Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

“Come on, boy, time to go home.” I called Diesel from under the table and picked up his leash to lead him out to the car. He refused to move for a moment, but after I tugged on the leash three times, he relented and came with me. He was single-minded when it came to chicken, the stubborn little cuss.

The cat hopped in the backseat and stared out the window. I carefully backed out and headed the car toward home. About halfway there my cell phone rang. I didn’t like to talk while driving, so I pulled over to the curb on a residential street and retrieved my phone.

I didn’t recognize the number, but it wasn’t the same as Eugene Marter’s. This one had an unknown area code. I answered it and identified myself.

Winston Eagleton’s cheery voice came through clearly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harris. I do hope I find you in good health and spirits this fine day.”

“I’m doing well, Mr. Eagleton. How are you?”

“Not tip-top, I must confess. In fact I am rather distraught over the sad news of the death of dear Carrie Taylor.” His cheery tone gave the lie to his words, I thought. But perhaps he was putting a brave face on things. Given his mode of speech, I figured that’s how he would have put it.

“Yes, it’s terrible. I didn’t know her well at all, but she seemed like such a nice person.”

“Oh, she was, she was, let me assure you. Salt of the earth, dear, dear Carrie.” Eagleton sighed heavily. “One simply cannot imagine why a psychopath would attack such a defenseless creature. It boggles the mind, does it not?”

I agreed that it did even as I wondered whether he would ever get to the point of this call—unless discussing the sad event was the point.

“There are those, one must presume, who would think me callous in the extreme for what I am about to tell you, Mr. Harris.” Eagleton paused, and I waited, unsure whether he expected a response. “Er, that is, I had decided late yester eve to hold a small soiree at my hotel, the Farrington House, and invite those who, like myself, are drawn to the works of dear Electra Cartwright. A select group, of course, because one cannot have the hoi polloi to dine with one.”

“Certainly not,” I murmured, wondering at the man’s lung capacity. He hardly seemed to pause for a breath when delivering these long sentences.

“One hopes that you will not think it too gauche of me to go forward with these plans, but perhaps we can raise a toast to the memory of dear Carrie and celebrate all that was good and fine about her life and contributions. That would be fitting, would it not?”

“Yes, it would be.” Before I could say anything else, he was off again.

“Dear Electra has promised to attend, and I have secured promises from Gordon Betts, Della Duffy, and your delightful cohort from the library, Teresa Farmer. Dare I assume that you will join us? One would also suggest that you bring that charming feline of yours, but I gather the hotel frowns upon that sort of thing. And Della does have that unfortunate fear of all things feline.”

“Yes, that is regrettable,” I said. I would not have considered taking Diesel with me anyway. There are times when it is not appropriate to bring him along, and this would be one. “I will be there. What time does your soiree commence?” Good grief, I was starting to sound like him.

“Shall we say seven, for seven thirty? There will of course be cocktails and hors d’oeuvres beforehand. No black tie necessary.” He chuckled. “One mustn’t be too formal.”

“That sounds fine. I’ll see you there.”

“Good-oh,” Eagleton said. “I shall look forward to it. Au revoir .”

I put the phone down but didn’t immediately pull out into the street again. Instead, I sat there wondering what the true purpose was for this get-together of Eagleton’s. Perhaps I was being overly suspicious, but the man was up to something, I was sure.

But what?

TWENTY

The rest of the way home I pondered the motive behind Eagleton’s dinner party but realized that I didn’t know the man well enough to discern what lay behind any of his actions. Based on what Carrie Taylor had said, I suspected he might be doing his best to woo Mrs. Cartwright so that he could wring a contract from her for the unpublished Veronica Thane novels. That seemed the most likely.

The garage was empty when I pulled in, and no cars lined the street in front of the house. That meant Diesel and I had the house to ourselves. While the cat visited the utility room, I headed upstairs. I felt like putting my feet up for a bit and doing my best to think about something other than Carrie Taylor’s untimely death.

Diesel returned from his pit stop, hopped on the bed beside me, and stretched out while I made myself comfortable, propped up against a couple of pillows. I picked up The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion and found my place, the beginning of the second chapter.

Veronica felt a chill creep along her spine as Mrs. Eden uttered those ominous words. What kind of danger did the poor woman fear?

The plucky girl’s sturdy common sense took hold. Mrs. Eden’s appearance proclaimed her an invalid of some years’ standing. Perhaps she suffered from a nervous disorder, and her mind was disturbed by fears that came only from a fevered imagination.

The girl decided she must ascertain as adroitly as possible the truth of Mrs. Eden’s claims. If the poor lady was truly in terrible danger, then Veronica resolved to do her best to assist Mrs. Eden. Should the danger prove imaginary, however, Veronica would need to use every ounce of her considerable tact. Adversity had tempered the girl with a maturity beyond her years.

Veronica spoke gently to the woman. “What is the source of your danger, Mrs. Eden? And why do you dare not leave the house? Does the danger come from without?”

A small moan escaped Mrs. Eden’s quivering lips. “Oh, Miss Derivale! Dare I trust you? I feel so alone, betrayed by those who should instead tend to my well-being.” She gazed hopefully into Veronica’s eyes.

Veronica knew she must gain Mrs. Eden’s trust if she were to be able to help her. Therefore she decided to make a bold move and declare her true identity. “You are under a misapprehension, Mrs. Eden, one I did not bother to correct until now. I am not Miss Derivale, whoever she may be. I am Veronica Thane, and I happened upon this house when I needed refuge from the storm.”

“Veronica Thane,” Mrs. Eden gasped. She gazed more intently into her guest’s eyes. “I believe I have heard of you. Were you not the girl who aided Mrs. Finison Webster in tracking down her lost jewels?”

“Yes, I was able to assist Mrs. Webster,” Veronica replied modestly.

“Then I will trust you,” Mrs. Eden said impulsively, her hands clutching at Veronica’s. “I need a friend so desperately, and there is none in this accursed house.”

Unbeknownst to the two conferring on the chaise longue, there was a secret listening post, constructed in the days of the War Between the States, when Spellwood Mansion was the home of a notorious Confederate spy. As Veronica and Mrs. Eden talked, an unseen presence listened to every word spoken between them.

“Veronica Thane.” The listener barely whispered the name. Recognizing the threat implicit in the girl’s true identity, the listener stole softly away to make certain nefarious preparations. The girl must be dealt with, and at once!

“Tell me, Mrs. Eden, the source of the danger,” Veronica urged once again.

I turned the page, thinking I remembered the sad tale of Mrs. Eden’s situation, but my cell phone interrupted my reading. Mrs. Eden and Veronica would have to wait, because I recognized the public library’s main number.