“You’ll work it out somehow, I’m sure.” I gently moved Diesel from my lap so I could stand. “If there’s anything I can do, you know all you have to do is ask.”
“I know.” Sean dropped his cigar in the ashtray and came over to give me a quick, fierce hug. “Thanks, Dad.”
That lump was back. I swallowed hard as Sean stepped away to pick up his cigar.
“I have things that need doing,” I said, my voice a little hoarse. “So Diesel and I will leave you to it. Come on, boy, back in the house.”
Diesel followed me, but I opened the door this time. As Diesel ambled through, I glanced back at my son. He stared out at the backyard and smoked. I sighed as I closed the door.
Time to box up the books I was lending for the exhibit of juvenile series books at the library. The cartons I needed were in the utility room, and while I was there, I added some dry food to Diesel’s bowl and rinsed out his water bowl and refilled it. I pulled two medium-sized cartons from the shelf and left Diesel noisily crunching as I headed for the stairs.
Happy to note that I wasn’t breathing all that hard by the time I reached the third floor, I decided I wasn’t in such bad shape after all.
Moments later, when I squatted in front of the shelves to retrieve a few books from the bottom, I revised my opinion. My knees creaked, and I had to grab on to an upper shelf to pull myself up. I moved stiffly as I put the books in a carton atop the bed.
I turned to examine the shelves and let my eyes roam over the spines. Where are the Cherry Ames books? I wondered. I finally spotted them in the upper left corner, against the back wall of the bedroom. I couldn’t reach the books without an uncomfortable stretch, so I retrieved the upholstered ottoman from its place in front of an old easy chair.
I stepped onto the ottoman and tested my balance. Confident that I could reach up without straining, I retrieved a couple of the volumes from the shelf—one of the older ones with a dust jacket and the green-spined final book in the series, Cherry Ames, Ski Nurse.
When I pulled the latter book down, I spotted what looked like a scrapbook at the end of the shelf. What is that doing here? I wondered. It seemed out of place. I reached for it and tugged, but the cover had stuck to the varnish of the shelf. I set the two Cherry Ames books on the shelf and reached with both hands to prize the darn thing loose. No telling how many years the scrapbook had been there, adhering to the wood.
Finally, with a forceful effort, I loosened it. Bits of the vinyl cover stuck to the shelf. I would have to try later to remove them. I scooped up the Cherry Ames books with my free hand and stepped down from the ottoman. Once again I set Cherry aside and turned my attention to the scrapbook.
I fanned the browned pages, and as I did, I could see that a few of the newspaper articles Aunt Dottie had pasted in were loose and about to flutter out. With more care I examined some of the pages and found to my delight that the items were apparently all related to children’s books. I spotted clippings from magazine articles along with the newsprint. Mildred Wirt Benson, who late in life finally gained long overdue recognition for her role in creating Nancy Drew, was featured heavily. I wondered whether Aunt Dottie had managed to find anything on Electra Barnes Cartwright. I didn’t have time now to delve thoroughly through the scrapbook, and with some reluctance I stuck it in one of the cartons and turned back to my task of choosing books for the exhibit.
Ten minutes later, satisfied that I had a representative selection of both well-known and nowadays obscure series books, I stacked one carton atop the other and carried them downstairs. I had to move with care because I couldn’t see my feet. I made it safely enough to the second floor and took the cartons into my bedroom. Since I hadn’t planned to take them to the library until tomorrow morning, they could stay here for now.
My cell phone rang while I headed down to the kitchen, and I pulled it from my pocket as I reached the first floor. According to the number that appeared on the display, Teresa was calling from her office at the library.
I barely had a chance to say “Hello” before Teresa burst into speech. “Charlie, can you come back to the library right away? Mrs. Cartwright’s daughter called. She and her son are on the way here to discuss Mrs. Cartwright’s fee for next week.”
I knew Teresa had no money in her budget to pay an author for appearing at an event. Neither Mrs. Cartwright nor her daughter had broached the subject when we visited them. What could we do about this? Especially after we’d already advertised on the library’s website that Mrs. Cartwright would appear.
I assured Teresa I would be there in a few minutes. “We’ll figure something out.” I tried to sound confident, but unless Mrs. Marter was reasonable about the amount, we would have to cancel.
TEN
Diesel chirped away in the backseat during our second trip of the day to the public library. My daughter, Laura, laughingly claimed he was conversing with us when he did that, because sometimes he was quite voluble. He would occasionally pause, cock his head to the side, and gaze up at the recipient of his confidences as if he expected a response. There were even times when I figured I knew what he was attempting to tell me, but now wasn’t one of those times. I let him chatter on until I parked the car at the library.
“Come on, boy. Let’s go in and see your buddies again.”
Diesel hopped over the seat and climbed out as I held the door open for him. Finally quiet, he padded beside me as we entered the library.
Bronwyn looked up from the reference desk as we neared. After greeting us in turn—Diesel first, as usual—she said, “Teresa is in her office. She’s really upset. Do you think she’ll cancel the whole exhibit?” Diesel disappeared behind the desk, and I knew he went to rub against Bronwyn. That would make her feel better.
Bronwyn had put in many hours preparing for the exhibit. She had a flair for art and had created the posters, besides the work she had done getting our exhibit cases cleaned and ready. “We’ll do our best to resolve things with Mrs. Cartwright and her family.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt, but I wanted to erase the worried look from Bronwyn’s face. She nodded and attempted a smile.
I heard Diesel warble at her, and with her attention diverted to the cat, I headed to Teresa’s office.
When I walked in, I found her seated at her desk, glaring at her computer screen. “There’s no way. Absolutely no way.”
“Looking at the budget, I presume.” I sat in one of the chairs across from her.
Teresa nodded wearily as she turned to face me. “The money just isn’t there. Even if they were asking only a few hundred dollars.”
“How much do they want?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the figure.
“Seventy-five hundred.” Teresa still sounded shaken as she spoke the words.
“Good heavens.” Far worse than I’d imagined. “How do they think a small public library could come up with money like that?”
“You tell me.” She closed her eyes and massaged her temples with her fingertips. “I knew that big-name writers often get paid for doing talks at libraries, but I’ve heard they will sometimes waive their fees in special cases. This is as about as special a case as I can imagine.”
“Perhaps we can bargain with them, get them to drop the price.” I tried to sound encouraging. “Maybe even persuade them to drop their demand for a fee at all.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. When Mrs. Marter called to inform me about the fee, she sounded firm. I don’t think they’ll budge.”
“In that case we will simply tell them the exhibit will go on but without any appearance by Mrs. Cartwright. That would be a shame, but we have no other choice.”
Teresa nodded. “I thought about calling Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce, but they’re so generous as it is. I hate to go to them with my hands out yet again.”
The Ducote sisters—known to everyone in Athena as Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce�
��were the town’s richest citizens and the mainstays of all charitable efforts. They might be happy to oblige such a request, but I understood Teresa’s reluctance to approach them in this instance.
“I called Carrie Taylor,” Teresa continued, “and asked her to join us. I may be grasping at straws, but since she has devoted so much of her time to Mrs. Cartwright and her work, I didn’t think it would hurt to have another person to make an appeal on our behalf.”
“Good idea. Let’s hope you’re right.” I was about to say more, but Teresa looked past me at the doorway. I turned to see Mrs. Taylor paused there. I stood and offered her my chair and pulled another one near the desk for myself.
Teresa quickly filled Mrs. Taylor in, and the older woman frowned when she heard the details. “That’s outrageous. I dearly love Mrs. Cartwright and her books, but they ought to be ashamed for trying to stick the library with such a crazy demand.” She sniffed. “I’ll be willing to bet you EBC doesn’t know a thing about this. It’s that greedy grandson of hers. Never could hold down a job from what I’ve heard tell.”
Mrs. Taylor evidently knew more about the family than I realized. I wondered who the source of her information was. I was about to ask when she forestalled me. “I’m in frequent contact with EBC’s agent, Yancy Thigpen. She’s been a lot more informative about things than the man who used to represent EBC.”
Gossiping about a client didn’t sound at all ethical to me, but it didn’t appear to faze Mrs. Taylor.
“Of course, there are things I can’t print.” Mrs. Taylor gave us a smug smile. “Yancy tells me my little newsletter is the best of its kind she’s ever seen, and she doesn’t mind sharing these little tidbits with me. I’m sure she has EBC’s permission anyway. She knows I won’t spread them around.”
Teresa and I glanced at each other and then quickly away. The irony of her claim appeared to be lost on Mrs. Taylor.
“What about this agent?” I asked. “Should we call her and explain the situation? She must have dealt with this kind of thing before.”
“I have her number written down somewhere.” Teresa hunted through three small stacks of paper on her desk until she found what she needed. She punched in the digits on her office phone while Mrs. Taylor and I waited in silence.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to speak to Yancy Thigpen please.” Teresa paused for a moment. “Teresa Farmer, director of the public library in Athena, Mississippi. I’ve spoken with Ms. Thigpen before.” Another pause, much longer this time. Finally Teresa said, “I see. Thank you very much.” She put down the receiver.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Taylor said, “she wouldn’t talk to you, would she?” She sounded upset.
“No, it wasn’t that.” Teresa smiled. “Actually, it’s probably good news. The assistant, or whoever he was, told me Ms. Thigpen is flying down to Athena today.” She checked her watch. “In fact, she should have arrived at the airport in Memphis by now. She ought to be in town in an hour or so, unless she gets lost on the way.”
“Do you think we should try to postpone this discussion with Mrs. Marter until the agent is here and can take part?” That would be the best thing to do, I thought.
“Too late,” Teresa said in an undertone. She stood and nodded toward the doorway. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Marter.” She came from behind her desk to approach the visitor.
Mrs. Taylor craned her neck around to see. I stood to offer my chair to Mrs. Cartwright.
“Marcella, move out of the way.” Mrs. Cartwright’s voice sounded from outside the office. “I need to sit down.”
“There isn’t much room in my office,” Teresa said as Mrs. Marter moved aside at her mother’s command. “Why don’t we go to our small meeting room instead? It’s only a few feet farther.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Cartwright allowed Teresa to take her left arm as she leaned heavily on the cane in her right hand. Though slightly stooped, she was an inch or so taller than Teresa, who was about five-five. Marcella Marter trailed behind them, and Mrs. Taylor and I brought up the rear.
Teresa flipped the light switch as she guided our guest into the room and helped her to a chair. She sat next to the elderly woman around a smallish rectangular table that could accommodate ten people. Mrs. Marter took the chair on her mother’s free side, while Mrs. Taylor and I went to sit across from them.
Mrs. Cartwright, swathed in black, with a black scarf around her neck and black gloves on her hands, sported large-framed dark sunglasses. The red hair provided a sharp contrast to her clothes, and her face had been expertly—though heavily from what I could tell—made up. I supposed she was vain enough about her appearance that she didn’t want to look like a centenarian in public.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Cartwright.” Teresa smiled. “I thought your grandson was coming with you.”
“Eugene had something else to do.” Mrs. Cartwright bumped her cane against the edge of the table. “Besides, this is my business, not any of his. Nor any of my daughter’s. Isn’t that right, Marcella?”
“Yes, Mother.” Marcella stared at her lap and spoke in a whisper.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cartwright. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in person.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice, quavery at first, grew more assured as she continued. “I thought I wouldn’t get to meet you until next week, but here you are.”
“Who are you?” Mrs. Cartwright sounded brusque. “I know Mr. Harris there”—she nodded at me—“but I don’t know you.”
Mrs. Taylor giggled. “Oh, dear, I have completely forgotten my manners, haven’t I? I’m Carrie Taylor, the editor and publisher of the EBC newsletter, The Thane Chronicles.”
“Then I suppose I should thank you for all the work you’ve done to keep Veronica Thane’s name alive.” Mrs. Cartwright smiled. “I’ve been happy to know that there are readers out there who still remember me and my little books.”
“Oh, there are, there are. Millions, probably. If you only knew how much people love you and your writing.” Mrs. Taylor bobbed up and down a bit in her chair.
“That’s wonderful to hear.” The author turned to Teresa, and beside me Mrs. Taylor stopped moving. “Now, about the speaker’s fee for my appearance next week. Marcella said there is a problem.”
“I’m afraid so.” Teresa paused for a breath. “Before we discuss that, though, I wonder if you could tell me why you didn’t mention a fee when we visited you the other day. We proceeded with our plans in all good faith that you were happy to appear without one.”
“I thought you had already discussed that with my daughter.” Mrs. Cartwright frowned. “At least, that is what she led me to believe.”
“We did not talk about a fee at any time.” Teresa shook her head. “We simply don’t have that kind of money in our budget. We can’t afford to pay you.”
“That’s outrageous.” Marcella Marter’s head jerked up. “You have to pay what we’re asking. You’ve already told everyone my mother will appear here next week.”
“Yes, we have,” I said to offer Teresa my support. “It’s unfortunate, but small public libraries like ours can’t afford to pay speakers such a large amount.”
“Dear EBC, please consider your fans. You don’t know how much it means to us to hear you talk about your life and career. Could you possibly see your way to appearing for free?” Mrs. Taylor’s impassioned plea startled us all. Before anyone could respond, Mrs. Taylor continued. “And think of the publicity this will generate. There could be several hundred people here next week to hear you. When publishers get wind of this, one of them might want to reprint the Veronica Thane series.”
There was a long, tense moment of silence while we waited for the author or her daughter to respond.
“That’s a very good point, Marcella, don’t you think?” Mrs. Cartwright prodded her daughter’s arm with a gloved finger. “Think of the publicity for the unpublished manuscripts
. I could get a lot more money than that fool Eagleton is offering.”
ELEVEN
“Unpublished manuscripts?” Teresa sounded bewildered, as well she might.
Mrs. Taylor squealed—with delight, I presumed. “Oh, my goodness me. You mean Winnie Eagleton wasn’t making it all up?”
“When did you talk to Eagleton?” Mrs. Cartwright’s tone was sharp. “He was not supposed to discuss this with anyone.”
“Winnie and I have known each other for years.” Mrs. Taylor surged blithely on, apparently oblivious to her idol’s irritation. “He knew he could trust me with the news. Of course I didn’t believe him, but I am absolutely thrilled to death to know he was right. Your readers will be ecstatic to know there are five more Veronica Thane books.”
“I told you we shouldn’t talk to that stupid little man.” Marcella Marter might have thought no one could overhear, but her tone was a little too heated for private remarks.
“Oh, do hush, please,” Mrs. Cartwright snapped back at her daughter. “He was the only one willing to offer any money, no matter how pitiful.” She turned back to Teresa. “I think we will reconsider the speaker’s fee. My agent is coming down from New York today, and I’ll discuss it with her. She’s young and seems to understand the way publishing works these days better than I do. The world has changed so drastically since I started out writing my little books in an old garden shed of my house in Connecticut.”
“Thank you for reconsidering, Mrs. Cartwright,” Teresa said, and I echoed her. I felt the knot in my stomach loosen, and I was sure Teresa experienced a similar relief. The decision about the fee wasn’t final yet, but I decided to be hopeful Mrs. Cartwright would forgo the money in favor of the publicity and the potential impetus to finding a higher-profile publisher.
Another worry occurred to me suddenly. What would happen if we didn’t have a large crowd turn up for the event? Tomorrow, I told myself in best Scarlett O’Hara fashion. I’ll think about that tomorrow.
The Silence of the Library Page 6