Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

“I’d love to see it myself,” I said. Agatha Christie’s play, the longest running in theater history, had entertained audiences for over six decades now.

Laura grinned slyly. “Maybe you can go to London on your honeymoon. And then of course over to Paris. I’m sure Helen Louise would love to show you her favorite city in the world.”

I gazed sternly at my daughter. “None of that, now. I have to get you married and off my hands first. Sean, too. You’ve both been hanging around this house unmarried far too long. I need grandchildren to spoil. Then maybe I can think about Helen Louise and a wedding of my own.”

At the mentions of Helen Louise’s name, Diesel—who had been dozing quietly under the table—perked up and meowed. He adored Helen Louise, and she pampered him whenever we visited her bakery. She always had tidbits of chicken for him.

Laura held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m not getting married for two months yet, Dad. You’re going to have to wait a year or two for a grandchild.”

We laughed together, and Diesel chirped along. “I don’t mind waiting awhile longer. But at the rate things are progressing with Sean and Alexandra, I’m sure you’ll produce the first sprig of the next generation.”

“Oh, they’ll work everything out.” Laura shrugged. “Sean’s just being stubborn, but he’ll come around. Alexandra will sort out her father, and peace and happiness will reign once again for my big brother.”

“I sure hope so,” I said. “I’m keeping out of it.”

“So am I,” Laura replied. “Enough about weddings. Tell me what you’ve been up to. How’s the exhibit shaping up?”

For the next ten minutes I shared with my daughter the events of the past couple of days. Her eyes widened in excitement when I told her about meeting Electra Barnes Cartwright. Laura had read the Veronica Thane books and loved them. She held back her comments, though, until I finished with the last, most horrible, event, the murder of Carrie Taylor.

“How awful.” Laura shook her head. “That poor woman. Why would anyone do that to her? From what you’ve said, she sounds like she was a nice old lady. Was it a robbery gone wrong, do you think?”

“It might have been.” I told her my suspicions of Gordon Betts.

“That’s downright crazy,” Laura said as I got up from the table to retrieve the piece of paper with the hotel phone number on it. “It’s not like we’re talking about a fabulous piece of art here, like a Renoir or a Rembrandt. Do you really think anyone would kill over a collection of children’s books?”

“It does sound pretty senseless, doesn’t it?” I shrugged. “People have killed for less, though. What might sound nutty to you or me might not sound that way to a rabid collector perhaps. The lust to possess has driven many to murder.”

“I guess,” Laura said, “but you have to wonder if there isn’t something else going on, something no one knows about yet.”

“That’s entirely possible,” I said. I brandished the piece of paper. “I was about to call the Farrington House when you walked in. I thought I would see whether Gordon Betts is staying there.”

“And if you can track him down, you’ll try to talk to him, won’t you?” Laura shook her head. “I don’t blame you for being curious, but do you think you should? Won’t Kanesha have a fit if she finds out?”

“Kanesha is probably going to have several fits with me before this is over,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster. “I’m not going to be able to stay out of this.”

“No, I don’t imagine you will be. Just be careful that Kanesha doesn’t lock you up.” Laura’s wry tone caused us both to smile.

I wouldn’t have admitted it to my daughter right then, but I hadn’t actually considered how the chief deputy would react. Laura’s questions gave me pause, however, because I didn’t want to get caught in the crosshairs over this. Kanesha might seek my help, as she had done on occasion when she thought I had access to information she needed. On reflection, I decided I probably ought to wait to talk to Gordon Betts until after I was sure Kanesha had questioned him first.

My cell phone rang, and I pulled it from my pocket. Melba Gilley’s name popped up on the caller ID. “Morning, Melba. How are you?”

“Oh, Charlie, just awful,” Melba wailed into the phone. “I’m so upset about Carrie, I can’t tell you.” She paused for a sobbing breath. “I’ve got to talk to someone. Carrie told me all about helping you with the exhibit at the library. I know that’s what got her killed.”

FIFTEEN

“Melba, honey, where are you?” If I didn’t get her to calm down, she’d be in hysterics in three seconds flat. “I promise I’ll help you, but you’ve got to try to settle down.”

I heard her draw a deep, albeit shaky, breath. “Thanks, Charlie. I’m at home. Can you come over right away? I’ve really got to talk to you.”

“I’ll be there as quickly as I can. Diesel and I will look after you.”

Melba thanked me again, and I ended the call. After a quick explanation to Laura, I grabbed my keys and headed for the garage. Diesel didn’t need an invitation. Whenever he saw me pick up keys, he was ready to go.

The drive took almost ten minutes, since Melba lived across town in a section of Athena about fifty years newer than the neighborhood where my house stood. Diesel warbled from the backseat, and I told him we were going to see his buddy Melba. He probably thought we were headed to the college library, since that’s where he normally saw her—she was the administrative assistant to the director—but we usually walked the few blocks to campus. When I stopped the car in Melba’s driveway, he looked out the window, then turned his head toward me and meowed. Did he remember coming here with me a couple of times? I had no idea.

Melba, dressed in a shabby orange bathrobe and matching fuzzy slippers, swung the front door open before I could raise my hand to ring the bell. Her tearstained face and unkempt appearance startled me. I had never seen her like this. She always dressed so neatly, her hair and makeup immaculate. My heart went out to her.

She motioned us in and shut the door. Then she sat on the floor and gathered Diesel in her arms. The cat started warbling and chirping for her, doing his best to cheer her as she rocked back and forth with him. After a moment I knelt by them and touched Melba lightly on the shoulder. She looked up at me, tears streaming from her eyes. She pulled a sodden handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her face.

I stood and held out a hand to her. “Come on, Melba,” I said gently. “Let’s get you into the kitchen and make you some coffee or maybe some hot tea. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

She nodded and let me lift her up as Diesel moved out of her lap. I put my arm around her, and she leaned heavily against me as we walked down the hall to her kitchen at the back of the house. Diesel meowed anxiously as he followed us.

The windows over the sink faced east, and the morning sun streamed in. I settled Melba in a chair at the elderly oaken table, and Diesel sat beside her, his head in her lap. She stroked his head and sighed. “I’m feeling a little better.”

“Good. Now, which would you rather have, tea or coffee?” I glanced at the counter by the sink and spotted a coffeemaker, its pot empty.

“I’d rather have a few shots of bourbon.” Melba spoke with a vestige of her usual spirit. “But it’s too early for that. Coffee will be fine. It’s in the canister there behind the coffeemaker.”

I got the coffee going, and in the meantime let Diesel work his therapeutic magic with her. By the time the coffee was ready a few minutes later, she was looking much less distressed, almost calm.