Miranda James: Murder Past Due

Jordan Thompson, owner of the Athenaeum, our local independent bookstore, was out for her morning run. She waved as she zoomed past. I had to admire her dedication to exercise, and wished I could emulate it.

Diesel and I arrived at the college library just as Rick Tackett, the operations manager for the two library buildings, was unlocking the front door. Eight o’clock on the dot, and not a second sooner. We stood on the veranda of the antebellum Greek Revival mansion that housed the library’s administrative offices, archives, and rare book collections. The main building, known as Hawksworth Library, stood next door.

Rick nodded in response to my “Good morning” and stepped aside to let me and Diesel enter. About a decade my senior, Rick was pleasant though difficult to engage in conversation. Since he spent much of his time in the main building next door, I saw him only infrequently.

Diesel led the way up the central stairs to the second floor. On the landing, he turned left and paused in front of a door with RARE BOOK ROOM emblazoned in gold leaf on the glass.

When I unlocked the door and pushed it open, I dropped Diesel’s leash, then I went around the room turning on lights. By the time I finished, Diesel was settled on his favorite perch—a bed placed on the wide windowsill behind my desk. I unhooked his leash, coiled it, and stuck it beside his bed.

Diesel purred while I readied myself for the workday. My jacket and satchel stowed, I sat at my desk, turned on my computer, and began to organize my day mentally.

I worked two days a week here as a cataloger and archivist, although I enjoyed what I did so much that I never really thought of it as labor. During my career as a librarian in Houston, I had spent much of my time as an administrator. Being able to catalog again was almost heaven after dealing for so long with budgets and personnel. I was content to be here with Diesel and the rare books.

I had barely begun to read my e-mail when I heard a tap at the door.

“Morning, Charlie.” Melba Gilley advanced into the room. She was as sleek as she had been in high school. Spectacular figure back then, and she still did. I liked Melba a lot, and she liked me, but so far we had both been content with simply reestablishing our friendship. I wasn’t ready to date yet, and now that I was approaching fifty, I wasn’t sure when or if I would be. I didn’t want the emotional complications a new relationship would bring.

“Morning, Melba,” I said. “How are you?”

Melba plopped into the chair by my desk, picked a nonexistent piece of fluff from her immaculate aubergine pantsuit, and said, “Excited. Aren’t you?” She looked past me at the window. “Morning, Diesel, honey.”

Diesel warbled a response but didn’t leave his bed.

“About what?” I frowned. What had I forgotten?

“The big reception tonight. What else would I be excited about?” Melba smiled. “It’s not every day Athena welcomes home a golden boy.”

“Oh, that,” I said. “Big deal.”

Melba shook her head at me. “Charlie Harris, you can’t tell me you’re not curious to see what Godfrey Priest is like after all these years. I know y’all didn’t get along in high school, but surely you want to see a famous author in the flesh.” She laughed.

I shook my head at her. “He was a jerkwad thirty-two years ago, and he’s probably an even bigger jerkwad now, just a rich one.”

“He’s had four wives,” Melba said. “Or so I hear tell. But I guess he can afford the alimony, as much as he makes off his books.”

“He hasn’t made much off me,” I said. “At least not since his first few books came out.”

“So you have read his books.” Melba almost crowed in triumph.

“I’ll admit it,” I said. “I was curious, like everybody else in Athena. And I even liked the first few. They were entertaining. But then he started writing those violent thrillers, and the plots got more and more unbelievable.” My mouth twisted in distaste. “Not to mention the violence against women. Surely you don’t still read him?”

Melba shook her head. “No, I quit a few books back. Same reasons as you.”

“Then why are you so excited?”

“He’s a bestseller, a celebrity,” Melba said. “How often does a celebrity come to Athena? We could use some excitement.”

I rolled my eyes. “Surely you’re not forgetting the time Roberta Hill spray-painted her husband pink when she caught him dead drunk and naked in Liz Graham’s trailer? I hear tell that was exciting, especially when he woke up and chased her with an ax down Main Street.”

Melba hooted with laughter. “Oh honey, I wish you’d been here. I’ve never seen anything so funny in my life. Delbert all pink, and his personal bits flopping all over the place. I was coming out of the bank when he and his wife went flying by. He’s lucky Roberta didn’t do something worse, like take that ax to his weenie.”

I laughed too, trying not to think about an axed weenie. From behind me I heard Diesel purring, like he was laughing along with us.

Melba’s cell phone rang. Grimacing, she pulled it from the holster at her waist. She handled it like a gunslinger with years of practice, twirling it in her hand before holding it still to read the display. “His Majesty wants me.” She answered the call to assure our boss she’d be with him right away. Then she ended the conversation and replaced her phone after another twirl.

“Duty calls,” she said as she stood. “I swear, that man couldn’t find his tiny rear end if I wasn’t there to show him where it was.” She snickered.

“That’s why you’re such a valuable administrative assistant,” I said. “You know where everything is.”

Melba grinned. “See you later, hon.”

I chuckled. Peter Vanderkeller, the director of the library, resembled nothing more than a garden rake. His size thirteen feet seemed out of proportion to his emaciated six-foot-four frame. Melba swears she’s never seen him eat anything, and most of the time I believe her. I’d never seen him put anything in his mouth other than a pen or a pencil. He invariably chewed on one during meetings.

The silence after Melba’s departure felt good. Quiet is the last word anyone would use to describe her.

I turned back to my e-mail, wincing my way through Peter’s weekly letter to the troops, as we library employees not-so-fondly called it. Last year at Halloween several of us dressed up in uniform for a staff meeting. Peter didn’t get the joke. He never did. I felt sorry for him sometimes.

The subject of this week’s homily was recycling. Peter exhorted everyone to stop bringing bottled water to work and to use instead the filtered tap water in the staff lounge. I glanced at my satchel. It usually contained at least two bottles of water. I resolved to use those bottles for refills from the tap once they were empty. Perhaps that would satisfy the boss.

The last e-mail I read reminded me of the gala reception tonight in honor of our celebrity at the president’s house. I’d been telling myself I wouldn’t go, but I knew curiosity would get the better of me. As much as I detested Godfrey Priest, I wanted to get a look at him after all this time.

Back in high school, I’d let Godfrey intimidate me. He was taller and better looking and was always flaunting his success with girls. I resented him in high school and in college—we were both alumni of Athena College—but that was long ago. Surely I’d left all that behind me?

Perhaps I hadn’t, but if living well truly was the best revenge, I wanted to show the jerkwad I was doing fine.

Shaking my head over my foolishness, I turned away from the computer to examine some papers on my desk. Where had I put that letter? I lifted one or two of the piles until I had located what I wanted.