Miranda James - Murder Past Due

“Come on, Diesel. Got to finish our errands.” I flashed Jordan a smile as the cat and I headed for the door, but the bookstore owner had already turned away.

Outside the store, I paused. Diesel sat down and looked up at me. I gazed back at him, lost in thought.

Why had Jordan changed her mind and let me buy one of the signed copies?

Should I take it as some sort of bribe? Because the book would probably soon be worth a lot more than the $26.95 plus tax I paid for it.

Or was it Jordan’s way of telling me she had nothing to do with Godfrey’s death?

Short of asking her point-blank, I didn’t see any way to answer those questions for now.

Diesel warbled at me, bringing me out of my wool-gathering. “Time to move on. I know.”

I put the book in the car, and Diesel and I walked down the block to the bakery.

Helen Louise Brady, another of my Athena High School classmates, had opened a patisserie and café a few years before I moved back. It quickly thrived, patronized by many of the college faculty and students, and plenty of townspeople as well. Helen Louise’s pastries and cakes were sinfully delicious, and I never could resist popping in for something to take home.

Another point in the bakery’s favor was that Helen Louise didn’t mind having Diesel come in with me. The first few times I took him in some of her regulars raised their eyebrows, but Helen Louise had been known to ban customers who annoyed her. If she said it was okay for Diesel to be there, no one was going to argue with her.

Rake-thin and nearly six feet tall, her hair jet black, Helen Louise beamed with joy when she spotted Diesel. “Ah, mon chat très beau .” Helen Louise often lapsed into French. She had lived in Paris for nearly ten years before coming back to Athena and to open the patisserie. “Let me find something for you.”

I sometimes marveled that Diesel didn’t weigh fifty pounds, so many people wanted to feed him. I kept an eye, though, on his little treats, and at home we had play sessions designed to help him burn off the extra calories.

Helen Louise came around the counter with some creamy frosting on her fingers and bent to let Diesel lick it off. He purred, and Helen Louise smiled again.

“Thank you.” I smiled back. “I know Diesel thanks you, too. He’s going to have to run an extra lap or two on the stairs at home, but I’m sure it’s worth it.”

“I should hope so.” Helen Louise laughed. She went behind the counter to a sink and washed her hands. As she dried them, she asked, “And what can I get for you today, Charlie?”

She made a wicked chocolate gateau, and I pointed to one in the glass case. “That will do quite nicely. And I’ll have to run up and down the stairs a few times myself.” I grinned.

“ Quel dommage . But every mouthful a little heaven on the tongue.” Helen Louise expertly boxed my selection and rang it up at the register.

“ Oui, certainement .” I knew some French too, and Helen Louise laughed.

“Come again soon,” she said. “You too, Charlie.”

I grinned as I led Diesel to the door. Helen Louise was charming, and her personality was one ingredient in her success.

I put the gateau carefully on the backseat of the car, while Diesel sprang into the front. My two most important errands of the morning accomplished, I thought Diesel and I might drop by the public library for a few minutes. It was only a few blocks away, on the route home.

I was about to back out of the parking space when my cell phone rang. I shifted back to park and pulled the phone out of my shirt pocket. Glancing at the number on the display, I frowned. Someone from the college was calling, but I didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello, this is Charlie Harris.”

“Hey, Charlie, it’s Rick. How you doing?” Rick Tackett was operations manager for the college library.

“Doing fine, and you?”

“Pretty busy,” Rick said. “Got a big delivery for you, and I wondered if you wanted it up in your office maybe? Or somewhere else?”

“How big?” I asked, puzzled. I wasn’t expecting anything.

“Fifty-four boxes,” Rick said. “Pretty heavy. Maybe somebody’s papers or something.”

Papers?

For a moment I couldn’t remember any recent agreement to take someone’s papers for the archive.

Then it hit me.

Could these be Godfrey Priest’s papers?

SIXTEEN

Who else could the papers have belonged to? Godfrey had estimated he had fifty or sixty boxes of papers and books to give to the college archive.

But when had he shipped them?

“Charlie, you still there?”

Rick’s voice brought me back to the conversation. “Yeah, I’m still here. Just a bit stunned, that’s all.”

Rick chuckled into my ear. “Yeah, it’s a huge shipment. And pretty heavy, too. Probably cost a coupla thousand bucks, I bet.”

“If they belonged to whom I think they did, he had plenty of money.” Yeah, the papers were Godfrey’s. He must have called someone and had them shipped right after our conversation yesterday.

“Must be nice.” Rick laughed again. “Anyway, they’re here on the loading dock. Oh, and there’s a letter, too.” There was silence for a moment. When Rick spoke again his tone was somber. “Return address says it’s from Godfrey Priest. I heard he died last night.”

“Yes, he did.” What should I do with Godfrey’s boxes? The sheriff’s department would probably impound them if they knew about them, though I couldn’t imagine what use they would be to Kanesha Berry. Technically they were now the property of Athena College, although I didn’t think Godfrey had signed anything to that effect yet.

Maybe there was something in his letter that stated his intentions.

“I’d better come over there. I’ll meet you on the loading dock in a few minutes.”

“Sure,” Rick said. “I’ll be here.”

I ended the call and stuck the phone back in my pocket. Diesel butted my elbow with his head.

“No, I didn’t forget about you,” I told him. “But we’ve got to take a detour. Sit.”

Diesel sat in the passenger seat. I’d been meaning to get him one of those pet car seats, but since I mostly just drive around town, and pretty slowly at that, I kept putting it off.

About six minutes later I pulled into the loading dock of Hawksworth Library. Built in the 1920s and added to several times over the past eight decades, it was named for an illustrious president of the college who had served right after the Civil War. Altogether it occupied half a block of the street on the north side of the antebellum mansion that housed the archive and some administrative offices.

Rick Tackett, a friendly, stocky fireplug of a man about ten years my senior, stood on the loading dock beside a pallet of boxes.

I rolled the front windows down a little before shutting off the car. “You stay in the car, boy. I won’t be long.”

Diesel yawned at me and curled up on the seat. Sometimes, like now, he was remarkably obedient. Other times he was as headstrong as a Brahma bull. I never knew how he’d react to a command.

Or a suggestion, from a feline point of view.

I climbed up onto the loading dock and shook Rick’s extended hand.

“Morning, Charlie,” he said. He nodded at the neatly stacked and shrink-wrapped boxes. “Here’s the letter.” He pulled it from his back pocket.

The envelope, made of heavyweight paper, screamed expensive , as did the gold-embossed return address bearing Godfrey Priest’s name—or rather, “Godfrey Priest Enterprises Inc.” I guess being a big bestseller was something like running a business.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll just open this and have a quick look, if you don’t mind.”