Murder Past Due

by Miranda James

  Julia had finished her tea by the time I got back to the kitchen, and I offered her more after I relayed Justin’s message. She declined.

  “You’re welcome to visit with Justin in here,” I said, “but you might be more comfortable in the living room.”

  “This is fine,” Julia said. “As long as you don’t mind. This is such a lovely, comforting room.”

  I glanced around it with affection. Yes, it was comforting. When Aunt Dottie was alive, it was usually the center of the house, the room where she spent so much of her time. I liked to think her warmth and generosity lingered here.

  “It is that,” I said. “Why don’t you stay and have dinner with me, you and Justin both? Azalea left more than enough for the three of us, and I can guarantee it will be delicious. That woman is a wonderful cook.”

  Julia smiled. “I really shouldn’t impose on you after all you’ve done already. But I can’t face the thought of going home to cook for myself. Thank you. I’d love to have dinner with you.”

  “Hi, Mama.” Justin came clattering into the kitchen. Yes, he was definitely more animated tonight. He bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. She touched his head as he did so, and he didn’t move for a moment.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just run upstairs for a few minutes,” I said. “Then if you’re both ready to eat, we’ll have dinner.”

  Julia smiled her thanks, and as I headed for the stairs I heard her relaying my invitation to her son.

  I dawdled in my bedroom, wanting to give Julia and Justin enough time to talk. I wondered whether Julia was going to tell her son about Ezra’s health problems. She ought to do it soon. Postponing it wouldn’t be doing Justin any favors in the long run.

  Diesel did not appear, and I figured he was downstairs with Justin. He was really fond of the boy, and Justin certainly seemed attached to the cat. Diesel always seemed to have the ability to sense when someone needed comfort, and right now Justin did. If Diesel could help Justin through the difficult times ahead, I was delighted and very thankful that such a special four-legged friend had come into my life.

  Almost half an hour passed by the time I went back downstairs. Julia and Justin were quiet when I entered the kitchen. It looked as though Justin had been crying, but now he appeared calm. Diesel jumped down from the boy’s lap and came to greet me.

  “I told Justin about his father,” Julia said simply.

  I nodded. “I can’t tell you both how sorry I am.” I reached down to rub the cat’s head.

  “Thank you,” mother and son said in unison.

  Julia stood. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’d like to freshen up a bit. Justin, why don’t you help Charlie set the table?”

  “Yes, Mama,” Justin said. He got up from the table and went to the cabinet. Diesel padded after him.

  I started to point Julia toward the downstairs bathroom, but she waved me away with a smile. “No need for directions.”

  Justin brought three plates out and set them on the table, Diesel matching him step for step. “Thank you for inviting my mother to dinner.”

  “You’re both very welcome,” I said. “If you’ll finish setting the table, I’ll get the food there.”

  Justin nodded and worked in silence for a moment. As I was putting on oven mitts, he spoke again.

  “Um, sir, I guess there’s something I need to tell you.” He stood, utensils in hand, his head slightly down. He appeared embarrassed. Diesel rubbed himself against the boy’s legs, but Justin didn’t seem to notice.

  “What’s that?” I asked as I reached into the oven for the casserole dish. I thought it might be easier for him to talk if I wasn’t looking at him.

  “It’s about what I told you yesterday,” Justin said. “About my dad—Ezra—hitting me.”

  I set the casserole dish on top of the stove, realizing I needed to put a trivet on the table first.

  “Go on,” I said, my voice neutral.

  “I guess I kind of lied about it,” Justin said. His face colored. “Yesterday was the only time he ever hit me like that.”

  “Why did you lie about it, then?”

  Justin shrugged. “He was being so weird about the whole thing, about Godfrey Priest being my dad, too. He kind of freaked out, maybe, and I guess I wanted to get back at him by making him sound bad.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. “What he did yesterday is inexcusable. He never should have struck you like that.”

  “No, sir.” Justin began to lay the utensils at each place.

  “I can’t blame you for being angry with him. No one could. But I’m glad to know that yesterday was the only time something like that happened.”

  “Yes, sir.” Justin smiled briefly. “And he promised me at the hospital that he’d never ever hit me again, no matter what.” His face crumpled. “And now he’s going to die, too.” Diesel rubbed against his legs again.

  Julia came back in time to hear that last sentence, and she gathered her son into her arms. Diesel moved away from them but sat nearby, watching. Justin wept for a moment, and Julia regarded me with a question in her eyes.

  “Justin told me he lied to me about Ezra beating him,” I said, my voice soft.

  “Good,” Julia said. “I told him he had to.”

  Justin pulled away from his mother. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “I know, sweetie.” Julia patted his cheek. “Why don’t you go wash your face and blow your nose?”

  Justin nodded and headed for the bathroom in the hall. Diesel went with him.

  “He really is a good boy most of the time,” Julia said when Justin was out of earshot.

  “I know,” I said with a smile. “Diesel wouldn’t be so fond of him if he weren’t.”

  Julia laughed. “That cat is such a little character.”

  I politely refused Julia’s offer of help, and by the time Justin returned to the kitchen everything was ready.

  We all sat, Julia to one side and Justin across from me. I asked Justin to say grace.

  He bent his head over his plate. “Bless this food, oh Lord, to the nourishment of our bodies. We thank you for our many gifts, and we pray that you will watch over us and over the loved ones who are not with us. Amen.”

  Julia and I echoed his amen. I held my hand out for Julia’s plate and filled it with casserole and green beans while Julia filled her bowl with salad.

  For a few minutes we were busy preparing our plates and bowls of salad, passing things back and forth. Diesel sat near my chair, watching every movement of my hands with great interest. When no tidbits were forthcoming, he moved to the other end of the table to try his luck with Justin.

  By unspoken agreement, it seemed, we spoke of things other than the events of the day before. Julia asked Justin about his classes, and he expressed enthusiasm for his freshman English and history courses. He was not so fond of the science and math classes, however.

  I talked a bit about my work cataloging rare books, and Julia listened to each of us in turn. Occasionally she prompted with a question, but for the most part she appeared content to let the males at the table carry the burden of conversation. I turned a blind eye to the occasional morsel of chicken or green bean that Justin so casually slipped from his plate.

  An hour passed pleasantly, and I realized how much I missed having dinner with other people. I wished Sean and Laura, my children, weren’t so far away. But most of all, of course, I wished Jackie and Aunt Dottie could sit at the table with us, too.

  Even Azalea’s chocolate turtle cheesecake couldn’t tempt Julia to stay for dessert. She looked much better now than when she had first arrived, but she was still tired and ready to go home for some rest.

  I waved away any offers to help clear the table and set to work while Justin saw his mother out.

  He stepped into the kitchen long enough to thank me again, and Diesel followed him upstairs when he said he had to get back to studying.

  I took my time in the kitchen, doing my best to keep my mind o
ff Godfrey’s death and Ezra’s terminal illness. It all seemed too much somehow, and I needed a mental break.

  Finished at last, I turned off the lights downstairs and headed up to my bedroom.

  After brushing my teeth and changing into my pajamas, I climbed into bed. Diesel was absent, no doubt still with Justin. He would appear eventually to claim his share—and more—of my bed.

  I reached for Godfrey’s book and got comfortable. I read twenty pages or so before putting the book aside. The heroine wasn’t a particularly likable person, and I remembered that was another aspect of Godfrey’s books that had always bothered me. There was a strain of misogyny in the books that made me uncomfortable. For all the women Godfrey had apparently married and romanced, he didn’t seem to like women very much.

  Still not ready to turn off the light and go to sleep, I retrieved my library book. Reading nonfiction would be a good way to cleanse my palate, I decided.

  At some point I must have nodded off, book on my chest, because when Diesel jumped on the bed, I came to with a jerk. The book slid off me, and I yawned. While Diesel made himself comfortable, I put the book on the nightstand, turned off the light, and settled down to sleep.

  TWENTY

  The next morning, as I unlocked the door to the archive office a little after eight, I thought about Godfrey Priest. Only two days ago he walked in here, very much the Godfrey I knew in my youth, self-involved and full of life, and less than twelve hours later he was dead. I never liked him, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered.

  Diesel couldn’t wait to investigate those intriguing boxes, and he sniffed around them while I got comfortable in my chair and turned on the computer.

  I heard a small sound, as if something had fallen onto the floor, and looked up. Diesel, from the top of one tier of boxes, chirped at me and began grooming himself. What had he knocked over?

  On the floor in front of the boxes I found the folder containing the inventory of Godfrey’s papers. As I bent down to pick it up, I frowned. What was it doing on top of the boxes? I was sure I had left it on my desk yesterday.

  If it had been on my desk, Diesel couldn’t have knocked it off onto the floor in front of the boxes, I reasoned. He was a clever feline, but even he could not have picked it up off my desk and then dropped it onto the floor.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that the inventory had been on my desk when I left the office yesterday.

  That meant someone had been in here meddling last night or early this morning.

  I went back to my chair and placed the inventory on the desk. I examined it, and it was intact, no pages missing.

  Who could it have been?

  Had the intruder tampered with the boxes? That was an unpleasant thought. If the intruder had taken anything, I would never know, because the inventory wasn’t detailed enough.

  I got up and examined the boxes. They appeared to be intact. I went down the hall to check the boxes in the storeroom. They also seemed to be undisturbed. I also checked the locks on both doors, and from what I could see, no one had forced them.

  Back at my desk, I considered the problem. As far as I knew there were only three sets of keys to the office and the storeroom. I had one set, Melba had one, and the operations staff had the third.

  I couldn’t imagine Melba or any operations staff member coming in here after I was gone to poke around. I should check with Melba, though, to make sure she still had her set of keys.

  And what about the extra box?

  I was relieved to find it where I had left it, untouched as far as I could tell. It was a good thing I put it out of the way, I thought. I went back to my desk.

  How many people even knew that Godfrey’s papers had arrived here? Rick Tackett or some of his staff could have mentioned it to someone, but I couldn’t see that it would be that exciting a bit of conversation. Peter knew, naturally, and so did Melba.

  Then I remembered the odd incident yesterday, when someone had eavesdropped on my conversation with Melba—a conversation about Godfrey’s papers.

  Was that who had done it?

  If so, that put a different spin on the incident.

  Someone was interested in Godfrey’s papers but didn’t want anyone else to know.

  Why?

  Was it a deranged fan seeking mementoes of a dead idol?

  Or was it simply someone sly and secretive who liked to poke around in things?

  Even if it turned out to be someone harmless, I didn’t want anyone entering the archive without supervision.

  “Come on, Diesel. Let’s go see Melba.” Time to check on the status of her keys.

  I locked the office door behind us. In the past I hadn’t done it while I was in the building, but perhaps I needed to change that.

  Melba was on the phone when Diesel and I walked into her office. She smiled and held up a finger, by which I understood the call was almost done.

  “Sure thing, hon,” Melba said. “I’ll let Peter know.” She hung up the phone. “Geneva Watterson. Sick again, poor thing.”

  Geneva was one of the reference librarians, and she seemed to have a lot of health problems. I had pinch-hit for her a couple of times when the reference department was short-staffed. I made commiserating noises, but at the moment I had other things on my mind.

  “What’s up with you two?” Melba smiled as Diesel hopped up on her desk.

  I shook my head at the cat, but he ignored me. I sat down in the chair by Melba’s desk. “I think someone was poking around in the archive without my permission.”

  “What?” Melba’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “That’s outrageous. Did they make a mess?”

  I explained my reasoning, and Melba nodded. “I know how you like things a certain way, and if you say you left that inventory on your desk, then that’s where you left it.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a grin. “Whoever it was got in with a key. There’s no sign of forced entry. I have my keys. Where is your set?”

  “Right here in this drawer,” Melba said promptly. She pulled the drawer open. “I keep them in this tray.”

  I leaned forward to look, and Melba hissed in annoyance. “If that don’t beat all. Someone got in my desk and took those keys.”

  “Do you lock your desk at night?”

  “I sure do.” Melba’s tone dared me to argue with her.

  “What about during the day, if you leave your desk for a few minutes? Or for lunch, say?”

  “When I go to lunch, I lock it,” Melba said. “But if I’m just going to run to the bathroom or to the lounge for coffee, I don’t usually take the time.”

  “What about the keys to get into your office after hours? Could someone do that?” I was trying to think of all the possibilities.

  Melba nodded. “All the department heads have a key to this office, in case of emergency. So one of them could have got into my office last night, I guess.”

  “That’s one possibility,” I said. “But it’s also possible the intruder saw you were away from your desk, found the keys, and took them. The other question is, who would know you had the keys and where they were?”

  Melba thought about that for a moment. “People are always dropping by to chat,” she said slowly. “This drawer gets opened a lot, because it’s where I keep aspirin and antacids and stuff like that. People come by all the time asking for things because they know I keep them on hand.”

  “Then anyone could have seen the keys in the drawer,” I said. “But how would they know what they’re for?”

  “Because I had a tag attached to them that said ‘Archive, ’” Melba said, sighing. “Labeled on both sides, of course.”

  “You always lock your desk at night?” I wanted to be sure.

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “And the lock hasn’t been tampered with?”

  “No, it hasn’t, or I would have noticed this morning.” Melba was getting a bit testy with this drawn-out interrogation.

  “Sorry, j
ust trying to get the facts straight.” I smiled, and she relaxed. “Various people have access to this office after hours, but your desk is kept locked. That rules out someone coming in after hours to get the keys.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Melba said.

  Diesel, apparently annoyed by the lack of attention, reached out and prodded Melba’s arm with his paw. She smiled as she rubbed his head.

  “Therefore the intruder must have swiped the keys while you were away from your desk late yesterday afternoon.

  “The boxes weren’t in there until around two, and at that point very few people even knew they were there.” I frowned. “Either the intruder saw the boxes being moved over here from the loading dock at Hawksworth and asked Rick and his guys about them, or else it was probably the eavesdropper. Remember?”

  Melba shivered. “That was creepy.”

  “There could be some other explanation, but that’s all I can think of at the moment.”

  “You need to tell Peter about this,” Melba said.

  “I know. I think we also need to get the locks changed right away. You think he’ll go for that?” With Peter, one never knew.

  “I don’t see why not,” Melba said. “He’s due at a meeting at nine-thirty, but he should have time to talk to you now. He got here a few minutes before you and Diesel.” She buzzed his office.

  When Peter answered, Melba told him I needed to talk to him about something urgent. She listened for a moment. “Go on in,” she said, hanging up the phone. “I’ll keep an eye on Diesel.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I got up, a bit reluctantly. I did not relish repeating all this to Peter, because he could be amazingly obsessive sometimes about the tiniest details. I might be in for an extended inquisition.

  I opened the door and stepped into Peter’s office. “Good morning, Peter,” I said.

  Peter looked up from his desk. “Good morning, Charles. I am most pleased to see you. There is something I feel I should discuss with you. I value your judgment, and I know you will offer sage advice.”