“Good afternoon,” Julia said moments later, as she paused in the doorway. “You look like you’ve been working out in the yard today.”
I glanced down and saw the streaks of dirt on my old khakis. “Weeding flowerbeds while Diesel stalked the jungle in search of dangerous leaves.”
Julia laughed at that.
“Come in and have a seat,” I said. “Would you like something to drink?”
“I’m fine,” Julia said as she came to the table. “We finished lunch a short time ago. Justin was anxious to get back. He has a paper due for his English class on Monday.”
I filled a glass of water from the tap and sat down at the table. “How are things?”
“Okay,” Julia said. “Though we had a visit this morning from Kanesha Berry.”
“I see,” I said. “I have an idea what you might have talked about.”
“How would you know?” Julia asked. “Is she taking you into her confidence?”
“Not exactly,” I said wryly. “But I did manage to find out a few things that she didn’t know.”
“Something to do with a writers’ group that I used to belong to.” Julia said it flatly. She looked annoyed, whether with me or Kanesha, I wasn’t sure.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why all the interest in something that happened twenty years ago?” Julia frowned. “I can’t see what my belonging to that group for a couple of years has to do with anything.” She paused for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes. “Though that
is
when I had my fling with Godfrey, the Lord forgive me, and got pregnant with Justin.”
“I can’t really say why Kanesha is interested, or why I am either,” I said. “But I do think it’s important. I never knew you were interested in writing.”
Julia shrugged. “I tried my hand at several things back then, trying to figure out what I could do besides being a preacher’s wife. I’d always made good grades in English, so I assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that I had potential as a writer.” She laughed suddenly, a bitter sound. “I had visions of becoming the new Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt. Not only were books like that not being published anymore—unless you were Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt—but I wasn’t very good at writing them. Godfrey might have been a jerk in many ways, but at least he convinced me to stop wasting my time.”
“You weren’t interested in writing thrillers?” She had sounded sincere when talking about her writing, but I needed to be sure she wasn’t X and trying to put me off the scent.
“Heavens, no.” She laughed again, this time sounding amused. “I almost never read them. I never had a desire to write them, I promise you.”
“Good,” I said. “What about the other members of the group? Were any of them interested in writing thrillers?”
“Not that I recall,” Julia said. She thought for a moment. “Rick Tackett was writing a book about Vietnam. I think it was therapy for him, more than anything else. The other two women in the group were writing romance novels, and one of them was working on a western. The history professor—I think he’s actually teaching Justin this semester—was writing this horrendously awful historical novel about an oversexed druid in ancient Britain.”
“That’s six of you,” I said. “Were there others in the group?”
“Occasionally,” Julia said. “We had three people join for a brief time, if I remember correctly, but they never lasted.”
“Do you remember who they were?” I was thinking of the person lurking behind Julia in the photograph. “Someone who might have been part of the group when Godfrey spoke to you twenty years ago?”
“That’s what Kanesha Berry wanted to know,” Julia said, her head tilted to one side.
“Oh,” I said. “And did you have an answer for her?”
Julia looked at me for a moment. “There was this strange little man who came a few times, but he never showed us any of his writing. Shortly after Godfrey talked to us, he stopped coming.”
“Who was he?” I said. I had the feeling Julia was deliberately dragging this out.
“He was one of our classmates in high school,” Julia said. She paused for a moment, and I thought I would have to prompt her again. Then she spoke. “It was Willie Clark. He always was an oddball, you know.”
TWENTY-NINE
“Willie.” Of course, I thought. Who I had seen the day Godfrey died, scribbling away at something in the staff lounge.
Then I put another piece of the puzzle together. The misogyny of the books. Who had a reputation for it? Willie did. I remembered the conversation I had overheard the other day in Hawksworth Library. Willie didn’t like women, while Godfrey did.
Perhaps I was jumping to conclusions, but for me, that clinched it. Willie was the X who wrote the books.
And who had a powerful motive for killing Godfrey.
“Charlie.” Julia’s voice brought me back to earth. “What is it? Why are you so excited about Willie?”
I tried to restrain myself. I didn’t want to give away anything to Julia, not without talking to Kanesha Berry first.
“I can’t really say,” I told her. “But knowing that Willie was part of your group, even briefly, helps fill in some missing pieces of the puzzle.”
Julia scrutinized me for a moment, as if she were trying to read my mind. “It’s the oddest thing,” she finally said.
“What is?” I asked when she fell silent again.
“About Willie,” Julia replied. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I could have sworn I saw him at Farrington House on Tuesday.”
“You did?” This was even better—a witness to place him near the scene of the crime.
Julia nodded. “I think it was him. You know how it is, when you’re in a hurry and you catch sight of someone in the corner of your eye. I don’t think it really registered at the time who he was.” She paused and closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to visualize the scene. “As I was leaving, I was aware of someone in the revolving door, entering the hotel. But I was in a hurry to get to the bank and then back to the hospital, so I didn’t think much about it at the time.”
“And it was Willie?” This put both Willie and Jordan Thompson in the hotel. I knew Jordan had seen Godfrey. The signed and dated copies of his new book were evidence of that.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure, the more I think about it,” Julia said.
If Willie was the killer, he saw Godfrey after Jordan did. According to her, she didn’t stay that long with Godfrey. Then in comes Willie with a strong grievance over Godfrey’s treatment of him. Perhaps he had wanted more money for his part of the deal, or maybe he simply was tired of the anonymity of his position and wanted recognition.
Whatever the motive, he might have become enraged by Godfrey’s attitude and struck Godfrey down on impulse.
Yes, that sounded like a believable scenario.
“When you talked to Kanesha about the writing group,” I said, “did you happen to mention that Willie was a member for a while?”
“Yes,” Julia said. “She had a picture with her. Actually an annual report from the library. I had forgotten all about that picture. Willie was there that day, I remembered, but he hid behind me. At the time I thought it was peculiar, but you know how he was in high school. Always scurrying from one place to another, trying not to be noticed.”
“So the football team wouldn’t pick on him, as I recall.” Willie’s life in high school had to have been pretty miserable. “And Godfrey was one of the worst.” How ironic that was, if I was right about Willie being X.
“Yes, he was.” Julia sighed. “He really was an out-and-out bastard a lot of the time.”
“You need to tell Kanesha that you saw Willie at the hotel that day.”
“Of course. As soon as I get the chance.” Julia glanced at her watch. “Perhaps I’d better go hurry Justin along.”
“Are you going somewhere this afternoon?” I asked.
Julia nodded. “Godfrey’s memorial service. I promised Justin I would go with him.” She gestured at my clothes. “Doesn’t look like you were planning to go.”
The moment Julia mentioned it, I realized I had forgotten all about it. I checked my watch. It was 12:32. If I hurried, I could clean up and get dressed and still make it to the service just about on time.
“I can’t believe I forgot about it,” I said, rising. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll run upstairs and get ready. I’ll see you and Justin there.”
So much for lunch.
But there would be food after the memorial service, I remembered.
“Good. We’ll save a spot for you, if we can. I expect a lot of people will turn out, just out of curiosity.”
“Probably so,” I said. “See you soon.” I hurried up the stairs.
I met Justin on the second floor landing. He was wearing a dark suit and looking pale but composed.
“Hello, sir,” he said. “Are you coming to the service?” He eyed my clothes with doubt.
“Yes, just running a little late,” I said. “I’ll see you there. Was Diesel with you?”
“He was,” Justin said, pausing on his way down the stairs. “But he disappeared while I was in the shower.” He hesitated, as if he was about to add something, but then he turned and continued down.
Diesel was napping on my bed, his head on one of the pillows. He opened one eye when I came in the room, regarded me for a moment, then shut it again. His tail twitched a couple of times while I took off my clothes, but after that he appeared to be sound asleep.
Just as well, I thought. The memorial service was one place I shouldn’t really take him. I hoped he would stay asleep while I got ready.
I took a very quick shower, and as I was toweling off, I reconsidered my decision not to take Diesel with me. I remembered Justin’s hesitation before he went on down the stairs. This memorial service was bound to be difficult for him, and I guessed he might have been planning to ask me to bring Diesel. Cat and young man seemed to have a special bond, and Justin needed support right now.
Diesel could come with me after all. For Justin’s sake.
I dressed quickly into one of my own dark suits. Diesel woke up when I sat on the bed to tie my shoes. “Come on, boy,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Diesel hopped off the bed and was at the door in a flash. He knew those words too well.
I glanced at my watch as I hurried down the stairs, Diesel ahead of me. It was 12:52. I would just about make it.
I had Diesel in his harness in record time, and then we headed out the door. It would be just as fast to walk to the college chapel as to drive and try to find a place to park, I reasoned.
We set off at a brisk pace, and the carillon on campus was chiming one as we approached the chapel, which was down the street from the library buildings.
Campus police were in evidence, as well as members of the sheriff’s department and the city police force. I spotted all three uniforms moving among the crowd of reports and photographers on the lawn outside the chapel. I should have realized that Godfrey’s memorial service would attract the media. As far as I knew, however, they were still unaware of my role in the case. I really owed Kanesha Berry for that.
Diesel and I weren’t the only late arrivals, though I was the only one accompanied by a cat. Diesel’s presence occasioned a few frowns, but I didn’t care. Justin mattered more than what these people thought.
A couple of reporters tried to get my attention, probably because of Diesel. I knew cameras were busy snapping shots of us as we hurried up the walk toward the front door of the chapel. One reporter with a microphone and a cameraman tried to step around the cordon the police had placed, but a campus officer quickly stepped in and forced her back behind the barrier. Diesel and I scooted into the chapel. I hoped we could avoid them again after the service.
I paused at the entrance to the sanctuary, trying to find Julia and Justin in the crowd. There were very few open seats, and the sanctuary could easily hold three hundred people. I spotted Melba Gilley and Peter Vanderkeller near the front. Willie Clark was here too, in the back row to my left. Jordan Thompson sat nearby, two rows in front of Willie. Standing in the back to my right was Kanesha Berry, dressed in a black skirt and jacket instead of her usual uniform. She saw me and acknowledged me with a brief nod.
I scanned the crowd again and finally picked out Julia and Justin about halfway down on the right in the middle of a pew. There was an empty space next to Justin, and I led Diesel toward it.
I mumbled, “Excuse me,” several times as Diesel and I made our way to the middle of the pew. One woman hissed, “Well, I never.” A vaguely familiar man with her told her to hush. “That’s the cat I told you about,” I heard him tell her in an undertone.
I flashed him a quick smile, and then I reached the empty space. I sat, and Diesel moved between Justin’s legs and stared up at him.
“Thank you,” Justin whispered to me. He bent forward and began to rub Diesel’s head. I just hoped the cat wouldn’t purr too loudly and annoy the people sitting around us.
Julia glanced down and shook her head, but smiled. She had her arm around her son’s shoulders.
The organist began playing. The service had started.
The choir sang two hymns, and the chaplain spoke briefly about Godfrey’s accomplishments and lamented a life cut short by violence. The president also spoke and said a few words about Godfrey’s generosity to the school over the years. Godfrey had always given money on condition of anonymity, and that surprised me. He always seemed to want to be the center of attention. Knowing this made me think slightly better of him.
The president introduced Godfrey’s agent, a petite blonde named Andrea Ferris, who said a few words about the effect of his death on his millions of fans around the world. She herself didn’t seem all that grief stricken, however. Perhaps she was simply putting up a brave front. The president stepped back in front of the microphone to invite everyone to move into the chapel meeting room for a reception in the dear departed’s memory.
Then it was over. It was mercifully brief, but the whole time I had been aware of the tension coming from mother and son beside me. There had been no mention of Godfrey’s recently discovered son during the service, and I imagined that both Julia and Justin were greatly relieved. The last thing they wanted right now was that kind of attention, especially with the media waiting right outside.