While I wool-gathered, Mrs. Taylor talked. I tuned back in to hear her say, “. . . that darling little garden shed. I know I have a picture in my EBC archives somewhere at home. I’ll try to find it so we can show people at the talk next week. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I know I have other pictures that your fans would love to see.”
In Mrs. Cartwright’s presence she sounded more like an adolescent rock ’n’ roll fan than a Southern matron. I had felt a bit giddy with excitement myself at my first meeting with Mrs. Cartwright, but I think I disguised it better.
Mrs. Cartwright looked puzzled. “Goodness gracious, I’m afraid I don’t remember any pictures.” She glanced at her daughter, then focused again on Mrs. Taylor. “When you’re as old as I am, you tend to forget a lot of things. I just can’t imagine—”
We never heard what she couldn’t imagine because there was a sudden loud argument taking place in the doorway. When I looked over there, I saw Bronwyn attempting to block a man from entering the room.
“I told you already, sir, this is a private meeting, and you cannot go in there.” Bronwyn had a fierce temper when roused, and by the tone in her voice, I figured she was about ready to take the man’s head off.
“Let me in there, you stupid woman. Get out of my way.” The voice sounded familiar. Then I caught a glimpse of a furious, bearded face, and I recognized Gordon Betts.
Teresa rose hastily and joined Bronwyn, adding her voice in protest. I hurried around the table to help them. I was not going to allow the jerk to get away with his bullying tactics, even if I had to pick him up and carry him out of the library myself.
I raised my voice. “Let me handle this, ladies.” Teresa and Bronwyn glanced at my face and promptly moved aside, leaving me almost toe to toe with the slightly shorter man. He looked up at me, and evidently what he saw there alarmed him because he started backing away.
I reached for his arm and grabbed it.
“Ow, that hurts.” Betts glared at me and tried to shake loose.
“What in heaven’s name is going on? And who is that loud young man?” Mrs. Cartwright’s voice stopped me before I could drag Betts toward the front door. We froze in place.
In the ensuing quiet, all I heard was my own heavy breathing and the same from my captive, until Mrs. Cartwright wheezed heavily near me.
Betts shook loose as Mrs. Cartwright stepped around me to confront her overeager fan. She leaned on her cane as she glared at the young man. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“Gordon Betts, Mrs. Cartwright.” He shot me a glance of triumph. He had succeeded after all in meeting his quarry. “I have the largest collection of your books in the world. Every foreign edition, as well as examples of the different printings and formats. Five hundred and seventy-three items, to be exact.”
Marcella Marter appeared at her mother’s side. “Well, goody for you.” Her tone was nasty. “Do you want a blue ribbon?”
Betts paid her no attention. He seemed focused completely on the author. “When I found out you lived nearby and were going to appear at the library next week, I boxed everything up and brought it with me from Chicago. I’d like you to sign my books.”
“All of them?” Mrs. Cartwright was clearly taken aback by the demand.
“What’s it worth to you?” Marcella moved closer to Betts, as if to shield her mother from him. “My mother is a hundred years old. If you want her to spend that much energy, then you’d better be willing to pay her to do it.”
I heard a couple of gasps from behind me. Mrs. Taylor, Teresa, and Bronwyn had crowded near to witness the bizarre scene.
“Marcella, really.” Mrs. Cartwright frowned.
“Hush, Mother.” Marcella focused a laser stare on Gordon Betts. “How much?”
“Five thousand.” Betts glared defiantly back.
“Make it ten.” Marcella’s blatant avarice shocked me.
“Seventy-five hundred,” Betts shot back.
“Done.” Marcella stuck her hand out, and Betts grasped it. They shook. “Cash.”
“Just show me the way to the nearest bank.” Betts smirked at me.
“Come with us, and we’ll take you there.” Marcella grasped her mother’s arm and started to tug her along.
Mrs. Cartwright’s lips were compressed in a tight line. I had expected further protests from her, but she remained silent. She jerked her arm free from her daughter’s grasp, however, and walked on her own power beside Marcella. Betts stayed right on their heels.
The rest of us stood rooted to the floor. Bronwyn looked stunned, Teresa furious. I was taken aback as well. There was nothing we could do after Betts managed to claim Mrs. Cartwright’s attention. Marcella Marter showed she was made of sterner stuff than I would have guessed. I felt rather sorry for Mrs. Cartwright, though I suspected she could have put a stop to it if she had really wanted to. Were they that desperate for money?
They certainly could be, I realized, because none of Mrs. Cartwright’s books had been in print during the past thirty years. No income there—and I had no idea if she had managed to save anything substantial during her career. It really was none of my business, I also realized, and further speculation would get me nowhere.
“I’m going back to the desk,” Bronwyn muttered as she stepped past me.
“I have to be going, too,” Mrs. Taylor said. “That Gordon is an embarrassment to the rest of us. He thinks money will get him whatever he wants.”
“In this case it seems to have worked,” Teresa commented wryly. “I wish I could throw money around as easily as he seems to.”
“If you had an incredibly wealthy father like Gordon’s, you could.” Mrs. Taylor sounded disgusted. “Gordon has probably never worked a day in his life. He inherited untold millions so he thinks he can do anything he likes.”
“What’s the source of the father’s wealth?” I had to ask. I was way too curious to let it go.
Mrs. Taylor shrugged. “Manufacturing, some huge conglomerate that makes all kinds of things that everybody has to have, apparently.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, as late as that? I really must be going. I have some research to do. I want to dig in my files and find that picture I mentioned.” She smiled suddenly. “Not to mention I have a few really interesting items in my collection. Gordon may think he has everything, but I know better.”
Teresa and I had no chance to bid her good-bye because she hurried to the door. We turned to each other with tired smiles.
“Thank the Lord that’s over, at least for now. I don’t think I can take one more crisis over this exhibit.” Teresa brushed her hair away from her face as she often did when she was tired or frustrated or, in this case, both.
“I know what you mean.” As I patted her shoulder, I heard warbling. I glanced down, and there was Diesel, rubbing against her legs.
Teresa laughed and scratched the cat’s head. “Thank you, sweet kitty. You know how to make me feel better.”
“I’m going to be the optimist here,” I said. “Mrs. Cartwright’s agent will advise her to forget about the speaker’s fee, and everything will go smoothly from then on. We’ll have a wonderful turnout for Mrs. Cartwright, and everyone will be thrilled, just as Mrs. Taylor said. No glitches, all smooth sailing.”
I should have kept my mouth shut.
TWELVE
I found my place in The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion and resumed reading. As I recalled, Veronica had just been told by the creepy butler that she was expected.
Veronica gasped. What could he mean?
The raven-haired girl was about to voice that very question but the butler suddenly glared at her, and Veronica read menace in his steely gaze.
“If you know what’s good for you,” he hissed like a snake about to strike, “you’ll leave as soon as the storm lets up and forget you ever came to this house.”
The old man might
think he could frighten her with his eldritch words, but Veronica Thane did not scare easily. Though she had known adversity in her life, with the loss of her adventurous parents in darkest Africa when she was a young child, she had all the mettle of those two departed relatives. It would take more than a weird servant and a spooky mansion to discompose Veronica.
She had intended to apprise the man of his misconception, for she was a thoroughly honest and straightforward young woman, but she scented a mystery. Veronica liked nothing better than a mystery and had had some small successes in solving a few.
The young woman who was expected was obviously a stranger, else the butler would surely have realized his mistake by now. That girl had no doubt been delayed by the same storm that brought Veronica here, and there was no way of knowing when she might arrive.
In the meantime, Veronica decided impulsively, she would pretend to be that girl in order to determine whether there was actual danger in this house.
In a tone that brooked no argument, Veronica spoke. “That will do. You will please show me to a room where I might dry myself and make myself ready to meet your mistress.”
Recognizing an authoritative voice when he heard one, the butler recoiled slightly. “Very well, miss. If you will come with me.”
Satisfied that she had won her point, Veronica followed the servant up the stairs and to a suite on the second floor. “You will find everything you need here, miss. I will advise Mrs. Eden that you have arrived.”
Veronica nodded in dismissal, thinking how unlike Fontaine, her guardian’s butler, this man was. Mrs. Buff-Orpington would never allow Fontaine to treat a guest in her house in such a manner, and the butler himself would not deign to act that way.
As she dried herself with the purple towels she found in the bathroom, Veronica reflected fondly on her estimable guardian. Mrs. Araminta Buff-Orpington, a widowed Englishwoman who had long resided in the American South, had been at school with Veronica’s late paternal grandmother. When the elder Mrs. Thane died suddenly after hearing the grim news of the deaths of her only son and his young wife, it was discovered that Mrs. Buff-Orpington had been named Veronica’s guardian until she came of age.
“Aunt Araminta,” as Veronica called her, was an elegant, though reclusive, widow of considerable means, and she looked upon her ward as one would upon one’s own child. The relations between woman and girl were warm and affectionate, and Mrs. Buff-Orpington trusted in Veronica’s courage and good sense to carry her through any situation.
As she rang the bell to summon back the butler, Veronica knew she would have to keep her wits about her.
The servant appeared quickly, and Veronica followed him with grim determination to a sitting room on the ground floor. He motioned for Veronica to wait, and he opened the door and stepped inside. Veronica moved closer, intent on hearing anything the man said.
“Madam,” he intoned, “Miss Derivale is here. Are you ready to receive her?”
A trembling voice responded. “Oh, yes, Bradberry, show her in immediately.”
Veronica stepped back, and not a moment too soon. The door swung open wide, and the butler motioned her in.
“Madam, Miss Derivale.”
Veronica entered the room and paused a moment to survey her surroundings. The furniture and the appointments of the room called to mind the trappings of the Victorian age. Heavy, ornate, and, Veronica suspected, somewhat dusty. She suppressed a sneeze as she approached a middle-aged woman who reclined on a damask-covered chaise longue.
“That will be all, Bradberry,” Mrs. Eden spoke in a firmer tone.
“As you wish, Madam.” The butler withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Veronica gazed at her hostess, struck by the woman’s unhealthy pallor and feverish gaze. Why, Mrs. Eden appeared positively ill. Was the expected Miss Derivale a nurse, by any chance? she wondered.
Mrs. Eden forced herself upright and stared hard at Veronica. “Oh, dear, you are younger than I expected, but I am in such desperate straits, you will have to do.” Her voice broke into a sob, and Veronica hastened to comfort the distraught woman.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Eden?” she asked. “I will gladly do whatever I can to aid you, but you must confide in me.”
The older woman’s body trembled under Veronica’s comforting grasp. “I am in terrible danger, but I dare not leave this house.”
I grinned as I closed the book and put it aside. As an adolescent, I had found those chapter endings completely thrilling, and I always had to turn the page to see what happened next. Over four decades later I recognized melodrama when I read it, and tonight I was too tired to read further.
I glanced at the bedside clock. Quarter after ten. I figured Helen Louise might be home by now, so I picked up the phone and punched in her number.
The phone rang five times, and I was getting ready to leave a message when Helen Louise, slightly out of breath, answered and said, “Hello, love. Are you and Diesel already in bed?”
I glanced at the large feline at rest beside me. As usual, Diesel had his head on the pillow, turned toward me. He opened his eyes sleepily and meowed twice. “Yes, we are, and Diesel said to tell you hello. Did you just get in, sweetheart?”
Helen Louise chuckled, a warm, throaty sound that made my stomach do an odd lurch. How I had come to love that chuckle of hers. “Yes, I was walking in the door when I heard the phone. I knew it was you.”
“Oh, and not one of your other boyfriends?” I laughed, feeling like a giddy teenager.
“They never call this late.” Helen Louise giggled. “Oh, love, I missed seeing you today.”
“Me, too.” I pictured her dear face, lined with fatigue. She worked so hard at the bakery, but her business was better than ever. “You need another assistant, honey. You’re wearing yourself out.”
“I know.” She expelled a heavy breath, and I heard the exhaustion behind it. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find reliable help. I’ve tried employing students part-time, but the last one never could turn up on time. The one before that was always calling in sick. At least Debbie is reliable and a hard worker.” Debbie Coulter was a young divorced woman who had been working at the bakery for about six months now.
“Too bad you can’t clone Debbie,” I said. Surely there had to be another hard worker somewhere in Athena.
“That would be nice. I’ll simply have to keep looking and pray that someone suitable turns up,” Helen Louise said. “But enough of that. What did you two get up to today?”
I gave her a shortened account of the events of the day, and she listened without comment until I finished. “Mon Dieu, what a mess. I know how you hate all these tense scenes, my love, but something tells me you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” I responded wryly. “Teresa and I both are nervous enough as it is.”
“Sorry, love.” Helen Louise sounded contrite. “Remember, though, you can’t control others, especially when they’re intent on causing mischief.”
“I know.” I suppressed a sigh. The problem was, I always had a hard time letting go of my intense desire to make things run smoothly.
Helen Louise chuckled again. “My dearly beloved control freak, try to relax. Do what you can, and let the Good Lord look after the rest.” She paused. “I didn’t realize you knew Carrie Taylor.”
“Not really,” I replied. “She got in touch with Teresa once we posted the information about Mrs. Cartwright on the library website. Do you know her?”
“Only slightly. Her bosom buddy is Melba Gilley, though.”
“Mrs. Taylor did mention her.” I could imagine the knowing smile on Helen Louise’s face. Melba was perhaps the biggest gossip in Athena, and if she and Carrie Taylor were that close, well, enough said, I reckoned. “I’m sure Melba will be on the phone first thing tomorrow, pressing me for details.” I was v
ery fond of Melba, but she could be exasperating.
“Sorry, my dear, but I figured I had better let you know.”
After that we chitchatted for a few minutes, then, hearing the tiredness in Helen Louise’s voice, I admonished her to get some rest. We bade each other good night.
As I put down the phone, I felt a paw on my left arm. Diesel yawned and snuggled up to me. He liked to make sure I stayed close. He might disappear during the night to visit with another member of the family, but he didn’t want me going anywhere without his knowing about it. I drifted off to sleep, determined not to let my brain get caught up in worries over the events of the day.
When my bedside phone rang the next morning, I came out of a sound sleep and fumbled for the receiver. I mumbled a greeting, and an all-too-familiar voice barked in my ear.
“Mr. Harris, Kanesha Berry. Sorry if I woke you up.”
Kanesha, my housekeeper’s daughter, also happened to be the chief deputy in the sheriff’s department. Calls from her never boded well. Suddenly I was more alert.
“Doesn’t matter.” I glanced at the clock—ten minutes after seven. “What’s going on? Is there an emergency?”
“You could say that.” Kanesha sounded peeved—as she often did when she talked to me. “How well do you know a Mrs. Carrie Taylor?”
“Not that well. She’s been helping us at the library with an upcoming exhibit and an event.” I had a sick feeling in my stomach now. “Why do you ask?”
“She’s dead, and it looks like murder.” Kanesha pulled no punches. “She had your home phone number scribbled on a notepad by her desk, where her body was found.”
THIRTEEN
“Dead?” I woke up fast. Beside me, Diesel warbled anxiously. I rubbed his head as I continued. “I can’t believe it. I saw her just yesterday. Twice as a matter of fact.”
“I want to talk to you, but it’ll have to wait until I’m done here. Maybe about an hour. You’ll be at home.” That last statement didn’t sound much like a question, more like a command.
The Silence of the Library Page 7
