Teresa cast me a bewildered glance, no doubt thrown by the reference to a syndicate and the vitriol in our hostess’s tone.
“I presume you’re talking about the Stratemeyer Syndicate.” I smiled, and Teresa’s face cleared. I had given her the basic history of Edward Stratemeyer and his fiction factory when we first discussed our ideas for the Cartwright exhibit.
Mrs. Cartwright scowled. “Just hearing that name makes my blood pressure go up. I was lucky enough not to work for him, or receive the hack wages he paid. And the stories I heard from other writers who did, and had to work with those daughters of his.” She glared at me, but I realized that I was not the target of her evident wrath.
“I believe I read in an article once that other nonsyndicate writers complained that the syndicate tried to get their series quashed so they wouldn’t compete with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, for example.” Those claims, I reasoned at the time, might have been nothing more than the proverbial sour grapes, due to the phenomenal success of Nancy and the Hardys, but I didn’t really know for sure. Mrs. Cartwright naturally had a right to her own opinion on the matter.
“I could tell you plenty.” The elderly author shook her head. “But there’s no point in it now. Everyone else concerned is long gone.” She flashed a sudden grin. “I’ve outlived them all.”
Teresa addressed Mrs. Cartwright. “You and your work will be the focus of this exhibit. I want to assure you of that. We’ll have examples of the other girl detectives, but you and your books are the centerpiece.”
“That’s good. If I’ve got pride of place, then I don’t mind sharing.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed again. “What other plans did you have beside the exhibit?”
“That was the sum of it originally,” Teresa said. “But with your being so close by, we wondered whether you would be interested in some kind of public appearance.”
“Meet my adoring fans, you mean.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed. “Sure, I would love to do that. Haven’t actually talked to one of them face-to-face in years. Had plenty of letters, though.”
“That’s terrific,” I said. “One idea I had was a public interview. You wouldn’t have to give a speech, unless of course you want to. More along the lines of my interviewing you in front of an audience, give them a chance to listen and perhaps ask a few questions of their own at the end.”
“I think I’d like that. Less wear and tear on me. Count me in.” Mrs. Cartwright smiled, obviously pleased. “It would be lovely to see a roomful of my readers.”
“Absolutely not. That’s a terrible idea.” Marcella Marter plunked a tray of drinks down on a nearby table and glared at her mother. “I absolutely forbid it.”
FOUR
Teresa and I exchanged startled glances. Neither of us had expected such unpleasant family dynamics.
“I beg your pardon.” Mrs. Cartwright stuck out her chin as she gazed in Marcella Marter’s direction. Her voice grew slightly deeper, perhaps from irritation, as she continued, “You forbid it? No, I don’t think so.”
I would have sworn I felt the temperature drop in the room when Mrs. Cartwright responded. Diesel, in obvious distress at the sudden tension, pulled away from Mrs. Cartwright. He sprang from the sofa and landed mere inches from my feet. He took refuge under my chair, and I leaned sideways to rub his back.
“Mother, I don’t think you realize how exhausted you’ll be if you try to do something like that. You’re not used to going out in public anymore.” Marcella, arms crossed over her chest, regarded her parent intently. She didn’t appear to be backing down, despite her mother’s displeasure.
“I’m well aware of all that, you silly woman.” Mrs. Cartwright’s tone grew fiercer as she continued. “I will not tolerate your attempts to dictate the terms of my life. I have the Lord only knows how much longer on this earth, and I want some little bit of pleasure out of it before I go.”
By now I figured Teresa was as uncomfortable and ready to get the heck out of this room as Diesel and I were, but there was little we could do.
“Are you going to keep standing there like a stone-faced baboon, or are you going to offer our guests a cool drink?” Mrs. Cartwright faced Teresa and me without waiting to see whether her daughter would comply with her command. “Marcella goes overboard trying to look after me. I’m old, but I’m not completely decrepit yet. I have more stamina than she thinks.”
“We’re delighted to know that you’re in such good health.” I decided I’d better speak in an effort to defuse the situation. “It’s only natural that Mrs. Marter wants to take care of you.”
“We’ll make every effort to see that the events we’re planning don’t tax your strength too much,” Teresa said. “And if at any time you don’t feel up to participating, you just let us know. Everyone will understand.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Mrs. Cartwright accepted a tall glass from her daughter. Mrs. Marter’s expression remained mulish, but I supposed she had decided that protesting further in front of guests would not be seemly. “Marcella makes the best sweet tea. Y’all drink up. I’m sure you’re parched by now.”
That was the first kind thing I’d heard Mrs. Cartwright say about her daughter. I surely hoped they got along better in private than they did with company around.
Teresa and I accepted glasses, and I took a cautious sip. Mrs. Cartwright hadn’t exaggerated. The tea was absolutely delicious, sweet, but not cloyingly so, and brewed to perfection. I drank half of my glass quickly, happy to feel the cold liquid sliding down.
“I brought water for your cat.” Mrs. Marter plunked a bowl on the floor by my chair and poured water from a small pitcher into it. Diesel peeped out from under my chair and looked first at Mrs. Marter, then at me. “Go ahead, boy, if you want some,” I told him. He sniffed at the bowl before he dipped his head and began to lap at the liquid.
“Thank you. It was kind of you to think of him.” I held up my glass. “And your mother is right. This tea is wonderful.”
“It sure is.” Teresa smiled. “Hits the spot beautifully.”
Mrs. Marter flushed, apparently embarrassed by the praise. “Thank you. There’s more if you want.”
Teresa and I both asked for refills, and Mrs. Cartwright regarded us benignly—or so I thought, since it was hard to read her expression thanks to her dark glasses. When you can’t see a person’s eyes, you can never truly tell what’s going on in her head. At least she smiled at us.
Teresa set her glass on the floor beside her chair and then reached into her purse to extract a few pages. She examined them before she stood to hand one to Mrs. Cartwright. “This is a tentative schedule I drew up. Please look over it at your leisure, and let me know later if everything is okay. We can adjust it however you like.”
Mrs. Cartwright accepted the paper and appeared to examine it. “At first glance this looks just fine to me, but I’ll go over it with Marcella and Eugene and then let you know.”
“Eugene is my son. He is such a comfort to me, and to Mother, of course.” The quiet pride in Marcella Marter’s voice revealed a more pleasant side to her personality than we had witnessed thus far.
Teresa must have decided it was time to bring the visit to a close. She thanked Mrs. Cartwright and Mrs. Marter for their hospitality. “We really appreciate y’all letting us barge in on you today. It has been such a pleasure meeting you both.”
“It certainly has.” As I stood, Mrs. Marter stepped closer to take my empty glass, and I flashed a grateful smile at her. “Mrs. Cartwright, I’ve loved your books ever since I first discovered them, and I know everyone is going to be thrilled to see you at the library.”
Mrs. Cartwright cackled with laughter. “It’s going to shake a few people up when they realize I’m still alive and kicking. I’ve been living such a quiet life here, out on the edge of nowhere, most people think I died years ago.” She laughed again. “Ought to be pretty interestin
g when I show up at the library and see who’s there.”
The elderly writer’s tone gave me pause. Was I reading more into it than was really there, or was there something slightly ominous in those words?
I decided I was imagining things. I had been involved in too many strange goings-on during the past year, and now I was making trouble out of thin air.
Diesel emerged from beneath my chair and approached the sofa. He chirped at Mrs. Cartwright, and she scratched his head. “I sure do hope you’ll have this handsome boy at the library when I’m there. He’s the sweetest thing. You’d better watch out, or I might steal him from you.”
“He loves coming to the library with me.” I observed the old lady’s obvious pleasure as she bonded with Diesel. “He will remember you, and I know he’ll pester you for more attention.”
Mrs. Cartwright petted the cat, then smiled and held out her hands to me. I grasped them for a moment. She squeezed lightly, then I let go. Her hands were cool, despite the heated room, and I noted that, although wrinkled and spotted with age, her fingers were long and slender. I remembered how cruelly my maternal grandmother’s hands had been twisted by rheumatoid arthritis, and I was pleased to see that Mrs. Cartwright hadn’t suffered that indignity.
Mrs. Marter waited in the doorway to the hall, and Teresa and I moved in her direction. I called to Diesel, and he pulled away from Mrs. Cartwright. He seemed rather taken with her, despite the earlier tension between her and her daughter. He followed us to the front door without any further urging on my part.
When Mrs. Marter opened the door to usher us onto the porch, I noted that clouds still scudded across the sky. The rain had stopped, though thunder rumbled far away. The air, refreshed by the storm, felt cool to the skin.
Teresa and I bade Mrs. Marter good-bye, and I carried Diesel to the car to keep his paws from being soaked. Neither Teresa nor I spoke until I headed the car down the drive away from the house.
“That was nothing like I expected.” Teresa’s laugh sounded strained.
“No kidding.” I turned the wipers off now that the windshield was clear. From the backseat, Diesel added his opinion with a few warbles and a meow. “I always find situations like that unsettling. You don’t know whether you should simply excuse yourself and leave, or sit there and pretend that you haven’t heard anything rude or embarrassing.”
“I suppose they have lived together for a long time.” Teresa spoke with the tact that made her such an outstanding library director. “Not to mention that the weather could have affected them. I know violent storms always put me on edge.”
“Perhaps that was it.” I rather doubted the weather had anything to do with it, but we might as well leave it at that. I had to hope that, when Mrs. Cartwright appeared in public, she and her daughter would refrain from bickering. Otherwise the audience would be mighty uncomfortable.
“At least Mrs. Cartwright seemed pleased with our plans.” Teresa sighed. “I’m going to cross every available appendage, just in case. I have the weirdest feeling about this after having met mother and daughter.”
I wanted to reassure Teresa that all would be well, but I was every bit as uneasy as she was. “What’s the next step?”
“As soon as Mrs. Cartwright confirms that the schedule I gave her is okay, then I want to move forward with the publicity. I thought I might go ahead and add a teaser to the library website today, though. I don’t think that will be a problem. We might as well start to generate some interest around town.” Teresa pulled a small notebook and pen from her purse and started to make notes.
That sounded reasonable to me. Fans of Mrs. Cartwright would be thrilled to know she would make a public appearance or two. A brief news item on the website surely wouldn’t cause any problems.
FIVE
Three days later, on Friday afternoon, Diesel and I worked our usual volunteer shift at the Athena Public Library. He lounged by my feet as I manned the reference desk. Two of his library friends worked nearby, Lizzie Hayes at the circulation counter, and Bronwyn Forster at a computer terminal helping a patron. From time to time, Diesel evidently decided a change of person was in order, and he made a regular circuit every ten or fifteen minutes, going from Lizzie to Bronwyn and back to me. He was really soaking up the attention today.
The library was quiet this afternoon. School wouldn’t be out for another hour, and then we would get a small flood of students dropping in to do homework or check out books. A few would wait here until a parent or elder sibling came by to pick them up for a ride home. I loved seeing young people in the library, though on occasion they could get a bit rambunctious.
The front door opened, and I watched as a plump woman who appeared to be in her sixties, perhaps a decade older than I, stepped inside. She removed her sunglasses and tucked them into her purse. After a cursory glance around, she made a beeline for me.
“Good afternoon,” I said as she reached the desk. “How may I help you?”
She repeated my greeting. “I’m here to see the library director, if she’s not too busy. It’s about the event you’re planning to have with Electra Barnes Cartwright.” She smiled good-naturedly, and I had a feeling I had seen her before, but where I wasn’t sure. She wore her thick gray hair braided in a coronet around her head. Her jewelry consisted of a gold wedding ring and a pearl necklace. She looked every inch the society matron come to take afternoon tea. All that was missing were a hat and gloves.
“I’ll be happy to check with her. What name shall I give her?” I picked up the phone as I punched in Teresa’s extension.
“Mrs. Carrie Taylor,” the woman responded. “I’m president of the EBC Fan Club.”
That stirred a faint memory as I waited for Teresa to answer the phone. When she picked up, I told her she had a visitor and explained who it was.
“She’ll be right out,” I said as I hung up the phone.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Taylor smiled and wandered a few feet away from the desk to examine a nearby bulletin board that listed the library’s upcoming events.
Diesel, ever curious, stood and stretched before he sauntered around the desk and over to where Mrs. Taylor stood. He sniffed at the hem of her midlength cotton dress. He chirped and evidently startled her because she stepped back as she gazed down at him. Then she smiled. “Who are you?” She bent slightly to scratch his head, and he warbled for her.
“His name is Diesel,” I said. The memory finally surfaced. I’d seen her several months ago at the Atheneum, our local independent bookstore. She’d been talking about children’s mysteries with the owner, Jordan Thompson. I thought at the time she sounded quite knowledgeable as she and Jordan discussed the various incarnations of Nancy Drew.
“He’s a Maine Coon, isn’t he? Melba Gilley has told me about him. You must be Charlie Harris.”
I acknowledged that I was. I had gone to school with Melba, and now she worked as administrative assistant to the head of the Athena College Library.
Mrs. Taylor beamed at me. “What a handsome fellow he is. But isn’t he rather large even for his breed?”
“Yes, he weighs in around thirty-six pounds, definitely on the large side for a Maine Coon. He’s a gentle giant, though.” I smiled as I watched her continue to interact with my cat. Diesel obviously approved of her, to judge by the purring.
Teresa approached and introduced herself. Mrs. Taylor greeted her, and the two women went to the director’s office. Diesel trailed after them.
I wondered what Mrs. Taylor wanted to discuss. Obviously something to do with Electra Barnes Cartwright, but that was as far as I could figure. Teresa would fill me in when she had a chance.
Ten minutes later a tall, lanky young man—thirty at most, I judged—entered the library. He stopped in the doorway to look around. When he spotted me, he walked over, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. He sported cowboy boots that looked like ostrich hide,
a silver belt buckle the size of a goose egg, and a deep crimson dress shirt emblazoned with the monogram GB. His raven hair was close-cropped, as was his beard. He stopped in front of the desk and stared at me. His close-set eyes, shamrock green, blinked like they were still adjusting to the inside light.
“How may I help you?”
“Is it true what I read on your website?” He had a flat Midwestern accent. “You’re going to have Electra Barnes Cartwright here soon?”
“Yes, she’s going to take part in our celebrations for National Library Week. We’re very excited about that.”
“I have to meet her.” He placed his hands on the edge of the desk, and I could see them tremble.
“You’ll have a chance to do that on the day she is here for her public interview. The schedule approved by Mrs. Cartwright is on the website, and I can give you a flyer with everything listed, if you like.”
He shook his head. “I can’t wait that long. I need to see her like today. She’s so old she might croak at any minute, and I’ve got a collection of books for her to sign.” He gripped the desk harder.
I didn’t like the arrogance of his tone, and my own turned frosty when I responded. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mrs. Cartwright won’t be available until the date scheduled. We’ll have to see, on the day, whether she’s up to signing books.”
“Have you met her?”
I wanted to answer in the negative, but I couldn’t lie. “I have.”
“Then I’ll bet you know where she lives.” He glared at me. “Come on, just tell me. I’ll make it worth your while.” He reached in his right front pocket and pulled out a small wad of cash. He stripped off five bills, all hundreds, and thrust them at me.
I stared at him, aghast. What kind of moron was he? Trying to bribe me, all for the sake of getting his books signed?
“Absolutely not.” I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him, the way I used to do at Sean and Laura when they behaved badly.
The Silence of the Library Page 3