Arsenic And Old Books

The writer frowned. “This is a delicate situation. You have to understand that. His family doesn’t know about our relationship, and they won’t be happy when they do find out.” She paused. “I’m in the process of divorcing my husband, you see. Also, I grew up poor, and nobody in my family has any kind of political pull. They aren’t going to look kindly on their son being involved with me, not at a time like this. Maybe not ever.”

I thought she was probably right about that, because I was pretty sure I knew the name of her fiancé: Andrew Beckwith Long, scion of a proud and wealthy family, with political connections—and ambitions—enough to make a poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks a liability.

SEVEN

Ms. Grimes seemed hesitant to speak the man’s name. I was tired of this shilly-shallying around, so I did it for her.

“Andrew Beckwith Long,” I said.

She nodded. “There’s one other thing, though.” She paused. “He doesn’t know I’m doing this. He wants me to stay on the sidelines for now, but it’s driving me crazy, not being able to help him. At least publicly, that is. I’ve been researching his family, and the minute I saw those diaries listed, I thought they might be useful. Plus I could do it without anyone in the family catching on.”

I could follow her trail of reasoning. “Then if you discovered anything truly useful that could help boost his chances, his family would look more kindly on you as a potential daughter-in-law.”

“Yes, that’s pretty much it.” She laughed. “I guess I can’t fool you.”

I didn’t respond to that comment. For one thing, I didn’t fully trust her. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about her that didn’t ring quite true.

She must have picked up on my doubts somehow. She leaned forward in her chair and stared hard at me. “Look, I know this must sound crazy to you, but this is politics after all. You know how weird they can get in this state. Old Southern families and their precious images are golden. The Beckwiths and the Longs have been Athena royalty since before the Civil War, and the Grimes family were poor tenant farmers back then and pretty much still are.” Her gaze turned somber. “I’m proud of who I am. I worked hard to get an education, and I’m doing my darnedest to make the best of it, and of myself.”

I understood her sentiments, and I sympathized with her to a certain extent. I simply couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something she wasn’t telling me.

“Are you going to let me look at those diaries or not?”

“I am,” I said, “but not today.” I held up a hand to forestall the protest I could see forming on her lips. “The mayor asked me to give Dr. Steverton exclusive access to them for three weeks. I have to abide by her wishes on this.”

Kelly Grimes’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “That sucks, you know. That really and truly sucks big-time.”

“I understand that,” I said. “But I haven’t finished. I will talk to the mayor again about letting another person have access, without giving anything away about your purpose or your connection to her son.”

“Fair enough.” The writer bounced out of her seat and stuck her hand across my desk. “Mr. Harris, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. And in the long run, Andrew will appreciate it, too.”

I shook her hand. “I hope the diaries will prove to be worth all this trouble. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get to work.”

“I know my exit cue when I hear it.” Ms. Grimes offered me a broad smile before she turned and loped out of the office with her long-legged stride.

If I were a drinking man, I would have a bottle of bourbon in the desk drawer. Right about now, I’d pull it out and pour myself a shot and knock it back. Then do it again.

I wasn’t a drinking man, however. Instead I settled for getting a cup of water from the cooler and downing a couple of the aspirin I’d brought with me. Thanks to the combined efforts of Marie Steverton and Kelly Grimes, I discovered, I had a raging headache from all the morning’s tension.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for a couple of minutes. My attempt at relaxation helped ease the throbbing in my forehead.

During my talk with Kelly Grimes my mind had not been completely focused on the conversation. I was thinking of some way to make access to the diaries simpler for everyone concerned. From my cursory perusal of them yesterday I didn’t think they were good candidates for photocopying. The paper wasn’t brittle, thankfully, but the bindings wouldn’t hold up being flattened on the bed of a photocopier.

The archive did possess an overhead scanner to capture images of the pages, and a researcher could also use a digital camera for the same purpose. Both were tedious and time-consuming processes, but in the long run this might be the best option for both Marie Steverton and Kelly Grimes. My half-formed thought was to discuss this with Mayor Long and see whether she would allow it. It was a reasonable request, I figured, and I didn’t think she would have any serious objections.