Arsenic And Old Books

The latter was a question I really wanted to put to Lucinda Long, but at this point I couldn’t. I ought to keep track of my questions, though. Accordingly I pulled out a notepad and pen to start jotting them down. I preferred writing to typing at times like this, because something about the physical act itself seemed to help clarify my thought processes.

After further reflection, I added a few more questions to my list. Did Marie assist the mayor with the forgery? Was that the motive for her murder? Did she threaten to expose the scam?

I recalled that Mrs. Long mentioned a phone call she had from Marie the night she died. Mrs. Long said Marie had been drinking heavily and was asking questions about the monetary value of the diaries. What was the figure the mayor mentioned? Fifty thousand dollars—yes, that was it. Was that conversation Marie’s way of letting the mayor know she wanted fifty thousand dollars to keep quiet about the forgery?

That made no sense. Why would the mayor tell me about the conversation if Marie had been trying to blackmail her?

Maybe the mayor did it to blacken Marie’s character. Mrs. Long might also have assumed that no one would figure out the one volume was a forgery, so she thought it safe to mention the conversation with Marie.

I put the pen down for a moment because my hand started to cramp, trying to keep up with all the questions and thoughts streaming through my head.

Back to the memoir, I decided. I’d read the rest of it instead of coming up with more questions I couldn’t answer. Then on to the removed diary pages—from the real diary. I might find some answers there.

I didn’t spend long on the remainder of Angeline Long’s overblown prose. I recognized several incidents from the forged volume. Whoever the forger was, she had clearly used this memoir to include authentic-sounding details. Even to the extent of the green tarlatan fabric that Rachel gave to Vidalia Singletary for herself and her children.

The final few paragraphs offered a pious summation of Rachel’s life of charitable works and extraordinary goodness. Her “piety and Christian love for all those around her was noted by all who met her.” I had to wonder what Rachel herself would have thought of this ersatz encomium. I repeated those two words to myself. Yes, I thought, they described this little tribute well.

Before I started on the diary pages, I thought I ought to call Kanesha and give her an update. She needed to know I’d discovered the source of the information in the forged volume. I was about to pick up the phone when another, all-too-obvious question struck me.

Why had the forger used Angeline Long’s memoir of Rachel rather than Rachel’s own diaries? Had the forger even read the original diaries?

Every question I posed seemed to make the whole situation more impenetrable. I couldn’t follow a straight line of logic more than a point or two before hitting a dead end. This was beginning to drive me mad.

It was all too complicated to get across in a phone call. Instead I decided to send Kanesha an e-mail. Then I would send a text message to alert her to the e-mail.

For the next fifteen minutes I typed. I went through the message three times before I was satisfied that I’d included enough details along with the important questions I had. When I finally hit Send I was about ready for a hot shower followed by a couple of stiff shots of whiskey.

Diesel warbled, and when I glanced at the windowsill, I saw him on his back contorted in a position that looked painful, with his head nearly under one shoulder and his chest thrust out at an angle. This was my signal to rub his belly and scratch his chin, and being the well-trained servant I am, I complied.

After a couple of minutes of cat therapy I was ready to tackle the formerly missing diary pages. I located the file in my e-mail, saved it to the computer, then opened it. I increased the size by about 20 percent to make it easier to read.

I picked up the volume from which the pages had been cut and opened it to the gap. I wanted to get a running start, as it were, on the scanned pages.

The entry before the gap was dated August 10, 1863.

This day began like so many before it, with prayers to our Lord to deliver us from the evil in which we daily found ourselves. The war drags on, and there are constantly rumors that the Union Army is about to descend upon us. Then there came to us what at first looked like the Lord’s blessing, a wonderful gift.