The Silence of the Library

by Miranda James

  Veronica held her response, for at that moment Bradberry appeared through the door, pushing a tea tray in front of him. He came to a halt beside Veronica. “Perhaps you will serve, miss, as Madam is not well.”

  Veronica inclined her head to indicate that she would. “That will be all, thank you,” she said firmly.

  Bradberry departed, and Veronica poured tea for herself and her hostess. “Here,” she said as she handed the cup and saucer to the invalid. “Perhaps this will help restore you somewhat.”

  Mrs. Eden accepted the tea gratefully and began to sip at it. Veronica took her own cup and began to drink. The tea was strong—stronger, in fact, than she normally liked—but as she was so thirsty, she drank down the first cup and quickly poured herself a second.

  There was a plate of sandwiches, and Veronica selected one and placed it on a small dish, which she then proffered to Mrs. Eden. Her hostess waved it limply away. “The tea is enough for now.”

  Veronica nodded. “Please continue when you feel you can.” She picked up the sandwich, but it seemed heavy. Veronica frowned. She felt so sleepy all of a sudden. She was rather tired, she thought. Maybe more tea would revive her.

  The cup never reached her mouth, for Veronica could no longer fight off the waves of exhaustion that engulfed her. The plate with its sandwich slipped to the floor as Veronica fell soundly asleep.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I smiled as I finished the second chapter. Poor Veronica. I wondered idly how many times during the course of the series she had been drugged or hit on the head. She got tied up a few times, too, as I recalled. Being a feisty girl detective had the occasional drawback.

  I turned the page.

  From somewhere far distant Veronica heard a gentle voice. It seemed to be calling her name. “Ronnie, oh dear Ronnie, please do wake up. Can you hear me at all?”

  Veronica wanted to answer that she could hear, but an overwhelming darkness surrounded her. She tried to open her eyes. The eyelids refused to obey. They felt heavy and lifeless. She struggled, determined to open them, and at last her eyelids moved.

  Where was she? Veronica had no idea of her location or what was wrong with her. Why did she feel like every part of her body was too heavy to move?

  “I hear y-you,” she managed to croak. Her throat was dry, painfully so. “W-w-water, p-please.”

  A gentle hand slid behind her head and lifted it slightly. Her eyelids closed again, but she felt light pressure against her lips.

  “Here’s the water, dearest, open your mouth just a little for me.”

  Veronica knew that voice, knew that it belonged to someone who meant her no harm. But who was this ministering angel?

  She managed a few sips of water, and her throat felt better. Next she felt a damp cloth on her forehead, and she welcomed the cooling effect. She began to revive, but with agonizing slowness.

  “Where am I?” she whispered. She forced her eyelids open, and in the dim light she began to recognize the familiar outlines of her own room. “I’m home?”

  “Yes, dearest, you are,” the voice responded tenderly. “You are safe where you belong, with your dear guardian and your devoted friends. It’s me, darling, Lucy.”

  “Lucy?” Veronica felt stronger, knowing that her best chum Lucy was with her. Perhaps Lucy could explain what had happened to her, why her memory was curiously blank.

  After more water and cool compresses, and more of Lucy’s devoted attentions, Veronica was able to sit up. Her mind cleared a little of the fog, and she felt a sense of urgency. There was danger somewhere, but where?

  And for whom?

  My phone rang, and I set the book aside. I suppressed a groan when I saw the number. Kanesha must have done some checking into the e-mail I sent her.

  Her first words confirmed it. “Thanks again for the e-mail. At least now I know why that book might be valuable, to somebody anyway.”

  “You’re welcome.” I decided to venture a question. “Have you found Mrs. Taylor’s copy yet?”

  “No, not so far. I don’t think it’s in the house. They’ve searched it pretty thoroughly.” She paused. “Do you think she might have put it in a safe-deposit box?”

  “It’s possible,” I replied. “But somehow I don’t think she would have. Most book collectors in my experience like to have the books easily at hand so they can look at them whenever they want. Remember James Delacorte and his collection? He had books far more valuable than Mrs. Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion, and his were on display in the house.”

  Thinking about Mr. Delacorte always saddened me. His untimely end came about in part because of his collection. Had the same thing happened to Mrs. Taylor?

  “Yes, I recall.” Kanesha’s tone was dry. “I’m going to have to check on a safe-deposit box, though. Have to rule that out.”

  I decided to venture another question, since Kanesha seemed to be in a forthcoming mood—or what passed for one with her. “Do you have any other potential motives?”

  “Not yet, but it’s early on. We have a lot more fact-gathering to do. Thanks again for that e-mail. If I have any other questions, I’ll let you know.”

  I barely had time to say “Of course” before she ended the call. I’d had no chance to voice my suspicions of Gordon Betts, but perhaps that was just as well. Kanesha’s tolerance of my interference would extend only so far.

  Why had I focused solely on Gordon Betts? That thought struck me suddenly. I couldn’t in all fairness concentrate only on him simply because of my antipathy to his combative, self-centered personality. Della Duffy could as easily have been interested in Mrs. Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion. She hadn’t been that much more pleasant, frankly, than Gordon Betts even after I made allowance for her phobia of cats. She and Carrie Taylor obviously knew each other. I ought to find out more about her.

  I recalled what Melba told me about the message from Mrs. Taylor. Even though there had apparently been a man at the door when she ended the call to Melba, that didn’t mean the man was her final visitor last night. Another person could have come along later, so I couldn’t rule out a woman as the killer.

  An Internet search might yield information. I wondered, though, how common the name Della Duffy might be. I picked up the laptop and typed the name, enclosed in quotation marks, into the search engine.

  There were many pages of results. I skimmed the list on the first page, and two of them looked promising. The rest appeared to be obituaries. I checked the links connected to social media, but the pictures didn’t match the woman I’d met.

  I examined four more pages of links but found only one hit that appeared useful. The link led me to a mention of Della Duffy on a blog devoted to girls’ series fiction. What I read shocked me.

  According to the blogger, who evidently went by the bizarre name ILoveVeronicaThane, Della Duffy was involved in an altercation with another collector—unnamed—at a convention devoted to juvenile literature. The blogger gave a brief description of the incident, which took place in the book dealers’ room. Duffy and the other collector both allegedly claimed to have spotted a much-desired item on a table and reached for it at the same time. The other collector insisted that he touched it first, but Della Duffy was equally insistent that she did. When the man snatched it up from the table, she pushed him and tried to grab the book away from him. He slipped and fell on his backside. He never let go of the book, however, and purchased it for his collection. Della Duffy protested loudly but to no avail. According to the blogger, sympathies evidently lay with the victor, who was a popular and well-known figure among collectors.

  That was definitely interesting, but I wished the blogger hadn’t been so coy about the identity of the man Della Duffy attacked. I skimmed through the comments attached to the blog post, but no one named the man, though the discussion was lively. One person claimed to have witnessed a similar incident involving Ms. D
uffy at another convention but provided no details. I looked further through the entire blog but could find no other mentions of Della Duffy.

  Not much to go on, and not completely reliable since they were really only hearsay, but these incidents left me with the impression that Della Duffy went after what she wanted. She appeared to have a temper, also, and that intrigued me.

  If she’d wanted Carrie Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion, for example, how far would she go to own it?

  I hesitated for a moment, but then I decided I ought to share this information with Kanesha. I e-mailed her the link to the blog posting with a note that I had found another item of interest I thought she should consider.

  Okay, out of my hands for now.

  Beside me, Diesel stirred. One eye opened, then the other. He blinked at me and yawned. He had a good stretch before he sat up. He warbled, hopefully, I thought. He hadn’t eaten in a while so he was on the point of utter starvation.

  “Okay, boy,” I said as I shut down the laptop and put it aside. “Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll see if I can find you a morsel or two.”

  The cat leapt to the floor and disappeared before I could get off the bed. I smiled as I followed Diesel downstairs. I knew he would be waiting in the utility room by his food and water bowls.

  After I saw to the needs of my poor starving kitty, I rooted around in the fridge for my own snack. Azalea had baked a ham two days ago, and there was enough left for a sandwich.

  Sandwich in one hand and a can of diet cola in the other, I climbed the stairs, intent on further research on the Internet. I might as well see what I could find about my host for the evening, Winston Eagleton. With such a distinctive name to search, I figured I would get far fewer results, and those that I did retrieve would be on target.

  I was right. My search on Eagleton yielded only seven pages of hits. There were even images this time, not simply text.

  I took a bite of my sandwich and clicked on one of the images, and there was Eagleton, beaming like a cherub into the camera lens. The next image contained a surprise. Eagleton, radiant smile in place, had his arm around none other than Gordon Betts, who looked more than a bit uncomfortable.

  The chummy pose appeared staged to me, and I wondered what the occasion for it was. I clicked on the link to visit the page where the image resided, and the resulting explanation gave me another surprise.

  According to what I read, Gordon Betts was a major investor in Eagleton’s publishing concern.

  If that were the case, I wondered why Eagleton appeared so desperate to get his hands on Mrs. Cartwright’s unpublished manuscripts. I remembered Eugene Marter’s allegations that Eagleton threatened his grandmother over them.

  With Betts’s alleged millions behind him, surely Eagleton could offer Mrs. Cartwright enough money to clinch the deal.

  Unless Eagleton and Betts had fallen out, and Betts had withdrawn his support from the publishing venture.

  Interesting fodder for speculation, but could any of it be connected with the murder of Carrie Taylor?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Stewart was pottering about in the kitchen when I came through on my way to Winston Eagleton’s dinner party early that evening. Diesel trailed hopefully in my wake, unaware that he was destined to remain home tonight.

  “What ho, Sherlock.” Stewart shot me a mischievous grin. “Whither art thou bound? And to what fell purpose?”

  “What on earth have you been reading, to spout dialogue like that?” I shook my head in mock sadness. “Such a good mind he had, once upon a time.”

  Stewart snorted with laughter, and Diesel padded over to him and meowed loudly. Stewart had yet to notice the cat, and Diesel obviously meant to bring this to the man’s attention.

  “Shakespeare, actually,” Stewart said as he rubbed the cat’s head. “To be more precise, Macbeth, hence the mention of fell purpose.”

  “Why this sudden interest in Shakespeare?” I was curious because Stewart, a chemistry professor at Athena College, tended to read mostly nonfiction, with the occasional lurid thriller or trashy best-seller thrown into the mix.

  “Trying to elevate my mind above the mundane table of elements that I spend so much of my life with.” Stewart’s airy tone didn’t fool me. Something—more likely, someone—had prompted this interest in the Bard, but I knew Stewart wouldn’t tell me who until he was darned good and ready. I didn’t think Laura was responsible, despite her avowed devotion to the playwright. There had to be an attractive man involved somehow.

  “Shakespeare is a good elevator for the mind.” I did my best to keep a straight face, but when Stewart rolled his eyes at my atrocious pun, I had to laugh. “Seriously, I hope you’re enjoying Macbeth. Great play, but my favorite is actually The Tempest.”

  “Haven’t made it to that one yet.” Stewart rubbed Diesel’s head a few more times before he turned to the sink to wash his hands. “Now where are you going? You never did answer me.”

  “Sorry.” I explained briefly about the dinner party. “Laura said she and Frank would keep Diesel company until I get home. They ought to be here any minute.”

  “I’m staying in tonight. He can come upstairs and play with Dante.” Stewart went to the stove, lifted the lid of a pot, and sniffed appreciatively. “Minestrone. Smells sinfully delicious.”

  “Sure does,” I said as the scent wafted my way. “Where is Dante anyway?” Usually the little poodle bounced around Stewart like a tiny dervish.

  Stewart grimaced. “He’s having a time-out in his crate for a couple of hours. He was a bad boy earlier today while I was out—he tried to eat one of my expensive Italian loafers.”

  Diesel started chattering, and Stewart and I exchanged amused glances. I would have sworn the cat was commenting on the poodle’s bad behavior, and not politely, either. The chatter stopped, and Diesel looked up at Stewart as if waiting for a reply.

  Stewart winked at me. “That’s right, honey, you are a sweet, well-behaved kitty, and he’s a bad, bad little dog.”

  The cat blinked, then calmly started washing his left front paw.

  Stewart adjusted the heat under the minestrone. “Laura told me about the murder. That poor woman.”

  “Did you know her?” I glanced at my watch to check the time. I had a good ten minutes before I had to leave.

  “I might know her if I saw her.” Stewart grimaced. “That didn’t come out right. The name rang a faint bell, but I can’t match a face with it, sorry.”

  “No reason you would know her, I expect.”

  “Did you really get to meet Electra Barnes Cartwright?” Stewart’s eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement, I thought.

  “Yes, I did. Don’t tell me you’re a fan, too.” I had no idea he had ever read the Veronica Thane books.

  “My mother had a set of the books. She adored Veronica when she was a girl, and she let me read them when I was about ten.” Stewart smiled. “I had the biggest crush on Artie. I wanted him to be the hero, not that sappy ‘oh I’m so perfectly brave and amazing’ Veronica.” His voice took on a posh, exaggerated drawl over those last words.

  That cracked me up. Veronica had rather outshone Nancy Drew in the perfection stakes. Stewart laughed with me.

  “Artie did cut a dashing figure, didn’t he? Even though Veronica treated him like a lapdog most of the time.”

  Stewart nodded. “At least he got the opportunity once a book to show off his brawn. He wasn’t all lapdog. Now tell me, what is Mrs. Cartwright like?”

  “In surprisingly good shape for a woman who’s about to turn a hundred.” I shrugged. “She’s pleasant, for the most part, but I suspect she’s not terribly easy to live with. She and her daughter bicker a lot, but I suppose that’s not unusual.” I checked my watch. “Time for me to get going. Diesel, you have to stay home tonight. Sorry, boy, but you can’t go with me.”

  The c
at stopped cleaning his paw and meowed loudly. He got up, turned around, and sat again with his back to me. Stewart and I grinned. Diesel knew what the words you can’t go with me meant.

  The Farrington House was a five-minute drive from my house. I quickly found a parking space and entered the hotel. A pleasant young woman at the front desk, in response to my inquiry, directed me to Winston Eagleton’s suite on the fifth floor. That seemed an odd place for a dinner party. Had I misunderstood Eagleton’s invitation?

  My host answered my knock on his door right away, almost as if he had been standing right on the other side, waiting.

  “Good evening, sir, please do come in.” Eagleton gestured grandly with his left arm, and I stepped into the room.

  “Thank you.” When I moved farther into the main area of the suite, I could see that, as was often the case, I was evidently the first to arrive. I abhorred being late, and had for as long as I could remember. That meant I often arrived early. Even when I tried not to be on time, I seldom managed to be more than a couple minutes late.

  “How are you this evening?” I inquired of my host.

  “Absolutely tip-top,” Eagleton said. “So kind of you to join me for tonight’s little soiree.” He indicated one of the sofas. “Please, won’t you sit down? Can I offer you something to drink? Wine, scotch, a soft drink perhaps?”

  “A glass of red wine would be fine.” I chose a spot at the end of the sofa next to a small table and made myself comfortable. “I hope I’m not too early.”

  “Not at all, my dear chap, not at all.” Eagleton nodded briskly as he moved to the bar to pour my wine. “Punctuality seems to be a rare trait these days, but it is one I admire tremendously.” He brought me the wine, and I took a cautious sip.

  I tried not to make a sour face, because the wine had a sour taste. I forced myself to smile as I swallowed because my host was watching intently for my reaction. “Nice,” I said as I put the wineglass down on the end table. I would have to find somewhere to dump the rest of it, because there was no way I was going to drink any more. I thought of Helen Louise and how appalled she would be. She despised bad wines, and this was one of the worst I’d ever had.