The Silence of the Library

by Miranda James

  What Melba told us made Carrie Taylor’s story even more heart-wrenching. I could feel for that little girl who wanted so desperately to know her biological mother and to escape from a life of poverty.

  “So Carrie wrote to Mrs. Cartwright.” Melba paused. “I think she wrote in care of the publisher maybe. Anyway, she mailed her letter and waited. And waited. And waited. She kept reading the books over and over till they were about to fall apart.”

  “Did someone give her the books?” I asked. “It doesn’t sound like her parents could afford to buy them for her.”

  “They couldn’t,” Melba said. “One of the teachers at school felt sorry for her and gave them to her.”

  “Did she ever get a letter back from Mrs. Cartwright?” Kanesha asked.

  “About thirteen months after she mailed her letter.” Melba shook her head. “I read it once, the first time Carrie showed it to me, I guess it was. Mrs. Cartwright apologized real nice about answering so long after Carrie wrote to her, but she said that she had moved a couple of times during the year and the post office had trouble keeping up with her and forwarding the mail.” She shrugged. “That sounded kind of fake to me, but what do I know? Carrie was so thrilled to get the letter she didn’t care. She wrote back to Mrs. Cartwright, and this time got an answer right away. But in that second letter Mrs. Cartwright told her she was going to live overseas and didn’t know exactly where she’d be, so she didn’t have an address to give Carrie.” Melba shrugged again. “That really was a brush-off, I think, but Carrie was only twelve, I guess, and she believed every word of it. She wrote one more letter back to Mrs. Cartwright but it was never answered.”

  “Was it the letters from Mrs. Cartwright she considered her prize possessions?” Kanesha asked.

  Melba nodded. “They were real valuable to her, but do you think they were worth any money? Surely they weren’t worth somebody killing her for, were they?”

  She was looking at me when she asked the question, and Kanesha also appeared to be waiting for me to answer.

  I thought about it for a moment. “Frankly, I can’t see that they’d have significant monetary value. Maybe a hundred bucks or so, but unless letters in Mrs. Cartwright’s own hand are truly rare, I shouldn’t think they’d be worth much. It’s not like she was a hugely famous or successful person—although to her fans she was royalty.” A thought occurred to me. “Were those letters handwritten?”

  “I’m pretty sure they were,” Melba said, though she didn’t sound completely certain.

  “It doesn’t sound to me like those letters were valuable enough to kill over.” Kanesha rubbed her forehead. “If an item in those files motivated the murder, it surely had to be something else.”

  But what? I wondered. I couldn’t come up with any ideas at the moment.

  “Ms. Gilley, would you do me a favor and write down everything you remember about those files? Anything you can recall that you saw or even think you saw?” Kanesha drained the last of her coffee, and I refilled it. She nodded her thanks.

  “I can sure do that,” Melba said. “If Charlie will find me some paper and a pen, I’ll get right on it.” She flashed a smile. “That is, if you and Diesel don’t mind me hanging around here a little while.”

  Diesel meowed loudly, and I grinned at Melba. “I think he has spoken for both of us. I’ll be back in a minute.” I headed for the den at the back of the house and retrieved a notebook and a couple of pens from my desk there. Kanesha and Melba were silent when I returned to the kitchen.

  “Before you start making your list,” Kanesha said, “can you think of anything else that could be important?”

  Melba shook her head. “Not right this minute, but who knows what will come to me when I start writing? Okay with you if I do it here while you and Charlie talk? Or do you want me somewhere else?”

  Kanesha eyed me for a moment.

  “It’s fine with me if she stays here,” I said.

  Melba flipped open the notebook, uncapped a pen, and started writing.

  “Okay, then,” Kanesha said. “When you were at the Farrington House last night, did you rifle through anybody’s room?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  I stared back at Kanesha. Was this some kind of joke she was trying to pull?

  Melba laughed. “I know Charlie is on the snoopy side, but I’d be surprised if he was going through anybody’s room unless he had a powerful good reason.”

  I started to protest, but I recalled my actions last night in a particular guest’s room.

  “I did take a look at the books Gordon Betts had out on the table in his suite.” I paused because I hated to admit the next bit. “I picked up one of the books and handled it.”

  “Which one?” Kanesha asked, frowning.

  “A copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion. Turns out it was one of the rare ones that I told you about.” I shrugged. “No way to tell, though, when Betts acquired it. Or how.”

  Kanesha pulled out her notebook and jotted a few words in it. She glanced back at me. “Anything else?”

  “No, that was the only book I touched. I did go in his bathroom, though.” I related to them how I had attended to Betts in his drunken state. “I did not, however, go through any of his personal things in the bathroom or the bedroom. I swear to it.”

  Kanesha nodded. “Were you in any other rooms last night? Besides Mr. Eagleton’s and Mr. Betts’s?”

  “No, I wasn’t,” I said. “What are you getting at? Has someone actually accused me of breaking into their room and going through their things?”

  “Well, I never.” Melba was clearly annoyed. “Sounds to me like some jerk is just trying to make trouble for Charlie.”

  “Not you specifically,” Kanesha said, addressing me and appearing to ignore Melba’s interjections. “But two of the guests complained to me that their things had been gone through. They were pretty adamant about it, and they both gave me believable explanations of why they were sure it happened.”

  “Who were they?” I asked. “Like Melba said, it sounds like someone’s trying to make trouble for me.”

  “Not you specifically,” Kanesha repeated. “Your name came up as a possibility, and I’ll have to admit I did wonder about it. I know you have a tendency to get pretty involved in these things, and sometimes it’s easy to let your curiosity get the better of your judgment.”

  “I guess I can be a little on the snoopy side, like Melba said.” I smiled at my childhood friend. “But I do have my limits. Now, who was claiming their rooms were searched?”

  “Gordon Betts and Della Duffy,” Kanesha answered. “Frankly, I didn’t really think you had done it. I reckoned you might have looked through the books they had lying around in their rooms, but I can’t see any harm in that. Or any violation of privacy since they were out for anybody to see. I also didn’t think you would have entered their rooms without their knowledge or consent.”

  “Didn’t happen,” I said. “I helped Gordon Betts to his room, but I don’t even know what room Ms. Duffy is staying in. Or even if she has a room at the Farrington House.”

  “She does,” Kanesha said. “Down the hall from Gordon Betts. Now here’s the thing. Whoever got into those rooms knew how to get around those keycard locks they have. Or else a member of the hotel staff helped.”

  “What if it was a member of the hotel staff looking for something to steal?” Melba frowned. “But you did say nothing was taken, right?”

  “Right.” Kanesha nodded. “Neither Ms. Duffy nor Mr. Betts had anything stolen. That was what was so odd. What was the snoop looking for?”

  I pointed out one obvious flaw I spotted. “First you have to assume that both the complainants were telling the truth about nothing being taken from them. If something linking either of them to the murder of Carrie Taylor got taken, would they admit that to you?”

  “I already though
t of that.” Kanesha sounded testy. “I questioned both of them thoroughly, and my reading is that they were telling the truth. I can’t prove it, but that is what my instincts led me to conclude.”

  I had known Kanesha long enough now to respect her instincts. If neither Gordon Betts nor Della Duffy was lying about an intruder in their rooms, what was the point of the snooping if nothing was taken?

  “If you ask me,” Melba said, “the whole thing sounds pointless to me.”

  “Button, button, who’s got the button,” I said.

  Kanesha and Melba stared at me as if I had lost my wits.

  “Nobody said anything about buttons.” Melba looked confused. Perhaps she had never heard that phrase before nor recognized the game to which it referred.

  I quickly explained. “That came to mind because I had this notion there was a point to the search. The intruder was seeking something he knows exists, he simply isn’t sure who has it.”

  “We’re back to the beginning then.” Kanesha sounded depressed. “What was he looking for? And how is it connected—if it is connected at all—to the murder?”

  I had the beginnings of a headache. All this circular speculation was frustrating. Had we accomplished anything? I put the question to Kanesha.

  “We know one thing. Files that were important to Mrs. Taylor are missing. There had to be an important item, or several items, the killer wanted. It might be worth money to him, or maybe the value isn’t money, but something else entirely.” Kanesha paused and thought for a moment. “Actually we knew some of that already. The key thing is, now we know where the valuable item, evidently worth killing for, was located. How are we going to figure out what it was?”

  “Research. I’m going to dig into Electra Barnes Cartwright’s history as deeply and broadly as I can. Since the contents of those files focused on her and her life and career, then the answer has to be there. If it’s on the Internet or in a reference book, then I can find it.”

  “Because that’s what librarians do.” Melba grinned at me. She had heard me on this particular soapbox before.

  “It would save me time and brainpower I don’t have to spare at the moment,” Kanesha said. “I can’t stay here and watch over your shoulder while you do it, but the minute you find anything significant, call me.”

  “I will.” We had played out this scene between us more than once in the recent past. I was pleased that, though often still wary, she appeared now to trust me to produce results and to share them. To let her take the credit and not to try to put myself in the limelight as the clever amateur who constantly showed up the police. Or in this case, the sheriff’s department. I didn’t want that kind of notoriety. I was perfectly happy to do my civic duty and give her the credit for the final result.

  “Then I believe I’m going to head home and try to catch a couple hours’ sleep.” Hands on the table, Kanesha pushed herself upright. She nodded at Melba. “Let me know when you’re done with that list.”

  “I will,” Melba said. “You go on and get to bed. You look like you’re about to fall over any second now.”

  I hated to delay Kanesha any further, but a question popped into my head that I had to ask. “Have you had any luck tracing Yancy Thigpen?”

  Melba looked confused, but she didn’t interrupt to ask who this person was. Kanesha shook her head. “We know she picked up a rental car at the Memphis Airport. After that, nothing. The sheriff’s departments between here and Memphis have been alerted to keep a lookout for her and her car. That’s about all we can do for now.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I’ll see myself out.” She nodded good-bye and headed for the front door.

  Melba waited until Kanesha was out of earshot. “So who is this Yancy Thigpen? What does he have to do with all this?”

  “She is Mrs. Cartwright’s agent,” I explained. “She was supposed to arrive at Mrs. Cartwright’s house sometime yesterday for a meeting between her client and Winston Eagleton, a publisher who wants to reprint the Veronica Thane books. According to Mrs. Cartwright and her daughter, Ms. Thigpen never turned up.”

  “You obviously think there’s something sinister about that.” Melba frowned. “Sounds that way to me, too, the more I think about it.”

  “I’m afraid it is connected to Carrie Taylor’s murder, and I am praying that Ms. Thigpen is found alive and unharmed.”

  Diesel as usual picked up on the sudden tension and started meowing for attention. He came to me for reassurance, and I rubbed and scratched his head and back while Melba watched.

  “It’s amazing to me how he picks up on things.” She spoke softly.

  “He’s very intuitive, that’s for sure.” I gave my boy an indulgent smile, and he chirped at me. Finally, having had enough attention—for the moment, that is—he wandered toward the utility room. No doubt by now he was starving again.

  “Help yourself to more coffee. Of if you’d prefer something cold, there are canned drinks in the fridge. I’m going to get my laptop and sit here with you while I search.”

  “I’m fine for now.” Melba smiled and picked up her pen.

  Out of nowhere I suddenly remembered Carrie Taylor’s dog. “What did you do with the dog?”

  “Zippy, you mean?” Melba laughed. “I thought Thelma, Carrie’s neighbor, hated dogs, but now that Carrie’s gone, Thelma decided she wants to take him. Says he gets into her yard all the time anyway, so he might as well stay with her because it’s familiar. Don’t that beat all?”

  “As long as she’ll provide a good home for him,” I said, “it’s probably the best thing. Dogs are a lot of responsibility. Cats, too, for that matter.”

  “I was relieved, actually.” Melba waved a hand at me. “Go get your laptop and let me concentrate.”

  A few minutes later I was seated at the table again, laptop up and running. Diesel had come back and stretched out by Melba’s chair. She was engrossed in her task.

  As soon as the computer was ready, I opened a browser and prepared to search. I realized I really should think about my strategy rather than start searching with no plan.

  What should I search first?

  Yancy Thigpen seemed stuck in my head at the moment, so I decided to search her. I might find out something pertinent to her apparent disappearance.

  There was actually more than one Yancy Thigpen out there, I discovered. I honed in on the one I wanted quickly because one of the results included a thumbnail of a young woman. I clicked on that and examined the photo.

  I frowned. She looked oddly familiar. I was sure I hadn’t met her, but she resembled someone I knew. Who was it?

  Suddenly I had it.

  Teresa Farmer. She could be Teresa’s cousin, if not her sister.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I stared at the photo of Yancy Thigpen. Did she really look like Teresa Farmer, or was I imagining it? The longer I examined the photo, the less sure I was.

  I shifted the laptop on the table so Melba could see.

  “Take a gander at this image and tell me what you think. Does this person remind you of anyone?”

  Melba glanced at the screen and frowned. “Charlie, you’re always thinking somebody strange looks like somebody you know.” She leaned forward and peered more closely at the screen. I pushed the laptop a little nearer.

  “Well?” I said after a long moment of silence.

  Melba shrugged. “I guess she reminds me a little bit of Teresa Farmer from the public library.”

  “You think in dim light you could mistake Teresa for this woman?” I recalled the incident when Teresa and I visited Mrs. Cartwright and her daughter and how Marcella Marter reacted so oddly when she opened the door and saw Teresa standing there. I figured she might have mistaken Teresa for Yancy Thigpen.

  “I reckon I might,” Melba said. She didn’t sound convinced. “What does this have to do with a
nything, though? You think they could be related?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about that,” I said. I told her what happened when we first met Marcella Marter.

  “That’s weird enough,” Melba said. “But does it really mean anything?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. Melba shrugged and went back to work on her list.

  I examined a few more pictures of Yancy Thigpen, and I soon realized that they all had one thing in common. In every single photograph, each apparently taken on different occasions, Ms. Thigpen was wearing a red dress with a scarf. The scarf in each photo was different, but they were all vivid geometric prints. What this had to do with anything, I wasn’t sure, but the information could be useful to the authorities looking for her. I fired off a brief e-mail to Kanesha, just in case.

  That was enough about Yancy Thigpen for the moment, I decided. I needed to get on to the main subject of my research, Electra Barnes Cartwright. The solution to the murder, the disappearance, the strange theft—she was the common denominator. I was convinced of that.

  I typed in her name, hit Enter, and got back over twenty-five thousand results. I knew many of them would be repetitive, but I still had to comb through them to make sure I didn’t miss anything significant. As I stared at the screen, I realized I still hadn’t formulated a coherent strategy for my research. I needed to have some focus to what I was doing; otherwise I would easily get sidetracked and end up following trails that would yield nothing helpful. That was what made surfing the Internet both frustrating and fun.

  “Melba, let me have a couple of pieces of paper. I need to make a few notes.”