Six Cats A Slayin'

“Hold on a minute,” I said. “Let’s not get too carried away and get the FBI involved. She could very well be hiding from someone, but if she is, then that’s her business.”

“Unless she’s running from the law.” Melba looked grim. “She could be wanted for the Lord knows what somewhere else, and here she is, trying to hide out in Athena to keep from going to prison. We don’t need a dangerous criminal right under our noses.”

I knew if I laughed I would hurt Melba’s feelings, but she was getting more and more off-the-wall with her speculation. After a cough to cover an inadvertent snicker, I said, “There could be some offshoot of the Albritton clan that people have forgotten about. Didn’t you tell me that it’s a big family?”

“Yes, it is. Old Mr. Albritton, the one who died last year at ninety-nine, had thirteen brothers and sisters, and they all married and had children, and those children have children, and so on, so you might be right.”

“You’ll keep digging, I’m sure.”

“Darn tootin’, I’ll keep digging.” Melba shot me a look full of determination. “I want to know who that woman really is and what she’s after.”

“Let me know if you find out,” I said in a light tone. “In the meantime I’m going to go upstairs and get to work.”

Melba nodded, but I could see that her mind was still preoccupied with the mystery of Geraldine Albritton. I knew the problem would worry her until she found an answer.

I had more than enough to do that day without spending time thinking about my mysterious neighbor. Two graduate students from the history department had been working in the archive recently. One was a master’s degree student, the other a doctoral one. Both specialized in Southern history, and the archive held several collections of diaries and private papers of great interest for Mississippi and for Southern history in general. The students could only work with the documents under my supervision, however. No one was allowed to remove documents from the archive without special permission, and that was rarely given.

To my surprise, neither student was waiting, as at least one of them usually was. Moreover, neither made an appearance that morning. I finally remembered why. The semester was almost at an end, and their Christmas and New Year’s break loomed closer. This was finals week, and they were far too busy elsewhere. They might even have headed home already for the holidays. I had the office completely to myself. No Diesel, no students.

With the quiet around me, I decided I would have a productive day with few distractions. That meant I could get on with cataloging a collection of nineteenth-century Southern novels from a recent donation. The donor had collected the work of writers like John Pendleton Kennedy, William Gilmore Simms, Kate Chopin, and George Tucker. I had to resist the temptation to read instead of catalog, though, because—with the exception of Chopin—I had not read these writers. Two of the books even featured inscriptions by the authors, and that made them even more interesting to me. I liked that personal touch.

I happily spent a couple of hours immersed in cataloging after I finished checking and responding as needed to my e-mail. A little after ten thirty, the ringing of my office phone pulled me from my absorption in creating detailed notes about the copy of Kennedy’s Swallow Barn from the collection. I laid it aside to pick up the receiver.

“Charlie Harris. How can I help you?”

“Hey, Charlie, hope I’m not bothering you, but I wanted to talk to you a minute if you’ve got the time,” a man’s voice said.

After a moment’s hesitation I recognized the caller as Milton Harville, the owner of one of the pharmacies in town. The business had originated with his grandfather and had remained in the family since. Milton’s daughter Jenny had recently graduated from pharmacy school and had joined her father in the store. The Harvilles had also lived in my neighborhood for several generations, and Milton and I had been in the same class in school. We had been friends since elementary school.

“Hi, Milton, sure thing, what’s up?” I replied.

“Well, I feel kinda funny even asking about this, but you and me, well, we’ve known each other forever, besides being neighbors, so I reckoned you might not mind talking about it.”

Milton, whose house stood in the middle of the block on the street behind mine, had always taken forever to get to the point in a conversation, and today was no exception. He was a nice guy, so I responded in a friendly tone. “Talking about what?”

I heard an indrawn breath at the other end of the line. Then the expulsion of a sigh. “It’s this new neighbor of ours, Gerry Albritton. You must have met her by now, surely.”

“Yes, I’ve met her,” I said. “She can be a little overwhelming.” That seemed a safe enough comment.