Arsenic and Old Books by Miranda James Page B

I’m sorry for your distress,” I said. “I did report the theft of the diaries, and naturally I had to give the authorities the names of anyone I knew who had expressed interest in them. I didn’t do it out of malice, I swear to you. It was simply the truth.”
    â€œIt was humiliating.” Her voice was so low I barely made out the words. The volume grew as she continued to speak. “Never in my life have I been so embarrassed. I’ll be a laughingstock on campus because of this. And on top of everything else, the diaries have disappeared. Now I’ll never get to work on them, and I won’t get tenure.”
    â€œDid you steal the diaries?” I asked her. Time for a tougher approach, I thought. Maybe that would force her to see sense, if anything would.
    She glared at me, her expression full of loathing. “No, I did not. I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”
    â€œThen stop acting like a drama queen trying to hide her guilt.” I stood and extended a hand. “Get up off the floor and come into the kitchen with me. I’ll give you coffee or something stronger, and we’ll talk about this.”
    Her eyes narrowed as she stared at me, then at my hand. After a long moment, she grasped my hand, and I helped her get to her feet.
    â€œHow about brandy?” She sounded hoarse now from the crying and carrying on.
    â€œI have some,” I said. Might as well have some myself, I decided. I glanced up at the stairs, but there was no sign of the cat. Diesel was probably under my bed. He would be okay until I had Marie calmed down completely and out of the house.
    Marie pulled out a chair and plopped down. Her short legs barely touched the floor. I found the brandy in the cabinet and poured some for both of us.
    â€œThanks,” she said in a less than gracious tone before she knocked it back in one go.
    I held up the bottle, and she nodded. This time she had a sip and set the glass down. “I’m waiting,” she said. “Talk. I want you to explain to me how you were careless enough to let someone walk in and steal those diaries.”
    I set the brandy bottle down before I was tempted to slug her with it.
    â€œChief Ford examined the lock on the office door,” I said as evenly as I could. “He believes the thief picked it. I always lock the door whenever I leave the office, even for a few minutes. I’m sure I did that today when I left for lunch.”
    Marie looked skeptical. “Why didn’t you have them somewhere more secure, like a safe?”
    â€œFor one thing,” I said, “I don’t have a safe in the archive. I could have put them in the storage room next door. It has a better lock on it, one that’s difficult to get into.” I shrugged. “But there was no reason to. I had no reason to think someone would steal the diaries. They aren’t that valuable.”
    â€œI guess you’re right,” Marie said. “At least about locking them up. They
are
valuable, though, extremely valuable. Not in terms of money, of course. To me they’re priceless.”
    â€œI can understand that they
could
be valuable to your research,” I said. “What I don’t get is why you’re so convinced they
will
be. You don’t know there’s anything interesting or worthwhile to a historian in them.”
    Marie looked down at her hands. “No, I don’t know for sure, but those diaries are still the best shot I have at finally getting tenure.” Her shoulders sagged. “And now they’re gone. It isn’t fair.”
    She didn’t look at me once while she spoke. Even now she appeared to be absorbed by her hands. I figured that meant she was lying about something. But what? I suspected that she had knowledge—just how, I didn’t know—of the contents of the diaries. Either that or she was gambling against less than convincing odds.
    â€œWhat is it