I did as he asked and then advanced toward his desk. Peter stood behind it, hands on hips, so thin he made me think of the old TV character Gumby. If Peter were green, he’d give a fair imitation. I dismissed the foolish notion as Peter gestured to one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk.

This was my favorite room in the house. Originally, Peter’s office and Melba’s had been one larger room, the front parlor. The high ceilings with their ornate moldings bore witness to the era in which the house was built. A magnificent mahogany dining table served as Peter’s desk, though he used a contemporary office chair with it. I envied Peter that table. The machines of modern technology—computer, printer, and telephone—looked sadly out of place. If I closed my eyes for a moment, I could easily conjure up the figure of a woman in a hoop skirt, her beau paying court.

“What can I do for you?” I sipped at my water while I waited for a response.

Peter removed his horn-rimmed glasses and twirled them idly by one earpiece. He blinked at me. “It has come to my attention that our eminent alumnus and hometown boy wishes to endow our institution’s archive with his papers, accompanied by a considerable sum of money. It has also come to my attention that he has discussed this matter with you.”

“Yes, on both counts,” I said. Listening to Peter made me want to be as terse in response as a character in a Dashiell Hammett novel. “I should have told you about it right after Godfrey spoke to me. But I guess I just got busy and didn’t think about it.”

“That is quite okay.” Peter waved my apology away. “No doubt the man believes he has bestowed an honor of great magnitude on his alma mater.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “If it were in my power to do so, I would tell Mr. Priest we don’t wish to house the work of a man who has prostituted himself to the bestseller lists.”

I had no idea Peter held such a low opinion of Godfrey and his work. I had never considered Peter a literary snob, either. He read fiction widely and counted several Mississippi mystery writers, like Carolyn Haines and Charlaine Harris, among his favorites. They had both spoken at Athena College, and Peter had been beside himself with excitement during their visits.

Why did he have such disgust for Godfrey Priest, then?

“I don’t think the president would be very happy if you did such a thing,” I said.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Peter replied. “More’s the pity. Athena College has always prided itself on its rich literary heritage.” He smiled sadly. “And now, having to add the work of a hack to our archives is a sad comedown and a none-too-subtle comment on the priorities of our current administration.”