Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

The Farrington House was a five-minute drive from my house. I quickly found a parking space and entered the hotel. A pleasant young woman at the front desk, in response to my inquiry, directed me to Winston Eagleton’s suite on the fifth floor. That seemed an odd place for a dinner party. Had I misunderstood Eagleton’s invitation?

My host answered my knock on his door right away, almost as if he had been standing right on the other side, waiting.

“Good evening, sir, please do come in.” Eagleton gestured grandly with his left arm, and I stepped into the room.

“Thank you.” When I moved farther into the main area of the suite, I could see that, as was often the case, I was evidently the first to arrive. I abhorred being late, and had for as long as I could remember. That meant I often arrived early. Even when I tried not to be on time, I seldom managed to be more than a couple minutes late.

“How are you this evening?” I inquired of my host.

“Absolutely tip-top,” Eagleton said. “So kind of you to join me for tonight’s little soiree.” He indicated one of the sofas. “Please, won’t you sit down? Can I offer you something to drink? Wine, scotch, a soft drink perhaps?”

“A glass of red wine would be fine.” I chose a spot at the end of the sofa next to a small table and made myself comfortable. “I hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all, my dear chap, not at all.” Eagleton nodded briskly as he moved to the bar to pour my wine. “Punctuality seems to be a rare trait these days, but it is one I admire tremendously.” He brought me the wine, and I took a cautious sip.

I tried not to make a sour face, because the wine had a sour taste. I forced myself to smile as I swallowed because my host was watching intently for my reaction. “Nice,” I said as I put the wineglass down on the end table. I would have to find somewhere to dump the rest of it, because there was no way I was going to drink any more. I thought of Helen Louise and how appalled she would be. She despised bad wines, and this was one of the worst I’d ever had.

“Lovely.” Eagleton beamed as he went back to the bar, where he poured himself a tall glass of scotch—with no soda in sight. He downed about half of it in one long gulp, and he beamed even more widely when he came back to stand near the sofa. “There has been a change of plans, I regret to inform you, for this evening’s gathering.” Eagleton focused his gaze on a point behind me as he continued. “The confounded hotel mislaid my request—so terribly shoddy of them, don’t you think?—and informed me at the last minute that they would be unable to accommodate my dinner party. Thus I am unable to offer you and my other guests the repast that I had planned. I do beg your pardon most humbly.” He looked down at me again. “But I did manage to find some comestibles that I trust will be suitably tasty and nourishing.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” I offered a polite smile.

“Do help yourself.” Eagleton pointed to the dinner table on the other side of the room. “Ah, another guest at the door. Please excuse me.” He walked away.

Taking my wine, I got up and moved over to the table to survey the food on offer—the usual chips, dip, and cheese tray one could find at most supermarkets. There were paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils. Altogether a sad little array of party food.

There was something distinctly odd about this. Donna Evans, the catering manager at the Farrington House, was one of the most organized and detail-oriented people I had ever met. I didn’t buy the story that the hotel had “mislaid” Eagleton’s request. I was willing to bet the hotel had checked his credit card limit, found that he was maxed out, and turned him down.

Just how desperate for money was he?

TWENTY-FOUR

Even if Winston Eagleton was in dire financial straits, how did that connect him to the murder of Carrie Taylor? Desperation could drive a person to do things he might not otherwise contemplate, but there had to be a link between the need for money and the act of murder.

I realized that it was likely the one had nothing to do with the other in this case. Eagleton’s finances could well be a side issue.

Then again, what motivated the killer in this instance?

I mulled it over while I loaded my plate with potato chips, onion dip, a few grapes, and a dozen cubes of cheddar. I turned to see that Della Duffy was the new arrival. When I shifted position, I bumped my wineglass with my elbow. Red wine spilled all over the tablecloth.

At least my clumsiness saved me from having to dispose of it elsewhere. I set my plate down and grabbed a couple of napkins to sop up as much of the wine as I could. Once I had disposed of them, I took my plate and moved toward Eagleton and Della Duffy. I was embarrassed by my klutziness but I ought to apologize to the man.

My host and Ms. Duffy were engaged in a low-voiced conversation but they broke off when they realized I was approaching them.

“Evening, Ms. Duffy,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”

Della Duffy, dressed in a low-necked, black linen cocktail dress with flounces around the sleeves and the hem, examined me warily, I thought. “Did you bring that cat with you?”

I didn’t care for her tone. Rudeness on her part was bringing out the worst in me. I tried to keep a straight face as I responded. “No, he stayed home. He doesn’t like cocktail parties.” I stuffed a cube of cheddar in my mouth and chewed to keep from laughing.

Ms. Duffy’s eyes narrowed, as she no doubt realized I was poking fun at her. “Nice to see you again, too.” The patent insincerity of her tone was payback for my comment.

“Della my dear, may I offer you a drink?” Eagleton, seemingly oblivious to the tension between his two guests, patted Ms. Duffy’s arm. He leaned closer and for a moment appeared to lose his balance before he managed to steady himself. I noticed his tall glass was empty, and I figured I knew why he was oblivious. He was well on the way to getting totally pickled on scotch.

Perhaps I should have stayed home with Diesel. This little shindig had all the makings of a disaster. I munched a few more cubes of cheese.

Della Duffy shook off her host’s arm. “Campari and soda, if you have it.”

Eagleton stared at her a moment, and I wondered if he was about to fall flat on his face. “What? Confound it, I knew I forgot something. No Campari, my dear. Afraid the catering didn’t run to that. How about scotch and soda instead? Plenty of scotch.” He smiled.

“Oh, very well.” Ms. Duffy sniffed. “I hope it’s not that cheap rotgut stuff you served last time.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Eagleton drew himself up, very much on his dignity. “Only buy fine scotch. Connoisseur, you know.” He swayed a couple of times.

“Whatever.” Ms. Duffy rolled her eyes at me. “I’ll get something to nosh on while you fix my drink. Excuse me.” She brushed past me, nearly jostling my plate-holding arm. I muttered, “Excuse me,” but she didn’t slow down on her way to the food.

I followed Eagleton to the bar, concerned that in his current state he might stumble and hurt himself. He made it fine, though, and while he fumbled with the bottle of scotch, I apologized for my mishap with the wine.

He blinked at me. “My dear chap, these things happen. Not to worry, not to worry.” He splashed three fingers of scotch in a glass, squirted soda into it, then toddled off to present the drink to Della Duffy.

Could the evening possibly go uphill from here?

When Eagleton went to the door in response to loud knocking and admitted Gordon Betts, I knew uphill was a far distant prospect.

Betts pushed past our host, evidently having spotted the bar. “I need a drink,” I heard him mutter as he breezed past me without bothering to acknowledge my presence.