Arsenic And Old Books

“No, bad kitty,” I told him as I hurried forward to grab the cookie away from him. I couldn’t believe I’d been so careless as to leave the cookie within reach. “I told you these aren’t good for you. Cats aren’t supposed to eat raisins.”

Diesel meowed loudly as I pulled the cookie away in time. I took it to the sink and put it down the garbage disposal. Diesel warbled in protest loudly enough that I heard him over the grinding of the disposal. I switched it off and turned to look down at my cat. He seemed cross.

“Too bad,” I said. “If you want a snack go eat more of your crunchies.”

Diesel turned away and marched off, tail in the air. He didn’t head for the utility room, though. Instead he made for the stairs. I figured he was going to sulk in my bedroom.

Diesel didn’t pout with me that often, and the good thing about it was that he wasn’t destructive when he did. I would give him a couple of his favorite cat treats at dinner, and that would improve his mood.

I called Miss An’gel’s cell phone but had to leave a message. I explained briefly the reason for my call, then rang off. The Ducote sisters spent most of their time doing volunteer work in Athena and the surrounding area. Meetings of various committees and boards kept them busy, so I wasn’t surprised not to get an answer right away. Miss An’gel would return my call as soon as she could.

In the meantime I pondered how I would spend my evening. Too early yet for dinner, so what to do? Kanesha said the four volumes of Rachel Long’s diary would be returned tomorrow morning, and that would mean a heavy workload. I sighed. I wasn’t eager to plunge back into the one volume I had scanned, but I might as well. The sooner I got through them all, the sooner I might discover a clue to the present-day murder if one existed.

I went into the den and powered up my laptop. I got comfortable on the sofa and opened up the file I sent myself yesterday. I paged down until I found the last entry I’d read in my office.

The next entry came three days later.

The transaction is complete. Celeste thanked me most prettily, and I wished her well, keeping my misgivings to myself. The Good Lord only knew her fate, and I prayed that He would be merciful to her and to Franklin and their babe. I gave her two of my mother-in-law’s dresses and an old woolen cloak of hers as well, in addition to the things I had already provided her during her service to our family. I shall miss her, I must confess, for she has been a cheerful presence in this sad and unhappy house.

For the next couple of weeks Rachel wrote of daily life during a hard winter. Their stores of food diminished at an alarming rate, and Rachel prayed they would be able to find provisions in town. She longed for the spring and its warmth and for the chance to plant vegetables to sustain them throughout the year.

On January 27, 1862, Rachel noted the death of Jasper Singletary, “too worn down by illness and despair to linger in this world.” She would pray for his soul, that he had been reunited with his loved ones in Heaven. She made no mention of Franklin and Celeste.

After that Rachel evidently had little time or energy for daily attention to the diary. Two or three days often passed without any record of her activities. When Rachel did take time to write, she had little to say other than to mention problems with food and other supplies. Often she concluded with the words “and may the Lord provide as He will.”

The bleakness of life in wartime came through poignantly in these pages. I admired Rachel’s fortitude in facing each day and somehow struggling through. I felt I knew her a little, and I could not see the Rachel I found in these pages as a coldhearted killer—a woman who plotted the deaths of four people in order to help her father-in-law take the land he wanted from a bereaved husband and father.

She occasionally mentioned her own child, a son of four named after his father and grandfather, Andrew Adalbert Long III. He was a bonny child, she said, and she took comfort in his youth and energy. She sometimes ate little in order that he would have enough, particularly during the cold winter when they had to be careful with their supplies. She longed for her husband’s safe return, and the pain of not knowing either his whereabouts or the state of his health affected her sleep.