Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

“Sounds good,” I said.

Diesel and I made our way to our usual spot, the table near the cash register Helen Louise always kept reserved for us when we were expected.

I didn’t see Helen Louise and figured she was in the kitchen. I sat, and Diesel stretched out under the table near my feet. We settled in to wait for Helen Louise.

“Mr. Harris,” a voice called out over the low hum of conversation in the bakery. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

I looked around to see Kelly Grimes advancing toward my table.

“Hello,” I said when she stopped about three paces from me. “What can I do for you?”

She smiled. She held out a slim book. “You can read this and tell me what you think.”

I accepted the book and glanced at the cover. The title read: A Memoir of Mrs. Rachel Afton Long of Athena .

THIRTY-FOUR

“Where did you find this?” I had almost forgotten about Angeline Long’s reminiscences of her grandmother-in-law.

Kelly Grimes pulled out a chair and sat. She set her briefcase on the floor beside her. Once she was settled, she reached over and pulled the memoir from my hands.

“In a place that no one else remembered to search.” She regarded me coolly. “Marie Steverton’s carrel in the college library. I found it there several days ago. The day she was run down in the street, in fact.”

I held my hand out for the book, but she shook her head. “No, I think I’ll hold on to this until we can come to an agreement.”

“An agreement on what?” I said, irritated. I couldn’t believe the nerve of the woman.

“I want an exclusive interview with you,” she said. “Because after you’ve read this, you can help me prove that the story about Jasper being descended from slaves is a lie.”

I stared at her. She couldn’t possibly know that Stewart had determined the diary was a forgery. Then I focused on something she’d said. After you’ve read this, meaning the memoir. “What’s in the memoir that disproves the story in the diary?”

She shook her head again. “Are you going to give me the interview?”

I didn’t have a choice, I supposed. Although I could call Kanesha and she would probably be able to take the book as evidence in the case. I didn’t tell Ms. Grimes this. At the moment my curiosity had too strong a hold. I had to see what was in the memoir that made Ms. Grimes so certain of her position.

I was about to reply when I thought of something. “I spoke to Jasper Singletary this morning, and he didn’t say anything about this. Surely you’ve told him you have this so-called proof that the story is a lie.”

She looked disconcerted for a moment. “He’s been too busy the past two days, and I only read the memoir last night. I wanted to be certain before I told him.”

I wasn’t sure I trusted her, but I wanted to get my hands on that book. There had to be a reason Marie had hoarded it away, and why someone had taken Miss Eulalie’s copy.

“Okay, then, I’ll give you your interview,” I said. “Once I’ve read that memoir. And when the murderer has been identified. Not before.”

“Fine.” She held the book out to me. “I think you’ll find the contents interesting.”

“Contents of what?” Helen Louise asked. I looked up to see her standing behind the writer. Kelly Grimes started and half rose from her chair.

“Sorry if I startled you,” Helen Louise said.

The writer gave a polite smile. “Not at all. Mr. Harris and I are done for the moment. I’ll hear from you soon, I hope.” She picked up her briefcase and stood.

I nodded. “When we agreed.”

She stared hard at me for a moment before she turned and walked away.

During that interchange, Helen Louise and Diesel were greeting each other. Once Ms. Grimes was out of earshot, Helen Louise slid into the chair next to mine. Her hand still on the cat’s head, she said, “What was all that about?” Her glance fell on the book I held. “Something to do with that?”

“Yes.” I explained about the memoir as much as I could. I couldn’t discuss the diary’s claims about Jasper Singletary’s great-great-grandmother Celeste. “I’ll tell you the rest of it as soon as I can.”

“All right.” Helen Louise smiled. “I bet it’s a doozy of a story. Now, how about lunch?” She glanced around the room. “I’m shorthanded today, so I’m not going to be able to eat with you.”

“I understand,” I said. “Don’t worry about us. I’m sure you’ve picked out something wonderful as always.”

She leaned over to brush my cheek with her lips. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Diesel watched her go, then turned his head to look up at me and meow.

“She’ll be back with food,” I told him. “You’re going to get your treat like you always do. You’re not going to expire from starvation for another sixty seconds or so.”

He regarded me solemnly for a moment before he positioned himself to watch for Helen Louise’s return.

I had to confess to Helen Louise later that I couldn’t remember what she served me for lunch that day. My brain was so focused on the memoir, Rachel Long’s diary, and the murder of Marie Steverton and how they all connected, I couldn’t process much else.

When Diesel and I both finished and Melba came to collect us for the drive back to campus, I at least remembered to wave good-bye to Helen Louise. She was busy with customers but gave me a quick wave back.

Melba chattered about something she and her friend discussed over lunch but I barely heard her. Diesel warbled a few times from the backseat, and Melba laughed.

“At least one of you is paying attention to what I’ve been saying.” She pulled her car into her parking space in the library lot and turned to grin at me.

“Sorry.” I had the memoir clutched to my chest like a favorite teddy bear. “I didn’t mean to ignore you; I’m just really preoccupied right now.”

“No kidding,” Melba said as we got out of the car. “It’s okay. I know you. Go on up to your office and start reading.”

“Thanks, and thanks again for the ride to the bakery and back.” Diesel and I followed her into the building through the back door, and we parted ways in front of the stairs.

“Come on, boy.” I jogged up the stairs, but Diesel made it up to the office door several seconds ahead of me. He thought I was playing, and he liked to race me on the stairs. Sometimes he acted almost like a dog.

After I let us into the office, I locked the door behind us. I didn’t want to be surprised by any other visitors this afternoon while I dug into both the memoir and the missing diary pages.

While Diesel got comfy on his windowsill, I sat at my desk and mulled over which one I should read first. After several moments of going back and forth between the two, I finally opted for the memoir, even though there were fewer diary pages.

I picked up the memoir and opened it. The book had a frontispiece, a portrait-style photograph in black and white of Rachel Afton Long, taken near the end of her life. She would have been around seventy at that point.

I studied the picture. Rachel’s rather stern gaze in partial profile made her look like a formidable old lady. I could tell from her bone structure that she had been a beautiful woman in her youth, though she did not seem to have aged well. Her mouth had a slightly petulant twist to it, as if Rachel resented being old. Perhaps it was simply the result of the tragedies of her life, the losses during the war and their effect on her.

The book was published in 1911, the fiftieth anniversary of the beginning of the Civil War. By then Rachel would have been dead for about fifteen years.

I turned the page to the foreword from the author, Angeline McCarthy Long. The book was based on “reminiscences of the life of a Southern gentlewoman during times of great strife and their aftermath.” That sounded typical for both the time in which the book was written and for the intent of such a memoir. Angeline Long went on to say that she had the privilege of knowing her husband’s grandmother intimately only the final two years of her life, but had been so in awe of Rachel’s experiences and character she wanted to share her love and admiration with others. She stated that she had first written the memoir three years after Rachel’s death in 1896 but had waited until the anniversary year to see it published. She ended the foreword by writing, “I know all the citizens of Athena will join with me in celebrating the life and contributions to our wonderful town and, indeed, our great state of Mississippi, as we remember those sad years of the war. From Rachel Afton Long may we all take inspiration for the future and model ourselves upon a woman whose charitable works enriched us all.”