The Silence of the Library (18 page)

Diesel looked up at me from the box he was investigating and meowed with what sounded like an indignant edge.

“Yes, I know you just started playing with those boxes, but I have something I need to do. You can’t stay here by yourself.”

He stared at me and meowed again. Then he darted under the bed.

“Diesel, come out from under there. Right now.” He was like a contrary child sometimes.

I waited for perhaps thirty seconds before I repeated my command.

Still no results.

Aggravated, I got down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. Luckily for me it was an old-fashioned one, high enough off the floor that I didn’t have to lie prone to see exactly where he was.

Against the wall halfway between the legs of the bed, naturally. I wasn’t going to crawl under to drag him out, however. I knew a better way to get him to come with me.

I put my left hand on the bed for leverage. I stood, wincing as my knees creaked. As I steadied myself, I glanced across the bed at the wall beyond where an old chifforobe stood.

A six-drawer chifforobe.

Why hadn’t I thought about checking there for the newsletters? The antique piece was the only other furniture in the room that could hold them.

I moved around the bed, and momentarily left Diesel to his own devices. I pulled open the door of the wardrobe half, but it was empty except for three hangers on the rail.

The top two drawers held old linens, now yellowed with age. The middle two were empty, but the fifth drawer down held a wooden box of a size appropriate to contain the newsletters. I checked the bottom drawer, and it was empty.

I picked up the box and placed it on the bed. The shallow, grooved lid came off easily, and inside lay a stack of papers—what I had been looking for during the past half hour or more.

I replaced the lid and tucked the box under my arm. I was halfway down the hall, having shut the door behind me before I remembered that Diesel remained under the bed. I smiled. This was what I’d planned to do anyway, because Diesel didn’t like being shut in a room by himself.

After standing in place for about two minutes, I moved quietly back to the door. I waited a few moments more, then I heard the cat scratching at the door.

“Come on, then, and I’ll give you a treat,” I said when I swung it open. “I told you I wanted to go downstairs.”

Diesel stared up at me for about three seconds and then shot out into the hall and down the stairs. I knew he would be waiting in the kitchen for the promised treat to materialize.

I stopped by my bedroom to retrieve the scrapbook. When I reached the kitchen, the cat sat near the chair I usually occupied. He warbled, obviously irritated with me for taking so long to fulfill my promise. I set the box and scrapbook on the table and retrieved the treat. I ended up giving him a small handful of the little tidbits, and he scarfed them down in three seconds flat. He stared hopefully at me, but I waved my hands in the air and said, “That’s all.” He muttered but didn’t press me any further. He stretched out on the floor by my chair and started grooming his front paws.

After my labors in the closet, I was thirsty, and before I set to work going through the newsletters and the scrapbook, I washed my hands and drank two glasses of water. Only then did I sit and pull the box toward me. Perhaps three inches deep, the box was filled almost to the brim with paper.

The initial newsletter lay on top. A single sheet, neatly typed and single-spaced, it featured a photocopied image of one of the illustrated plates from
The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion
, but greatly reduced from its original size. I scanned the text quickly. Carrie Taylor described briefly her first acquaintance with the series and went on to discuss her devotion to Veronica Thane and the works of Electra Barnes Cartwright through the years. The verso of the sheet featured a list of the books with their publication dates. The newsletter concluded with Mrs. Taylor’s address and phone number. She entreated anyone interested in her subjects to get in touch with her to get on a mailing list for further issues.

I set the sheet aside and picked up the next issue. This one was three sheets of paper, and the heading labeled it as
The Thane Chronicles
and denoted it as volume one, issue one. There was a date and a brief reprise of pertinent information from the initial sheet, followed by the subscription information. There was no mention of a cost for subscribing.

There were three short articles. One was a plot summary of
Spellwood Mansion
, and I skipped that. Next came a brief piece on the setting for the series. Mrs. Taylor speculated that the books were set in the author’s native Mississippi, though she admitted there were no direct references to the state, only consistently vague acknowledgments that Veronica and her guardian lived in the American South. The final article discussed the clothing in the series. Laura would find that interesting. I didn’t particularly, and I put the pages aside.

The issues grew longer as I moved down through the stack. Aunt Dottie, being the organized person she was, had kept them in chronological order. The publication pattern of the newsletter—as we librarians would call it—was irregular to begin with. There was an eighteen-month gap between the first two issues, and a fifteen-month lapse between number two and number three. After the fifth issue the pattern was more regular with two issues a year, usually spring and fall.

With issue number six, Mrs. Taylor offered content written by other Veronica fans and experts. I didn’t recognize any of the names but wondered if eventually I would encounter contributions by Gordon Betts or Della Duffy. I only skimmed most of the content, but one short article I read completely discussed Veronica’s injuries through the course of thirty-six adventures. She was knocked out seventeen times, got drugged eight times, was tied up in eleven books, and imprisoned eighteen times—once even in a trunk. The writer observed wryly that Veronica was a neurological marvel because she never suffered any cognitive impairment from all those bangs on the head and the drugging with unknown substances.

After an hour I had examined eleven issues without a hint of a clue—at least one that I recognized—relevant to Carrie Taylor’s murder. The newsletters might not end up having anything to do with the solution to the crime, but I felt I had to be thorough and examine every one in the box.

Before I started on the twelfth issue, I needed caffeine to pep up my brain cells. I retrieved a can of diet soda from the fridge and happened to glance at the clock. I felt my stomach rumble as I noted that it was almost eleven thirty. Breakfast seemed a long time ago. I might as well break for lunch.

I stuck my head back in the fridge to investigate the possibilities. I didn’t feel like cooking but the prospects for a quick meal seemed scant at best. The ham was gone, and I didn’t fancy more pimento cheese, delicious as it was. I could make a salad, but I wanted something more substantial.

“Morning, Dad. Ready for lunch?”

Sean’s voice startled me, and I almost banged my head on the fridge door as I turned. He stood grinning a few feet away with a large box emblazoned with the logo of Helen Louise’s bakery.

“I sure am.” I let the door swing shut. “What do you have there?”

Diesel perked up and warbled. He stood and stretched before he walked around the table to rub against my son’s legs.

“Salad and quiche.” Sean set the box on the table. “I was at the office this morning, and I decided to stop by the bakery on the way home. Figured you might join me for lunch.”

“You’re my favorite son.” I beamed at him and watched while he retrieved plates and utensils.

“Gee, thanks.” Sean laughed as he set the table.

“What would you like to drink?” I opened the fridge again.

“A beer if there’s any left.” He turned to grab napkins from the drawer.

“You’re in luck.” I found a bottle, opened it, and set it on the table. We sat and served ourselves. Diesel hovered anxiously by my chair. He was going to be disappointed, though, because the quiche was made with cheese, onions, and ham. A large paw tapped my thigh. I looked down at him. “Sorry, boy, but this isn’t Diesel food.” He meowed, but I shook my head at him. He stared at me for a moment before he stalked off toward his food bowl in the utility room.

After a couple of bites of salad and a few of the delicious quiche, I said, “You were at the office this morning? You must have left pretty early.”

Sean nodded and finished chewing before he answered. “Left about six. I had things to do on this new case, then I swung by the jail to talk to Mr. Eagleton again.”

“Any new developments?”

“Something pretty strange.” Sean set his fork down. “Evidently a neighbor across the street happened to be looking out a front window and saw a man at Mrs. Taylor’s front door about the time she left that phone message for Ms. Gilley.”

“That’s lucky,” I said. “Could he identify the man?”

“He said all he could really see was an outline, and his night vision isn’t good. The nearest streetlight is out, and Mrs. Taylor’s porch light was pretty dim. He thought the man looked slender.”

“Obviously not Winston Eagleton,” I said. “No way he could be described as slender.”

“No,” Sean said with a brief grin. “But here’s the weird thing. The witness, Mr. Andrews, looked out again about twenty minutes later—he’s not completely sure of the time—and saw someone leaving the house.” He paused. “But this time it was a woman.”

“A woman?” I almost dropped my quiche-laden fork. “So Mrs. Taylor had two visitors that night?”

“Looks like it,” Sean said. “And it seems more likely that the woman might have been the killer.”

“Could Mr. Andrews describe anything about the woman?”

“Not much,” Sean said with a rueful grimace. “The only thing he could say was that she wasn’t very tall. Neither was the man, apparently. The significant bit is that she was carrying a big box as she left.”

“She was taking away Mrs. Taylor’s files. That clinches it.” I was excited by the new discovery. Then a question occurred to me. “He was sure the person with the box was a woman? Couldn’t it have been the man?”

“He says it wasn’t. The head was bigger, like the second person had a lot more hair than the first one.”

I mulled that over. “The man might have been Gordon Betts, and I suppose the woman could have been Della Duffy. I think they’re about the same height. Well, if Della Duffy was wearing heels, she would be.”

“Kanesha said she would question both of them today about their whereabouts that night.” Sean sipped at his beer. He gestured with the bottle toward the scrapbook, box, and newsletters on the table. “I presume you’re doing research with those.”

I explained quickly what they were. “I’ve been through probably a third of the newsletters, but so far I can’t see that I have run across anything pertinent to the murder. They may be one big red herring.”

“You might find something significant yet.” Sean forked up a bite of quiche.

“Maybe.” I felt less sanguine about the prospects, but I knew I had to plow on through the rest of the newsletters as well as the scrapbook.

“I wish I had time to help you,” Sean said, “but I need to go back to the office for a couple of hours. Another case I’m working on. There’s not much else I can do for Mr. Eagleton right now.”

“I appreciate it, but I’ll muddle through. Although if Laura or Stewart should happen to wander in, I might co-opt one of them.” I grinned.

“You’re out of luck,” Sean said. “Laura and Frank drove over to Cleveland last night for a visit with his mother. I think Stewart is busy this weekend, too. I doubt you’ll see him until this evening.”

I had forgotten about Laura’s plans with Frank. “So much for that idea. Too bad Diesel can’t read,” I said.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Sean said wryly. “That’s one smart cat.”

We shared a laugh. Diesel was a bright feline, but there were limits to a cat’s abilities, after all.

“Will they release Eagleton once the killer is caught?” I ate more of the delicious quiche. My stomach felt happier, even if my brain didn’t. “Unless he was dressed up as a woman, he wasn’t the person Mr. Andrews saw leaving with that box.”

“That will depend partly on Mrs. Cartwright and her family. If they insist on pressing charges, everything will go forward. Unless, naturally, we can prove that the killer planted the manuscripts in my client’s room.”

“It will all get worked out. In the meantime I guess I should get back to my research.” I got up from the table to put my plate and utensils in the sink. “Thanks again for lunch. My prospects were meager until you showed up.”

“My pleasure.” Sean popped the last bite of quiche in his mouth. I cleared his place, and he dropped the beer bottle into the recycle bin. “I’m heading back to the office, Dad. Let me know if you find anything to help my client.”

“Will do.”

Sean waved on his way out of the kitchen.

I thought about stopping him to ask about the status of his engagement but quickly realized he wouldn’t welcome my inquiry. He would talk to me about it when he was ready.

I resumed my place at the table and pulled the newsletters toward me. A large paw tapped my thigh. Diesel stared hopefully at me. I had no doubt that, had he been able, he would have pointed to his open mouth to let me know he was all hollow inside. I couldn’t help but laugh. I pushed back from the table. “Okay, boy, I’ll give you a few treats, but that’s it.” I had filled his dry food bowl this morning, but by now he had probably cleaned it out. “No more until dinnertime tonight.”

My act of mercy accomplished, I went back to work. Over the next hour I made it through another third of the stack. The number of different contributors increased. The content of the articles varied greatly, as did the writing ability of the authors. I winced over a few examples of particularly bad prose. Perhaps Carrie Taylor hadn’t felt like she could offend people by tampering with their work, or she might not have been bothered the way I was.

I decided to switch from the newsletters to the scrapbook. I needed a change to refresh my brain, not to mention my eyes. I picked up the scrapbook and opened it to the first page.

Aunt Dottie evidently bought movie magazines during her youth because there were several pages of pictures and articles cut from them that featured Bonita Granville and her role as Nancy Drew. I caught myself reading one of the articles. I didn’t have time for that now.
Concentrate on Mrs. Cartwright and Veronica Thane
, I reminded myself.

There were pages of article clippings, most now yellowed with age and stained from glue, that mentioned Nancy Drew or one of the other juvenile detective series. I found a few references to Veronica Thane, but nothing extensive. Toward the middle I noticed a section that focused on Mrs. Cartwright, and I felt a tingle of anticipation. The clue I sought might be under my fingers.

Ten minutes later, having worked my way through the pertinent pages, I was discouraged. I hadn’t found anything that seemed relevant. The most interesting item was another photo from a film magazine that featured Marietta Dubois, the actress who was to have portrayed Veronica, and Mrs. Cartwright. Miss Dubois, tall and willowy, smiled—insincerely I thought—down at Mrs. Cartwright, who gazed up at the younger woman with manifest delight. Mrs. Cartwright’s head was about level with Miss Dubois’s shoulder.

Too bad the movie never came to be
, I thought. Veronica might have been even more famous, and it could have boosted the career of Miss Dubois.

I skimmed through the rest of the scrapbook but found nothing else related to either Veronica Thane or Mrs. Cartwright. I set it aside, wondering whether I had missed something.

The remaining newsletters beckoned, but I had little enthusiasm for the task. I decided I needed a complete break from my research. Perhaps if I put it all aside for a couple of hours, I could come back fresher and more alert to potential clues.

“Come on, Diesel.” I got up from the table. “Let’s go upstairs for a while. I’m going to read, and you can stretch out on the bed and have a nice long nap. How does that sound?”

Diesel warbled happily and trotted beside me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I took off my shoes and got comfortable on the bed. My copy of
Spellwood Mansion
lay on the nightstand, and I picked it up. Perhaps Veronica would inspire me. Escape reading might be just the thing to clear my head.

I found my bookmark and began to read. Veronica had just found out she’d been drugged. . . .