Arsenic And Old Books

“They are already aware of the gift,” Mrs. Long said. “One of my husband’s good friends—and mine as well—is Professor Howell Newkirk. He was dining with us last night, and I happened to mention it to him.”

“I see.” That was unexpected news. I was acquainted with Dr. Newkirk. He was elderly, irascible, and pushy. He was also the most eminent historian on the Athena faculty, and he knew it. He demanded, and was usually given, what he wanted. I was surprised he wasn’t already in my office asking to see the diaries.

Mrs. Long smiled. “I know Howell can be, well, rather insistent on things, but I suggested that he give you a few days with the diaries before he even thought about assigning a student to work on them. There might be others interested in them as well.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Then I will make sure they are ready sooner rather than later. I will add these to the list attached to your original deed of gift for the rest of the collection, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Mrs. Long said. She hesitated a moment before she continued. Her eyes focused like lasers on me. “You might be aware that my son, Beck, plans to run for office in the near future. And that he is facing a challenge. Rachel Afton Long was an extraordinary woman, and the more the voters know about the history of the Long family and its achievements and triumphs, the more they will want to see a member of the family in office.”

With that, she nodded, gathered up her purse, and departed.

I stared at the pile of diaries on my desk. Why would the mayor think that Rachel Long’s writings could affect the outcome of a twenty-first-century political race?

TWO

I continued to puzzle over the mayor’s odd remarks while I worked on the four volumes of Rachel Long’s diaries. Perhaps Rachel had performed some heroic act during the Civil War that the mayor thought should be better known. Even if that were the case, I wondered how it would help Beck Long politically. I eventually decided that the mind of a politician worked differently from mine and put aside the question for later.

All four volumes were in very good condition, their mustiness aside. The most obvious problem for each was its binding. On all of them the leather had dried and cracked, and for the moment the best thing I could do was construct an archival box for each. I set the boxes on a nearby shelf. Until I finished with them, they would remain in the office with me. Then I would place them in the room next door where the bulk of the archive’s documents resided.

I now had less than a quarter hour left before it was time to head home. Diesel abandoned his perch and prowled around the office, a sure sign that he knew the time. He was as ready to go home as I was. The intense concentration of my task had left me with neck strain and a headache, and I quickly discovered I had no aspirin or ibuprofen in the office.

I needed to do one more job before we could leave, however. I wanted to add the diaries to the inventory of the Long family collection and update the record in the library’s online catalog. Later on I would catalog the diaries separately, but for now a note on the master record would suffice.

That task completed, I shut down my computer. Diesel waited by the office door. A few minutes later we headed down the sidewalk toward home. By the time we reached the house we both had wilted from the September heat and humidity. I was ready for a cold drink, and Diesel made a beeline for the utility room the moment I opened the front door.

In the kitchen I shed my jacket and briefcase and went to the fridge for the water pitcher. Two glasses later I felt cooler and no longer parched. Diesel came chirping out of the utility room to sit at my feet. He stared up at me and meowed loudly. I knew that meow. Either his bowls needed refilling, or the cat box needed cleaning. He wouldn’t stop talking to me until I took care of the problem.

Once I had accomplished these duties to the cat’s satisfaction, I poured myself another glass of water and sat at the kitchen table to relax for a few minutes.

The house felt empty. My daughter, Laura, now a married woman, had moved out after her June wedding and into the house owned by her husband, Frank Salisbury. Their wedding was a beautiful occasion, full of laughter and occasional tears. Throughout the ceremony I could feel my late wife, Jackie, by my side. Both Laura and Frank taught in the theater department at Athena College, and their teaching schedules kept them fully occupied. I saw them occasionally on campus, and they came for dinner once a week. Frank was a good man, and I was happy for my daughter. I missed her presence in the house terribly, though, and I knew Diesel did as well. I think Laura was his second favorite human after me.