I went without protest. I should have restrained myself and waited until I could speak to her alone, but sometimes I got a bit carried away. I recalled an expression my grandmother used when I did something like this as a child: “His head knows better, but his feet can’t stand it.”
In other words, despite knowing better, I sometimes put my foot in it.
Kanesha led me back out into the sanctuary. I spotted Justin and Diesel in the choir loft, away from the few people sitting in pews, eating and talking. Kanesha found a spot a good ten feet away from anyone else and pointed to a pew.
I sat.
She sat down beside me, about a foot away on the pew. Her right hand gripped the back of the pew in front of us, and I saw her knuckles tighten. “You cannot blurt out things like that.”
“I know,” I said, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry. It’s just that, now that I know who killed Godfrey, I want this to be over.”
Kanesha closed her eyes for a moment, and I wondered whether she was praying for patience. Her grip on the pew didn’t loosen.
“You know who killed Godfrey Priest?” Her eyes opened. “I suppose you think Willie Clark did it.”
“Yes,” I said, eager to atone for my goof. “Once I found out he was part of the writers’ group, and knowing what we know about someone else writing Godfrey’s books, it all fell into place.”
“How so?” Kanesha let go of the pew and folded her arms across her chest.
“The attitude toward women in the books,” I said. “Look, have you ever read one of the books?”
“Yes, a few of them,” Kanesha said. “I like to read them and find all the mistakes in police procedure.” She shook her head. “His books were pretty bad in that respect. But I know what you mean about the women in his books. He didn’t like them.”
“Well, that wasn’t Godfrey. From what everyone says, Godfrey truly liked women. He just couldn’t settle down with one. It’s Willie who’s the big-time misogynist. You should hear him talking to female staff and students sometimes. He can be a real jerk.”
“Okay,” Kanesha said. “He’s a misogynist. I’d need more evidence than that, though. Even if he did write the books. I have to have something that links him to the actual murder.”
“According to Julia, he was at the hotel that day. He had to have gone there to talk to Godfrey.” I was feeling a bit deflated by her lack of excitement. I thought surely she would see the picture as clearly as I did.
But she was an officer of the law, and I was a librarian. This was her job, not mine.
“I will ask him about it,” Kanesha said. “But unless he admits to being there, I’m going to need more than Mrs. Wardlaw’s glimpse of him in a revolving door to go on.”
“Of course,” I said. “You need physical evidence for a stronger case.” I had read enough mysteries to know that. “But at least now you have motive and opportunity.”
“There are other suspects who have motives and who also had the opportunity,” Kanesha said, her logic relentless.
“Okay, you win,” I said. Here I thought I had come up with the answer, and she was refusing to accept it.
What if I was wrong? That was an unwelcome thought. There were things Kanesha knew that I didn’t—if her investigation had turned up any kind of evidence from the scene of the crime. I didn’t even know what the murder weapon was.
“You did help—a little. I found out some things faster because of your interference.” Her tone was grudging, but I knew better than to expect outright gratitude.
I nodded.
“But you’re done,” she said. “Back off now, and leave me to finish this.”
I saw the glint in her eye. “You know who did it, don’t you?”
Kanesha regarded me for a moment. “I do. I have a few more things to check, however, and I don’t want you getting in my way again.”
“I won’t, I promise,” I said.
“Good.” Kanesha stood and made her way out of the pew. She disappeared through the door into the meeting room.
I sat there, thinking about our conversation. Kanesha seemed awfully sure she knew who the murderer was. Was that because of what Julia and I had told her about Willie? Or had she known already?
Perhaps that meant Willie wasn’t the killer.
Not knowing was going to annoy me to no end. I had a sudden suspicion that was why Kanesha had told me she knew the killer’s identity. If so, I supposed it was adequate payback for the annoyance I had caused her.
It was time to head back to the reception. I would have to be careful about what I said, and to whom, though. I had pushed Kanesha far enough.
I stood in the doorway and looked around, searching for Julia. After a moment, I spotted her in the far corner to my right, talking to someone, but I couldn’t see who it was. As I moved closer, I could peer through the crowd, and I recognized Godfrey’s agent, Andrea Ferris.
At the same time I also spotted one of the campus blowhards, an elderly English professor named Pemberton Galsworthy. Many suspected the name was his own invention because it was so pompous sounding. But in that respect it was apt. He was a self-important windbag who never had an opinion he wasn’t willing to share with anyone within hearing distance.
I almost turned away, knowing that I could be stuck there for an hour if I joined the group. Galsworthy never had conversations. He performed soliloquies.
But Julia caught sight of me, and I couldn’t ignore the plea in her eyes. I didn’t know why she thought I could do anything to stop the deluge of words. We had suffered through Galsworthy’s sophomore literature course together, and she knew him as well as I did.
I moved forward and sidled up next to Julia.
Galsworthy noticed me—in itself noteworthy—and interrupted himself to acknowledge my presence. He peered at me. “Harris, isn’t it? Librarian, aren’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he resumed his peroration, peering now at Godfrey’s agent. “Contemporary literature has obviously been bastardized to the point of utter banality. Crass commercialism, naturally. Publishing was once the profession of gentlemen—educated, sophisticated, cultured—who chose works for their literary merit and their ability to enlighten and transform. Not because they would sell in the millions and cater to the tastes of the lowest common denominator, so sadly low these days, one fears for the intellectual survival of the species.”
He had more to say in that vein, but I tuned him out for a moment, though I faced him with a rapt expression. I had learned to do it in his class, and thankfully it was a skill I hadn’t completely forgotten.
I sneaked a glance at Andrea Ferris, dressed smartly in a dark suit and spike heels that made her stand about five-two. She had that glazed look common to anyone in Galsworthy’s presence for more than ten seconds.
Julia nudged me, and I looked at her. She frowned and bobbed her head in Galsworthy’s direction. I knew what she wanted, but short of clapping my hand over the man’s mouth and shoving him into a closet, I didn’t know how to shut him up. We could simply have turned and walked away, but generations of Southern grandmothers would spin in their graves if we behaved so rudely. That was the curse of being raised to have good manners and to treat one’s elders with respect—no matter how irritating they were.
I tuned back in at the sound of Godfrey’s name.
“. . . a sad example of a young man with a good mind—a good mind, you understand, not a fine one—but, yes, a young man with a good mind who could have accomplished something more lasting than such ephemera as he chose to create. Then there is his appalling portrayal of females in his work. One has little doubt that a psychiatrist could have helped the poor boy work through his obvious feelings of hatred toward women. Yet I have no doubt that his female readers little suspected his opinion of them.”
I exchanged amused glances with Julia. Galsworthy had obviously read some of Godfrey’s work, though one wondered why he had allowed his intellect to be sullied by entertainment of such dubious value to mankind.