Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

“What you doing all the way up here, Mr. Charlie?” Azalea Berry, my housekeeper, frowned at me from the doorway. “And what you doing messing up that bed after I cleaned in here this morning?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb things.” I retrieved the book and tucked it under my arm before I stood. “Diesel and I were just reading. I came up here to look for something, and I got sidetracked by the books. I just had to lie down and read for a few minutes.”

Azalea nodded as the ghost of a smile flitted by. “Miss Dottie used to do that, too. Sometimes I couldn’t find her nowhere, and up here she’d be, stretched out on that bed, reading one of them books of hers.”

I glanced at the four-poster, almost as if I expected to see my late aunt lying there. For a moment I could have sworn I saw the dim outline of a person, but when I blinked, the image faded. Diesel warbled and rubbed against my leg. I wondered whether he sensed another presence in the room as I had.

“Yes, she loved her books.” I showed The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion to Azalea, and she glanced at the cover. “This series was one of her favorites. What I came looking for, actually. The public library is doing a special exhibit for National Library Week next month, and it’s going to feature the author. She would have been a hundred years old this year.”

Azalea peered at the book again. “Miz Dottie loved those from when she was a little bitty thing. I reckon she told me about that Veronica girl a hundred times, how much she admired her when she was growing up.”

I felt a sudden lump in my throat as another memory surfaced from a conversation with my aunt when I was about twelve. I asked her why she didn’t have any children of her own, and she told me she once had a little girl, but the angels came for her when she was only six months old and took her back to Heaven with them. She had named her daughter Veronica.

Azalea must have sensed my sudden discomfort, and Diesel did, too. He warbled loudly and rubbed against my leg again as Azalea stepped back and motioned for me to follow her into the hall.

I clicked off the light and shut the door behind us. “You were looking for me, weren’t you?” I asked.

Azalea nodded. “Yes, sir, you had a phone call from that lady at the library, Miz Farmer. When I couldn’t find you right away, I told her I’d get you to call her back soon as I did.”

“Sorry it took you so long to find me.” I followed her toward the stairs, Diesel at my heels. “I’ll go call her back right now.”

Azalea continued down the stairs when we reached the second floor, but Diesel followed me into my bedroom, where I retrieved my cell phone from the nightstand.

I speed-dialed Teresa Farmer, director of the Athena Public Library. She answered right away. I identified myself, but before I could apologize for the delay, she spoke over me.

“Charlie, you’re not going to believe this.” I heard the excitement bubbling in Teresa’s voice. “She’s not dead!”

TWO

Before I could respond, Teresa repeated her last statement. “She’s not dead!”

Teresa had me flummoxed. “Who’s not dead?”

“Sorry, Charlie.” Teresa chuckled. “Electra Barnes Cartwright. I found out she’s still alive and apparently sharp as the proverbial tack.”

“That’s amazing.” I sat on the bed, and Diesel hopped up beside me. “She’ll be a hundred on her birthday this year, whenever it is.”

“That’s right. I looked her up in Contemporary Authors. She’ll be a hundred in May. How do you remember these things?”

“One of my habits, storing away useless trivia.” I laughed. “There must be some connection between girls’ mystery series and longevity. Both Mildred Wirt Benson and Margaret Sutton lived to be nearly a hundred.”

“I know Benson wrote many of the early Nancy Drew books,” Teresa said. “Who was Margaret Sutton?”

“She wrote the Judy Bolton books.”

“I don’t remember reading those,” Teresa said. “They must not have been around when I first discovered and read books like that.”

Teresa, in her midthirties, was a good fifteen years younger than I, and the Judy Bolton books were out of print by the time she came along. I mentioned this, and she laughed.

“Obviously I’ve missed a good series. You’ll have to tell me more about them later, because you probably know all there is to know about Judy Bolton. Otherwise you wouldn’t be advising us on our National Library Week exhibit.”

I had picked up a fair amount of knowledge over the years about series books, such as Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, and I was delighted to put my seemingly arcane knowledge to good use for once.

“Now back to Ms. Cartwright.” Teresa reclaimed my attention. “I started noodling around on the Internet. Came up with the number for an agent named Yancy Thigpen and thought I’d take a chance and call.”

“What did you want from the agent?” I asked. “Unless you suspected that Electra Barnes Cartwright was actually still alive.”

“I thought that was unlikely,” Teresa said. “I was hoping the agent might know of any artifacts or special materials we could use for the exhibit. I never dreamed she would tell me that the author was still living.”

“That is a wonderful surprise.”

“This whole thing is coming together like it’s truly meant to be.” I could picture her bouncing in her chair judging from the enthusiasm bubbling in her voice. “Now for the really big news—not only is she still alive, but Electra Barnes Cartwright lives nearby. How’s that for amazing?”

I felt dazed. “I knew she grew up around Calhoun City”—a small town about a hundred miles south of Athena—“but from what little I remember reading about her, she left the South and settled in Connecticut when she was in her twenties. When did she come back to Mississippi?”

“About twenty years ago. Yancy said Mrs. Cartwright lives quietly out in the country with her widowed daughter and grandson, between here and Mineola. Do you know them? Marcella and Eugene Marter.”

“No, can’t say as I do.” Diesel bumped his head against my arm to signal his need for attention. I rubbed my hand along his back as Teresa continued.

“Marcella has a library card but I don’t think she uses it much. But that’s neither here nor there. One more awesome thing.” She chuckled.

When she didn’t continue immediately, I said, “Okay, out with it before I pop a gasket here.”

“If you aren’t too busy tomorrow,” Teresa responded, “how would you like to go with me to meet Electra Barnes Cartwright?”

I laughed heartily. “I think you can figure out my answer. What time and where shall I meet you?”

We arranged to meet at the library a little before nine for an appointment at nine thirty. The drive to the Marter home should take only twenty minutes at most.

“Bring Diesel along,” Teresa said. “I asked whether Ms. Cartwright would have any objection to a cat, and Yancy told me she loves animals. Besides, he’s such a good icebreaker if we need one.”

“He definitely is that.” Plus he always seemed to know when he was being talked about, because I noticed him staring intently at the phone. He chirped loudly several times, as if to tell me he would be happy to go along. “Did you hear that?”

Teresa laughed. “Yes, I did. He’s given his approval to the visit, too.”

“That settles it. See you tomorrow.” I rang off and stowed the phone in my pocket. “Come on, boy, let’s go downstairs and get something to eat.” I set the copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion on the nightstand for bedtime reading before I followed Diesel out of the bedroom.