Do Unto Others

“What’ll happen to Eula Mae’s cats when she’s in jail?” Gaston wondered. “Maybe she’ll donate them to science.” “Gaston, dear, I’ll take care of her cats, don’t you worry.” Candace patted his arm, looking a mite green. “I only know what I read from Sayers, Christie, and Hammett.” Old Man Renfro tented his fingers across his face. “But if Eula Mae was going to kill someone, I don’t see her swinging a baseball bat or firing a gun. I think a nice, quick poison would be her choice. Not to sound morbid, but I don’t think Eula Mae would want to see someone die at her feet. She would much rather spike their iced tea with something that would not act immediately, get out, and leave their final sufferings to her overactive imagination.” I opened my mouth and shut it again before flies made it a home. He was absolutely right. “What I don’t get is why Miz Harcher was even in the library when she got killed,” Gaston interjected, wiping his nose without benefit of facial tissue. “She didn’t even like this place.” I quickly explained Junebug’s theory that Beta had intended to incinerate this den of evil. Old Man Renfro’s eyes hardened, and Gaston wheezed with dismay at the thought of all his unread Anne McCaffreys, Piers Anthonys, and Andre Nortons that would have gone up in smoke. “I don’t understand that,” Candace put in. She ran a hand through her lovely, tawny hair and frowned. “Does that mean the killer was here to help her burn down the library?” “Maybe that’s how the killer lured her here,” I said. “Offering to help her burn down the place she hadn’t been able to censor or close. That would’ve appealed to Beta.” “And the person must’ve been someone she wasn’t afraid of,” Old Man Renfro added. “Someone it wouldn’t bother her to be alone with.” “I don’t think she was afraid of anybody,” Candace said. I thought of that list of names. “I think more folks were afraid of her than the other way around.” I pulled out my notes and flipped to the questions. “I wrote this up after she was killed.” My eyes flicked to Old Man Renfro and Gaston. “There are things mentioned here that aren’t mentioned in the paper. Can I count on y’all’s discretion?” Old Man Renfro nodded, and him I didn’t worry about. Gaston was another problem, though. Anything he knew about the case, he’d brag about to his classmates in a futile attempt to move up the high school food chain. “Now, Gaston, don’t go blabbing about what we talk about here. If you do-and rest assured I will hear if your lips start flapping-I’m going to cut back on the science-fiction orders. No new David Brins or Greg Bears. Do you understand me?” He nodded like a scared addict, afraid that his supply would be terminated. I could almost imagine Gaston stealing TVs so he could hit the used bookstores in Austin to keep the narcotics of his favorite literary pastime available. I opened the notebook and went down the list of questions. I still don’t know why Beta had made that list of names and Bible verses, but I suspected it had to do with blackmail. She knew Eula Mae had faked her first book, and Eula Mae’s quote talked about an enemy writing a book. Some of the other quotes-such as Tamma’s and Bob Don’s-also hinted at secrets preferably kept. I realized though, I still didn’t have answers to most of my questions. I still didn’t know why Beta was dressed in black (unless it was supposed to be in vogue for nighttime book burnings), why her shoes were caked with mud, and why the killer used the bat in my office. I did know why she was at the library now, but her having a key still bothered me. If Eula Mae had met her at the library to kill her, Beta wouldn’t have needed a key; Eula Mae had one. So why swipe Adam Hufnagel’s key, the one found on her person? I only had the Hufnagels’ word that Beta had taken the key; could they have given it to her, knowing she might burn down the library? Did they still hold a grudge for having lost the censorship fight? Old Man Renfro looked through my notes, humming. Gaston leaned over his shoulder and I fished out a tissue for him, just to protect Old Man Renfro’s jacket.

Allergies are tough here in the spring. “I hope at the end of our lives, there are no questions,” Old Man Renfro said softly. “I used to think I knew who Beta Harcher was, but I didn’t.” “Who did you think she was?” Candace asked. “I’d heard she wasn’t always the paragon of religious virtue she pretended to be,” I added. Old Man Renfro leaned back. “She was a very pretty young woman. I remember she used to come into the post office when she was young, back in the Fifties; she had a pen pal in Europe. I remember that because those were the only letters I ever remember mailing to Norway. She always seemed to be in a sweet, good mood.” “Sourness crept in somewhere,” I interrupted.