Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

No one spoke when I finished. Even Diesel was silent.

To think that Jasper Singletary and his family had been right all along. Rachel Long did kill Vidalia and the children, but never knew she had.

Helen Louise reached out and placed her hand on mine where it lay on the table. I curled my fingers around hers, glad of the warmth and the loving concern in her touch. I looked around the table at my family, and I could see they were all deeply affected by the tragedy, even though it took place a hundred and fifty years ago.

Laura pushed back her chair and came to put her arm around me. She gave me a brief squeeze, and I looked up into her loving and beautiful face.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” she said. “I know you had no idea about that cloth. It was a terrible tragedy, and I know we all feel sorry for those poor children and their mother.” She paused and glanced over at Frank. He gave her a slight nod.

“Frank and I have some news that will cheer you up, though,” Laura said, tears starting to form in her eyes. “In about seven months, you’re going to be a grandfather.”

I stood, unable to speak, and pulled my daughter close, tears now streaming down my face. Diesel meowed loudly, and the rest of the family noisily gave their congratulations to the parents-to-be.

I would never forget Rachel Long or Vidalia Singletary and her children and how an act of charity brought about so much sorrow. I would say a prayer for all of them later. Now, however, I looked to the future and the expansion of my own family and was grateful to be so blessed.

See how it all began!

Turn the page for the never-before-published bonus short story . . .

WHEN CHARLIE MET DIESEL

I looked out the kitchen window at the wet, gray November morning, and I wanted to go back upstairs and climb into bed. Surely they could get along fine without me today at the Athena Public Library. I was only a volunteer, after all.

On days like this I sometimes wondered whether I’d made the right decision a little over a year ago to leave Houston—my home for twenty-five years—and move back to my hometown in Mississippi. With my wife gone—thanks to pancreatic cancer—and my two children grown and out of the house, suddenly what had been a happy home felt more like a prison. Though loving memories abounded in that place, I no longer felt that it was home, with only one person to occupy it.

Not long after my wife, Jackie, died, my dear, sweet aunt Dottie, my father’s sister, also passed away—ironically, from pancreatic cancer. She left everything she had to me, her only surviving relative. That included her beautiful old house, a place I loved with all my heart. Along with the house came a surprisingly large amount of money, and that meant I could afford to retire from my job in the Houston Public Library system and move home to Athena.

That’s what I did, and most days I didn’t regret it. Other days I felt mildly depressed—all part of the grieving process, I knew, but recognizing that didn’t help much. Volunteering at the public library once a week got me out of the house, as did a part-time job cataloging rare books at the Athena College library three days a week.

“You need something, Mr. Charlie?”

The voice of my housekeeper, Azalea Berry, broke into my melancholy thoughts. I turned away from the window to face her. She set a basket of laundry on the kitchen table and regarded me, her head tilted to one side.

I offered her a faint smile and shook my head. “No, I was only looking at the weather. Trying to talk myself into getting out in it and going to the library.”

“That’d be better than moping around here like a dog done lost his favorite bone.” Azalea didn’t mince words. I didn’t think she meant to be unkind, but a year’s experience had taught me that she didn’t believe in mollycoddling, either. I also realized, guiltily, that Azalea had had to come out into this same weather to take care of the house. “Miss Dottie sure wouldn’t like to see you dragging your tail-feathers.”

Azalea had worked for my aunt for many years, and on the day I moved in, Azalea told me she would stay on because Aunt Dottie made her promise to look after the house—and me. I hadn’t argued because I knew a superior force when I met one. Besides, Azalea took such good care of the house—and of me—that I had quickly grown used to being looked after and fed delicious Southern food. My expanded waistline attested to that.

For a moment I fancied I saw my aunt standing right behind Azalea and nodding her head at what her housekeeper had said. I blinked, and the image faded. This wasn’t the first time over the past year that I’d had these hallucinations—if that was indeed what they were.

“You’re right.” I nodded. “I won’t melt. Guess I’d better get a move on.”

Azalea picked up the basket and nodded. “I’ll be gone by the time you’re home again. I’m going to bake a casserole for you. It’ll be in the oven.”

I thanked her before I went into the hall to grab my raincoat from the coatrack. When I walked back into the kitchen on my way to the attached garage, I heard her singing in the utility room, along with the sound of water filling the washing machine.

The drive to the public library took only a few minutes. Nothing was far from anything else in Athena, a fact over which I marveled frequently after so many years in Houston. I parked my car in the lot beside the building. The front end touched the low hedge that bordered the lot on three sides. As I stepped out of the car, unfurling my umbrella as I did so, I thought I saw something moving in the shrubbery. I shut the door and stood for a moment, watching, but then decided I must have imagined it. There was no further movement in the dark areas beneath the shrubs on this murky day.

I headed into the library to get out of the rain and into the warmth. The cheerful faces of two of the library staff members, Lizzie Hayes and Bronwyn Forster, greeted me, and my spirits began to lift. Really, I was lucky to have such nice people to spend time with, and I ought to be more grateful for that. Besides, I knew they appreciated the help I gave them.

I spent a couple of hours cataloging and processing new books, interrupted by the occasional short burst of conversation with either Lizzie or Bronwyn. Teresa Farmer, the chief reference librarian, popped her head into the office to say hello, and we chatted for a moment. Teresa asked if I could work the reference desk from two to three today, and I said I’d be happy to. After that I would be done for the day.

The time passed pleasantly enough, though slowly. Few people made it into the library, probably due to the weather. When I finished my stint at three, I bundled up again, bade everyone goodbye, and headed to my car, umbrella over my head.

As I neared my car, I saw a longish, dark shape dart out of the shrubbery and run under the car. I stopped a few feet away and squatted awkwardly as I tried to keep the umbrella over me. I thought I saw an animal of some kind behind one of the rear wheels, but the afternoon was so gray that I had difficulty discerning anything clearly.

My knees protested as I stood, and I remained in place. What kind of creature was under my car? Could it be a possum or a raccoon? They turned up in people’s yards all the time. The last thing I wanted was to be attacked by a wild animal. No, I decided after a moment’s reflection. The way the creature moved, it had to be a cat. Probably a family pet that had strayed away from home.

I took a couple of steps toward the car and knelt again. “Hello there, kitty. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. Come out where I can see you better.” I repeated my words in a croon, over and over, and although my knees ached, I kept it up until finally a dark head with two large ears appeared from behind the rear tire.