Miranda James - Murder Past Due

“It sure is,” I said, doing my best to suppress that ugly image from reappearing in my head. “I guess you can see now why I’m curious about it all.”

“Sure,” Melba said. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“I know Godfrey came back to Athena on a regular basis,” I said. “He had quite a track record with women, like the episodes with Julia and Peter Vanderkeller’s wife. Are there any other outraged husbands or boyfriends or spurned women in the area?”

Melba was silent for a moment. “The first one that comes to mind is the woman who owns that bookstore on the square. Can’t remember her name at the moment.”

“Jordan Thompson,” I said. “I heard about her. Can you think of anyone else?”

“The other one that comes to mind is Frank Ledbetter.” Melba sighed into the phone.

“Frank Ledbetter?” Why did that name sound familiar?

“My ex-husband,” Melba said.

“Oh,” I said, too stunned for the moment to say anything else.

“I know,” Melba said, sounding sheepish. “It’s not something I’m proud of, let me tell you. But I had a brief fling with Godfrey about ten years ago, and it cost me my marriage.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.” Poor Melba. I knew she was divorced, but that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge.

“Frank and I were going through a bad patch,” Melba said. “Old, old story. And here comes Godfrey on a book tour. I went to hear him talk, there were some sparks, and I went out to dinner with him afterward. And you can guess the rest.”

I could, but I was curious about one thing. “I do have to ask you one question.”

“Shoot,” Melba said.

“Did Godfrey hang around town while you had this, er, relationship?”

“I wasn’t stupid enough to run off to California with him, thank the Lord,” Melba said. “Yeah, Athena was the last stop on his tour, and he was planning to stay here for a couple of months, doing research for a book.”

“And when he finished, he went back to California?”

“And I stayed here,” Melba said. “By then I’d realized what a fool I’d made of myself, and poor Frank, too. He filed for divorce right away.”

“Another question,” I said, “and forgive me for asking it, but I have to. Did either you or Frank hate Godfrey enough to kill him?”

“Ten years ago Frank was ready to skin him alive—and he loved to hunt,” Melba said. “But by the time Godfrey came back to town a couple years later, Frank was remarried.”

“And you?” I prompted her gently.

“I hated him, too,” Melba said. “But I hated myself more, let me tell you. I learned my lesson from that.” She laughed, a little wildly, I thought. “I got back at Godfrey in my own way, though.”

“How so?” I was almost afraid to ask, uncertain of what I would hear.

“I took every one of his books I owned and sat down in front of the fireplace. I ripped out every page, one by one, and burned them. It felt pretty good, though of course I don’t normally hold with burning books.”

“That’s a good thing,” I said, trying to ease the tension a little. “Especially since you work in a library.”

She laughed, and I felt relieved. I couldn’t completely cross her off the suspect list, but it sounded to me like she had worked through her feelings.

I wondered if things might be awkward between us at work after her confession, and I hoped they wouldn’t be. I liked Melba. Her sunny, upbeat disposition made her fun to be around, and I would hate for her to feel embarrassed with me.

“I appreciate you telling me all this,” I said.

“No big deal,” Melba said, though her tone belied the words. “I figured somebody was bound to bring it up sooner or later, and I’d rather you heard it from me.”

It was time to move on. “Can you think of anybody else?” I didn’t want to say it, but Godfrey, I was sure, probably found a different, but willing, woman whenever he popped back into town for a visit.

“Besides Julia, the bookstore lady, and me?” Melba snorted. “The notches that man must have had on his bed. Well, there is one more that I know of. Janette Turnipseed.”

“That’s an odd name,” I said. “I don’t recall anybody by that name.”

“No reason you should,” Melba said. “She was a professor at Athena, a post-doc in the English department. She was here about six years ago. Godfrey spent three months here one fall in that writer-in-residence program they have, and apparently they had quite an affair.”

“She left after her post-doc?” I said.

“Before it was finished,” Melba replied. “Poor woman. She left at the end of the fall semester. I think I heard she went to some school out in Nebraska or Oklahoma.”

“Why did women keep falling for him? Surely they knew about his past?” I realized my questions could be insulting, but Melba seemed not to take them that way.

“He could be incredibly charming when he wanted to,” Melba said. “He’d focus those eyes on you, and suddenly you felt like the most desirable woman in the world.” She laughed. “Listen to me. I sound like a teenager. But he made me feel that way.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said wryly. “I’ve been reading his new book, and I have to say, the way he writes about women makes him seem like a misogynist.”

“That’s the weird thing,” Melba said. “I got that from his books, too, but in person he wasn’t like that. I think he truly liked women, and that was his problem. He liked them so much he couldn’t limit himself to one, or even one at a time.”

“Then I wonder why he wrote about them with such disdain?”

“Only his shrink knows for sure,” Melba said.

Diesel appeared in the doorway and ambled over to my chair. He leaped into my lap, and I tried not to wince from the impact. I grunted into the phone anyway.

“Are you okay?” Melba asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a bit winded from being the landing spot for a large cat.”

Melba laughed. “I can see it now. He’s pretty big for a lap kitty.”

“Try to tell him that,” I said as I shifted in the chair to redistribute some of Diesel’s weight. “Okay, now I can breathe again.”

Diesel chirped at me, and I rubbed his head with my free hand. He would be happy to sit like this for an hour or two—or until my hand cramped and my legs went to sleep, that is.

He laid his head against my chest, and when he did that, I forgave him everything. He was such a loving companion, and if it hadn’t been for him, I don’t know what I would have done the past couple of years.

“Thanks for all the information,” I said. “So far, though, I don’t think any of these people—especially you—sounds like a good suspect, though. Can you think of anyone else? I believe Godfrey’s parents have passed away, but did he have any other family?”

“Some distant cousins, I think,” Melba said. “On his father’s side. But they live in south Alabama. I don’t think Godfrey’s parents had much contact with them, though.”

I was about to ask another question when Melba continued.

“The only other one I can think of is his half brother,” she said.

“Half brother?” That was news to me. I didn’t remember ever hearing that Godfrey had any siblings.

“Yeah, he’s about ten years older. Godfrey’s mother was married to someone else before she married Mr. Priest.”

“I never knew that,” I said. “And I sure didn’t know about a half brother.”

“You know him. You just don’t know you know him,” Melba said, an impish tone in her voice.

“Okay, I give. Who is it?” I said. I really had no idea.

“Rick Tackett, the operations manager.”