Miranda James - Murder Past Due

“I sure did,” Azalea said with a pained expression. “Worked for that woman six weeks or so when I was sixteen. You ain’t never heard so much yellin’ and cussin’ in your life as the two of them, and that poor child having to hear it all. No wonder he turned out like his daddy.”

“Sounds pretty awful,” I said.

“It was,” Azalea replied. “Wasn’t no amount of money worth working for them folks, let me tell you. I got me another job fast as I could. That’s when I come to work for Miss Dottie.” Her face softened with a smile. “She was a true lady, and I loved every minute of working for her.”

I knew that Aunt Dottie had treasured Azalea, but I didn’t dare say so. This was about as sentimental as I had ever seen Azalea, and I didn’t want to offend her by some well-meant but unwelcome comment.

Instead I said, “Yes, she was one of a kind.”

Azalea turned back to the stove. “I’m going to be scrambling some eggs and frying up some bacon.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “I think I’ll head upstairs for my shower. I’ll be back down in about fifteen minutes.”

Azalea nodded, and I left her in the kitchen. Diesel followed me up, but he kept on going when I stopped on the second floor. He would make sure Justin was up in time for breakfast.

I was almost finished eating by the time Justin appeared. He ate quickly, explaining that he needed to get to the library before class to meet a friend for a study date. The way he bolted his food down, I doubt he tasted much of it, but I remembered the hasty meals of my own student days and forbore commenting.

Diesel and I spend three Fridays a month at the public library where I volunteer. I fill in as needed, helping with reference, doing a bit of cataloging, and running one of the reading groups for retirees. Today, however, was not one of those Fridays, so I decided to go instead to the archive and poke around some more in Godfrey’s papers.

By the time Diesel and I reached the campus, the building was open. I debated seeking Rick out and talking to him about Godfrey, but what pretext could I use? Nothing that wouldn’t make me sound like a tabloid journalist on the hunt, I realized. I decided to wait and see if a good opportunity presented itself. Perhaps Rick would attend the memorial service tomorrow.

We made it upstairs without Melba spotting us. I would just as soon she didn’t know—at least for a while—that Diesel and I were here today. I wanted to focus on Godfrey’s papers, and Melba would only be a distraction.

I shut the door behind us and turned on the lights. The boxes of Godfrey’s papers appeared undisturbed, and I hoped that the change of locks would keep them that way.

Diesel made himself comfortable in the window. I eyed the inventory as I sat down at my desk. Where to start?

I didn’t want to read more letters this morning, so I decided against starting on Godfrey’s business correspondence. While I sat there, I remembered the box of computer disks. I might as well see what was on them and start making an inventory of their contents.

I retrieved the box and set it on my desk. I pulled out one of the containers of disks from inside and opened it. They were the large floppy disks that hadn’t been used for years. Under normal circumstances these disks would cause a problem, since few people these days had computers that could accommodate them.

The archive, however, was prepared for just such a contingency. I had a computer that could handle them, and it was loaded with various word-processing programs. I ought to be able to read the contents of the disks with one of them.

This computer was on a desk in a corner, behind a range of bookshelves. I took all the disks with me and turned on the computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I examined some of the disks. They were labeled, and I recognized the words as the titles of some of Godfrey’s early books. There were also dates on them, so I could put them in chronological order.

When the computer was ready, I inserted the earliest disk of the group and executed a DOS command to see the directory of its contents. Judging from the file extensions, I didn’t think I’d have any trouble opening them. I scanned the directory. There were only twelve files, and they all had numerical names. Chapters one through twelve no doubt.

I opened the file named “one” and scanned through it. I recognized the text of what I thought was Godfrey’s first thriller, Count the Cost . The change in style from his early, more traditional mysteries, was clear. I closed the file and removed the disk. I didn’t see much point in reading through the text of the books, because I wasn’t interested in analyzing Godfrey’s prose.

There were three disks labeled “Cost.” I inserted the third one in the drive and executed the directory command. There were more files names with numbers, but there was one file called “letter.” I opened it and began to read.

The letter was addressed simply to “G.” I presumed that meant Godfrey. The writer stared by thanking G for taking time to read the manuscript and expressed the hope that G would like it enough to help get it published. The letter referred to the title Count the Cost .

By the time I finished the letter—unsigned, unfortunately—I was convinced Godfrey had not written a book that bore his name.

TWENTY-FIVE

Stunned by the contents of the letter, I stared blankly at the computer screen, trying to get my mind back into working gear.

If this letter wasn’t some kind of joke, then the implications were clear. Godfrey had stolen the work of another writer and published it as his own.

But how had he been able to get away with such a thing? Surely the writer, Mr. or Ms. X, would have figured it out. Godfrey even used the same title referenced in the letter.

I read through the letter again, more slowly this time, searching for any possible clues to the identity of the writer.

Here’s the manuscript I told you about when you were here a few months ago. Thanks for taking the time to read it. I hope you’ll like it enough to want to help me get it published. It’s different from your books—a lot darker and harder-edged—but you said you liked thrillers when you talked to the group. I call it Count the Cost , but that might not be the best title. Any suggestions you have about that would be appreciated, too. I know a catchy title seems to be important, but you know more about the business than I do. At least for now, that is. I’m hoping to know a lot more about it one of these days. Thanks again. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say.

There were no real clues to the letter writer’s identity, not even a hint of the gender. Two things might be helpful: “when you were here a few months ago” and “when you talked to the group.” There was no date in the text of the letter, but then I got the bright idea of looking at the date stamp in the directory of files on the disk.

Before I did that, however, I printed a copy of the letter. Once that was done, I called up the directory and looked at the date: August 3, nineteen years ago. The last time the file had been altered was nineteen years ago.

Nineteen years ago. I thought for a moment.

Justin was eighteen.

Godfrey would have been in Athena roughly nineteen years ago.

Could this mean the letter writer lived in Athena?

He or she must. There had to be a local connection to Godfrey’s murder. Otherwise, why was he killed here and not somewhere else?

Slow down , I told myself. You’re jumping to conclusions pretty fast .

I did a screen print of the directory and clipped it to the letter.

Before I examined any of the other disks, I wanted to check something. This computer was not connected to the Internet, so I went back to my desk. Diesel appeared sound asleep in the window when I glanced at him. I connected to the library’s online catalog and searched for Godfrey’s name. I wanted to check the publication dates for his books. The library should have all of them in the collection because he was a local writer.