Murder Past Due (3 page)

The particular fun of cataloging something this old was noting anything about the copy in hand—inscriptions, stamps, notations—that would set it apart from another copy. In the book I held, the front free endpaper bore, in faded ink, a previous owner’s name and date: “Dr. Francis Henshall, March 18, 1809.” As I delved further into the book, I found notations in ink in the same handwriting. Dr. Henshall had added comments to the text, based on his own patients.

I turned to the computer and called up the record I had previously downloaded into our system from a bibliographic utility. All the basics were there—title, publisher, date, and so on—and I added the notes to identify the copy in hand.

Engrossed in my work, I started when I heard the sound of a throat clearing on the other side of my desk.

I suppressed my irritation at the interruption as I turned to face the newcomer. Then my eyes widened in surprise as I recognized the man.

Hastily saving my work, I mumbled, “Just a moment.”

“Take your time, Charlie,” Godfrey Priest said, his voice booming in the quiet of the rare book room.

Beside me, Diesel stretched and yawned. He enjoyed visitors, and he hopped down from his perch to welcome Godfrey.

What the heck was he doing here? We hadn’t been that close in high school or college, so why seek me out?

“Good morning, Godfrey,” I said, standing. I came around the desk and extended a hand in greeting. Diesel padded right behind me. “It’s been a long time.”

“It sure has,” Godfrey said, his tones still hearty. He clasped my hand in his bigger one and gave it a firm squeeze and a shake. “You’re looking good.”

“You, too,” I said, trying not to wince. I flexed my fingers slightly when Godfrey released my hand.

He was even taller than I remembered. I glanced down at his feet and I could see why. He was wearing an expensive pair of cowboy boots with heels that made him about two inches taller than his normal six-four.

“What is that? A cat?” Godfrey asked, watching as Diesel made a slow circle around him. Evidently unimpressed, Diesel walked back to the window and jumped up to his bed. Yawning, he turned his back on both of us and settled down for a nap. I’d give him a treat later.

“He’s a Maine coon,” I said. “They’re larger than most cats.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever been snubbed by a cat.” Godfrey laughed, but his expression revealed annoyance. “They always love me because they can tell I’m a cat person.”

I tried not to laugh. “Diesel doesn’t take to everybody. Don’t pay any attention.”

I continued to take in my visitor. Though we were the same age, he looked ten years older. His skin resembled leather, and years of exposure to the sun had added lines to the skin around his eyes. His hair, now a bleached straw mop, had suffered, too. His clothes screamed designer labels, and the Rolex watch he consulted ostentatiously, along with a chunky gold bracelet, made the point that he had plenty of money.

“What can I do for you, Godfrey?” I went back to my desk to sit down. With a wave I indicated he should sit, too. “Did you drop by to talk about the good old days?”

“I have it on good authority that you are the archivist here,” he said, patently ignoring my little dig. He settled his long frame into the chair and crossed his arms.

“I am,” I said.
Pompous as ever
. I waited.

Godfrey glanced past me toward the sleeping Diesel. “They let you bring that cat to work?” His fingers tensed on his arms, and his eyes searched the room. He seemed nervous, but I had no idea why.

“Obviously.”

Godfrey’s cheeks reddened as he faced me. I remembered that he had never cared for sarcasm, particularly when it had been directed at him.

“When did you return to Athena?” Godfrey asked. “I don’t get here often myself. My schedule is so demanding—book tours, interviews, talking to guys in Hollywood.” Again his gaze roved around the room. Was he ever going to get to the point of this visit? How much self-aggrandizement would I have to endure?

“I moved back three years ago,” I replied, trying not to sound impatient. Did he think I’d be impressed by his busy life? “Not long after my wife died, my aunt left me her house here.”

“Your Aunt Dottie?” Godfrey asked, frowning. “So your aunt died, too?”

“Shortly after my wife.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Godfrey said. “That’s too bad, their dying so close together.”

“It was rough.” Then a memory surfaced. “You lived with Aunt Dottie for a couple of semesters, didn’t you?”

Godfrey nodded. “That would have been my senior year. My parents sold up and moved to Alabama, to Fairhope, and I didn’t want to live in the dorm anymore. I was lucky Miss Dottie had a room available. She was a wonderful lady.” His face softened with a reminiscent smile.

“She certainly was.” This was a side of Godfrey I didn’t remember seeing. He had obviously been fond of my aunt. “You’re doing well these days. Bestseller list with every new book. That’s pretty exciting.”

“Thanks. My last seven books have debuted at number one,” Godfrey said, the smile giving way to a smug look. “And that’s kind of why I’m here.”

“I heard you’re getting an award for being a distinguished alumnus,” I said.

Godfrey shook his head. “That’s not what I meant, although that’s the ostensible reason I’m back in town. No, I meant the reason I was here talking to you.”

Finally
. “And that would be . . . ?” I asked, my voice trailing off.

“The archive,” Godfrey replied. “I am giving my papers to the university archive. I plan to make the announcement tonight at the dinner.” He stared at me. “How do we do this?”

The university administration would be delighted by such a gift, and I thought it was an excellent idea. On one condition. “I know the university would love to have your papers,” I said. “But giving them is one thing. Are you willing to donate money to help with the preparation, cataloging, and maintenance?”

“Sure,” Godfrey said. “What do you have to do, other than put them on the shelves?” He waved a hand in the direction of the bookshelves. “And how much money? I’m sure I can afford it.”

“The papers have to be organized and cataloged,” I said, ignoring that last sentence. “That could take some time, depending on the extent of the collection. I’m the archivist, but I work only part-time. It could take years to get your papers done, considering all the other books and collections waiting to be processed here.”

“If I give enough money, could you hire someone to catalog my papers and get them done sooner?” He frowned. “I don’t want them sitting in boxes, gathering dust.”

“Yes,” I replied. “We have a tiny budget, and we rely on donations.”

“How much?”

“How many papers are we talking about?” I pointed to a nearby box, roughly the size of a box of computer paper. “How many boxes of stuff?”

Godfrey stared at the box. After a moment, he answered. “There are manuscripts of all my novels, and I’ve published twenty-three. Then there’s correspondence, plus copies of my books, in English and other languages.” He paused. “Say fifty-four boxes.”

That was oddly precise, I thought. Had he already boxed everything? He would never imagine the university would turn down his gift.

“And you would continue to add to it,” I said, doing some mental calculations.

“Sure,” Godfrey said. “I’ll be writing for a long time to come, knock on wood.” He rapped my desk with his knuckles.

I found a pad and pencil and made some rough calculations. I named a figure, and Godfrey didn’t blink.

“Sounds good,” he replied. “I’ll double it, just to be safe. That should take care of things for a few years, right?”

“Yes,” I said. Hearing the voice of my boss in my head, I added something, though I didn’t like doing it. “And of course you might want to put a bequest in your will, too. It never hurts.”

Godfrey laughed. “You have to say that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to suppress a sour expression.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. People are holding their hands out for money all the time.” He grinned. “I’ll call my lawyer this afternoon and take care of it.”

“You’ll need to talk to some of the administrative people tonight after you make your announcement,” I said.

He nodded.

I thought our business was done, but Godfrey didn’t move from the chair.

I waited a moment.

“You’re living in Miss Dottie’s house, huh?” Godfrey said.

“Yes.”

“Are you taking in student boarders like she did?” He stared past me at the window where Diesel still slept.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s what she wanted, and it’s not so bad having someone in the house, now that my own two children are grown and out of the nest.”

“You have two kids?” Godfrey glanced at me, an odd look on his face.

“A son and a daughter,” I replied. “Sean is twenty-seven, and Laura is twenty-three.”

“That’s nice,” Godfrey said, his voice soft. “Having kids, I mean.”

Maybe I had accomplished something Godfrey hadn’t. As far as I knew, he didn’t have any children. I was lucky, even if I wasn’t a rich writer.

Godfrey shifted in his chair. “What are the boarders like, the ones living there now?”

“Both nice young men,” I said, puzzled by the conversation. Why was he asking about my current boarders?

“One of them is named Justin, right?” Godfrey examined his hands with care.

“Yes, there is a Justin boarding with me. The other one, Matt, is actually spending a semester in Madrid, doing research for his dissertation.” I was getting more and more uneasy. “Look, Godfrey, what’s going on here? Why these questions? Do you know Justin?”

“No, I don’t,” Godfrey replied. “But I’d like to.” He paused for a deep breath. Then he faced me. “He’s my son, Charlie, but he doesn’t know it.”

“You’re Justin’s father?” I stared at Godfrey, feeling as if this was a bizarre joke. Back in high school he had a reputation for outlandish pranks.

Godfrey nodded, and I was sure he was serious.

But why the heck was he telling me this? Simply because Justin boarded with me?

“This is incredible.” A fatuous reaction, but I had to say something.

“Yeah, it is,” Godfrey said. Looking down at his hands, he continued. “I had no idea until about six months ago that I had a son. I can’t believe Julia never told me.” His voice had an odd note in it.

“Julia Wardlaw?” I sounded like a not-very-bright parrot, I decided.

Godfrey glanced up at me. “Yes, surely you remember her from high school. Julia Peterson. God, she was beautiful.” He smiled.

Julia
had
been a knockout thirty years ago. I saw her on a weekly basis now, when she came on Fridays to pick up Justin and take him home for the weekend. Sadly, the years had not been kind. “Have you seen her lately?” I said.

“No, but I’ve talked to her,” Godfrey said. “She wrote to me through my website. Told me about Justin, and I about fell through the floor.”

“I can imagine.” Knowing this helped me put a few things together. When Julia brought Justin to my house, helping him move in his things, she told me more about her family. Obviously as reluctant to tell me as I was to hear it, she seemed to feel it her duty anyway. Justin and his father, Ezra, argued over Justin’s choice of schools. Ezra Wardlaw wanted Justin to attend a small Bible college and follow him into the ministry. Justin rebelled, supported by Julia. He was their only child, and the betrayal—that was the very word Julia had used, quoting her husband—had hit Ezra hard.

“This is really none of my business,” I said, “but are you sure Justin is your son?”

“Absolutely.” Godfrey looked at me like I was an idiot. “You don’t think I’d take someone’s word for it? But I knew it was a possibility. In my position, I have to be sure, so I insisted on a DNA test.”

“Naturally,” I said, my tone wry. “It’s still none of my business, but what do you plan to do?”

“I want to meet Justin,” Godfrey said. “Talk to him, explain the situation. Now that I know, I want to be part of his life.”

Perhaps Justin already knew about his famous biological father, I thought. Julia could have told him recently, knowing that Godfrey was coming to Athena. It had been announced in the local paper a couple of weeks ago.

If Justin knew, that might explain his behavior the past few days. News that his father wasn’t Ezra Wardlaw, but Godfrey Priest, would have come as a huge shock. Poor kid, I thought.

“What is it?” Godfrey stared at me.

“Thinking about Justin, that’s all.” I was not going to share my thoughts on this with Godfrey. Besides, I was only speculating.

“You like him? Think he’s a good kid?” Godfrey sounded so eager, I felt sorry for him. But I was more concerned with Justin’s reactions to all this. Would he be able to cope with another father in his life?

“Yes, I do. He’s a nice, intelligent young man.” Behind me, Diesel added his opinion, emitting a few trills and chirps. He knew whom we were discussing. “He’s a son you can be proud to acknowledge.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Godfrey said. “You have no idea what that means to me.” He sounded pathetically grateful, and I sympathized.

“When will you talk to him?”

“I’m supposed to meet Julia for lunch,” Godfrey said. He checked his watch. “If she can get away from Misery, that is. I still can’t believe she married that guy.”

“Misery” was an old nickname for Ezra Wardlaw. He was several years older than Godfrey, Julia, and I, and by the time we were in high school, Ezra already had a reputation as a fire-and-brimstone Evangelical preacher.

“I was in Texas by the time they got married,” I said. “The last time we had heard from her, she was dating Rick Tackett and it sounded pretty serious.” I had forgotten about that until now. Funny how things popped back into the memory sometimes.