Miranda James - Murder Past Due

Besides, Diesel loved exploring the backyard. The lot was large, and there were plenty of spots for an enterprising feline to delve into in hopes of finding something fun to play with. As I weeded the flowerbeds, Diesel popped into and out of them, batting fallen leaves about and cheering me up to no end.

Near noon I decided to break for lunch. There had been no sign of Julia and Justin, and I hoped they would appear soon. I was eager to talk to Julia about the writers’ group.

As I was washing my hands in the kitchen sink, I heard the front door opening. Justin had a key, so I assumed it was he and Julia. Diesel scampered off. He would accompany Justin upstairs, I was sure.

“Good afternoon,” Julia said moments later, as she paused in the doorway. “You look like you’ve been working out in the yard today.”

I glanced down and saw the streaks of dirt on my old khakis. “Weeding flowerbeds while Diesel stalked the jungle in search of dangerous leaves.”

Julia laughed at that.

“Come in and have a seat,” I said. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I’m fine,” Julia said as she came to the table. “We finished lunch a short time ago. Justin was anxious to get back. He has a paper due for his English class on Monday.”

I filled a glass of water from the tap and sat down at the table. “How are things?”

“Okay,” Julia said. “Though we had a visit this morning from Kanesha Berry.”

“I see,” I said. “I have an idea what you might have talked about.”

“How would you know?” Julia asked. “Is she taking you into her confidence?”

“Not exactly,” I said wryly. “But I did manage to find out a few things that she didn’t know.”

“Something to do with a writers’ group that I used to belong to.” Julia said it flatly. She looked annoyed, whether with me or Kanesha, I wasn’t sure.

“Yes,” I said.

“Why all the interest in something that happened twenty years ago?” Julia frowned. “I can’t see what my belonging to that group for a couple of years has to do with anything.” She paused for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes. “Though that is when I had my fling with Godfrey, the Lord forgive me, and got pregnant with Justin.”

“I can’t really say why Kanesha is interested, or why I am either,” I said. “But I do think it’s important. I never knew you were interested in writing.”

Julia shrugged. “I tried my hand at several things back then, trying to figure out what I could do besides being a preacher’s wife. I’d always made good grades in English, so I assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that I had potential as a writer.” She laughed suddenly, a bitter sound. “I had visions of becoming the new Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt. Not only were books like that not being published anymore—unless you were Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt—but I wasn’t very good at writing them. Godfrey might have been a jerk in many ways, but at least he convinced me to stop wasting my time.”

“You weren’t interested in writing thrillers?” She had sounded sincere when talking about her writing, but I needed to be sure she wasn’t X and trying to put me off the scent.

“Heavens, no.” She laughed again, this time sounding amused. “I almost never read them. I never had a desire to write them, I promise you.”

“Good,” I said. “What about the other members of the group? Were any of them interested in writing thrillers?”

“Not that I recall,” Julia said. She thought for a moment. “Rick Tackett was writing a book about Vietnam. I think it was therapy for him, more than anything else. The other two women in the group were writing romance novels, and one of them was working on a western. The history professor—I think he’s actually teaching Justin this semester—was writing this horrendously awful historical novel about an oversexed druid in ancient Britain.”

“That’s six of you,” I said. “Were there others in the group?”

“Occasionally,” Julia said. “We had three people join for a brief time, if I remember correctly, but they never lasted.”

“Do you remember who they were?” I was thinking of the person lurking behind Julia in the photograph. “Someone who might have been part of the group when Godfrey spoke to you twenty years ago?”

“That’s what Kanesha Berry wanted to know,” Julia said, her head tilted to one side.

“Oh,” I said. “And did you have an answer for her?”

Julia looked at me for a moment. “There was this strange little man who came a few times, but he never showed us any of his writing. Shortly after Godfrey talked to us, he stopped coming.”

“Who was he?” I said. I had the feeling Julia was deliberately dragging this out.

“He was one of our classmates in high school,” Julia said. She paused for a moment, and I thought I would have to prompt her again. Then she spoke. “It was Willie Clark. He always was an oddball, you know.”

TWENTY-NINE

“Willie.” Of course, I thought. Who I had seen the day Godfrey died, scribbling away at something in the staff lounge.

Then I put another piece of the puzzle together. The misogyny of the books. Who had a reputation for it? Willie did. I remembered the conversation I had overheard the other day in Hawksworth Library. Willie didn’t like women, while Godfrey did.

Perhaps I was jumping to conclusions, but for me, that clinched it. Willie was the X who wrote the books.

And who had a powerful motive for killing Godfrey.

“Charlie.” Julia’s voice brought me back to earth. “What is it? Why are you so excited about Willie?”

I tried to restrain myself. I didn’t want to give away anything to Julia, not without talking to Kanesha Berry first.

“I can’t really say,” I told her. “But knowing that Willie was part of your group, even briefly, helps fill in some missing pieces of the puzzle.”

Julia scrutinized me for a moment, as if she were trying to read my mind. “It’s the oddest thing,” she finally said.

“What is?” I asked when she fell silent again.

“About Willie,” Julia replied. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I could have sworn I saw him at Farrington House on Tuesday.”

“You did?” This was even better—a witness to place him near the scene of the crime.

Julia nodded. “I think it was him. You know how it is, when you’re in a hurry and you catch sight of someone in the corner of your eye. I don’t think it really registered at the time who he was.” She paused and closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to visualize the scene. “As I was leaving, I was aware of someone in the revolving door, entering the hotel. But I was in a hurry to get to the bank and then back to the hospital, so I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“And it was Willie?” This put both Willie and Jordan Thompson in the hotel. I knew Jordan had seen Godfrey. The signed and dated copies of his new book were evidence of that.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure, the more I think about it,” Julia said.

If Willie was the killer, he saw Godfrey after Jordan did. According to her, she didn’t stay that long with Godfrey. Then in comes Willie with a strong grievance over Godfrey’s treatment of him. Perhaps he had wanted more money for his part of the deal, or maybe he simply was tired of the anonymity of his position and wanted recognition.

Whatever the motive, he might have become enraged by Godfrey’s attitude and struck Godfrey down on impulse.

Yes, that sounded like a believable scenario.

“When you talked to Kanesha about the writing group,” I said, “did you happen to mention that Willie was a member for a while?”

“Yes,” Julia said. “She had a picture with her. Actually an annual report from the library. I had forgotten all about that picture. Willie was there that day, I remembered, but he hid behind me. At the time I thought it was peculiar, but you know how he was in high school. Always scurrying from one place to another, trying not to be noticed.”