Miranda James: Murder Past Due

Perhaps I should have expected something like this when I relaxed my rule about accepting only older students, preferably those in graduate school, as boarders. They were generally much too focused on their work to cause any disturbances, and I valued the quiet, orderly life I had created for myself these past three years.

But I had accepted Justin as a favor to an old friend. His mother, Julia Wardlaw, and I had known each other since high school and all the way through college. Justin, an only child, wasn’t ready for the rough and tumble of dorm life, she said. She wanted him to have a quieter, more homelike atmosphere for his first year in college. After the grilling Julia had put me through, I felt almost honored that she was entrusting her precious chick to my care.

A large paw pushed against my leg. Diesel, my two-year-old Maine coon cat, chirped in sympathy when I looked down at him. He withdrew his paw and stared up at me.

“I know, Diesel.” I shook my head. “Justin has a problem, or he wouldn’t be acting this way.”

Diesel responded with another chirp—many Maine coons don’t meow like other cats—and I reached down to rub his head. He still had his lighter summer coat, soft as down. His neck ruff and tail were less bushy than they would be during the colder months ahead. The tufts on the tips of his ears stood out as he stared up at me, a patient expression on his face. He was a gray tabby with dark markings, and at the age of two hadn’t reached full maturity yet, weighing in at twenty-five to thirty pounds. With their broad chests and muscular bodies, Maine coons are the defensive tackles of the cat world.

“We’ll have to have a talk with our boarder,” I said. Diesel liked Justin and often visited him in his third-floor bedroom. “Just think what Azalea would do if she came in some morning and found a mess like this. She’d skin both Justin and me.” Diesel returned my rueful glance with a solemn gaze.

Azalea Berry, the housekeeper I inherited along with the house when my beloved Aunt Dottie died, had strict notions about keeping a clean home. She also had strong opinions about large cats as house pets, but she and Diesel somehow managed to reach detente when I brought him home with me a couple of years ago. Even when he was a kitten, Diesel had been smart enough to pick up on Azalea’s basic antipathy to cats.

Azalea had more tolerance for college-age boys, but that didn’t mean she would allow Justin to get away with leaving the kitchen a mess, even a minor one. Maybe I could help him with whatever his problem was before he did it again and Azalea got after him.

I couldn’t blame Azalea for her devotion to the house. Aunt Dottie had lavished her money—and her decorating abilities—on what she considered the center of any home. The kitchen occupied the southeast corner of the house, and the morning sun poured in through the large windows on both outside walls. Light suffused the room, helped by the pale yellow paint on the walls and the white ceramic tile on the floor. The cabinets shone a delicate blue and blended well with the darker hue of the table and chairs.

I could almost smell the scent of the ginger cookies Aunt Dottie used to make when I was a boy. There were only happy memories in this room, but for a moment I ached with the loss of my dear aunt and of my beloved wife, Jackie. They both died within a few weeks of each other three years ago. I pictured them at the table together, laughing and chatting.

Coming out of my reverie, I glanced at Diesel again, and I could swear he had a sympathetic look on his face. “Enough of that,” I told him. He twitched his tail, turned, and padded off in the direction of the utility room and his litter box.

I cleared up Justin’s mess, and as I was putting the cereal box away in the cupboard, Justin popped into the kitchen.

“Mr. Charlie,” Justin said, stopping in the doorway. “I was planning to clean up.” One hand clutched a worn backpack, and the other smoothed dark hair out of his eyes. The boy needed a haircut, or else he needed a ponytail.

Diesel reappeared and rubbed against his friend’s jean-clad leg. Justin squatted for a moment, scratching the cat’s head but watching me through his bangs.

“I thought you already left for your class,” I said. “If this was one of Azalea’s days, she might have a few things to say about finding the kitchen the way you left it.”

I kept my tone mild, but Justin flushed anyway. Down went his head, and his hair swung forward, shielding his face. He mumbled something as he stood. Diesel sat beside him, staring up at his face.

“What did you say?”

Justin shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, more clearly this time, avoiding my gaze for the moment. “I really meant to clean up, but I just lost track of time.” He shot me a quick glance, then stared down at his feet again.

“No real harm done, Justin. But it seems to me you’ve been a little careless the last few days. That’s not like you.”

He shrugged. “Well, I’m gonna be late. Bye, Diesel.” He turned and disappeared down the hall. In a moment I heard the front door open. I was relieved not to hear it slam shut.

We were definitely due for a chat, Justin and I. Something was bothering him, and he was bordering on rudeness. In the two months that he’d lived here, he hadn’t been the most outgoing young man, but he had been civil until recently.

As the father of two former teenagers, I knew that a change in behavior could signal any one of several problems. I hoped this wasn’t a substance abuse problem. His father, a conservative Evangelical preacher, would probably yank him out of college and take him home if that was the case. Julia wouldn’t be too happy either, and might even blame me for letting him get in trouble.

The last thing I wanted was to get involved in the life of one of my boarders. If Justin’s problem turned out to be serious, he would have to go home to his parents. I wasn’t ready to cope with anything big.

Diesel padded beside me to the wall rack by the back door, and I lifted his harness and leash off the hook. He purred as I got him street-ready, emitting the rumbling sound that inspired his name. He loved going to work with me.

“Let me get my coat and my satchel,” I said. I checked my tie for coffee and food stains and examined my pants for cat hair. Why did dark colors attract pet hair like magnets? I did a quick removal job with a lint brush, and then Diesel and I were ready to go.

In the past two years, since I’d first found a shivering kitten in the parking lot of the public library, most people in my hometown of Athena, Mississippi, had grown used to seeing me walking my cat on a leash. As Diesel grew bigger, some of them wondered if he wasn’t part bobcat, but that’s only because no one in town—including me—had ever seen a Maine coon. What they’d think when he was fully grown in another year, I had no idea.

Strangers sometimes stopped us on the street to ask if he was a weird-looking dog—and I’d swear Diesel looked offended when they did. He was a sociable critter, but he didn’t tolerate fools lightly—a trait I found endearing.

I detected a hint of wood smoke in the crisp autumn air. It seemed early to be lighting a fire in the fireplace, but evidently one of my neighbors disagreed. The odor reminded me of times by the fire in my parents’ house on cold winter days.

The homes on my street were over a century old, many occupied by the same families for generations. The graceful architecture, the classic landscaping, and the feeling of a real neighborhood gave me a sense of security after I lost my wife.

Putting thoughts of Jackie aside, I started walking, Diesel preceding me by a few paces. The campus of Athena College—our destination this morning—lay three blocks to the east. A walk that should have taken five minutes usually took fifteen or twenty, because Diesel and I stopped several times so his many admirers could say hello. He took it all in stride, chirping and purring, putting smiles on faces, including my own. One or two even remembered to say, “Morning, Charlie,” so I wasn’t completely ignored.