Shaking my head over my foolishness, I turned away from the computer to examine some papers on my desk. Where had I put that letter? I lifted one or two of the piles until I had located what I wanted.
Besides cataloging, I also handled certain kinds of reference questions, those that related to some historical aspect of the college or the library’s archives and rare books. Yesterday I had received a request from an elderly woman in Vicksburg who was trying to track down a stray twig on her family tree. Said twig was supposed to have attended Athena College back in the 1840s, not long after the school was founded.
Glancing through the letter, I found the name I needed. Laying the letter aside, I left my desk and approached a shelf of reference materials to the left of the door. What I sought was an old book of attendance records that should answer the question. One of these days I hoped to get a grant to have the records computerized, but until that happened, the old-fashioned way would have to do.
I pulled the book off the shelf and gently turned the pages until I found the years I wanted. Sounds from other parts of the library drifted up. The acoustics often behaved oddly, the grand stairway and the high-ceilinged foyer serving to bounce voices around.
While I scanned the precisely formed but tiny handwriting of the registrar of the 1840s, searching for one Bushrod Kennington, I heard snatches of conversation. I paid them scant attention, focusing on my task. But when I heard the words murder and Priest, I started listening.
TWO
I kept listening but could discern no other words. The voices faded.
I found the incident oddly unsettling, though I couldn’t say why. I supposed the conversation was about Godfrey Priest, since he was the hot topic in Athena at the moment. And hearing the word murder in conjunction with his name wasn’t that odd. The man did write murder mysteries.
I stopped listening and resumed my search until I located old Bushrod.
Back at my desk I made a few notes, planning to respond to the letter after lunch. This morning I intended to spend my time cataloging. I retrieved the truck of books I’d been working on and pulled the next book to catalog. After logging in to the cataloging module of our integrated library system (or ILS, in library parlance), I began to examine the book.
Part of a collection of nineteenth-century medical books, this particular volume was an 1807 treatise on midwifery by Thomas Denman. The binding was in excellent condition, but I opened the book with great care, as always. By now I was accustomed to handling books two centuries old and even older, but I still felt a sense of wonder when I touched them. So sturdy, able to survive two hundred years with proper care, but at the same time so fragile, so easily destroyed. A faint mustiness tickled my nose, and my fingers caressed the cool softness of the pages.
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.”