He slapped down the five hundred dollars and then peeled off another five and added them to the stack. “Come on, that ought to be enough for anybody. What’s it to you anyway? I’m being really generous here.”
“Not to mention unbelievably offensive. Pick up that money, and stuff it back in your pocket.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this angry.
By now both Lizzie and Bronwyn had caught on that there was an incident brewing at the desk, and they came up on either side of me. “Do I need to call the police?” Bronwyn spoke in an undertone.
The strange young man glowered at the three of us. “For crying out loud, don’t call the cops. You hillbillies don’t know a good thing when you see it.” He snatched up the money and stowed it in his pocket. “Should have expected something like this in such a hick town.” He turned and stomped over to the door and out of the library.
“What was his problem?” Lizzie frowned. “I didn’t hear what he wanted. I can’t imagine what would be worth trying to bribe you for, Charlie.”
I shook my head. “In all my years working in libraries, that was a first. I have no idea who that young man is, but he is a complete and utter jerk.” I started to explain what he wanted from me, but the voice of Carrie Taylor interrupted me.
“His name is Gordon Betts, and he’s got more money than he knows what to do with.” She grimaced. “If he’s here, then the other nutcases can’t be far behind.”
SIX
“Nutcases?” I asked, taken slightly aback. The young man was rude, but a nutcase?
Mrs. Taylor shrugged. “Sorry, but they sure seem like nuts to me.”
“Who are they?” Teresa frowned as she stepped from behind our visitor.
“Collectors.” Mrs. Taylor rolled her eyes. “They can be absolutely nutty when it comes to children’s series books. Well, at least some of them are. I don’t want to make you think they’re all lunatics, like Gordon, but there are a handful who go to extremes to complete their collections.”
“I didn’t realize books like that are so collectible.” Bronwyn leaned on the reference desk as she regarded Mrs. Taylor.
“What kind of extremes?” Lizzie wanted to know.
Diesel had wandered over to sit in front of Mrs. Taylor. He meowed plaintively, and she glanced down with a smile. “Cats don’t care about these things, do they, sir?” She turned to regard Lizzie and Bronwyn. “Oh, my, yes, these series, especially Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, are very collectible. Those are probably the two most famous, but there are plenty of others that collectors go after.”
Like the Veronica Thane books, I thought. A couple of weeks ago, in preparation for lending items from my collection for the library’s exhibit, I checked values for a few books on the Advanced Book Exchange website. Early copies of the first two Veronica Thane books in fine condition were going for mid–three figures.
“But what about the extremes?” Lizzie asked.
“I know of at least two cases when collectors hounded the families of authors for memorabilia and copies of books the authors might have had in their own collections.” Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “I imagine some families might be glad of the money collectors are willing to pay, but it still seems indecent to me to badger people because they don’t want to deal with you.”
“Are these children’s books really expensive?” Teresa asked. “Along the lines of first editions of literary fiction, for example?”
Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “I have no idea what kind of prices literary first editions might command. I’m not really interested enough in them, frankly. But yes, a really fine first edition of one of the first Nancy Drew books, especially one signed by Mildred Wirt Benson, might go for six or seven thousand or more.”
“Dollars?” Bronwyn almost squeaked the word out.
I decided to rejoin the conversation. “Avid collectors with enough money will pay what they have to in order to get what they want.” I had bought a few first editions of treasured adult mystery novels over the years, though I never spent anything even close to a thousand dollars for one book, much less six or seven thousand.
“I think I’m going to look through my mother’s trunks in the attic this weekend.” Lizzie grinned. “She had some Nancy Drew books when she was a girl, and I could be sitting on a small fortune.”
“That’s entirely possible.” Mrs. Taylor smiled. “But if they’ve been up in your attic for very long, they may not be in the kind of condition that collectors will shell out much money for. Plus they need to have intact dust jackets.”
Lizzie’s grin turned into a frown. “Well, there goes my fortune. With the humidity here and the hot summers, there’s no telling what books packed away in a stuffy attic for twenty years will look like now.”
I almost groaned at the thought of books stored in those conditions. A woman who worked in a library ought to know better, but from experience I realized that librarians weren’t always as careful about their own books as they might be. One of my staff members in Houston, I had discovered to my horror, had a first edition of Gone with the Wind she kept on a shelf above her kitchen sink where the sun could hit it. The dust jacket had been discarded long ago, and the binding was riddled with spots and damage from the sun. A sad state for what could have been a valuable book, alas.
“Back to these collectors you were talking about.” Teresa frowned, and I could see she was concerned. “Will there be more people like this Gordon Betts showing up?”
“Without a doubt,” Mrs. Taylor said. “The news that Electra Barnes Cartwright is alive and going to appear at the library is probably all over the Internet—at least as far as the children’s book collecting community is concerned.” She smiled. “I helped spread the word, actually. Once I saw the information on the library’s website, I sent out a special electronic edition of the EBC newsletter I publish. There are several hundred subscribers to that.”
Teresa closed her eyes, and I knew she was centering herself with slow, deep breaths. She always did this when she was upset or worried. As a former public library director myself, I could easily imagine her thoughts. I was envisioning some of the same possibilities myself—hordes of rabid Veronica Thane fans descending upon Athena, desperate to see the author and demand that she sign their books.
To my chagrin, I realized we should have considered this possibility before we even went to talk to Mrs. Cartwright. I’d been so carried away by my own excitement over meeting her and having her involved with the library’s events that I hadn’t stopped to consider the implications. On the other hand, having Electra Barnes Cartwright appear at the library wasn’t on the order of hosting a superstar singer or actor, who could draw thousands of raving, out-of-control fans. In our situation, though, even a few determined—or even obsessed—readers surely wouldn’t wreak much havoc.
I’d been wrong before about situations like this, however, and I had the uneasy feeling I was wrong now.
While Lizzie and Bronwyn asked Mrs. Taylor further questions, I motioned for Teresa to step aside with me. In an undertone I said, “We should talk to Mrs. Cartwright about this and rethink our plan. She may not realize the furor that her public appearance could cause.”
“If Mrs. Taylor isn’t exaggerating.” Teresa grimaced. “That one person aside, do we really think everyone will behave that way? Surely he’s an extreme case.”
“Mrs. Taylor could be exaggerating, I suppose, but she doesn’t impress me as that kind of person.” I paused to examine the lady again. Nothing in her demeanor set off any alarm bells with me, and I had many years of experience dealing with the public.
Teresa folded her arms across her chest. “Wishful thinking on my part. You’re right either way. We need to talk to Mrs. Cartwright. I’ll go call her daughter and discuss the situation with her.”
“Good plan. If necessary, we can just say that Mrs. Cartwright will do the intervi
ew but is unable to sign books because of her health.”
Teresa nodded before she headed for her office. I turned back to the conversation with Mrs. Taylor.
“I never heard of Connie Blair,” Bronwyn said. “But I read Betty Cavanna’s books and never knew she wrote under another name.”
The Connie Blair series, written under the name Betsy Allen, featured a young woman who worked in advertising. Connie, like Cherry Ames the nurse and Vicki Barr the airline stewardess, was one of the “professional” girl detectives.
“I read some of those,” Lizzie exclaimed. “Didn’t the titles all have a color in them?”
“Yes, they sure did.” Mrs. Taylor beamed at Lizzie. “Connie was more sophisticated than most of the other girl detectives.”
By now several other library patrons had drawn near to listen to the discussion. Two of them were women about Mrs. Taylor’s age, and another was a girl who looked about fourteen.
“Mrs. Taylor, we definitely need to include you in our programs for National Library Week. Perhaps a talk on the different girl detectives? I think our patrons would enjoy that.” I glanced at the bystanders and was pleased to see the teenager nod enthusiastically.
“I know my book club would love to come to something like that.” This came from one of the older women. She turned to her companion. “Don’t you think so, Martha?”
Martha nodded. “I surely do, Kathryn. There are about twenty of us, and I know most of us read Nancy Drew and Veronica Thane growing up.”
Mrs. Taylor appeared delighted at their enthusiasm. “I’d love to give a talk. That was one of the things I discussed with your director, and she was interested.”
“Then we will definitely set it up,” I said. Once again beside me, Diesel rubbed against my leg and warbled loudly. Everyone laughed, and he warbled again. He enjoyed being in the spotlight when it suited him.
“Excuse me, who’s in charge here?”
The loud voice startled me, and I noticed a similar reaction from Mrs. Taylor and a few of the others around us.
While we were talking, a woman I’d never seen before had come into the library. She stood at the reference desk and appeared slightly aggrieved over the lack of attention she was receiving.
I stepped forward past Mrs. Taylor, Lizzie, and Bronwyn, who had blocked my view of the desk. “How may I assist you, ma’am?”
Diesel followed alongside me, and as he became visible, the woman spotted him. She paled, and her mouth opened, but only strangled sounds, not words, came forth.
Then she turned and fled out the door.
SEVEN
“What on earth is the matter with her?” Lizzie, like the rest of us, stared at the door as it closed behind the stranger.
“Severe ailurophobia,” Mrs. Taylor said before she took off after the woman. She pushed open the door and strode out. We could her hear shout, “Della, come back here.”
“Severe what?” Bronwyn asked.
“Ailurophobia,” I replied. “It means an abnormal fear of cats.” I looked down at Diesel, and he regarded me almost quizzically, like a child might do. “Sorry, boy, but there are people who are terrified of kitties.”
“Sounded like Mrs. Taylor knows her,” Lizzie said. “Poor woman. Imagine being afraid of a sweet boy like Diesel.”
At the sound of his name, Diesel chirped, and Lizzie and Bronwyn nearly bumped heads as they bent to pet him. “You first,” Bronwyn said with a grin.
While Lizzie and Bronwyn took turns rubbing the cat’s head, I went to the door and walked outside. I could see Mrs. Taylor with her arm around Della’s shoulders, and the stranger appeared calmer now. I noticed that she wore a well-tailored skirt and jacket, both a bright yellow, with an emerald green blouse. The colors complemented her dark hair, cut in an old-fashioned bob that framed an attractive face.
I debated whether to approach them, but when Mrs. Taylor spotted me, she motioned me over.
“Della, dear, this is Mr. Harris,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Mr. Harris, Della Duffy.” She gave the other woman’s shoulders a brief squeeze and then released her.
Della Duffy held out a hand that felt cold and clammy in mine as I gave it a gentle shake. “How do you do, Mr. Harris? I’m sorry but I couldn’t stay in there with that cat.” Her mouth twisted in a grimace. “I’d like to know what the heck a cat was doing here. They shouldn’t let animals in the library.”
I dropped her hand and resisted the urge to pull out my handkerchief to wipe it. My tone was stiff as I replied, “No need to apologize, Ms. Duffy. Diesel is pretty large for a domestic cat, and he’s been known to startle people before. He’s a gentle giant, though, I can assure you, and has always been welcome at the library.”
Ms. Duffy’s grimace lingered. “Is he yours?”
I nodded.
“Sorry, but I can’t stand cats. He might be gentle, but if I go back in there, I’ll just have another panic attack.” Mrs. Taylor patted her shoulder.
Despite my irritation at her brusqueness, I felt sorry for her. Irrational fear can wreak havoc in a person’s life, and I could only imagine the terror she felt because of her phobia. “Perhaps I could help you now, out here, so that you don’t have to go back in the building. Or I can take Diesel home, and you can get help from one of the other library staff.”
Ms. Duffy shook her head. “No, don’t bother. If there’s somewhere to sit outside, you might as well help me here. At least the weather is pleasant. Not too hot, with a little breeze.” She glanced about and spotted the bench in front of the shrubbery near the front door. She headed for it, and Mrs. Taylor and I followed. I would have to overlook the woman’s less-than-gracious behavior.
The two women sat, and I stood in front of them because the bench was made for two. Mrs. Taylor spoke for the first time since her introduction. “Della is a collector, Mr. Harris. I’ve known her for a dozen years or so.”
“Charlie, please.” I forced a smile, though Mrs. Taylor had been anything but rude. I addressed the other woman. “I suppose you read about the library’s planned event with Electra Barnes Cartwright.”
Ms. Duffy nodded. “Carrie here also e-mailed me, and I can’t tell you how excited I was to hear such wonderful news. I’ve been a fan of Mrs. Cartwright’s since I was ten years old, and the thought of actually getting to meet her . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“We know, dear.” Carrie Taylor patted the other woman’s arm. “Both Charlie and I are fans of EBC’s, too.”
“Do you always refer to her as EBC?” I asked Mrs. Taylor.
She grinned. “I’m so used to it now I hardly realize I’m doing it. It’s convenient shorthand, and the readers of my newsletter are used to it, too.”
“Her full name is rather a mouthful.” I turned to Ms. Duffy. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”
Her response was tart. “I want to know when I can meet Mrs. Cartwright.”
“There will be a public interview with her. The schedule will be up on the library’s website soon.” I regarded her warily. Was she going to be like Gordon Betts and demand that she be given Mrs. Cartwright’s address for a private visit?
“That’s not good enough.” Ms. Duffy frowned. “I have one of the most extensive collections of Veronica Thane and EBC books of any collector I know, and I want her to sign as many of them as possible.”
I did my best to suppress my irritation as I answered. “We don’t know yet whether Mrs. Cartwright will be able to sign books. I doubt she could sign a whole collection anyway. You do realize that she is about to turn a hundred soon?”
“Is she so decrepit that can’t write her name?” Ms. Duffy glared at me. “If she’s strong enough to come and do an interview, then she ought to be able to sign her name.”
Mrs. Taylor and I exchanged glances. I wondered if she was as appalled at Della Duffy’s callous disregard for Mrs. Cartwr
ight as I was. I had a good mind to tell her what I thought of her demands, but generations of good Southern manners made that difficult. Instead I settled for milder words. “Mrs. Cartwright will be the one to decide that, and we will all have to abide by her wishes. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Obviously not. I guess I’ll just have to find EBC on my own. I’ll make it worth her while to sign her name as many times as I need.” Ms. Duffy flashed what I took to be a smile of self-satisfaction and conviction.
Beside her Mrs. Taylor sighed and shook her head gently. “Della, you and Gordon are going to have to realize that you can’t just bully your way into getting what you want. Throwing money around isn’t going to accomplish anything, either. Charlie is right. EBC is an old woman, and I can’t believe you’re truly that blindly selfish.”
Before Ms. Duffy had a chance to respond, a voice hailed us from behind me. “What ho, ladies? What are you two lovely specimens of the gentler, fairer sex up to this beautiful day?”
Wondering who on earth talked like a character out of a third-rate English novel, I turned to find out.
An elderly man who had the appearance of an overripe cherub stood about six feet away. He beamed at the women like a chubby sun emerging from a cloud. No more than five feet tall, he sported a gray suit that wouldn’t have been out of place on Madison Avenue in the 1950s.
“Oh, goody, just what this little shindig needed.” The venom in Della Duffy’s tone startled me. “Winnie, shouldn’t you be back in your hobbit hole finding another dead writer to rip off?”
“Good morning, sir.” The cherub advanced toward me, smile intact, hand extended. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before. Winston Eagleton, publisher.”
I shook his hand as I responded to his cheerful introduction. “Charlie Harris, librarian. Pleased to meet you, sir.”
He nodded and moved toward the bench. “Carrie Taylor, what a sight for an old man’s eyes you are, to be sure. Lovely and girlish as ever.”
The Silence of the Library Page 4
