Miranda James - Murder Past Due

I waited, and after a moment he continued.

“You see, I was the one who spoke to Godfrey and who in turn informed the president’s office, at his request.”

NINETEEN

That was definitely odd. Why would Godfrey call someone in the library, rather than the president’s office?

“When I spoke to him,” Peter continued, “he complained of a rather nasty stomach virus. He regretted the inconvenience—or used words to that effect—and asked me to pass along the word. As I did.” His fingers resumed their tattoo upon the desk.

“Out of curiosity,” I said in a diffident tone, “do you remember what time that was?”

“Around five-thirty, I suppose,” Peter said after a moment’s thought.

“Has anyone from the sheriff’s department spoken with you yet?”

“Whatever for?” Peter paled slightly. “One would not wish to be involved in something so sordid as a murder investigation.”

“No, one wouldn’t,” I said, a wry twist to my voice. “But unfortunately one already is.” I was beginning to lose patience with the man. He was being overly fastidious, in my opinion. “You might have been the last person—barring the killer, of course—to speak to Godfrey. The deputy in charge of the investigation needs to know that.”

“I see.” Peter reached for a glass of water on the credenza behind his desk and took a long swallow. He set the glass down with a hand that trembled. “Then one must do one’s duty.”

He was still pale, obviously unsettled, but apparently willing to follow through. I dictated the number of the sheriff’s department and told him to ask for Deputy Berry. He laid the pen aside and said he would call.

“Very well,” I said. “Shall I leave these letters with you?” I pointed to his desk as I stood.

“Yes, for now. I shall have Melba make copies of them for you. One imagines that the college’s legal counsel will want to keep the originals.”

“Of course. Well, if that’s all, I’ll get back to work,” I said.

Peter nodded, and I turned for the door.

“Oh dear, I almost forgot.”

I turned back. “Yes, Peter?”

He made a moue of distaste. “I received a call from the president’s office, shortly before you came, informing me that there is to be a memorial service for Godfrey this Saturday afternoon at two in the college chapel. I suppose I shall have to attend, though one could easily think of far more pleasant things to do on a Saturday.” He sighed.

“It would be the proper thing to do,” I said. “I’ll have to attend, too.”

Peter didn’t reply. I don’t think he heard me, because he had turned to look out the window behind his desk.

I left his office, shutting the door gently behind me. He was an odd duck, no two ways about it.

Diesel still sat on Melba’s desk, watching her as she worked at her computer. The keys clicked at a rapid pace, and the cat appeared mesmerized by Melba’s flying fingers.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Come on, Diesel, back upstairs.”

Melba ceased typing and turned to smile at me. “See you later, then, boys.” She gave the cat an affectionate scratch on his head. Diesel purred his thanks.

“Come on now,” I said, and Diesel leaped gracefully to the floor. He followed me to the stairs and dashed up them as soon as I placed my foot on the first step.

Back in the office, Diesel began to play with the loose packing material, batting it around and then leaping on top of it. I watched him for a moment. He was still very kittenish, despite his size.

As I sat down at my desk, I noticed the message light blinking on the phone. I listened to a message from circulation at Hawksworth Library next door informing me that a book I’d requested was available.

I checked my watch—it was nearly five o’clock now. Time to head home. I could delve more into Godfrey’s papers tomorrow. Before we left, though, I repacked the open box on my desk, taking away Diesel’s toy. “You can play with it again tomorrow.”

He turned and sat with his back to me until I headed for the door. I attached the leash to his harness, locked the door behind us, and set off down the stairs and out the back door. I wanted to pick up the book, but first I had to put Diesel in the car. Hawksworth was one of the few places I couldn’t take him. A couple of staff members had complained that his presence was too disruptive, because invariably students clustered around him, wanting to pet him. They made too much noise, according to the complainants.

So, into the car Diesel went. The day was cool, and I cracked the front windows enough to allow air to circulate—but not enough for a large and enterprising cat to squeeze through.

“I’ll be back in five minutes,” I told him, but I could tell he wasn’t happy at being left behind. He never was.

Inside the library, I went straight to the circulation desk. While I waited for the student worker to find my book, a recent study of the late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, I listened idly to a conversation at the nearby reference desk. Willie Clark was on duty and being his usual charming self while helping a female student.

“No, we haven’t received that issue yet. Can’t you read the screen? Do you see any mention of volume thirty-three, issue ten?”

I watched as Willie tapped the computer screen in front of him while the student, red-faced, mumbled something.

“Then you’d better go back and check your citation again. You probably wrote it down wrong.” The disgust in his voice was obvious.

Head down, the student scurried away. She was probably a freshman. Older female students learned to avoid the reference desk when Willie sat behind it. He could be gruff with male students as well, but his voice had a particular edge to it whenever he talked to a woman.

Not surprising, then, that he had never married. He wasn’t gay either, as far as I knew. Too crabby, in my experience, for a partner of either sex to put up with long enough to establish a relationship.

Willie caught me looking at him, my expression no doubt critical. He scowled at me and turned away.

Book in hand, I left the library and went back to my car. Diesel complained nonstop to me on the short drive home, and I scratched his head a couple of times in apology for having abandoned him in the car.

The moment I opened the kitchen door appetizing smells tickled my nostrils. Diesel sniffed appreciatively too, though he was bound to be disappointed. I tried not to feed him from the table, though he often sat nearby and stared hard, as if hoping to bend me to his will.

I glanced at the clock after I released Diesel from his harness. It was a little after five, and Azalea had left for the day. There was a pot of green beans on the stove, and when I peeked in the still-warm oven I found a chicken, mushroom, and brown rice casserole. There was a tossed salad in the fridge as well and, as usual, Azalea had prepared enough food for at least four people.

I checked Diesel’s bowls, and Azalea had taken care of them already. She might fuss at him sometimes, but she wasn’t about to let anyone in the house go hungry. Diesel examined them before loping off to the utility room.

The doorbell rang. I hoped it wasn’t Kanesha Berry, dropping by with more questions.

Julia Wardlaw stood on my doorstep, looking wan and tired.

“I apologize for dropping by like this without calling first,” she said as I stepped aside for her to enter. “But I wanted to see Justin before I went home.”

“You’re always welcome here, Julia,” I said. “You have an open invitation to visit whenever you like.” I shut the door and examined her with concern.

“Thank you,” she said.

“How are you? And how is Ezra?”