“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.
“Excellent.” Peter beamed at me.
“Barring some provision in Godfrey’s will, do you think that letter is sufficient for the college’s ownership of the collection?”
“I should think so,” Peter said. He picked up the letter and read it again. “He states his intentions perfectly clearly, though it is a great pity he did not mention any pecuniary bequest to accompany it.”
“All this is going to generate a lot of publicity for the college and for the town,” I said.
“Sadly, I fear you are correct.” Peter frowned, his distaste evident. “Why the man had to come here to get himself murdered, I simply do not understand.”
Peter colored faintly, perhaps having realized the fatuousness of that remar
k. I decided to ignore it.
“The whole thing is very odd,” I said. “There are a lot of things I’m curious about. For one thing, that call Godfrey made to say he was too ill to attend the dinner in his honor last night. It seems a little too pat.”
Peter didn’t respond. He just stared at me.
“I wonder if it was Godfrey who really called?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?” Peter said, his fingers tapping on his desk.
I shrugged. “Just a thought. When Melba called me, she said Godfrey had called the president’s office to inform him. Then I guess someone from his office must have called you.”
Peter’s fingers ceased their rhythmless tattoo on his desk. “Actually, that is not quite accurate.”
“Why not?”
“Melba, I’m afraid, somehow misunderstood.” Peter paused for moment. “She quite often does because she fails to listen properly, and I have spoken to her severely on the subject several times.”
I waited, and after a moment he continued.
“You see, I was the one who spoke to Godfrey and who in turn informed the president’s office, at his request.”
NINETEEN
That was definitely odd. Why would Godfrey call someone in the library, rather than the president’s office?
“When I spoke to him,” Peter continued, “he complained of a rather nasty stomach virus. He regretted the inconvenience—or used words to that effect—and asked me to pass along the word. As I did.” His fingers resumed their tattoo upon the desk.
“Out of curiosity,” I said in a diffident tone, “do you remember what time that was?”
“Around five-thirty, I suppose,” Peter said after a moment’s thought.
“Has anyone from the sheriff’s department spoken with you yet?”
“Whatever for?” Peter paled slightly. “One would not wish to be involved in something so sordid as a murder investigation.”
“No, one wouldn’t,” I said, a wry twist to my voice. “But unfortunately one already is.” I was beginning to lose patience with the man. He was being overly fastidious, in my opinion. “You might have been the last person—barring the killer, of course—to speak to Godfrey. The deputy in charge of the investigation needs to know that.”
“I see.” Peter reached for a glass of water on the credenza behind his desk and took a long swallow. He set the glass down with a hand that trembled. “Then one must do one’s duty.”
He was still pale, obviously unsettled, but apparently willing to follow through. I dictated the number of the sheriff’s department and told him to ask for Deputy Berry. He laid the pen aside and said he would call.
“Very well,” I said. “Shall I leave these letters with you?” I pointed to his desk as I stood.
“Yes, for now. I shall have Melba make copies of them for you. One imagines that the college’s legal counsel will want to keep the originals.”
“Of course. Well, if that’s all, I’ll get back to work,” I said.
Peter nodded, and I turned for the door.
“Oh dear, I almost forgot.”
I turned back. “Yes, Peter?”
He made a moue of distaste. “I received a call from the president’s office, shortly before you came, informing me that there is to be a memorial service for Godfrey this Saturday afternoon at two in the college chapel. I suppose I shall have to attend, though one could easily think of far more pleasant things to do on a Saturday.” He sighed.
“It would be the proper thing to do,” I said. “I’ll have to attend, too.”
Peter didn’t reply. I don’t think he heard me, because he had turned to look out the window behind his desk.
I left his office, shutting the door gently behind me. He was an odd duck, no two ways about it.
Diesel still sat on Melba’s desk, watching her as she worked at her computer. The keys clicked at a rapid pace, and the cat appeared mesmerized by Melba’s flying fingers.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Come on, Diesel, back upstairs.”
Melba ceased typing and turned to smile at me. “See you later, then, boys.” She gave the cat an affectionate scratch on his head. Diesel purred his thanks.
“Come on now,” I said, and Diesel leaped gracefully to the floor. He followed me to the stairs and dashed up them as soon as I placed my foot on the first step.
Back in the office, Diesel began to play with the loose packing material, batting it around and then leaping on top of it. I watched him for a moment. He was still very kittenish, despite his size.
As I sat down at my desk, I noticed the message light blinking on the phone. I listened to a message from circulation at Hawksworth Library next door informing me that a book I’d requested was available.
I checked my watch—it was nearly five o’clock now. Time to head home. I could delve more into Godfrey’s papers tomorrow. Before we left, though, I repacked the open box on my desk, taking away Diesel’s toy. “You can play with it again tomorrow.”
He turned and sat with his back to me until I headed for the door. I attached the leash to his harness, locked the door behind us, and set off down the stairs and out the back door. I wanted to pick up the book, but first I had to put Diesel in the car. Hawksworth was one of the few places I couldn’t take him. A couple of staff members had complained that his presence was too disruptive, because invariably students clustered around him, wanting to pet him. They made too much noise, according to the complainants.
So, into the car Diesel went. The day was cool, and I cracked the front windows enough to allow air to circulate—but not enough for a large and enterprising cat to squeeze through.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” I told him, but I could tell he wasn’t happy at being left behind. He never was.
Inside the library, I went straight to the circulation desk. While I waited for the student worker to find my book, a recent study of the late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, I listened idly to a conversation at the nearby reference desk. Willie Clark was on duty and being his usual charming self while helping a female student.
“No, we haven’t received that issue yet. Can’t you read the screen? Do you see any mention of volume thirty-three, issue ten?”
I watched as Willie tapped the computer screen in front of him while the student, red-faced, mumbled something.
“Then you’d better go back and check your citation again. You probably wrote it down wrong.” The disgust in his voice was obvious.
Head down, the student scurried away. She was probably a freshman. Older female students learned to avoid the reference desk when Willie sat behind it. He could be gruff with male students as well, but his voice had a particular edge to it whenever he talked to a woman.
Not surprising, then, that he had never married. He wasn’t gay either, as far as I knew. Too crabby, in my experience, for a partner of either sex to put up with long enough to establish a relationship.
Willie caught me looking at him, my expression no doubt critical. He scowled at me and turned away.
Book in hand, I left the library and went back to my car. Diesel complained nonstop to me on the short drive home, and I scratched his head a couple of times in apology for having abandoned him in the car.
The moment I opened the kitchen door appetizing smells tickled my nostrils. Diesel sniffed appreciatively too, though he was bound to be disappointed. I tried not to feed him from the table, though he often sat nearby and stared hard, as if hoping to bend me to his will.
I glanced at the clock after I released Diesel from his harness. It was a little after five, and Azalea had left for the day. There was a pot of green beans on the stove, and when I peeked in the still-warm oven I found a chicken, mushroom, and brown rice casserole. There was a tossed salad in the fridge as well and, as usual, Azalea had prepared enough food for at least four people.
I checked Diesel’s bowls, and Azalea had taken care of them already. She might fuss at him sometimes, but she wasn’t about to let
anyone in the house go hungry. Diesel examined them before loping off to the utility room.
The doorbell rang. I hoped it wasn’t Kanesha Berry, dropping by with more questions.
Julia Wardlaw stood on my doorstep, looking wan and tired.
“I apologize for dropping by like this without calling first,” she said as I stepped aside for her to enter. “But I wanted to see Justin before I went home.”
“You’re always welcome here, Julia,” I said. “You have an open invitation to visit whenever you like.” I shut the door and examined her with concern.
“Thank you,” she said.
“How are you? And how is Ezra?”
“I’m tired, but Ezra’s doing better, thank the Lord. They’re keeping him one more night, and he should be able to come home tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Why don’t you come on in the kitchen and sit down. Let me get you something to drink, and I’ll go get Justin for you, if he’s here. I just got home myself, and I haven’t seen him yet.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Julia said as she followed me. “Right now I don’t feel up to climbing those stairs, I have to say.”
Diesel came to greet our visitor, and Julia petted and talked to him while I poured her a glass of the sweet tea Azalea had made.
As I climbed the stairs I thought, not for the first time, about having an intercom system installed. But then I reflected that I could always use the exercise.
Puffing slightly by the time I reached Justin’s door, I knocked.
“Come in.”
I opened the door and took a step inside. Justin sat at his desk, working at his computer. He tapped the keys a moment longer before he turned to greet me. “Hello, sir.”
“Hello,” I said. “Your mother is downstairs. She’d like to talk to you.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be right down. I need to do one more thing to this”—he indicated the computer with a quick nod—“but that won’t take two minutes.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll tell her.” I backed out and shut the door. Justin seemed a bit more animated today. All day yesterday he had appeared depressed, occasionally almost catatonic in his lack of response. A good night’s rest had helped, I supposed, along with a little distance from the events of yesterday.
Murder Past Due Page 13
