Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

“Good morning,” I said. “Breakfast looks delicious as usual.”

“Morning, Mr. Charlie,” Azalea said. “You, too, cat.” She stared down at Diesel as he looked back and forth between her and me. He wanted bacon, and he didn’t mind who gave it to him first.

“I’m going to have to make this fast,” I said as I picked up my coffee. “I’ve got an appointment at eight forty-five.” Azalea would cluck over me if she thought I was eating too quickly.

“All right,” she said.

I had a sip of my coffee, then a bite of the heavenly grits. “So good. Do you know the Singletary family? I don’t remember them from when I was growing up. Now, of course, Jasper Singletary’s in the paper all the time lately.”

Azalea nodded. “They been around these parts a long time. Go way back, just like the Ducotes and the Longs and some of the other old families. Always been poor, though. Mr. Jasper’s the first one of them who amounted to anything, you ask me.” She sniffed. “Mostly sorry folks, always moaning and carrying on because they’re poor. Still farming that sad old place where they hardly ever made no money.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met any of them,” I said, “though I’ve seen Jasper a few times in public. He seems like a smart, hardworking young man. I wonder, though, if he stands a chance in this election against Beck Long.”

“He might do better than you rightly expect. People are talking about him being a good man,” Azalea said. “Now, Mrs. Long is a nice lady. Reckon Mr. Long is a fine man himself, but their son, well, he got himself in some messes back when he was in school. He’s still kind stuck on himself; that’s what I hear.”

“Typical rich boy acting up and then his parents get him out of it, I guess.” I pinched off a piece of bacon for Diesel, then popped the rest of the slice into my mouth.

“My friend Ronetta’s been their housekeeper since before that boy was born,” Azalea said. “Ronetta told me Mr. Long never would make that boy mind. Now, that ain’t no way to raise a child. They got to know what they can do and what they can’t. If you don’t teach ’em that, you’re just asking for trouble.”

I agreed with that wholeheartedly. I liked to think that my wife and I instilled our children with good manners and self-discipline. They had their moments growing up, particularly during their teenage years, but I never had to get them out of serious trouble.

“Looks like he’s finally straightened up,” I said. “I haven’t heard any talk about him acting badly these days.”

“I reckon he finally grew up and got some sense,” Azalea said. “He’s been living in Atlanta for a while. Didn’t come home until last year when he decided he wanted to be a politician.”

I spooned up the last of the grits and gave the cat one final piece of bacon. “If he got into trouble in Atlanta, I guess nobody here’s heard about it.” I drained my coffee cup and pushed back my chair. “I need to get going. Thanks for breakfast.”

Azalea nodded. “You’re welcome. I’ll be leaving before you come home for lunch, but it’ll be waiting for you.”

I thanked her again. Sometimes she told me what she was making; other times she let it be a surprise. Today must be a surprise day.

Diesel and I were out of the house a few minutes later. The morning was hot and humid—as it often was this time of year—and we did not hurry. We still made it to the office several minutes ahead of my appointment. Shortly after we both settled in our accustomed places, I heard a knock at the door.

I stood. “Good morning, Mr. Singletary. I’m glad to meet you. Please come in.”

He advanced into the room, and I moved around the desk to shake his proffered hand.

“Morning, Mr. Harris. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

He glanced past me, and his eyes widened when he spotted Diesel. The cat climbed down from the windowsill and came over to greet Singletary. Diesel sniffed at his hand before rubbing his head against it. For the cat, that was the seal of approval. I was afraid he would try to rub himself against Singletary’s dark trousers, but he went back to his spot in the window.

“Handsome animal,” Singletary said. “I’ve never seen a cat that big before.”

That was my cue to explain about Maine Coons, and by now I had it down to a few sentences. Singletary nodded when I finished, and I could tell he was impatient to get on with things. I indicated he should take the chair in front of my desk before I returned to my seat.

Face-to-face as we now were, I could see the firm jaw, the intense expression, and the broad shoulders, all of which made me aware of an aura of power this young man exuded. He was ambitious—I knew that—and determined. But would he stop short of murder? Or would he do anything to get what he wanted?

“Kelly Grimes told me about the conversation she had with you yesterday. She was upset.” His voice was deep, and his drawl betrayed his Mississippi origins. Mine had come back since I moved home again, after many years in Texas, but his was more pronounced.

“Yes, I was pretty hard on her.” I intended to face potential complaints about my treatment of Ms. Grimes head-on. “I will tell you exactly what I told her. I do not appreciate being lied to, and I consider what she did a breach of her professional ethics. I ought to report her actions to the editor of the paper, but I’m willing to let it go, unless I catch her lying to me again about anything.”

“Fair enough.” Singletary nodded. “I asked for Kelly’s help in doing research, Mr. Harris. I did not know until after the fact that she pretended to be my opponent’s fiancée.” He shrugged. “I don’t see that her ruse was necessary, but I can assure you, both she and I will be straightforward with you from now on.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “I have to say I am completely at a loss to understand why you are so interested in these diaries. Why have you and Ms. Grimes been so determined to get a look at them?”

“I must ask you to keep what I am about to tell you to yourself, if at all possible.”

His intense expression made me even more curious about his interest in the diaries.

“Unless it has some bearing on the murder of Marie Steverton,” I said in a firm tone, “I will of course respect your wishes.”

He stared hard at me for a moment. Then he nodded. “All right.” He paused for a breath. “Here’s the deal. I’m looking for proof that Rachel Long was a murderess.”

TWENTY-TWO

His response shocked me. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it surely wasn’t that. I stared at Jasper Singletary and he gazed steadily back.

“Murderess?” I shook my head. “That’s a terrible accusation to make. Who is she supposed to have murdered?”

“Three members of my family, all children,” he said, his tone grim. “Four, really, if you count the mother who died of a broken heart.”

“What members of your family? I don’t know anything about your ancestors, so you’re going to have to explain this to me.” I leaned back in my chair. I felt a paw on my shoulder. As usual, Diesel picked up on the fact that I wasn’t my typical calm self. I rubbed his paw to reassure him while I kept my eyes focused on Jasper Singletary.

“Sure, but this will take a few minutes, so you’ll have to bear with me,” he said. “This goes back obviously to Civil War days. My family owned a good-sized farm—we still own it, actually, even though it’s a lot smaller now—that abuts the Long property, so the Singletarys and the Longs have been neighbors for over a century and a half.” He laughed bitterly. “Some neighbors they are. Anyway, my three times great-grandfather, also Jasper, married twice. He and his first wife had one son, my two times great-grandfather, Franklin. First wife died in 1855 when Franklin was about ten years old, and Jasper remarried less than a year later. He and the second wife had three children, little stair-steps. First one came along when Franklin was twelve, and the third one when he was fifteen.