Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

“What a fascinating question,” Miss An’gel said. “I’m sure there is a story behind it, but I suppose you can’t tell me why you’re asking in such a delicate way.”

“No, ma’am, I can’t, at least not yet,” I replied.

“Let me think for a moment.” The line went silent for about fifteen seconds. “No, nothing. Other than bitterness against the Long family over some land deal around the time of the Civil War, I can’t think of anything.”

“What do you know about that land deal?” I asked.

“My mother told us the story when Sister and I were young,” Miss An’gel said. “I suppose Mother had it from our father, who had it from his father. Our grandfather was born in 1870, so he would have heard something about it from his father, who fought in the war.” She paused. “The story doesn’t reflect well on the Long patriarch at the time, one of the many Andrews they’ve had in the family; I forget exactly which one. The way Sister and I heard it, Andrew Long had his eye on some land the Singletarys owned and had tried to buy it several times. Early on in the war, Singletary—I think he was a Jasper—fell ill and was desperate for money to feed his family. Long saw his chance, swooped in, and offered the lowest price he could and bought the land. Singletary died right afterwards, I think, and his son had lost some of his best farmland.”

“Was there anything else about the land deal that you might have heard?” I asked.

“No, not that I can remember,” Miss An’gel said. “One of the reasons Mother told us was because our father had apparently told her not to do business with the Longs because they’re cheap and always looking to get the most they can for next to nothing.” She laughed. “Don’t you dare tell anyone I told you that, now.”

I smiled. “Of course not. Thanks for sharing that story with me, Miss An’gel. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re always welcome,” she replied. “And one of these days, I hope, you’re going to tell me what this is all about.”

“It won’t be long, probably,” I said. “Please give my best to Miss Dickce.”

“I sure will,” Miss An’gel replied. She said good-bye and ended the call.

I put the phone aside and regarded the yawning cat beside me. “Miss An’gel was helpful, but what she told me leaves me with questions I can’t answer.”

The cat looked at me and warbled. Then he stretched for a moment before snuggling down and closing his eyes.

I had a habit of telling Diesel things as if I expected a helpful answer, but I realized I was mostly just verbalizing my thoughts. Thinking aloud helped sometimes.

I found it fascinating that the facts surrounding the transaction of swapping Celeste for the land had apparently never been known to anyone other than the Longs and Franklin and Celeste. How had they managed to keep it a secret?

The only thing I could come up with for an answer was that none of the townspeople knew that Celeste was a slave. That was possible, I supposed, but not likely. The Longs’ other slaves would have known, and after the war, when they were all free, surely there would have been talk among them about Celeste.

The phone rang. I glanced at the screen.

“Good evening, Kanesha.”

She returned my greeting. “I have two items of interest to share with you.” Her tone sounded grim, and I braced myself for bad news. I hoped it wasn’t another murder.

“First off,” she said, “I am looking at the forensic report on the diaries. According to this, at least ten pages were removed recently from one of the books.”

I barely had time to take that in before she continued.

“The other thing—and I have to wonder if these two are connected—I had a call from Chief Ford at the college. Someone broke into Dr. Steverton’s office and ransacked it.”

TWENTY-NINE

I took a moment to mull over what Kanesha told me. I could see a connection between the removal of the diary pages and the searching of Marie Steverton’s office.

“Here’s what I think,” I said. “Marie removed those pages. Then the killer found out and decided to search the office looking for them.”

“That’s what I’m thinking, too,” Kanesha said.

“When was Marie’s office ransacked?” I asked.

“Chief Ford couldn’t pinpoint a time,” Kanesha replied. “It obviously happened after we looked through the office the morning her body was found. That was around nine thirty. We sealed the office, and it stayed sealed—until the history department secretary happened to notice around five yesterday afternoon that the seal had been tampered with. She called Chief Ford, and he found the office turned over.”

“I wonder if the searcher found what he was looking for,” I said.

“We don’t know,” Kanesha said. “Neither the secretary nor the head of the department could tell us whether anything was missing. The secretary said the office was messy to begin with, and the only valuables she knew of were the computer and a CD player. Both of them were still in the office.”

“Whatever is in those missing pages must be significant,” I said. “Marie had to have been the person who removed them. Otherwise it doesn’t make much sense.”

“I agree,” Kanesha said. “I wish I could narrow down the time frame for the office search. It must have occurred during the night, because it’s next door to the secretary’s office. She would have heard someone moving around in there otherwise.”

“Marie obviously had an excellent hiding place, because you didn’t turn up the diaries when you searched her house,” I said. “Maybe the missing pages are in the same spot, wherever it is.”

“I sent two deputies over to search the house again tonight,” Kanesha said. “They reported no signs of forced entry or of a search but they’re still looking for the pages.”

“I hope they turn up,” I said. “The contents have to be pertinent to this crazy situation somehow.”

“I expect so,” Kanesha said. “If we find them, I’ll be in touch.” She ended the call.

I wondered what Marie could have found in the torn-out pages. If the information in those pages could damage someone—either the Longs or Jasper Singletary—then obviously the killer would want to find and destroy them.

Perhaps Marie tried her hand at blackmail; but if she had, she paid the ultimate price. At least this train of thought produced a believable motive for her death—if I accepted that the missing pages contained seriously damaging information.

Jasper Singletary claimed that Rachel Long deliberately poisoned his ancestor’s wife and children. Would Rachel have confessed something like that to her diary? That would have been a stupid move, and from what I’d read today, I didn’t think Rachel was a stupid woman.

I went back to an old question—why was one volume of the diary hidden and not kept with the other four? Did the hidden one—that I had read today—contain information missing from the others? There had to be a reason it was separated and placed in the false bottom of the trunk.

There were too many questions. My mind buzzed from all the possibilities, none of which seemed to offer a solid answer.

I felt too restless, too mentally unsettled, to choose a new book to read. I checked the time. Eight thirty. At least ninety minutes or more before Helen Louise would call.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I told the drowsy cat beside me. He blinked at me and yawned.

I retrieved my laptop from the den and brought it back to the bedroom. I had some pages left to read of Rachel Long’s diary, and I might as well finish them tonight. I recalled having read about the death of her father-in-law in the fall of 1863 and then searching for information about her husband’s death. I hadn’t gone back to the diary to find out what Rachel recorded about the loss of her husband.