Миранда Джеймс - No Cats Allowed

After lunch—a ham and cheese sandwich with a small salad—I decided a nap was in order. I read for about ten minutes, until my eyelids began to droop and the hefty Penman book got heavy. Book set aside, cat sound asleep beside me, I drifted off.

* * *

That evening, over the dinner table at Helen Louise’s house, I brought her up to date on the situation at the college library. Helen Louise was an alumna of the school, and her expression grew angrier with every sentence.

When I finished, she set down her wineglass, her expression fierce. “I have a good mind to call the president’s office tomorrow and tell him I am withdrawing my pledge to the alumni scholarship fund. And I’ll tell him exactly why.”

I reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “Thank you, love, for your loyalty and support. I’m thinking of writing a letter along the same lines. I’ve no doubt that when a few others hear about this, they’ll express their displeasure, too.”

“Like Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce, you mean.” Helen Louise grinned. “You know they adore you, don’t you? And not just because of Diesel.”

Hearing his name, the cat roused from his boiled chicken–induced coma and meowed. Helen Louise and I laughed. She spoiled Diesel badly, insisting on cooking chicken for him when we dined together like this.

“I’m fond of them, too. They have become good friends.” I shook my head. “I can only imagine what my parents would say, because they thought the Ducote sisters were royalty. And as we were only the common folk, we didn’t mix. They didn’t have much chance to get to know one another, even though my dad worked at the bank and they came in often.”

“My parents were the same,” Helen Louise said. “Funny how that can be in small towns like this. We’re supposed to be a classless society, but we’re not.”

“It all comes down to money, which the Ducotes have always had a gracious plenty of,” I said, “while the rest of us had a lot less.”

“Things have changed, though,” she replied. “Some of the barriers have fallen, or at least lowered.” She laughed. “How did we get off on this sociological tangent?”

I shrugged. “Talking about support for the college, I guess. I’m tempted to call the sisters myself, though earlier I told myself I wouldn’t do it.”

Helen Louise picked up her wineglass and drained it. She poured more for herself and then gestured with the bottle. I shook my head. I still had half a glass, and I felt stuffed from the excellent meal of spinach, cheese, and onion quiche and salade niçoise .

She picked up her glass again and stared into it. “I don’t imagine you’ll have to. My guess is they’ll be calling you soon enough. The grapevine in this town is amazingly swift.”

“True.” I supposed it was the same in every small town in the country, or in any kind of small community. Like a college. A sudden thought struck me. “You know, I hadn’t thought about the history department. They will be up in arms against Reilly’s plans. The contents are a gold mine for their grad students in Southern history.”

“There will be all kinds of allies,” Helen Louise said. “Wait until the word has got around. A hornet’s nest will have nothing on it.” She forked the last bite of quiche on her plate and ate it. When she finished, she said, “Tell me about the wedding. I really hated that I couldn’t be there.”

“I wish you could have been there, too,” I said. “Sean and Alex were disappointed you couldn’t come, but they’re planning a big party for when her father gets home from Australia.”

We chatted for a few minutes more about the wedding. I declined dessert, though I knew it would have been heaven on the tongue. My pants had been feeling a little tight lately, and between Azalea and Helen Louise, my taste buds remained locked in mortal combat with my waistline. The taste buds had been winning more often than not. I heard Stewart’s voice in my head.

The gym, Charlie. Come with me and I’ll get you started .

One of these days I really ought to pay more attention to Stewart.

Helen Louise had to be up at four the next morning, so Diesel and I reluctantly bade her good night at eight thirty. We were lucky she managed to squeeze in the occasional night like this during the week for dinner together. I always looked forward to Saturday nights, because the bistro was closed on Sundays.

On the short trip home, Diesel and I walked briskly. There was a chill in the air, not unpleasant, but it didn’t encourage us to linger. Along the way I thought about what it would be like when Helen Louise and I married. We hadn’t actually discussed it, but the time was approaching when we ought to. We’d been comfortable so far with the way things were. Her demanding work schedule meant we didn’t have a lot of time together, and I didn’t expect that to change with marriage. She loved her business, and I wouldn’t ask her to give it up.

There were definitely a number of issues to consider before we took that step. Soon, I realized, we really had to talk.

Once home—quiet and empty except for Diesel and me—we went up to my bedroom. I changed out of my clothes into the worn T-shirt and pajama shorts I favored for sleepwear. I turned down the ringer on my cell phone to a low but still audible setting and picked up my book. Thanks to the nap earlier, I didn’t feel that sleepy, so I would be able to get considerably further into the adventures of Richard the Lionheart before I drifted off.

The musical signal of an incoming call on my phone woke me. As I fumbled for the phone, I squinted at the clock. A few minutes after six. The caller ID told me my son was calling.

“Morning, Sean.” I yawned. “You’re calling really early. Is everything okay?” A terrible thought occurred to me, and I jerked upright on the bed, disturbing Diesel, who meowed sleepily. “Alex is okay, isn’t she? She’s not sick, I hope.”

“No, Dad, Alex is fine, and so is the baby,” Sean said. I could hear the barely suppressed irritation in his voice. “I’m afraid I have shocking news. Oscar Reilly was killed sometime last night, and I’m about to head to the county jail to meet Melba. They’ve taken her in for questioning.”

FIFTEEN

Oh, no, not another murder . I felt sick. Then the last part of what Sean said sank in. “Melba! Why have they taken her in for questioning?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” Sean sounded grumpy, whether with me or the early call to the jail, I didn’t know.

“Sorry, of course,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not at the moment,” Sean said. “If they don’t hold her, I will bring her to your house. I know she’ll want to see you and talk to you about it. I wanted you to be prepared.” He broke off. “Look, Dad, I’m pulling up to the jail. I’ll call as soon as I can.” He ended the call.

I wished I could break him of talking on his cell phone while he drove, but at least he wasn’t doing it on a freeway in Houston anymore. I had nightmares about him and Laura talking and driving when we lived there.

My rambling thoughts focused on Melba. Other than the fact that she had been Reilly’s administrative assistant, at least until yesterday afternoon, why did they take her in?

An appalling thought popped into my head.

They would take her in if they found some kind of evidence at the scene that suggested she was present.

I refused to believe that my dear friend from childhood had killed Reilly, no matter the provocation. They couldn’t arrest her, surely. There couldn’t be sufficient evidence.

I realized I had no idea how—or where—he was killed. Frustrated by my lack of knowledge and my inability to do anything constructive to help Melba, I felt like pulling my hair. Poor Diesel picked up on my tension, and talking to him and reassuring him calmed me down as well.