Classified As Murder

Terry Farmer, Ph.D., proud mom of three Maine coons, Figo, Anya, and Katie, continues to serve as my technical advisor in all matters having to do with Maine coon cats. Any mistakes in my portrayal of Diesel and his behavior are mine and not hers. Carolyn Haines has gone out of her way to help launch this series, and as always, I am amazed and grateful for her unceasing generosity to other writers. As with every book I write, I must thank Patricia R. Orr and Julie Herman for being there to encourage me and egg me on. I couldn’t do it without them.

ONE

When I was a boy growing up in Athena, Mississippi, forty-odd years ago, the public library occupied a large one-story house built in 1842. The town bought it in 1903 and converted the front rooms to one large space, full of bookshelves, chairs, tables, and the checkout desk. Windows with shades protected the books and furnishings from the sun. I remember it as a cool, slightly dusty place where I could roam among the shelves to find all kinds of treasures. There was a feeling of age, of time reaching back deep into the past, in that house. The way a library should feel, I’ve always thought.

I moved back to Athena from Houston a few years ago, and after I settled into my late aunt Dottie’s house, I made a beeline for the library. To my dismay, I discovered the town had built a new library, a larger facility with little character and no distinguishing features—think 1980s “municipal bland.” The old library sat empty and ill kept, like a derelict widow who had outlived all her family. I never drove or walked past the place if I could help it. If buildings could look sad, this one surely did.

As much as I missed the charm of the original building, I would admit—if pressed—that the new building had a few advantages. More than one toilet, for example, and space bigger than a broom closet for an office. The new building provided several offices for a full-time staff of six. I shared one of them with Lenore Battle, a cataloger, the days I volunteered.

Having been head of a branch in the Houston system before retiring, I could turn my hand to just about anything that needed doing at the Athena Public Library. Sometimes I cataloged—my preference—but more often I worked reference or the circulation desk.

Today I was filling in at the reference desk for the head of the department, who was off for two weeks on a well-deserved vacation. Teresa Farmer was a good friend, and I was more than happy to help her out. A few hours doing reference on a Friday was no burden to me.

Another good friend, sitting at my feet under the desk, chirped at me. I reached down to rub his head. “You’re a good boy, Diesel, for being patient while I work.”

My almost-three-year-old Maine coon cat gazed up at me. I knew that look well. Recumbent on the carpet, he had been napping, but now he wanted to visit his library buddies.

“It’s okay. Go ahead.” I scratched behind his ears, and he stood and stretched. He rubbed against my leg as if to say, Thank you, Charlie.

Diesel weighed almost thirty-three pounds now, and he was still not quite fully grown. I had thought he might top out at twenty or twenty-five pounds, but he kept growing—and he wasn’t fat. I remembered a woman I knew slightly in Houston, Becky Carazzone, who was a breeder of Maine coons. I e-mailed her through her website to ask about Diesel and his size. She was rather taken aback, because she had never seen a Maine coon so big. She reassured me, however, that as long as he was healthy I shouldn’t worry.

I glanced at my watch: only a bit past one-thirty. Too early yet for the after-school crowd. When they arrived, I kept Diesel close by me because there were plenty of small hands that wanted to play with the big kitty. Some children thought they could ride him because of his size. He was a gentle-natured feline and put up with a lot of attention. He did not, however, want to play horsey with rambunctious first- and second-graders dumped off at the library while Mommy or Daddy ran errands.

Diesel walked the few feet behind the counter shared by reference and circulation to where his buddy Lizzie Hayes sat, ready to check out or renew books or other items. Lizzie had an elfin face surrounded by a profusion of black curls. As she smiled down at Diesel, the cat stood on his hind legs, propping his front feet on the seat of Lizzie’s stool. He chirped a greeting, and Lizzie responded with an affectionate scratch of his head.

Lizzie laughed. “If you ever decide to find this guy a new home, Charlie, I want to be first on the list.”

In my best deadpan manner I replied, “If you saw my cat food bill, you wouldn’t say that. Plus he takes up most of my bed, and I have to hang on to the edge.”

Lizzie laughed again. “He’d be worth it.”

I had to agree. Diesel had appeared when I needed comfort badly. I found him as a young kitten in the library parking lot nearly three years ago, and I wouldn’t give him up for anything.