Миранда Джеймс - Claws For Concern

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.”