Claws For Concern

Diesel and I helped Bronwyn prepare the library for closing, and soon after Bronwyn locked the doors, Diesel and I headed toward the town square where the bookstore was located. Though the square was busy with traffic, I managed to find a parking spot in front of the store.

Jordan Thompson, a tall redhead, glanced up as the cat and I walked through the door. A smile split her lovely face, and she came from behind the counter to greet Diesel with a few rubs of the head. He rewarded her with a mixture of chirps and trills. Two other customers, hearing the cat, looked at us to discern the source of the odd noises. They both smiled in our direction before they resumed their browsing.

“I’m glad you could come by today, Charlie.” Jordan walked back behind the counter and pulled a stack of books from a shelf. She set the books on the counter for me to examine. I was happy to see among them new books by Ellery Adams and Julia Buckley, the latter author being a recent discovery. I set those two aside as definite yeses. Jordan talked to Diesel while I delved further into the stack.

The next book I picked up was Hell Has No Fury by Jack Pemberton. I began to thumb through it. He had dedicated the book to his wife, Wanda Nell. That was a Southern name if ever I heard one, I thought with a smile. After the dedication page came a page of acknowledgments, and that I skipped. On the next page, there was a quotation, the line from Congreve’s The Mournful Bride, the source of the book’s title. I took that as an encouraging sign. The man was obviously literate if he was quoting Congreve. I sampled the first couple of pages and decided I liked Pemberton’s style.

I held up the book with the title facing Jordan. “Have you met the author?”

Jordan nodded. “Yes, he’s been here twice to sign books. Really nice guy. He teaches high school English in Tullahoma.”

An English teacher. That explained the Congreve quotation.

“Why this sudden interest in true crime?” Jordan asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever bought any from me before.”

I didn’t want to share the real reason for my interest with her. Time enough for that later, if I decided to cooperate with Pemberton on his book idea. So I prevaricated. “His name came up in conversation recently, and I was curious.”

“Let me know what you think,” Jordan said.

“I will,” I replied. I examined the three other books she had set aside. I passed on two of them but the third I decided to give a try.

Jordan rang me up, and a few minutes later Diesel and I headed home. Jordan had managed to slip him a few of the cat treats she kept on hand for his visits, and he was a happy kitty. I would have said spoiled, but that was redundant, of course.

After a full day at the library I was ready to get home and relax. Dinner and maybe a glass or two of wine, then I’d settle down with Pemberton’s book and read until bedtime and my regular Saturday late-night phone call with Helen Louise.

We were half a block from home when I noticed a man walking down the sidewalk, his back to the car, in front of the house. He glanced at the house for a moment but continued on his way.

By the time I reached the driveway the man had reached the corner and began to cross the intersection. From the back he seemed familiar, but I didn’t realize who he was until I pulled into the garage.

It was Bill Delaney.

SIX

So Bill Delaney walked by the house. There was nothing wrong with that. I already knew he was curious about the former home of my aunt and uncle. I just wished I knew what the true connection was between Bill Delaney and Uncle Del.

Diesel hurried into the kitchen ahead of me. After I put away my things, including the bag of books from the Athenaeum, I went into the utility room to replenish Diesel’s water and dry food. When I finished that, I found him in the kitchen in front of the fridge. He knew it was dinnertime.

Tonight’s meal was about as simple as they came. I cooked a hamburger and made myself a salad. When Diesel smelled the ground beef cooking he headed for his food bowl. He didn’t care for hamburger.

He did keep me company while I ate, however. He remained by my chair until I finished, and then he watched—or should I say supervised—while I cleaned up after myself in the kitchen. After that we retired to the den. He stretched out on the sofa, his head rubbing against my thigh, while I settled in to get started on Jack Pemberton’s book.

I soon became engrossed in the book and read it straight through, with only a couple of brief breaks to stretch my legs and retrieve a drink from the kitchen.