The Silence of the Library (13 page)

Even if Winston Eagleton was in dire financial straits, how did that connect him to the murder of Carrie Taylor? Desperation could drive a person to do things he might not otherwise contemplate, but there had to be a link between the need for money and the act of murder.

I realized that it was likely the one had nothing to do with the other in this case. Eagleton’s finances could well be a side issue.

Then again, what motivated the killer in this instance?

I mulled it over while I loaded my plate with potato chips, onion dip, a few grapes, and a dozen cubes of cheddar. I turned to see that Della Duffy was the new arrival. When I shifted position, I bumped my wineglass with my elbow. Red wine spilled all over the tablecloth.

At least my clumsiness saved me from having to dispose of it elsewhere. I set my plate down and grabbed a couple of napkins to sop up as much of the wine as I could. Once I had disposed of them, I took my plate and moved toward Eagleton and Della Duffy. I was embarrassed by my klutziness but I ought to apologize to the man.

My host and Ms. Duffy were engaged in a low-voiced conversation but they broke off when they realized I was approaching them.

“Evening, Ms. Duffy,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”

Della Duffy, dressed in a low-necked, black linen cocktail dress with flounces around the sleeves and the hem, examined me warily, I thought. “Did you bring that cat with you?”

I didn’t care for her tone. Rudeness on her part was bringing out the worst in me. I tried to keep a straight face as I responded. “No, he stayed home. He doesn’t like cocktail parties.” I stuffed a cube of cheddar in my mouth and chewed to keep from laughing.

Ms. Duffy’s eyes narrowed, as she no doubt realized I was poking fun at her. “Nice to see you again, too.” The patent insincerity of her tone was payback for my comment.

“Della my dear, may I offer you a drink?” Eagleton, seemingly oblivious to the tension between his two guests, patted Ms. Duffy’s arm. He leaned closer and for a moment appeared to lose his balance before he managed to steady himself. I noticed his tall glass was empty, and I figured I knew why he was oblivious. He was well on the way to getting totally pickled on scotch.

Perhaps I should have stayed home with Diesel. This little shindig had all the makings of a disaster. I munched a few more cubes of cheese.

Della Duffy shook off her host’s arm. “Campari and soda, if you have it.”

Eagleton stared at her a moment, and I wondered if he was about to fall flat on his face. “What? Confound it, I knew I forgot something. No Campari, my dear. Afraid the catering didn’t run to that. How about scotch and soda instead? Plenty of scotch.” He smiled.

“Oh, very well.” Ms. Duffy sniffed. “I hope it’s not that cheap rotgut stuff you served last time.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Eagleton drew himself up, very much on his dignity. “Only buy fine scotch. Connoisseur, you know.” He swayed a couple of times.

“Whatever.” Ms. Duffy rolled her eyes at me. “I’ll get something to nosh on while you fix my drink. Excuse me.” She brushed past me, nearly jostling my plate-holding arm. I muttered, “Excuse me,” but she didn’t slow down on her way to the food.

I followed Eagleton to the bar, concerned that in his current state he might stumble and hurt himself. He made it fine, though, and while he fumbled with the bottle of scotch, I apologized for my mishap with the wine.

He blinked at me. “My dear chap, these things happen. Not to worry, not to worry.” He splashed three fingers of scotch in a glass, squirted soda into it, then toddled off to present the drink to Della Duffy.

Could the evening possibly go uphill from here?

When Eagleton went to the door in response to loud knocking and admitted Gordon Betts, I knew uphill was a far distant prospect.

Betts pushed past our host, evidently having spotted the bar. “I need a drink,” I heard him mutter as he breezed past me without bothering to acknowledge my presence.

Eagleton remained by the door, his head stuck out into the hallway. I wondered whether he was about to be sick, but then he stepped back and admitted Teresa Farmer. Finally, someone with some couth that I could talk to.

“So lovely to see you, my dear.” Eagleton swayed. “Oh, my, the room does appear to be moving rather quickly, doesn’t it?” He stumbled past Teresa and plopped down on the sofa. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped at his perspiring face. “Rather warm in here, don’t you think?”

He must have had another nip or three of the scotch without my noticing, I reckoned. I set my plate on the coffee table as Teresa hurried over to me. “Is he drunk?” she whispered.

I nodded. I stepped closer to our afflicted host. “Mr. Eagleton, could I get you something? Water, perhaps?”

Blearily the man focused on my face. “That would be extraordinarily kind of you, sir.”

Marveling at his ability to enunciate clearly while under the influence, I fetched a bottle of water from the bar and brought it back to him. Teresa stood by, watching Eagleton intently for signs of further distress.

I twisted the cap off. “Sip this.” I held the water to Eagleton’s lips, and his right hand grasped the bottle. He tilted it up and chugged down two-thirds of the contents.

“Thank you.” Eagleton grimaced. “I must apologize for my disgraceful behavior. One does tend to fret over these social occasions, and sometimes one forgets to eat before indulging in a wee dram or two of scotch.” He started to rise, but I indicated he should remain where he was.

“Let me fix you a plate,” I said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten a bit.”

“Of course you will.” Teresa sat beside Eagleton and patted his arm. “And if there’s anything else you need, let us know.”

Leaving our host in Teresa’s capable hands, I went over to the table. Betts was still at the bar, I noticed, and the scotch bottle appeared empty now. Della Duffy stood at the window, plate in hand, seemingly unaware of the rest of us. She and Betts probably knew each other, given their devotion to their collections, but I guessed they weren’t all that chummy. Frankly, it was hard to imagine Betts having friends of any kind—except, perhaps, imaginary ones.

I took a full plate back to Eagleton, and he tucked into the chips and dip with great enthusiasm. How long had it been since the man had eaten? I wondered. I had seen swine at the trough take longer to chew their food.

I motioned for Teresa to join me, and we ambled over to the bar. I warned her,
sotto voce
, to avoid the wine at all costs. Betts was rooting around in the cabinets, no doubt in search of more hard booze. Teresa and I grabbed water bottles.

“Gotcha.” Betts faced us triumphantly, a bottle of Laphroaig in hand. “I knew he had to have the good stuff hidden somewhere. Never goes anywhere without it.” He opened the whiskey, smiling gleefully. “You want some?” he asked after he filled his own glass, sans soda as befit a true connoisseur.

“No, thank you,” Teresa and I responded in unison.

“Suit yourselves.” Betts shrugged and sipped his whiskey. “What’s up with Winnie? He toasted already?”

Teresa frowned. “I think he was suffering from low blood sugar. He simply needed something to eat.” Diplomatic of her, I thought approvingly, but sadly, patently false.

Betts snickered. “Yeah, and Nancy Drew was really Frank Hardy in drag. Tell me another one.”

I’d bet even his imaginary friends thought he was a jerk.

Teresa and I turned away and walked back over to Eagleton. He had emptied his plate and finished the rest of the water. He smiled and got to his feet. “Thank you both again for your kind ministrations.”

“You’re most welcome,” Teresa said and patted his arm.

We all turned at a loud knocking on the door, and Eagleton started toward it. “Let me,” I said and stepped past him. I wasn’t sure he was steady enough yet.

Eagleton didn’t protest, and I went to admit Marcella Marter and Mrs. Cartwright, swathed once again in black. Marcella pushed in without a word. “Come on, Mother, or you’ll never make it in time.”

“Marcella, don’t be rude.” Mrs. Cartwright tried to pull her arm loose but Marcella clung to it.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, careful to move out of the way.

“Mother needs the restroom.” Marcella grimaced. “Right away. Where is it?”

I glanced around. This suite appeared identical to others in the hotel I had visited, and I remembered there was a bathroom in the hall between the living room and the bedroom. I pointed. “That way, I believe.”

Marcella Marter didn’t bother to thank me, though Mrs. Cartwright smiled. Marcella hurried her mother toward the hall.

I shut the door and rejoined Teresa and Eagleton. “Restroom,” I responded to their looks of inquiry, and Eagleton actually blushed.

“When, ahem, the esteemed ladies return, we should perhaps propose a toast to the dear departed Carrie Taylor, don’t you think? We must acknowledge the lack of her presence tonight, I am sure.” Eagleton nodded. “Yes, certainly. I shall prepare myself for the toast, if you will excuse me for a moment.”

“Of course.” Teresa and I nodded, and Eagleton moved toward the bar.

Teresa whispered, “This is dreadful. I wish now I’d told Mr. Eagleton I was busy tonight.”

“Me, too,” I said with a quick laugh. “Too late, but it surely has to get better.”

“It could hardly be worse.” Teresa grimaced.

The room fell silent. Della Duffy remained in position in front of the window. Betts had propped himself against one end of the bar, Laphroaig in hand. Our host retrieved a fresh bottle of water and stood at the other end of the bar.

After what seemed several agonizing minutes—but was probably only five at the most—Marcella and Mrs. Cartwright returned to the living room. Marcella guided her mother to the sofa and sat her down. “What would you like to drink, Mother?”

“Whiskey, if there is anything decent on offer.” Mrs. Cartwright adjusted the scarf at her neck, then her dark glasses. Marcella scowled but headed for the bar.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cartwright, Mrs. Marter.” Teresa moved over to the sofa and sat by the author. “How are you tonight?”

“Thirsty.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed. “Otherwise, I’m doing just fine, my dear. And you?”

While Teresa and Mrs. Cartwright chatted, I watched Marcella at the bar. She wrested the Laphroaig away from Betts, who offered no resistance. I figured by now he had downed enough of the whiskey to be in a mellower frame of mind.

“Good evening, my dear.” Eagleton beamed at Marcella as she found two glasses and poured drinks for herself and her mother. “So pleased that you and your delightful mother could join us this evening. Spending time with you twice in one day is indeed a rare benison.”

“Our pleasure.” Marcella spritzed the glasses with soda and turned away. I winced at the sight. Though I was not much of a whiskey drinker, I knew better than to insult Laphroaig that way.

Eagleton followed her to greet Mrs. Cartwright. “Dear lady, you are most welcome indeed. I take it as a great honor that you have appeared at this select gathering tonight.”

“My pleasure.” Mrs. Cartwright smiled briefly before she accepted her whiskey from Marcella.

“Allow me to propose a toast to one who is not with us this evening.” Eagleton glanced around. “Della, my dear, do please join us. You, too, Gordon. Gather near.”

He waited until Ms. Duffy and Betts drew closer, then raised his glass.

“Would that we could toast dear Carrie Taylor in her living presence, but alas that is not to be. She was a delightful person, a true devotee of our dear Mrs. Cartwright, and a wonderful champion for Veronica Thane in all things.”

“What do you mean, ‘she
was
a delightful person’?” Marcella appeared confused. “What happened to her?”

Betts giggled. “Somebody murdered her.” He downed his drink in one gulp.

Marcella shrieked, dropped her glass, then fainted.

Luckily for Marcella, she was standing in front of the sofa when she fainted. She fell backward onto it, about two inches from where her mother sat. The contents of the glass ended up mostly on her, a little on her mother and the sofa. The aroma of the expensive liquor began to pervade the room.

Mrs. Cartwright jerked as her daughter’s body landed beside her, but she managed to hang on to her glass of whiskey and soda without sloshing any out. “Oh, goodness, Marcella, whatever is the matter with you?” She glanced around, obviously searching. “Where is my purse? I need my smelling salts.”

“Here it is.” Teresa grabbed the large bag, almost a briefcase in size, from the floor beside the sofa. She handed it to the author, who quickly rummaged inside and brought out a small bottle. She twisted off the cap, then stuck the salts under her daughter’s nose.

Marcella’s body flinched as she inhaled. Her eyelids fluttered. After a moment she sat up, shaking her head as if to clear it. “What happened?” she asked in a weak voice. She glanced around, blinking rapidly.

“You fainted.” Her mother’s tone was crisp. “When you heard the news that Carrie Taylor is dead, you passed right out.” Mrs. Cartwright belted back the rest of her whiskey and soda.

“Oh, my.” Marcella’s right hand went to her cheek. She stared at her mother. “How awful. Who on earth would do such a thing?” She accepted the towel Teresa had fetched and began the attempt to dry herself.

“That’s something we’d all like to know.” Della Duffy stuffed cheese in her mouth as she stared down at Marcella and Mrs. Cartwright.

Marcella frowned. “You don’t think I know anything about it, surely.” She dropped the towel on the floor.

“Did I say that?” Della sounded bored. “I was talking to Winnie.”

“Dear ladies, I am certain that none of us knows anything about such an unfortunate occurrence.” Winston Eagleton cleared his throat as he glared at Della Duffy. “It must have been some local ruffian who did this terrible thing. Why, none of us really knew poor Carrie all that well.”

Betts giggled. “Come on, Winnie, you know better than that. I saw you at the con in Boston, cozying up to her, kissing her hand, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. You were sweet on her.”

Eagleton’s face burned bright red, and for once he appeared to be at a loss for words.

“That’s right,” Della said. “I saw you, too. Probably trying to get her to invest in your press after Gordon pulled his money out. But I’ll bet she didn’t fall for it, either.”

“Either?” Mrs. Cartwright laughed. “I suppose that means he tried it on you first, eh?”

Della snorted. “He did try it on me, but I ain’t buying. Probably tried it on Gordon, too, to get him to reinvest. When it comes to money, dear old Winnie is totally bisexual.”

Betts simply giggled again. I think he was too far gone to care what Della Duffy said.

Despite the painful embarrassment I felt at having to witness such a nasty little scene, I took careful note of Della Duffy’s indiscreet remarks. I would share the information with Kanesha later, in case it had any bearing on the murder.

Eagleton found his voice. “I am not bisexual. The very notion is the height of absurdity.” He paused for a steadying breath. “I admit I did pay court to Carrie Taylor. She was a kind, attractive woman of an age suitable to be a companion to a man such as myself.” He glared at Della. “I didn’t try anything on you. I merely approached you with a business proposition.”

Della shrugged. “If you say so.” She turned away and wandered over to the food table.

Teresa and I had been standing by, observing the whole distasteful scene. I had no doubt she was every bit as uncomfortable as I was, having to watch such goings-on. I was about to make my excuses and leave, taking Teresa along, but Marcella forestalled me.

She rose from the sofa and extended a hand to her mother. “Come along now, Mother. I want to go home and get out of this dress. It reeks of whiskey.”

“Well, if you must.” Eagleton’s protest sounded pretty weak to me.

“Evidently we must.” Mrs. Cartwright let her daughter pull her to a standing position. “Don’t forget my bag, Marcella.”

“Of course not, Mother.” Marcella grabbed the purse from the sofa and stuck the strap over her arm.

“Let me show you out.” Eagleton preceded the women to the door. “Perhaps you will allow me to visit you again tomorrow and continue our discussions from earlier today?”

“I’ll call you,” Marcella said, her tone not in the least bit friendly. “Do you think you can find your way again?”

“Most assuredly.” Eagleton opened the door. “I do hope your agent will be able to join us.”

Mrs. Cartwright paused to turn and look back at the man. “If she ever turns up. I’m beginning to think I need to change agents if the girl can’t even find my house with clear directions.”

Eagleton frowned. “That is most unfortunate. I wonder where she might be.”

“She’ll show up,” Marcella said, clearly impatient. “She’s probably at the house with Eugene right now. Come on, Mother, I want to go home. I can’t stand being in this smelly dress any longer than I have to.”

“Very well, my dear. Good night, everyone.” Mrs. Cartwright went along with Marcella, and Eagleton closed the door after them.

Teresa and I approached, ready to say our own good-byes.

“Might I have a word with you, old chap?” Eagleton smiled at Teresa. “Would you excuse us just a tick, my dear? Shan’t be long.”

What could he want? I wondered. I was more than ready to get out of this room and on the way home.

“Sure,” Teresa said. She moved a few feet away and stared at a picture on the wall.

Eagleton stepped closer to me and spoke in a low tone. “I wondered if you might do me a favor.” His eyes flicked away for a moment across the room. I followed his gaze to where Gordon Betts leaned against the bar, his head down on his arms. “Do you think you could possibly see Gordon to his room? I’m afraid I can’t manage it myself. Bad back and all that, you know.”

I suppressed a sigh of irritation. Why didn’t he simply pour water over Betts’s head and send him on his way? That’s what I was tempted to do. Innate good manners kicked in, unfortunately, and I found myself agreeing to help.

Eagleton beamed with gratitude. “Thanks ever so, old chap. You are truly most kind.”

“Think nothing of it.” My wry tone seemed to escape him as he bustled away, headed for Della Duffy still grazing at the dinner table. The woman certainly was putting the food away.

Teresa joined me. “Need any assistance? I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“No, I think I can manage,” I said. “Why don’t you go on? I’m sure you’re as ready to get away from here as I am.”

“Definitely.” Teresa grinned. “This evening was like something out of a really bad play.” She paused. “If you’re sure you don’t need me?”

“I’m sure. Go on.” I patted her arm before she headed quickly for the door and let herself out.

I turned toward the bar and stared at Betts for a moment. He didn’t appear to have moved.

I frowned. Was he still breathing? I couldn’t detect any signs of life, and suddenly my heart started pounding. Surely he hadn’t died? I started toward him.

A loud snore reassured me. When I reached him and put a hand on his shoulder to shake him awake, he stood and blinked at me. Then he frowned. “What happened?”

“You passed out,” I told him curtly. “Why don’t you let me help you to your room. The party’s over.”

He shook his head. “Don’t need help.” He took a couple of steps, almost tripped over his own feet, but managed to steady himself. “Maybe you’d better,” he said with a weak grin.

I took hold of his left arm and steadied him. “What room are you in?”

He stared at me. “Room?” He paused. “Oh, right, hotel. Room. Um, seven-oh-three?” He nodded after a moment. “Yeah, seven-oh-three, that’s it.”

“Do you have the key?”

He thrust his right hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a card. I took it from him.

“Okay, then, let’s go.” I started leading him to the door. When I paused to open it, I glanced over to Eagleton and Della Duffy, both steadily clearing the table by eating every scrap of food.

I got Betts out the door and down the hall without much trouble. In the elevator I propped him in the corner before I pressed the button for the seventh floor. He had closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep again. I roused him after the brief ride up two floors and tugged him out and toward room 703. He stumbled alongside me.

I had to lean him against the wall while I inserted the key card in the lock. He managed to lurch in on his own, and I followed him to make sure he didn’t fall and bang his head against something, such as the sharp corner of a desk.

His suite was more lavish than Eagleton’s, I thought, but I didn’t have much time to examine the furnishings. Betts tripped near the sofa and fell headlong onto it. I rushed forward to catch him, but he hit the cushions before I could reach him.

His face, fortunately for him, hit one of the cushions, but his arm flopped over the end table and knocked the lamp to the floor with a muffled thud. The luxurious carpet softened the blow, and the lamp remained intact.

“What was that?” Betts raised his head for a moment, then it dropped back down before I could answer.

I couldn’t leave him prone on the sofa. He might suffocate like that. I managed to turn his body so that he was on his back, head on a cushion, and legs stretched out. He started snoring, and I figured the best thing now was to let him sleep it off.

I restored the lamp to the end table and was about to leave when I noticed how cold it was in the room. I had better find a blanket for Betts; otherwise he might take a chill if he didn’t wake up soon to find one for himself. I found the bedroom and rummaged in the closet. As I expected, there was a spare blanket on the shelf.

Back in the living room, I unfolded the blanket and covered Betts with it. I turned, ready to go, when I spotted the dining table on the other side of the room.

There were seven or eight stacks of books atop the table, and I simply couldn’t resist going over to see what they were. Typical of bibliophiles like me, even though Betts might consider it snooping. He owed me this much, I figured.

The piles consisted of Veronica Thane books, as I’d expected. Beautiful copies, too. Pristine-looking jackets protected by Mylar covers. I bent to read the spines of the first stack.

Several of the titles were in languages other than English. I recognized French and German. Was that one Swedish? I wondered.

I moved on to the next stack, turning it sideways so I could again read the spines. Midway down I spotted a copy of
The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion
.

I walked back over to the sofa, and a quick glance assured me that Betts was still asleep. I went back to the table and carefully pulled the copy of
Spellwood Mansion
from the stack.

My hands trembled slightly as I opened it from the back and found the page where the identifying error would be.

There it was.
Clarevoyant’s Clew
. A true, rare first printing of the book.

Was this really his copy? Or was it Carrie Taylor’s?