The biblical adage went around and around in my head: “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” The language of the King James Version—almost always misquoted, which annoyed me—made it sound more doom laden than the modernized revisions of more recent years.

If anyone seemed hell-bent on destruction, it was Vera Cassity.

NINE

The Tuesday of the Friends of the Library annual gala dawned cold but clear. The temperature even promised to hit the midfifties by late afternoon. All in all, an auspicious beginning to what would be a long—and stressful—day. We had sold a record hundred and twenty-seven tickets for the event and had raised nearly ten thousand dollars so far. We would get more from the silent auction with prizes like round-trip airfare and a week’s stay at a nice hotel in London, signed first editions by Mississippi writers, and gift certificates from local merchants.

The party would overflow with food, probably much more than the attendees could eat. In addition to the pastries and cakes and mini quiches from Helen Louise’s bakery, Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce had arranged contributions from two restaurants and a caterer. No one would go hungry tonight.

The board decided early on to make this year’s gala different from previous ones by making it a costumed affair. All attendees were urged to come dressed as their favorite characters from popular fiction. Miss Dickce suggested we have a costume contest, with prizes for the best single and couple costumes, and everyone agreed. Board members wouldn’t take part in the contest but would judge instead.

Helen Louise and I, both avid mystery readers, put our heads together several weeks ago and decided we should pick an interesting couple from mystery fiction. As fans of Agatha Christie, we eventually landed on Hercule Poirot and Ariadne Oliver. After a trip to a costume shop and two thrift stores in Memphis, we found what we needed.

Diesel regarded me with what looked like suspicion as I affixed my fake mustache to my upper lip with spirit gum. Once it was in place I looked down at him. “Bon soir, mon chat. I am the famous detective Hercule Poirot.” Diesel appeared not the least impressed with my attempt to sound like David Suchet, the amazing actor who portrayed Poirot on the small screen so brilliantly.

I surveyed myself in the mirror with a certain amount of satisfaction. Helen Louise had helped me choose the suit, of the type Suchet often wore onscreen. Even if I said so myself, I did look rather dapper. I felt oddly formal, however, and hoped I wouldn’t overheat during the gala. The wool of the suit, added to the heavy linen shirt, an undershirt, a silk waistcoat, and a thick cravat were much warmer than I had expected.

It was all for a good cause, I reflected as I preened in the mirror a moment longer. Diesel made snuffling noises, and I wondered if that was a feline attempt at laughter. I rubbed his head, and the noises became rumbling purrs.