Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

“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 .

While I wool-gathered, Mrs. Taylor talked. I tuned back in to hear her say, “. . . that darling little garden shed. I know I have a picture in my EBC archives somewhere at home. I’ll try to find it so we can show people at the talk next week. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I know I have other pictures that your fans would love to see.”

In Mrs. Cartwright’s presence she sounded more like an adolescent rock ’n’ roll fan than a Southern matron. I had felt a bit giddy with excitement myself at my first meeting with Mrs. Cartwright, but I think I disguised it better.

Mrs. Cartwright looked puzzled. “Goodness gracious, I’m afraid I don’t remember any pictures.” She glanced at her daughter, then focused again on Mrs. Taylor. “When you’re as old as I am, you tend to forget a lot of things. I just can’t imagine—”