Claws for Concern

by Miranda James

  We saw a steady parade of patrons through the doors that afternoon. One of the numerous book clubs around town that gathered in the library’s public meeting room came in for their monthly meeting. I knew most of the members from my volunteer work there, and I greeted them as they passed by the reference desk. I bade them good-bye a couple of hours later when they began to trickle out. By that time it was after four, and the Saturday regulars who had spent most of the day with us began to pack up their things.

  Among those leaving I spotted Bill Delaney. I hadn’t had another opportunity to talk to him. I wasn’t sure what I would say to him, however, if I did. I simply couldn’t help being curious about his interest in my uncle Del. Aunt Dottie had often told me, when I was a child, that I had enough curiosity for seventeen cats. I didn’t think I had changed much in that respect in the last four or five decades.

  Diesel and I helped Bronwyn prepare the library for closing, and soon after Bronwyn locked the doors, Diesel and I headed toward the town square where the bookstore was located. Though the square was busy with traffic, I managed to find a parking spot in front of the store.

  Jordan Thompson, a tall redhead, glanced up as the cat and I walked through the door. A smile split her lovely face, and she came from behind the counter to greet Diesel with a few rubs of the head. He rewarded her with a mixture of chirps and trills. Two other customers, hearing the cat, looked at us to discern the source of the odd noises. They both smiled in our direction before they resumed their browsing.

  “I’m glad you could come by today, Charlie.” Jordan walked back behind the counter and pulled a stack of books from a shelf. She set the books on the counter for me to examine. I was happy to see among them new books by Ellery Adams and Julia Buckley, the latter author being a recent discovery. I set those two aside as definite yeses. Jordan talked to Diesel while I delved further into the stack.

  The next book I picked up was Hell Has No Fury by Jack Pemberton. I began to thumb through it. He had dedicated the book to his wife, Wanda Nell. That was a Southern name if ever I heard one, I thought with a smile. After the dedication page came a page of acknowledgments, and that I skipped. On the next page, there was a quotation, the line from Congreve’s The Mournful Bride, the source of the book’s title. I took that as an encouraging sign. The man was obviously literate if he was quoting Congreve. I sampled the first couple of pages and decided I liked Pemberton’s style.

  I held up the book with the title facing Jordan. “Have you met the author?”

  Jordan nodded. “Yes, he’s been here twice to sign books. Really nice guy. He teaches high school English in Tullahoma.”

  An English teacher. That explained the Congreve quotation.

  “Why this sudden interest in true crime?” Jordan asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever bought any from me before.”

  I didn’t want to share the real reason for my interest with her. Time enough for that later, if I decided to cooperate with Pemberton on his book idea. So I prevaricated. “His name came up in conversation recently, and I was curious.”

  “Let me know what you think,” Jordan said.

  “I will,” I replied. I examined the three other books she had set aside. I passed on two of them but the third I decided to give a try.

  Jordan rang me up, and a few minutes later Diesel and I headed home. Jordan had managed to slip him a few of the cat treats she kept on hand for his visits, and he was a happy kitty. I would have said spoiled, but that was redundant, of course.

  After a full day at the library I was ready to get home and relax. Dinner and maybe a glass or two of wine, then I’d settle down with Pemberton’s book and read until bedtime and my regular Saturday late-night phone call with Helen Louise.

  We were half a block from home when I noticed a man walking down the sidewalk, his back to the car, in front of the house. He glanced at the house for a moment but continued on his way.

  By the time I reached the driveway the man had reached the corner and began to cross the intersection. From the back he seemed familiar, but I didn’t realize who he was until I pulled into the garage.

  It was Bill Delaney.

  SIX

  So Bill Delaney walked by the house. There was nothing wrong with that. I already knew he was curious about the former home of my aunt and uncle. I just wished I knew what the true connection was between Bill Delaney and Uncle Del.

  Diesel hurried into the kitchen ahead of me. After I put away my things, including the bag of books from the Athenaeum, I went into the utility room to replenish Diesel’s water and dry food. When I finished that, I found him in the kitchen in front of the fridge. He knew it was dinnertime.

  Tonight’s meal was about as simple as they came. I cooked a hamburger and made myself a salad. When Diesel smelled the ground beef cooking he headed for his food bowl. He didn’t care for hamburger.

  He did keep me company while I ate, however. He remained by my chair until I finished, and then he watched—or should I say supervised—while I cleaned up after myself in the kitchen. After that we retired to the den. He stretched out on the sofa, his head rubbing against my thigh, while I settled in to get started on Jack Pemberton’s book.

  I soon became engrossed in the book and read it straight through, with only a couple of brief breaks to stretch my legs and retrieve a drink from the kitchen.

  Pemberton told the story of a woman who had evidently been a black widow—a woman who marries a man, disposes of him, and then moves on to the next target. By the time she met and married her fifth husband, she had amassed a significant amount of money. She always chose wealthy, older men as targets. Number five, while older and wealthy as per usual, turned out to be harder to kill than the previous husbands. He was either extraordinarily lucky or much shrewder than he appeared, I decided, because he lived to see his wife go to prison for four murders.

  I laid the book aside, rather surprised to discover that it was nearly ten o’clock. Pemberton definitely knew how to tell a story, I thought. He also told it with good taste, without descent into cheap sensationalism. He appeared also to have shrewd insight into abnormal psychology, and into human behavior in general.

  Diesel warbled sleepily when I roused him and told him it was time for us to go upstairs. He had turned onto his back, his spine twisted into what looked to me a painful angle but one apparently quite comfortable for him. He shifted until he sat upright and then stretched and yawned. I waited for him to finish before I turned out the lights in the den.

  He followed me around the first floor while I checked the doors and windows. He placed a paw on the door to the back porch. “Not tonight,” I told him. “You’ve had a long nap but I’m ready for bed. After we talk to Helen Louise, that is.”

  He chirped at the sound of Helen Louise’s name and forgot about visiting the back porch. He trotted happily upstairs with me and waited on the bed while I undressed and put on my sleeping clothes, a pair of gym shorts and an old T-shirt.

  I slipped into bed, and Diesel stretched out beside me. The clock now read ten thirteen. Helen Louise ought to be calling soon. The bistro closed at nine, and usually she and her staff were finished cleaning by ten. She lived only a few minutes from the square and would call once she reached home.

  Five minutes later my cell rang, and I answered it. “Hello, love. How was today? Busy?”

  “Extremely, sweetie,” Helen Louise replied. “Summer visitor trade on top of many of our regulars.” She paused, and I could hear her yawn. “Sorry about that, but I am completely worn out. These long days really take it out of me.”

  “Good thing you’ve got tomorrow to rest and recuperate,” I said. “And on Monday Henry and the crew will open, so you don’t have to set foot in the bistro until the afternoon.”

  Helen Louise chuckled. “Is that a gentle reminder that I shouldn’t go in Monday morning to help out?”

  “Yes, it
is,” I replied, my tone light as I continued. “You know Henry is utterly reliable and totally competent, and I don’t think it will hurt to let him know you trust him.”

  “By not hovering over him, you mean.” I heard her sigh. “I know, love, but after being in charge for so long, it’s hard to delegate.”

  “You can do it,” I said.

  “We’ll see. So how was your day?”

  “Fine. Busy, but not as tiring as your day,” I said. Once she changed the subject I knew there was no point in going back to the discussion of her work hours. “Nothing exciting. There are a couple of things to tell you about, but they can wait until tomorrow. Right now, you need to go to bed.”

  “Not going to argue with you.” I heard another yawn, and I yawned in response. “Good night, love.”

  I bade her good night, and we ended the call. I laid my phone aside on the nightstand and adjusted my position in bed. Before I switched off the bedside lamp, I glanced at Diesel. He regarded me sleepily, his head on his pillow. His tail thumped a couple of times against the bedspread, and then his eyes closed.

  Smiling, I turned off the light, got comfortable, and soon drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  • • •

  A few hours after an enjoyable Sunday dinner with my children, their spouses, and baby Charlie, Helen Louise, Diesel, and I drove out to Riverhill, the antebellum home of the Ducote sisters, for afternoon tea.

  On the way I told Helen Louise about Jack Pemberton’s book. “I really enjoyed it,” I said. “I didn’t think I’d care for true crime, but the way he told the story, it read almost like a suspense novel. Well-paced with believable characters.”

  “I’ll borrow it then, if you don’t mind,” Helen Louise said. “I haven’t had much time for reading all these years, and now that I actually have hours to fill away from the bistro, I’m looking forward to rediscovering books.”

  I smiled. “I have a large library at home entirely at your disposal.”

  “Yes, you do.” Helen Louise punched me playfully in the arm. “You have more books than I have cookware, cookbooks, and bottles of wine combined.”

  From the backseat Diesel meowed as if in agreement. When he was younger he tried to climb in between me and any book I started to read, and given his size, he easily obscured even the largest, thickest book in my collection. It took me six months to gently dissuade him from the habit. In the end I think he realized that that was one battle he was never going to win. Now he settled for simply being next to me when I paid attention to a book instead of him.

  “Occupational hazard, I suppose, for a librarian.” I had loved books from childhood, when my parents read to me before I was old enough to read on my own. Once I discovered that I could actually buy books at a bookstore, rather than only borrowing them from the library, I turned into a collector of sorts. I had to own copies of books by my favorite writers because I never knew when I might want to reread one of them.

  Helen Louise and I discussed books the rest of the way to Riverhill. When we neared the magnificent old Greek Revival mansion, I saw a late-model, bright red Jeep parked in the circular driveway in front of the house. I parked behind it, and by the time Helen Louise, Diesel, and I exited the car, Miss An’gel was standing on the verandah calling a greeting to us.

  The elder of the sisters, Miss An’gel had never been less than impeccably dressed whenever I saw her. She once told me that she and her sister, Miss Dickce, had inherited a large collection of classic haute couture from their mother and grandmother—names like Worth, Chanel, and Balenciaga, among others. Today looked like a Chanel day, I decided, after noting the simple black dress and pearls Miss An’gel wore.

  “Come right in, all of you,” Miss An’gel said, after first giving Diesel several pats on the head. “Helen Louise, it’s lovely to see you away from work and looking so relaxed.”

  “Thank you, Miss An’gel.” Helen Louise laughed. “I need to hear that because I confess I’ve been having a hard time letting go of the reins.”

  “Not surprising,” Miss An’gel replied as she ushered us through the front door and closed it behind. “You created a highly successful business, and you want to ensure its continued success.” She cast a sidelong glance at me. “Now, however, you have a handsome distraction who deserves more of your time, I daresay.”

  “He certainly does,” Helen Louise said. As I began to blush, Helen Louise looked down at my cat. “Don’t you, Diesel?”

  The cat warbled loudly, and Miss An’gel joined Helen Louise in gentle laughter. I smiled.

  “We’re in the front parlor.” Miss An’gel led the way. “Sister and I are delighted that you could come this afternoon. Our dear friend Ernestine Carpenter has been looking forward to meeting you.”

  We followed our hostess into the elegant front parlor at Riverhill. After numerous visits here I had become somewhat accustomed to the sight of the furnishings, many of which were well over a century old. Miss Dickce rose from a sofa that faced the door to come forward, hands extended. First Helen Louise, then I, gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Then Miss Dickce focused her attention on Diesel for a moment.

  The other occupant of the sofa stood as well. She appeared to be nearly as tall as Helen Louise and I and probably in her early seventies. Perhaps a decade younger than the Ducote sisters, I reckoned. Her shrewd gaze swept over us, and I smiled. She smiled back and stepped forward.

  Miss An’gel performed the introductions. Miss Carpenter immediately took a shine to Diesel, and he to her. When she resumed her seat, he sat on the floor by her legs and enjoyed her attention.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carpenter,” I said, after the first formalities were out of the way, including the obligatory remarks about the weather.

  “We have actually met before,” Miss Carpenter said, “though I doubt if you remember it because of the occasion. Your aunt, Dottie Collins, was a dear friend of mine. I attended her funeral, and we spoke briefly at the time.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I remember so very little of anything that happened at Aunt Dottie’s funeral. I was in such a fog at the time that it is all still a blur in my mind.”

  Miss Carpenter regarded me with obvious sympathy. “I completely understand. You were overwhelmed, I know. Your wife had passed away not long before that, if I remember correctly.”

  I managed to nod, too overcome at the moment to say a word. Odd how those sharp, stabbing pangs of grief hit you sometimes and rendered you almost unable to breathe, let alone speak. I closed my eyes briefly, drew in a deep breath, then exhaled and opened my eyes. “Yes, that’s correct. I’m glad to get the opportunity to meet you again under happier circumstances.”

  Miss Carpenter smiled and patted my arm. “I am, too.”

  I felt able now to resume our conversation. “Miss Carpenter, I understand you are a friend of Jack Pemberton, the true crime writer.”

  “Yes, I am. Please, call me Ernie.” She flashed an attractive grin. “I have a feeling we’re going to be friends, and my friends call me Ernie.” She patted the sofa beside her.

  “I will, if you’ll call me Charlie,” I said as I joined her. Helen Louise and the Ducote sisters occupied the sofa opposite us, and they were already involved in conversation.

  “Done.” Ernie gave Diesel a couple more pats on the head. “I do indeed know Jack and his lovely wife, Wanda Nell. Both fine people that I am pleased to call friends.”

  “Are you aware of Mr. Pemberton’s interest in me?” I said.

  “Yes, he told me about the project,” Ernie replied.

  “I read one of his books last night. It was excellent.”

  “He’s an accomplished writer,” Ernie said. “I’ve never been much of a true crime reader myself, but I make an exception for his books.”

  “I think I will, too,” I said. “Though generally I prefer
my murders to be fictional.”

  Ernie chuckled. “Well, not completely fictional, you must admit, Charlie.”

  It took me a moment to catch on to what she meant, and then I had to laugh. Before I could respond, however, she continued.

  “Actually, that’s something you and I have in common, along with Wanda Nell and Jack. Murder as a hobby, so to speak.”

  SEVEN

  Murder as a hobby? Those words took me aback. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to Ernie’s comment. Apparently my expression revealed my confusion.

  “Sorry, Charlie.” Ernie frowned. “I didn’t mean that to be as crass as it probably sounded. I’m afraid I tend to have a rather dark sense of humor, and it doesn’t always translate well.”

  I nodded to acknowledge that I understood.

  She continued, “Like you, I have a few times found myself involved in murder investigations, but not by choice.”

  I smiled. “I didn’t choose to be associated with any of the murders, but generally I didn’t see much of an alternative.”

  “Exactly,” Ernie replied, looking relieved. “That’s what happened to Wanda Nell and Jack, too, and I tell you this because I think it will help you see that Jack understands your experiences much better than another writer might.”

  “I see your point,” I said. “My main concern is privacy. I prefer to remain out of the limelight. The credit really goes to our local sheriff’s department, namely the chief deputy, Kanesha Berry. She’s a remarkable woman.”

  Ernie gazed at me, her expression skeptical. “I suspect you’re being far too modest, Charlie, but let’s leave it at that. I imagine Jack will want to interview Chief Deputy Berry, but his interest is more in the amateurs who find themselves involved in these cases.”