“I’ll be here.” The dial tone buzzed in my ear. I wondered if Kanesha even heard me. I hung up the phone and stared at Diesel. He had stuck his face right up in mine and chirped as he rubbed his head against my chin. I put an arm around him and hugged him, and he bore it for a few seconds before pulling away. “I’m okay, boy, don’t worry.”
Evidently reassured, Diesel sat back and commenced cleaning one front paw. I watched him while my thoughts raced.
Carrie Taylor, murdered. That was terrible. Why on earth would someone murder her? She had seemed like a nice lady who wouldn’t make enemies easily.
I recalled what Helen Louise told me last night, that Mrs. Taylor and Melba Gilley were bosom buddies. She couldn’t be that close to Melba without loving to gossip the way Melba did. Perhaps the roots of her death could be traced there. What could she know, however, that made someone angry enough—or desperate enough—to kill?
Poor Melba. She would be devastated by this. I started to pick up the phone to call her but stopped myself when I realized how bad an idea it was. For one thing I couldn’t tell her news like that over the phone. Not to mention the fact that Kanesha would have me strung up by my thumbs if she found out I had done such an idiotic thing.
No, Melba would have to find out the news some other way. I’d have to tell Kanesha, naturally, about their friendship. I knew she would want to question Melba to discover whether she knew anything pertinent.
Then a horrible thought struck me. Melba could be in danger, too, if the killer knew about her closeness to the dead woman. What if Carrie Taylor had shared with Melba the information that led to her death? Perhaps I should call Melba after all.
Diesel meowed anxiously again, and I realized he had picked up on my rapidly escalating unease.
Get a grip, Charlie, I told myself sternly. Don’t get hysterical. Melba is probably fine and in no danger whatsoever. I scratched the cat’s head to calm him, and he settled down to groom his other paw.
I decided I’d better get up and in the shower. Kanesha might be here sooner than the predicted hour, and I ought to be ready. Besides, I discovered I was hungry despite the horror of the situation.
Diesel disappeared while I was in the shower—not an unusual occurrence. He was either down in the utility room, doing his business and munching on dry food, or snuggled up in another bed, probably Laura’s.
The aroma of fresh coffee hit my nose as I entered an empty kitchen. Stewart Delacorte, the second of my two current boarders, had probably prepared the coffeemaker last night and set it for the morning, bless him. I poured myself a cup, added some half-and-half and sweetener, and had a few sips before I went out to fetch the paper.
I decided on cereal and fruit for breakfast—a healthy change from the delicious, but cholesterol-laden, meals Azalea prepared during the week. I kept telling myself I should make more of an effort to eat healthy during the week instead of only on the weekends, but Azalea’s old-fashioned Southern cooking was irresistible. Now that she had recovered from the health problems she suffered around Christmastime she seemed more indefatigable than ever. She didn’t even ask her sister Lily to help out, as she had done for a couple of months after her brief hospital stay.
While I munched my cereal and read the paper, I did my best to avoid thinking about poor Carrie Taylor for the moment. With the grilling I’d soon get from Kanesha Berry, I wouldn’t be thinking of much else.
No other member of the household—not even my cat—had put in an appearance by the time I rinsed my bowl in the sink and stuck it in the dishwasher. For Saturday mornings, this quiet was typical. I was the only early riser on the weekend. Just as well today, I thought, because Kanesha wouldn’t want anyone else in the room when she questioned me.
The doorbell rang about ten minutes after eight as I was enjoying my second cup of coffee. My stomach lurched. Back to reality, I told myself as I went to answer.
Kanesha Berry, grim-faced as ever, stood on the front doorstep. Her ever-present shadow, Deputy Bates, was not in evidence this morning, and I wondered where he was as I invited her in.
Kanesha followed me into the kitchen. “Sorry to have to bother you so early on a Saturday morning, Mr. Harris, but murder can’t wait.”
“I understand,” I said as I reached for the coffeepot and a fresh mug. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Kanesha pulled out a chair and sat, and I noticed how weary she looked, her face drawn and almost haggard. “No cream or sugar.”
I ventured a question. “Have you been up all night?”
She nodded as she accepted her mug. “Domestic dispute on the north side near the county line, and then we got the call about Mrs. Taylor around five this morning.”
I decided to risk another question. As tired as she was, she might let me get by with it. “Who found her? Since she’s a widow, I thought she lived alone.”
Kanesha stared at me over the rim of her mug while she drank. She set the mug down before she responded. “She did, except for a dog. Little yappy thing, like that poodle of Mr. Delacorte’s. He was barking his head off, and her neighbor went over to complain. Looked in through the back door when Mrs. Taylor didn’t answer the knocking and saw her slumped over her desk in a corner of the kitchen. Turned out she’d been strangled to death.”
I nodded as I offered her a refill, and she accepted. I sat down across from her and waited for the questions to start.
“You saw her twice yesterday, you said. What was she doing?” She sipped at her coffee and regarded me intently.
“She came to the library—the public library, that is—for meetings with Teresa Farmer and me about an event for National Library Week.” I went on to explain the nature of the event and the participation of Electra Barnes Cartwright. “Mrs. Taylor published a newsletter devoted to the author—she always referred to her by her initials, EBC.”
Kanesha frowned. “That explains part of the note that was puzzling me. Above your phone number and your name she—or someone—had written EBC.”
“Maybe she was planning to call me about something to do with Mrs. Cartwright,” I said. “When she left the library the second time, she said she was going home to look through her EBC archive.”
“What was she looking for? Did she say?” Kanesha drained the last of her coffee, but waved away the offer of another refill.
I thought for a moment. “She had a picture she wanted to find, of the garden shed where Mrs. Cartwright used to write when she was younger.” There was something else, but what? I dug into my memory. “Oh, and there was a remark about Gordon Betts.”
“Who is Gordon Betts?” Kanesha frowned. “I don’t remember a family in Athena called Betts.”
“No, he’s not from around here. Chicago, I think I heard him say. He’s one of the book collectors who showed up because of the information on the library website. He’s a rabid fan of Mrs. Cartwright’s, and he has a large collection of her Veronica Thane books.” I related briefly the two incidents with Betts. “The last thing Mrs. Taylor said was that she had items in her own collection that Betts didn’t know about. The way she said it, I took her to mean that he would want them badly if he knew about them.”
I had a sudden horrible feeling. Would Gordon Betts want these mysterious items badly enough to kill?
“Do you have any idea what these items were, or how valuable they might be?” Kanesha had pulled out a small notebook and a pen and was jotting down notes.
“No, I don’t. She didn’t explain, and we didn’t really have a chance to ask.”
Kanesha looked up from her notebook. “What about this Betts? If he’s a collector, does he have a lot of money?”
“According to Mrs. Taylor he does. Inherited from his father, something to do with manufacturing. She said he has never had to work.” I shrugged. “This is all hearsay, because I have no idea whether her informati
on is accurate, or where it came from. These collectors all seem to know one another.”
“There are others?”
I nodded. I told her about Della Duffy and said that we expected more—perhaps many more—to turn up in time for Mrs. Cartwright’s appearance at the library.
Kanesha looked disgruntled at the news. “If Mrs. Taylor’s death is connected to Mrs. Cartwright in some way, that means potentially way too many suspects. I’ve had nightmares like this.”
I couldn’t believe she said anything so personal, because usually she was careful not to let her feelings show. Particularly to me.
“Maybe her death is completely unrelated to Mrs. Cartwright and her books. You should talk to Melba Gilley. According to Helen Louise, they were really close. Melba will be able to tell you if Mrs. Taylor had any enemies in town.”
That news seemed to cheer Kanesha up slightly. Her expression became a tad less morose. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll check with Ms. Gilley.” She stood. “Thanks for the coffee, too. I’ll probably have more questions for you later, but you’ve given me a lot to work on.”
“Glad I could help.” I escorted her to the door. We exchanged nods as she departed.
Back in the kitchen, I poured another cup of coffee—the last in the pot—and started to make a fresh one. While I did so, I thought again about the collecting bug and the lengths to which some people would apparently go to acquire highly desirable items.
What Mrs. Taylor had said about her own collection niggled at me. What if Betts had found out about the unique item or items she claimed to own? He might have tried to buy them, she refused, and then he killed her in a fit of rage and took what he wanted.
Nasty, but plausible, I decided, based on my interactions with Betts. He seemed to be short a card or two in his deck, as my mother would have said. Mrs. Taylor didn’t deserve what happened. Memories of her enthusiasm for Mrs. Cartwright’s books and her excitement over the planned public appearance made me determined to do what I could to identify her killer.
Time to track down Mr. Betts and ask him a few questions.
FOURTEEN
The Farrington House was the finest hotel in Athena, and I figured that must be where Gordon Betts was staying. I looked up the number and jotted it on a notepad. Before I could place the call, however, Laura breezed into the kitchen with Diesel trotting beside her.
“Morning, Dad.” She kissed my cheek and gave my arm a quick squeeze. “Seems like ages since I saw you.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “What have you been up to?”
Both my children were avid mystery readers like me, and I knew Laura would be interested in hearing about the murder of Carrie Taylor. I wasn’t ready to talk about it with her, however—at least not right this minute. I was more interested in catching up with my daughter. Push the awfulness away for at least a little while, I thought.
“I’ll tell you all about it later,” I said. “Right now, why don’t you bring me up to date on the wedding plans? You haven’t asked for my checkbook for at least two weeks now.” I grinned to show her I was only teasing.
She had a sip of coffee before she spoke. “I’ve picked out my wedding dress. It’s an absolutely stunning Badgley Mischka.” She batted her eyes at me. “I’m sure you’ll love it.”
“What’s a Badgley Mischka? Sounds expensive.” I thought she might be teasing me, but with brides and their dresses, you never knew.
“Badgley and Mischka are designers who work together. And yes, their dresses can be expensive.” Laura giggled. “But don’t worry, I have a friend who got it for me wholesale through somebody she knows in Memphis. It really is gorgeous. I’ve got some fittings coming up, and then everything will be set.”
“You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear. Your mother . . .” I felt my eyes sting suddenly as I envisioned escorting Laura down the aisle. How excited her mother would have been to see it, too.
Diesel, back from a visit to the utility room, meowed at me and rubbed against my legs. Laura came to me and gave me a hug. “I know, Dad. I’ve been thinking a lot about her lately. But I know she’ll be there with us.”
I slid my arm around her and held her close for a long moment. I cleared my throat. “Yes, I’m sure she will.”
Laura smiled at me as I released her. She picked up her coffee and moved over to the table. We sat across from each other. “All the arrangements are pretty much set now. The chapel at the college is reserved, and the chaplain is all set, too. My best friend, Dodie, will be my maid of honor, and Helen Louise offered to cater the reception. Now we just have to wait for June ninth to get here.” Laura leaned back in her chair, obviously pleased with her plans.
“I won’t have any trouble remembering your anniversary,” I said. June ninth was my maternal grandmother’s birthday. “Have you decided where you’re going on your honeymoon? Last I heard you were leaning toward New York.”
“We were at first. We thought about California, too,” Laura replied. “But I’ve had enough of Hollywood for now, and I’ve never been to London. Frank has been several times, and he wants to show me around.”
“London would be perfect—the West End and all the wonderful shows.” I drained the last of my coffee. “I’m sure you’ll want to experience the London theater scene.” Jackie and I could never afford to take our children abroad, but we did take them to New York and Hollywood, among other places.
“Absolutely. I can’t wait to see The Mousetrap.” Laura laughed. “I know it’s probably hokey, but as a mystery lover, I can’t pass up the chance.”
“I’d love to see it myself,” I said. Agatha Christie’s play, the longest running in theater history, had entertained audiences for over six decades now.
Laura grinned slyly. “Maybe you can go to London on your honeymoon. And then of course over to Paris. I’m sure Helen Louise would love to show you her favorite city in the world.”
I gazed sternly at my daughter. “None of that, now. I have to get you married and off my hands first. Sean, too. You’ve both been hanging around this house unmarried far too long. I need grandchildren to spoil. Then maybe I can think about Helen Louise and a wedding of my own.”
At the mentions of Helen Louise’s name, Diesel—who had been dozing quietly under the table—perked up and meowed. He adored Helen Louise, and she pampered him whenever we visited her bakery. She always had tidbits of chicken for him.
Laura held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m not getting married for two months yet, Dad. You’re going to have to wait a year or two for a grandchild.”
We laughed together, and Diesel chirped along. “I don’t mind waiting awhile longer. But at the rate things are progressing with Sean and Alexandra, I’m sure you’ll produce the first sprig of the next generation.”
“Oh, they’ll work everything out.” Laura shrugged. “Sean’s just being stubborn, but he’ll come around. Alexandra will sort out her father, and peace and happiness will reign once again for my big brother.”
“I sure hope so,” I said. “I’m keeping out of it.”
“So am I,” Laura replied. “Enough about weddings. Tell me what you’ve been up to. How’s the exhibit shaping up?”
For the next ten minutes I shared with my daughter the events of the past couple of days. Her eyes widened in excitement when I told her about meeting Electra Barnes Cartwright. Laura had read the Veronica Thane books and loved them. She held back her comments, though, until I finished with the last, most horrible, event, the murder of Carrie Taylor.
“How awful.” Laura shook her head. “That poor woman. Why would anyone do that to her? From what you’ve said, she sounds like she was a nice old lady. Was it a robbery gone wrong, do you think?”
“It might have been.” I told her my suspicions of Gordon Betts.
“That’s downright crazy,” Laura said as I got up from the table to retrieve the p
iece of paper with the hotel phone number on it. “It’s not like we’re talking about a fabulous piece of art here, like a Renoir or a Rembrandt. Do you really think anyone would kill over a collection of children’s books?”
“It does sound pretty senseless, doesn’t it?” I shrugged. “People have killed for less, though. What might sound nutty to you or me might not sound that way to a rabid collector perhaps. The lust to possess has driven many to murder.”
“I guess,” Laura said, “but you have to wonder if there isn’t something else going on, something no one knows about yet.”
“That’s entirely possible,” I said. I brandished the piece of paper. “I was about to call the Farrington House when you walked in. I thought I would see whether Gordon Betts is staying there.”
“And if you can track him down, you’ll try to talk to him, won’t you?” Laura shook her head. “I don’t blame you for being curious, but do you think you should? Won’t Kanesha have a fit if she finds out?”
“Kanesha is probably going to have several fits with me before this is over,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster. “I’m not going to be able to stay out of this.”
“No, I don’t imagine you will be. Just be careful that Kanesha doesn’t lock you up.” Laura’s wry tone caused us both to smile.
I wouldn’t have admitted it to my daughter right then, but I hadn’t actually considered how the chief deputy would react. Laura’s questions gave me pause, however, because I didn’t want to get caught in the crosshairs over this. Kanesha might seek my help, as she had done on occasion when she thought I had access to information she needed. On reflection, I decided I probably ought to wait to talk to Gordon Betts until after I was sure Kanesha had questioned him first.
My cell phone rang, and I pulled it from my pocket. Melba Gilley’s name popped up on the caller ID. “Morning, Melba. How are you?”
The Silence of the Library Page 8
