Murder Past Due (7 page)

Since this was Willie’s general greeting to everyone, I took no offense. He, too, had been one of my classmates in high school. He had never been friendly, but that probably wasn’t his fault. He was the kid who was always the butt of the joke, the one the football team—Godfrey was captain our senior year—never failed to harass. Even those who, like me, tried to be nice to him didn’t get very far. He hadn’t changed much as an adult, sad to say.

“How are you, Willie?” I regarded him with a smile as I filled my mug from the cooler.

“Fine,” he snapped back at me. For someone who served as the head of the library’s reference department, Willie was lacking in people skills. “Trying to work, if people will let me.”

As long as I had known him, Willie had been scribbling words on pieces of paper. I presumed he wanted to be a writer, but I never heard that he managed to publish anything.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you,” I said. I turned to leave, but Willie spoke again, and I turned back.

“Godfrey Priest came to see you,” Willie said. “Heard he got into a fight, too.” He smirked.

“Yes, he did,” I said. “I guess the whole town has heard about it now.”

“Too bad Ezra didn’t put Godfrey in the hospital,” Willie said, his face dark with hatred. “Or in the grave, where he belongs.”

Willie was so often the target of Godfrey’s bizarre practical jokes in high school, it didn’t surprise me that he harbored intense feelings against his old nemesis.

But wishing Godfrey dead?

“That’s a bit strong,” I said, trying to keep a mild tone.

Willie sucked at his prominent front teeth—an irritating habit—as he glared at me. I remembered that Godfrey started calling Willie “Bugs” because of those teeth. The nickname stuck, unfortunately for Willie.

“Godfrey’s a colossal jackass, and you know it.” Willie slapped a hand down on his legal pad. “He made you look like a fool more than once.”

“Yes, he did,” I said. “I don’t like him either, but that doesn’t mean I wish he was dead.”

“More fool you, then.” The contempt in Willie’s voice surprised me. “You don’t know everything he’s done. No one does. But I do.” He stood, pushing his chair back with a violent gesture, grabbed his pad and pen, and stalked out of the room.

The nickname “Bugs” was cruelly apt, because physically Willie was a rabbit-like specimen. Godfrey and I both towered over him, and I knew Willie resented us for that. Godfrey hadn’t been content with physical domination, however. He enjoyed tormenting Willie because Willie always reacted. That simply egged Godfrey on.

I wasn’t the only one who tried to make Godfrey leave Willie alone, but Godfrey wouldn’t—or couldn’t—stop.

Having Godfrey in Athena was bringing back too many unpleasant memories from the past, and I had an uneasy feeling more unpleasantness lay ahead, as long as Godfrey stayed around. I wondered briefly what Willie had been talking about when he said “everything he’s done.” Probably his own list of grievances against Godfrey, and I had no doubt they were legion.

I left the staff lounge and was about to mount the stairs when a voice hailed me. I turned to see Peter Vanderkeller, the library’s director, standing in the doorway to his office suite.

“Afternoon, Peter,” I said. “Did you want to see me?”

“Yes, please,” he said before he turned and disappeared.

I suppressed a sigh of irritation and followed him. Conversations with Peter on occasion lasted an hour or more. Melba rolled her eyes at me as I passed her desk—her signal when our boss was in one of his odd moods.

“Please shut the door behind you,” Peter said when I entered his office.

I did as he asked and then advanced toward his desk. Peter stood behind it, hands on hips, so thin he made me think of the old TV character Gumby. If Peter were green, he’d give a fair imitation. I dismissed the foolish notion as Peter gestured to one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk.

This was my favorite room in the house. Originally, Peter’s office and Melba’s had been one larger room, the front parlor. The high ceilings with their ornate moldings bore witness to the era in which the house was built. A magnificent mahogany dining table served as Peter’s desk, though he used a contemporary office chair with it. I envied Peter that table. The machines of modern technology—computer, printer, and telephone—looked sadly out of place. If I closed my eyes for a moment, I could easily conjure up the figure of a woman in a hoop skirt, her beau paying court.

“What can I do for you?” I sipped at my water while I waited for a response.

Peter removed his horn-rimmed glasses and twirled them idly by one earpiece. He blinked at me. “It has come to my attention that our eminent alumnus and hometown boy wishes to endow our institution’s archive with his papers, accompanied by a considerable sum of money. It has also come to my attention that he has discussed this matter with you.”

“Yes, on both counts,” I said. Listening to Peter made me want to be as terse in response as a character in a Dashiell Hammett novel. “I should have told you about it right after Godfrey spoke to me. But I guess I just got busy and didn’t think about it.”

“That is quite okay.” Peter waved my apology away. “No doubt the man believes he has bestowed an honor of great magnitude on his alma mater.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “If it were in my power to do so, I would tell Mr. Priest we don’t wish to house the work of a man who has prostituted himself to the bestseller lists.”

I had no idea Peter held such a low opinion of Godfrey and his work. I had never considered Peter a literary snob, either. He read fiction widely and counted several Mississippi mystery writers, like Carolyn Haines and Charlaine Harris, among his favorites. They had both spoken at Athena College, and Peter had been beside himself with excitement during their visits.

Why did he have such disgust for Godfrey Priest, then?

“I don’t think the president would be very happy if you did such a thing,” I said.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Peter replied. “More’s the pity. Athena College has always prided itself on its rich literary heritage.” He smiled sadly. “And now, having to add the work of a hack to our archives is a sad comedown and a none-too-subtle comment on the priorities of our current administration.”

“It’s not so bad. We also have the complete works of that nutty doctor from the nineteen fifties who fancied himself the next Walt Whitman.” One hundred and twenty-three privately bound, handwritten volumes of poetry so execrable it made rap songs sound like Shakespearean sonnets—but the man had left the college three quarters of a million dollars along with his so-called art.

Peter ignored that. “I should thank you, I suppose, for confirming the awful truth for me. And so I do. I know that I can leave the matter in your more-than-capable hands, Charles.”

“You certainly may, Peter,” I said. Peter never unbent so far as to call me Charlie. I stood. “If that’s all, then?”

Peter nodded. “I suppose I shall see you tonight at this absurd fête the president has planned?”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

Nodding again, he turned his attention to the papers on his desk.

I retreated to the door and let myself out, careful to close it softly behind me.

When I turned, I saw Diesel on top of Melba’s desk. Woman and cat were enjoying a conversation.

“Diesel got lonely, I guess.” Melba glanced at me over the cat’s head.

“Diesel, get down off the desk,” I said. “You know you’re not supposed to be up there.”

The cat muttered as he jumped to the floor. Padding to the doorway, he sat down and started to groom himself.

“He was looking for you,” Melba said.

“I know. He doesn’t like being left alone for long.”

“Did Peter talk to you about Godfrey Priest?” Melba leaned back in her chair.

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose I should have come and talked to him earlier, right after Godfrey dropped by this morning.” Now I felt a bit guilty. Peter should have heard the news from me.

“You know how he hates to think he’s always the last to find out something.” Melba glanced toward Peter’s door. “Like when he found out his wife was having an affair with Godfrey.”

“What?” I stepped closer to the desk. “When was this?”

“About ten years ago,” Melba said. “Not long before Peter came to Athena, in fact.”

“He was at some small college in California before, wasn’t he?”

Melba nodded. “Near Los Angeles. And guess who Mrs. Vanderkeller became friends with?”

“Godfrey. How did they meet?”

“Apparently she had these big plans to be a fancy Hollywood screenwriter.” Melba’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “The way I heard it, she was always dragging Peter to any party she could get herself invited to. She was supposed to be real attractive, and she met Godfrey at one of the parties.”

“She left Peter for Godfrey?” This was beginning to sound like the story line of a soap opera.

“She did. She divorced Peter and married Godfrey. His second wife, I think.” Melba thought a moment. “Yes, his second. His first wife was some C-list actress who actually made porn films, from what I heard.” The scandalized look on her face was priceless.

“How did Peter end up here, of all places? Didn’t he know this was Godfrey’s hometown?”

“No, poor man, just his luck.” Melba glanced toward Peter’s door again. “I guess he wanted to get as far away from California as he could, but he had no idea until after he got here that Godfrey was from Athena.”

The man was jinxed. I felt sorry for Peter. No wonder he had such a venomous attitude toward Godfrey.

“Is there anyone Godfrey
hasn’t
pissed off?” I gave Melba a rueful smile.

“I’m beginning to think not.” A buzzer sounded. Melba looked cross. “I’d better find out what he wants. I’ll see you tonight.”

“We’ll be there,” I said, heading for the door. “Come on, Diesel. Let’s finish upstairs and go home.”

Diesel bounded up ahead of me. He knew the word
home
.

I finished cataloging a couple more items, and when I remembered to look at my watch, I was surprised to see that it read 5:37. “Definitely time to go,” I said.

Diesel was ready, practically pulling me down the stairs once I locked the door to the archive behind us.

Back home again, I freed Diesel from his harness, and off he went to find crunchies and water. I headed to my bedroom on the second floor for a quick shower. I paused on the landing to listen for sounds of habitation on the third floor, where Justin’s room was.

“Justin? Are you there?”

I waited a moment and called again. There was no answer, only silence. I supposed he could still be with Godfrey, but Godfrey was due at his reception at seven. I went up the stairs to Justin’s door and tapped lightly. I called his name, but there was no response.

I listened for a moment longer and then tried his door. It was unlocked. Normally I wouldn’t have done it, because my boarders deserved their privacy. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Justin could be in trouble.

The room was empty, the bed unmade.

I shut the door and walked slowly back down the stairs to my room, telling myself not to worry. There was surely some innocuous reason for Justin’s absence.

Coming out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, still toweling my hair, I spotted Diesel in the middle of my bed. His head was cocked to the side, as if he were asking me a question.

“Yes, I’m going out, and yes, you’re going with me.” I frowned. I talked to Diesel a lot, I realized. Some people might find that odd, but it didn’t really matter. So I talked to my cat.

I was about to tie my tie when the phone rang. It might be Sean, my son. He sometimes called around this hour.

“Hello.”

Melba’s excited voice boomed out at me. “You won’t believe this. The party’s canceled.”

“Canceled?” I was stunned. “But why?”

“I heard Godfrey called the president’s office about half an hour ago and told them he was too ill to come. Peter just called me, and I called you right away.”

“Thanks for letting me know. But Godfrey seemed perfectly fine earlier.”

“It sure is strange,” Melba said, and I agreed.

“Look, Melba, I’ve got to go. Diesel’s demanding his dinner.” I knew that was the easiest way to get her off the phone. “See you tomorrow. Bye.”

I hung up and looked down at Diesel, lying half-asleep on my bed. He turned his head to look up at me, then blinked and yawned.

What had happened to Godfrey?

He reveled in attention, so there had to be a serious reason he’d canceled on a party in his honor.

Did it involve Justin in some way?

On that thought, I left my bedroom and proceeded back upstairs to the boy’s room. I might as well check in case he had come home while I was in the shower. Diesel passed me and scooted up the stairs well ahead of me. He was sitting in front of Justin’s door when I reached the third floor.

I knocked, but there was no answer. I opened the door, and there was still no sign of Justin.

“Come on, boy,” I said to Diesel as I shut the door. “He’s not here.”

Diesel bounded down the stairs before me. I headed for the kitchen, thinking vaguely about having something to eat. But by the time I reached the kitchen, my uneasiness over Justin’s absence had become more urgent.

I couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong. Why had Godfrey skipped out on his own party? Where was Justin?

Even if it turned out to be a waste of time and there was some simple explanation for all this, I decided not to sit home and wait.

So much for my not getting emotionally involved in this mess.
But my paternal instincts were kicking in, I guess.

Diesel followed me to the back door, but I told him he couldn’t come with me this time. He assumed a long-suffering expression, as if I were always abandoning him.