The quicker we got away from the subject of weddings, the better. Helen Louise and I hadn’t looked that far ahead, and frankly, I wasn’t ready to just yet. Sean and I were alike in that respect.
At the mention of dinner Diesel meowed loudly and glanced from me to Laura and back again. His expression was so hopeful, and so funny, that we all started laughing, and the tension dissipated.
We busied ourselves with plates and bowls of salad, and the conversation shifted to other topics as we ate. Diesel sat first by Helen Louise, then by Laura, knowing full well they were easier touches than Sean. I would of course be his last resort.
“Where’s Stewart tonight?” Sean asked. “Isn’t this his lasagna?”
“It is,” Laura said. “He has a date tonight, and he was all atwitter.” She grinned. “Either it’s a first date or the guy must be pretty special. Stewart changed his clothes about seven times before he finally settled on something.”
While the others chatted about Stewart and the possible identity of his new flame, I found myself unable to shake Vera Cassity from my thoughts. Her attempts to cause trouble infuriated me, and I wondered what I could possibly do to put a stop to it.
The obvious answer to that was to let her have access to the Ducote archives. But there was no way I was going to compromise my professional ethics and allow that. I’d never be able to look Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce in the face again if I did.
Thoughts of the Ducote sisters reminded me of what Helen Louise had told us earlier—and of my own conversation that afternoon with the sisters. The warlike gleam in Miss An’gel’s eyes meant trouble for Vera, but I had no idea what the Ducotes planned to do to neutralize her. Things might come to a head at the gala, according to Helen Louise. I was nervous enough already about that, and the thought of histrionics on a grand, public scale made me push my lasagna away, half eaten.
The biblical adage went around and around in my head: “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” The language of the King James Version—almost always misquoted, which annoyed me—made it sound more doom laden than the modernized revisions of more recent years.
If anyone seemed hell-bent on destruction, it was Vera Cassity.
NINE
The Tuesday of the Friends of the Library annual gala dawned cold but clear. The temperature even promised to hit the midfifties by late afternoon. All in all, an auspicious beginning to what would be a long—and stressful—day. We had sold a record hundred and twenty-seven tickets for the event and had raised nearly ten thousand dollars so far. We would get more from the silent auction with prizes like round-trip airfare and a week’s stay at a nice hotel in London, signed first editions by Mississippi writers, and gift certificates from local merchants.
The party would overflow with food, probably much more than the attendees could eat. In addition to the pastries and cakes and mini quiches from Helen Louise’s bakery, Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce had arranged contributions from two restaurants and a caterer. No one would go hungry tonight.
The board decided early on to make this year’s gala different from previous ones by making it a costumed affair. All attendees were urged to come dressed as their favorite characters from popular fiction. Miss Dickce suggested we have a costume contest, with prizes for the best single and couple costumes, and everyone agreed. Board members wouldn’t take part in the contest but would judge instead.
Helen Louise and I, both avid mystery readers, put our heads together several weeks ago and decided we should pick an interesting couple from mystery fiction. As fans of Agatha Christie, we eventually landed on Hercule Poirot and Ariadne Oliver. After a trip to a costume shop and two thrift stores in Memphis, we found what we needed.
Diesel regarded me with what looked like suspicion as I affixed my fake mustache to my upper lip with spirit gum. Once it was in place I looked down at him. “Bon soir, mon chat. I am the famous detective Hercule Poirot.” Diesel appeared not the least impressed with my attempt to sound like David Suchet, the amazing actor who portrayed Poirot on the small screen so brilliantly.
I surveyed myself in the mirror with a certain amount of satisfaction. Helen Louise had helped me choose the suit, of the type Suchet often wore onscreen. Even if I said so myself, I did look rather dapper. I felt oddly formal, however, and hoped I wouldn’t overheat during the gala. The wool of the suit, added to the heavy linen shirt, an undershirt, a silk waistcoat, and a thick cravat were much warmer than I had expected.
It was all for a good cause, I reflected as I preened in the mirror a moment longer. Diesel made snuffling noises, and I wondered if that was a feline attempt at laughter. I rubbed his head, and the noises became rumbling purrs.
“You’re not going to be too happy with me in a little while,” I told him. When I left the house without him, he would be annoyed, but there would simply be too many people at the gala. As sociable as he was, he would be freaked out by the noise and the sheer mass of bodies. He would be better off here at home, and Justin had agreed to babysit. He’d had his last final earlier today, and he planned on an evening of relaxation with a good book, an old movie or two, and some quality time with his favorite cat.
The rest of the household would join us at River Hill tonight. Stewart, as a board member, had to be present. Laura would be escorted by her boyfriend, Frank Salisbury, a young professor in the theater department at Athena College, and Sean was going with Alexandra Pendergrast. Neither of my children nor Stewart would tell me what characters they’d chosen to portray. The secretiveness of it all was simply part of the fun, and everyone seemed to have entered into the spirit of the event.
In the back of my mind, however, I couldn’t let go of my worries about Vera Cassity and what she might do. Since her attack on Helen Louise a few days ago, she had made no further moves—as far as I was aware—to punish me for not letting her snoop in the archives. Perhaps she was well and truly chastened by orders from Q. C. Pendergrast and her husband to stop meddling. No matter how much money Vera—or rather, her husband, Morty—had, Q. C. Pendergrast would pull out any necessary stops to put Vera in her place.
Maybe I worried over nothing. Maybe the gala would go off without a hitch tonight, and Vera would be on her best behavior. After all, she aimed to be the cynosure of the cream of Athena society, and she wouldn’t want to embarrass herself in front of them by doing anything nasty or vindictive.
Right—and the mighty Mississippi might start flowing north any minute now.
Diesel ran down the stairs ahead of me and into the kitchen, where we found Justin eating a sandwich and chips. He had a book propped open beside his plate, but he looked up when I entered.
His eyes widened, and he grinned. “Cool costume, Mr. Charlie. Poirot, right? Love the mustache, too.”
“Thanks, and, yes, I’m Hercule Poirot.” I glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes past five thirty. “Helen Louise is going as Mrs. Oliver, and I’d better be on my way to pick her up. We’re supposed to be at River Hill by six at the latest.”
“Don’t worry about Diesel,” Justin said as he caressed the cat’s shoulders and along his spine. Diesel chirped happily in response. “He and I will have a fine old time tonight while y’all enjoy yourselves at the ball. Will someone take pictures? I bet the costumes will be awesome.”
“There’s supposed to be a photographer from the paper, so I’m sure he’ll snap plenty of photos.” I grabbed my keys, and Diesel saw me. He started toward me, but Justin called him back. “Not tonight, boy, you have to stay here with Justin.”