The Silence of the Library (7 page)

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 he
r.

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 very 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.”

“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.

“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 information 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.