Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

“Let’s see,” I said in an undertone.

“What could you possibly have to say to me? I have no idea who you are. Kindly get out of my way.” Marie stepped forward, but Kelly Grimes stood firm.

“You surely ought to remember me, Dr. Steverton.” Ms. Grimes laughed as she stared down at the shorter, squatter woman. “I was one of the few students who actually made it through your so-called seminar on the role of women in the Civil War five years ago. You don’t have that many upper-level students, so I find it hard to believe you really don’t know who I am.”

Marie’s gaze flicked toward Melba and me. We stared back with obvious interest. Marie turned toward her former student again.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “Ms. Grimes, isn’t it? I didn’t really get a good look at your face before. It’s always a pleasure to see former students, but I’m afraid I have no time to talk right now, so you’ll have to excuse me.”

She tried once again to push past the writer, but Kelly Grimes simply laughed again.

“I do have time, Dr. Steverton, and you’re going to listen to me now. I found out you’re trying to hog something for yourself that I need, and that’s really unfortunate. You’re going to have to share, or there will be sad consequences.”

Melba nudged me in the side. “Who is she? She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.”

“Freelance writer,” I said. “She wants to look at those diaries pretty badly, too.”

“They must be pretty hot stuff,” Melba said. “How old are they?”

“From the Civil War,” I said.

Marie had been talking during our little exchange, and I tuned back in.

“. . . needs of scholarship far outweigh any claim from the press; surely you must see that.” She glared at the young writer.

Kelly Grimes snickered in her face. “Scholarship, my aunt Fanny. You’d do anything to get tenure. Short of sleeping with old Newkirk, that is, but even he has standards.”

“Get out of my way before I slap the living daylights out of your stupid face,” Marie bellowed. She grabbed at Kelly Grimes and managed at last to shove her out of the way. Grimes stumbled sideways and almost slipped on the marble floor of the entryway but righted herself in time.

Marie charged out the door and disappeared.

Kelly Grimes glanced over at Melba and me. “Seen enough?” Her tone was cool. She straightened the jacket of her tailored suit and then stepped forward.

“In case you hadn’t figured it out already, I’m Kelly Grimes.” She thrust out her hand toward Melba.

They shook hands, and Melba introduced herself.

“This is Charlie Harris,” Melba said. “I expect you’re here looking for him.”

The writer offered me a wry smile as we shook hands. “Yes, I am, though I didn’t expect to have to deal with a lunatic.”

I ignored that little sally when I replied. “I am a bit surprised by your visit, Ms. Grimes. When we spoke on the phone last night, I asked you to call me on Thursday. Why did you drop by this morning, on a day when I don’t usually work at the college?”

Her smile faltered at my not-so-welcoming words. “I was on campus already, on my way to the library, and I thought I’d drop by on the off chance that you’d be here.”

Thanks to Marie, and now this unexpected visit from the tenacious writer, I felt beleaguered. I didn’t like feeling beleaguered, and no doubt my tone betrayed that when I replied. “I suppose you had better come upstairs to the office for a moment.”

I turned to Melba. “Do you mind keeping Diesel down here for a while?”

Melba grinned. “Of course not. Let me know when you’re free, and I’ll bring him up.” She nodded a good-bye to Kelly Grimes.

I turned to the stairs and started up without waiting to see whether the writer followed me.

She caught up with me after five steps. “Diesel is your cat, right? Ray Appleby mentioned him to me once when I turned in a story he bought. He’s a Maine Coon, I believe.”

Ray Appleby was a member of the staff of the local paper. We had become acquainted the past couple of years, thanks to my involvement in several murder cases.

“Yes, Diesel is a Maine Coon,” I replied tersely. Her attempt to be pleasant and chatty wasn’t improving my mood. She evidently took the hint and kept quiet until I unlocked the office door and motioned for her to enter.

“Have a seat,” I told her and pointed toward one of the chairs in front of my desk. I went to my chair, sat, and switched on the computer. I turned to face the writer.

Kelly Grimes cocked her head to one side and gazed at me. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and it’s totally my fault. I’m really sorry about that, Mr. Harris. I forget how brusque I can sound on the phone, and of course my little encounter with Dr. Steverton didn’t improve matters.” She grinned. “I couldn’t help it. That woman irritates the heck out of me just by breathing.”

I felt myself thawing toward the writer. Her apology was gracious enough, and I certainly couldn’t blame her for her antipathy toward Marie.

“You were a student here at Athena?” I asked.

Ms. Grimes nodded. “Yes, I majored in history. Didn’t want to teach school, and I wasn’t ready for a graduate program. So I got myself hired as a writer on the daily paper.” She shrugged. “It’s not much of a living, but it sure beats ditch-digging.”

“I’m sure it does,” I said. “What’s your interest in Rachel Long’s diaries? Are you planning some kind of feature article on them for the paper?”

“You might say that.” Ms. Grimes glanced away for a moment. When she looked back at me, her expression was the epitome of sincerity. “I’m going to level with you. I do have an important reason to look at those diaries, and it has to do with politics.”

I figured as much as soon as I found out she was a writer, but I didn’t tell her that. “How so?”

She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released it. “I’m hoping I’ll find something in those diaries that will help my boyfriend. Well, fiancé, really. And the sooner I can do it, the better. He’s got a long, hard slog ahead of him if he’s going to win his election. He’s losing ground in the most recent polls.”

“Who is your fiancé?”

The writer frowned. “This is a delicate situation. You have to understand that. His family doesn’t know about our relationship, and they won’t be happy when they do find out.” She paused. “I’m in the process of divorcing my husband, you see. Also, I grew up poor, and nobody in my family has any kind of political pull. They aren’t going to look kindly on their son being involved with me, not at a time like this. Maybe not ever.”

I thought she was probably right about that, because I was pretty sure I knew the name of her fiancé: Andrew Beckwith Long, scion of a proud and wealthy family, with political connections—and ambitions—enough to make a poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks a liability.

SEVEN

Ms. Grimes seemed hesitant to speak the man’s name. I was tired of this shilly-shallying around, so I did it for her.

“Andrew Beckwith Long,” I said.

She nodded. “There’s one other thing, though.” She paused. “He doesn’t know I’m doing this. He wants me to stay on the sidelines for now, but it’s driving me crazy, not being able to help him. At least publicly, that is. I’ve been researching his family, and the minute I saw those diaries listed, I thought they might be useful. Plus I could do it without anyone in the family catching on.”

I could follow her trail of reasoning. “Then if you discovered anything truly useful that could help boost his chances, his family would look more kindly on you as a potential daughter-in-law.”