Миранда Джеймс: Arsenic And Old Books

Kelly Grimes was a freelance writer. She had written a couple of articles for the local paper, the Athena Daily Register .

Curiouser and curiouser, I thought. If a freelance journalist was interested in Rachel Long, then perhaps the mayor was right about the potential political implications of her diaries. Ms. Grimes would probably be even more irritated over the delay in access than if she had really been a student. A writer hot on the trail of a saleable story wouldn’t be happy about being blocked from a source.

Loud warbling roused me from my reverie. Diesel, evidently having had his fill of cat food, butted his head against my side. He stretched out on the sofa beside me and laid his head and front paws on my thigh, nudging my laptop aside. I grabbed the computer to keep it from falling to the floor and moved it to safety on the end table. The cat moved farther onto my lap and rolled on his back. I recognized that as an invitation to scratch his chin and rub his tummy.

Happy sounds ensued for the next few minutes as Diesel received what he considered his due attention.

“How would you like to go to work tomorrow, boy?” I made a quick decision to spend the day in the archive office, despite the fact that it was Tuesday and a day I didn’t normally work. My curiosity about Rachel Long had continued to grow, and I might as well get started on the diaries a day earlier than I had originally planned. The sooner I had them ready for public use, the better.

I was also burning with curiosity to discover whether the archive collection contained a copy of the missing memoir. If it did, I was going to read it right away.

I had no real plans for tomorrow except lunch with Helen Louise at the bakery. That, I could still do. Otherwise I would have spent the day at home with Diesel, not accomplishing much of anything except for staying out of Azalea’s way.

Now that I had settled on a course of action for tomorrow, I decided I could relax with a book. I gently moved Diesel from my lap and told him it was time to head upstairs. He hopped off the sofa and headed out of the den ahead of me. He liked it when I stretched out on the bed to read. He always curled up next to me, his head on a pillow, and napped.

Upstairs I fluffed up my own pillows and arranged them for comfortable reading. I reclined on the bed and pulled my current read from the bedside table. I was reading the latest Maisie Dobbs novel by Jacqueline Winspear, and I looked forward to immersing myself once more in 1930s England.

While I read, Diesel slept. We spent many hours this way. By the time I surfaced from the book, having turned the last page and put it aside, I noticed it was a few minutes after ten. Helen Louise ought to be calling soon.

Seconds later my cell phone rang. “Hello, love,” I said. “How are you? Exhausted as usual?”

Helen Louise laughed. “Pretty tired, sweetheart, but for once I decided to let someone else close up. I left them to it and came home. I’m going to soak in a hot tub for a while and then crawl into bed.”

I couldn’t let myself dwell on the image of Helen Louise lounging in the bath, or I’d never get to sleep. I told her as much, and she laughed.

“I’d invite you over to share the tub with me,” she said. “But all I’d do would be to fall asleep.”

I could hear the tiredness in her voice. “Another time,” I promised her. I was tempted to tell her about my day, but right now I figured she needed her rest. We could talk about it all tomorrow at lunch.

We chatted for a few more minutes, mostly about plans for the weekend and our usual Sunday dinner with the family. Then we bade each other good night. I yawned, suddenly tired myself, and turned out the light. Not long after, I drifted off to sleep with Diesel still beside me.

Next morning, eager for an early start at the office, I showered, shaved, and dressed before going down to breakfast. Diesel disappeared while I dressed, and I knew I’d find him in the kitchen. He would be watching Azalea closely, hoping for a scrap of bacon or sausage. She thought I didn’t know that she occasionally slipped the cat a few tidbits, but I could usually tell from the cat’s smug expression when he’d had a treat from her.

The mingled scents of fresh biscuits and sausage greeted me as I neared the kitchen. My stomach rumbled in response.

“Good morning, Azalea. How are you today?”

My housekeeper turned and nodded to acknowledge my greeting. “Tolerable, Mister Charlie, tolerable. You must be going somewhere, you all dressed up like that.” She turned back to the stove. The cat sat nearby on the floor, his gaze fixed upon her every movement.

“Diesel and I are going to work at the archive today,” I said. I noticed the newspaper beside my place at the table. “Thanks for bringing in the newspaper.”

“Why you going in to work on your day off?” Azalea frowned as she set a plate of scrambled eggs, biscuits, and sausage in front of me. She had already poured my coffee.

“This looks wonderful, as usual,” I said as I picked up my knife and fork. “I have a special project to work on that’s going to take some extra time. The mayor brought me some old family diaries yesterday, and several people are anxious to look at them.”

Diesel batted at my thigh with one large paw. I cut off a small piece of the link sausage and gave it to him. He grabbed it and went under the table.

“Miss Lucinda sure stays busy,” Azalea said. “I was talking to her housekeeper, Ronetta, the other day. Ronetta says she’s about run off her feet all the time, all the entertaining Miss Lucinda’s doing because her son wants to be a senator now.”

“I can just imagine.” I had a bite of fluffy biscuit and tender sausage. “I guess when you’re in politics, you have to entertain a lot if you’re going to be asking people for money for your campaign.”

“That sure is the truth.” Azalea popped another biscuit on my plate.

She was determined to keep me well fed, and I gave a fleeting thought to my waistline. I really shouldn’t have another one, but Azalea’s biscuits were a true gastronomic delight. I’d just have to run up and down the stairs a few times to work it off.

Diesel meowed and tapped my thigh again. I gazed sternly down at him. “I’m not sure you need anything else, boy. I’ll bet Azalea gave you at least a whole sausage before I made it downstairs.”

The cat warbled as if to say, Oh no, she didn’t. I’m still starving .

“That cat is shameless,” Azalea said with a faint smile. “He’s had him a whole sausage. You’d best not be giving him any more, or else he’s going to be sick.”

“You heard Azalea,” I told Diesel. “If you want anything else, you’ll have to go eat what’s in your bowl in the utility room.”

The cat stared at me for a moment before he turned and stalked away, his tail in the air.

Azalea laughed, a sound I loved to hear. She had mellowed a bit since her health scare of the previous fall. She laughed and smiled more now, and that was good.

“How’s Miss Laura doing?” Azalea asked. “I sure do miss seeing her and that pretty smile of hers in the mornings.”

I sighed. “I do, too. She’s doing fine. I don’t get to see her much, either, these days.” I would have to tell Laura she really ought to drop by occasionally to see Azalea. I knew they were fond of each other, and Laura brought out all of Azalea’s considerable maternal instincts.

“Well, you tell her I was asking about her.” Azalea turned back to the stove for a moment. “There’s more biscuits here, and a couple more sausage links.” She scooped them onto a plate and set it on the table.

“I’ve got to get the laundry going.” Azalea disappeared into the utility room.