“It’s not so bad. We also have the complete works of that nutty doctor from the nineteen fifties who fancied himself the next Walt Whitman.” One hundred and twenty-three privately bound, handwritten volumes of poetry so execrable it made rap songs sound like Shakespearean sonnets—but the man had left the college three quarters of a million dollars along with his so-called art.

Peter ignored that. “I should thank you, I suppose, for confirming the awful truth for me. And so I do. I know that I can leave the matter in your more-than-capable hands, Charles.”

“You certainly may, Peter,” I said. Peter never unbent so far as to call me Charlie. I stood. “If that’s all, then?”

Peter nodded. “I suppose I shall see you tonight at this absurd fête the president has planned?”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

Nodding again, he turned his attention to the papers on his desk.

I retreated to the door and let myself out, careful to close it softly behind me.

When I turned, I saw Diesel on top of Melba’s desk. Woman and cat were enjoying a conversation.

“Diesel got lonely, I guess.” Melba glanced at me over the cat’s head.

“Diesel, get down off the desk,” I said. “You know you’re not supposed to be up there.”

The cat muttered as he jumped to the floor. Padding to the doorway, he sat down and started to groom himself.

“He was looking for you,” Melba said.

“I know. He doesn’t like being left alone for long.”

“Did Peter talk to you about Godfrey Priest?” Melba leaned back in her chair.

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose I should have come and talked to him earlier, right after Godfrey dropped by this morning.” Now I felt a bit guilty. Peter should have heard the news from me.

“You know how he hates to think he’s always the last to find out something.” Melba glanced toward Peter’s door. “Like when he found out his wife was having an affair with Godfrey.”

“What?” I stepped closer to the desk. “When was this?”

“About ten years ago,” Melba said. “Not long before Peter came to Athena, in fact.”

“He was at some small college in California before, wasn’t he?”

Melba nodded. “Near Los Angeles. And guess who Mrs. Vanderkeller became friends with?”

“Godfrey. How did they meet?”

“Apparently she had these big plans to be a fancy Hollywood screenwriter.” Melba’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “The way I heard it, she was always dragging Peter to any party she could get herself invited to. She was supposed to be real attractive, and she met Godfrey at one of the parties.”

“She left Peter for Godfrey?” This was beginning to sound like the story line of a soap opera.