Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

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 Cartwright’s unpublished manuscripts.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, some one —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 cat 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.