down from the windowsill and crowded against my legs. I rubbed his head to try to reassure him. He began to relax.

  The mayor came forward and sank wearily into the chair Singletary had vacated. Beck Long hovered over her.

  “Mama, what are we going to do? We can’t let him run around and start telling people those lies.”

  “Find a chair and sit down,” Mrs. Long said in a sharp tone. “I will take care of it, like I always do.” She turned to me. “Mr. Harris, have you had a chance to read through the diary I brought you yesterday?”

  Was I supposed to pretend the nasty scene hadn’t happened? I couldn’t help but admire the mayor’s cool in the face of such unpleasantness. At the same time, I was not much impressed with her son.

  “No, Your Honor, I haven’t,” I said. “I was able, however, to scan all the pages to create a digital copy. My plan for today is to read through it.”

  “You’re not going to let anybody else have a copy of the file, are you?” Beck Long stared hard at me.

  “If the family chooses to have the diary remain private for now, then no, I won’t let anyone else have a copy of it,” I said. “Perhaps it might be better for me to return the diary to you, along with a copy of the scan, so that you can decide whether you want the contents known. Frankly, if I were to read it and find evidence to support Mr. Singletary’s allegations, I would be in an awkward spot—and I prefer not to be.”

  Beck Long started to speak, but his mother held up her hand. He closed his mouth and leaned back in his chair, his expression sulky.

  “No, Mr. Harris, my husband decided to share these diaries, and we are not going to renege on that agreement now. I cannot believe you will find anything to substantiate that wild story Mr. Singletary has come up with. Frankly, the sooner the contents are public knowledge, the better. Singletary may be sorry he ever wanted to know what’s in them. His family have been lazy, good-for-nothing whiners for generations.” Her face hardened. “I’m tired of them blaming the Longs for their troubles.”

  Beck brightened during his mother’s speech. By the time she finished he was grinning and nodding his head. “That’s it, Mama,” he said. “We’ll show those lousy Singletarys a thing or two.”

  Thus far during the state senate campaign I had not heard any speech given by Beck Long. I had a feeling I hadn’t missed anything significant, were I to judge by his remarks to his mother and Singletary. Could he really be as dim-witted as he sounded this morning?

  The mayor ignored her son’s comment. “How long do you think it will take you to read through it?”

  I shrugged. “Barring unforeseen complications, I should think sometime today. When I examined the first volume the other day, I found the handwriting easy enough to decipher.”

  “Excellent.” Mrs. Long smiled as she rose. “Come along, Beck. We should let Mr. Harris get on with it. I’ll discuss with you later, Mr. Harris, about getting a transcript made of the diaries.”

  I stood to bid the Longs good-bye. Diesel climbed back onto the windowsill. He seemed not at all interested in either the mayor or her son. Perhaps he was still uneasy from all the tension, though it had rapidly dissipated.

  Seated once more, I turned to the computer to retrieve the files I had made of the scans. The scanner was high resolution, so I anticipated little trouble reading the pages, as long as I had scanned them properly.

  The mayor’s confidence in the diary’s contents impressed me. After I thought about it a moment, I decided she might have read at least this one volume before she brought it to me.

  If her confidence were misplaced and I did find something damaging or incriminating, I would of course inform Mrs. Long. After that, what could I do?

  I had no quick and easy answer to that question—particularly if the incriminating information somehow connected to the present-day murder of Marie Steverton. I would face that situation if it occurred.

  In the meantime, I was more eager than ever to read, and I settled into my chair and started on the first page. One advantage of reading the pages from scans was the ability to increase the size. With the diary itself I’d have had to use a magnifying glass. In this case the computer made things much easier.

  With the enlargement I found Rachel Long’s handwriting not at all difficult to read. The fact that the pages were in such excellent condition helped as well. The ink seemed clearer from what I remembered of the other volumes.

  Rachel had a chatty, informal style that reminded me a bit of Mary Chesnut’s diary. There was a sense of immediacy, almost as if Rachel were recording things right as they happened, rather than afterward.

  The first entry, dated March 9, 1861, was exactly two months after Mississippi seceded from the Union, the second state to do so. South Carolina went first, I remembered. Rachel wrote:

  Mr. Lincoln became President five days ago, though of course he is not OUR president. That honor has fallen to Mr. Jefferson Davis, and we in Mississippi are proud that this fine man is from our state. I believe, and in this Mr. Long concurs with me, that Mr. Davis will prove himself worthy.

  She went on to express the typical Southern bravado, that if war broke out it would indeed end quickly, thanks to the fine men of the South who could outfight their Northern counterparts easily.

  In the early stages they believed it little more than a game, or so I had always thought. Johnny Reb would whip the North quickly, and the South would go on its merry way as a newly formed and separate nation. Five years—and hundreds of thousands of deaths and other casualties—later, the Union was stitched back together.

  I read steadily for the next half hour, fascinated by Rachel’s observations of daily life. The mood in the South remained euphoric, even after the incident at Fort Sumter in mid-April 1861.

  In an entry dated May 26, 1861, Rachel noted news that the Union Army had crossed the Potomac and captured Alexandria, Virginia. Rachel expressed confidence that the city would soon be retaken by Confederate troops.

>   Two days later she made her first mention of the Singletary family.

  Word has reached us that our wretched neighbor, Mr. Jasper Singletary, has once again fallen ill with his heart troubles. Though he is certainly the most quarrelsome and obstinate creature that Our Dear Lord ever placed upon this earth, I cannot wish him to suffer, for then his poor wife and children will have even less. I have upon occasion visited with Mrs. Vidalia Singletary, and she is a sweet but timid creature, and I fear that she is used most roughly by her husband. Mr. Singletary would no doubt suffer another fit of apoplexy were he to discover that I have sometimes taken food to give to his wife. I cannot bear the sight of those wretched little children with their bony knees and dirty faces.

  I sat back and rubbed my eyes, already tired from gazing at the screen so intently for more than thirty minutes. This last entry certainly showed Rachel Long in a positive light. Her charitable interest in the Singletary children spoke well of her, and there was no indication thus far that she bore the least ill will toward the family.

  Diesel saw me stretching, and he stretched as well. I got up from the chair and walked back and forth between the desk and the door a few times. The office phone rang while I was walking.

  “Hello, Charlie,” Kanesha Berry said. “I have some news for you. I’m pretty sure I know who took those diaries from your office.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “The evidence isn’t conclusive yet,” Kanesha went on after a brief pause. “I’m satisfied, though. I’d already figured Marie Steverton as the thief.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” I responded. Marie was one of two obvious candidates, the other being Kelly Grimes. “You obviously have some kind of proof. Can you tell me what it is?”

  “As long as it doesn’t go any further,” Kanesha said.

  “Of course,” I replied, a bit nettled that she even felt the need to mention it.

  “Maybe you remember I mentioned we found a canvas bag in the street with the body,” Kanesha said. “There was residue in it from something, and I suspected it was flakes from the binding of those diaries.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes, the flakes match, although the report isn’t official yet.”

  “You’re sure the bag belonged to Marie?” I asked. I couldn’t resist needling her slightly in return for her earlier question.

  “Had her name embroidered on a tag inside,” Kanesha said.

  “I wonder why the person who took them from Marie left the bag behind.” I paused as another thought struck me. “Have you made any progress on finding the car that ran Marie down?”

  “Nothing significant,” Kanesha replied. “The neighbor who saw the car disappearing wasn’t close enough to read the license plate number or really tell what make and model it is. All he could come up with was large and dark. And that it was a car, not a pickup.”

  “Was there any damage to the car?” I asked.

  “Pretty likely,” she said. “We found fragments that might have come from the vehicle. Also there will probably be minute paint fragments on the deceased’s clothing. They might even be able to figure out a make and model from that. In the meantime, we’re considering all possibilities.”

  “That’s good. Do you have any idea when they’ll be finished with the diaries and I can get them back?”

  “You should have them in your hands sometime Friday afternoon,” Kanesha said. “The mayor really pulled some strings, because they made this investigation a top priority.”

  I couldn’t tell from her tone whether Kanesha was impressed or annoyed by this exercise of political heft.

  “I’ll be glad to have them back,” I said. “In the meantime I finished scanning the volume the mayor brought the other day. I’ve been reading it, and it’s interesting.”

  “Found a motive for murder yet?” Kanesha asked. This time I interpreted her mood easily—skeptical.

  “Not yet.” I wished I could share Singletary’s tragic story with her, but I’d given my word.

  “Give me a call if you do.” Kanesha ended the call.

  I put the receiver down and turned back to the computer. Diesel warbled, and I focused on him instead. He batted a paw toward my arm, and I recognized the demand for attention. I stroked his head and along his back a few times. He meowed loudly, and I also recognized that sound. He was hungry.

  A quick check of my watch told me why. At eleven fifteen it was close enough to lunch for us to take a break and head home to eat. “Come on, boy, I’m a little peckish myself.”

  After a meal of scrumptious homemade chicken pot pie for me and more boiled chicken for him, Diesel and I made it back to the office around twelve fifteen. Melba’s door was closed, and that meant she was out to lunch. She would no doubt appear upstairs at some point in the afternoon, but not, I hoped, until I had made considerably more progress with Rachel Long’s diary.

  The cat settled into this favorite spot while I called up the file. I found my place and started reading. Moments later, I hit upon another mention of the Singletary family.

  Vidalia Singletary came to see me today while Father Long was occupied elsewhere, and that is just as well, for he finds the sight of the poor woman distasteful—almost as distasteful as that of her husband, for whom he has little good to say. That pains me, for I would have my husband be of a more Christian disposition toward these unfortunates. Vidalia appeared near exhaustion, and she burst into the most pitiable tears the moment I first spoke to her. It took me some several minutes to calm the poor woman enough that I might hear the extent of her troubles. The sum of them was simply that her husband was still too weak to work the farm. Franklin, the son by Mr. Singletary’s first wife, is rather a feckless boy and moreover is not himself strong, apparently suffering from a similar complaint of the heart as his father.

  How could I not take pity upon one so wretched? My soul would be worth nothing in this life or the next were I not to help those so much less fortunate than we. Although I do see that difficult times are coming for us all, as we are feeling the effects of that d——d blockade (the Lord forgive me for swearing, but we are vexed terribly by this) of our ports. Yet with the shortages here, I know the situation is much more dire for Vidalia and her little ones. Vidalia herself is in rags, and the children fare little better.

  In addition to victuals I also gave her a large bolt of cloth from which to make suitable garments for herself and the children. My charity is perhaps not as pure as the Lord would command, for I gave her the bolts of green tarlatan sent to me by my cousin Marianna from London. The shade is most complimentary to me, but the fabric does have a rather peculiar smell. I would rather not see it go to waste, and there is enough for Vidalia to make at least two suits of clothing for each of the children as well as a simple dress for herself.

  I sat back for a moment and rubbed my eyes. Rachel Long still sounded like a charitable woman, even though one act of charity consisted in giving away something she did not particularly want herself. She had no intention to use the cloth, so she might as well give it to someone who could, odd smell aside. A few good washes, and the odor probably went away. I noted again the name of the fabric, tarlatan, and jotted it down on a notepad. I didn’t recall having heard that term before, and I would look it up later. Perhaps I could throw it into a conversation and impress Laura, who always found my lack of knowledge of women’s fashions amusing.

  Back to work, I admonished myself. I focused on the screen. A few days later, on June 10, 1861, Rachel confided disturbing news to her diary.

  Today Vidalia Singletary sent word by her husband’s son Franklin that her children are ill and she does not know how to doctor them. She begged me to come, as she herself is falling ill as well, but though it caused me much distress I could not go. Mother Long is suffering terribly from a fever, and I dared not leave her side. If only Doctor Renwick had not abandoned us all, but I know our valia
nt boys on the front lines have need of his skills, too.

  I could not ignore Vidalia’s plea however so I instead sent my maid Celeste. The girl learned something of the ways of healing from her grandmother and mother on my own grandmother’s plantation in Louisiana. She is knowledgeable enough about herbs and so should be able to dose the children with something to alleviate their distress. I will of course pray for the speedy recovery of Vidalia and her children. Her husband, I fear, is past help by now.

  I felt heartsick reading this. Rachel seemed to be a truly tender and caring woman, but without a doctor and with her own sick mother-in-law, she evidently did the best she could.

  How skilled at herbal medicines was Celeste, though? I wondered also how old Celeste was. Rachel seemed to think the girl knew enough to help. According to present-day Jasper, however, Celeste did not help Vidalia and the children. Instead, or so he believed, she harmed them. Had she done so deliberately? Or accidentally, through lack of real skill and knowledge?

  Only Rachel’s diary might hold the answers. I scrolled down to the next page and continued reading. Nothing about the Singletarys in the next couple of entries. Rachel had little time for her diary, for it seemed that her mother-in-law hovered near death’s door for several days before rallying miraculously. An exhausted Rachel turned the elder Mrs. Long’s care over to one of the slaves and went to bed herself with a fever, no doubt brought on by exhaustion.

  A few days later Rachel recovered and began writing more profusely in her diary. On June 15, 1861, she mentioned another plea for help from Vidalia. Once more Rachel dispatched Celeste with food and medicines.

  Rachel’s diary entries became sparse again. She noted the blockade and the resulting shortages, not to mention the difficulty of the planters in getting their cotton and other products to market. Cotton was king, but only if the planters could sell it for a good price.