Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

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The sky on Tuesday morning promised heavy rain, and the clouds grew darker as Teresa and I departed the library in my car. I’d checked the weather report last night, and the forecast gave only a twenty percent chance of rain. More like eighty percent, it seemed to me as I examined conditions.

Diesel stretched out in the backseat, his purr a basso continuo to our thoughts. Teresa provided the directions, and I cast anxious eyes to the heavens as I drove. The weather reminded me eerily of the opening scene in The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion . No lightning yet, but I had a feeling the distant rumble of thunder presaged plenty of it to come.

“Yancy said Ms. Cartwright is a hoot to talk to. Definitely knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to speak it.” Teresa fiddled with the strap of the seat belt across her chest, and I could tell the weather made her as nervous as it did me. “She’s also pretty active. Walks at least a couple miles a day, unless the weather’s bad, or it’s too hot.”

“That’s pretty amazing. Better than I usually do, and I’m almost half her age.” The sky continued to darken, and I switched on the car’s lights. I preferred being safely inside during a storm, not out in a car right in the middle of it.

“Not much farther.” Teresa drew a deep breath, perhaps to calm herself, while Diesel had stopped purring and begun muttering instead. He had obviously picked up on our unease over the weather. “There should be a sign for the byroad.” She consulted her printed directions. “It should say Applewood Hill Farm .”

I peered ahead as rain suddenly pummeled the car. I felt fur brush my sleeved arm as Diesel climbed over the center console and into Teresa’s lap. “Sorry about that,” I said as I kept my gaze focused on the road ahead. “He doesn’t like storms any more than we do.”

“No problem.” Teresa got the cat to settle, but at thirty-six pounds, he easily overflowed her lap, and his tail rested across the console and extended into my lap. “It’s okay, boy,” she murmured in soothing tones, and Diesel’s muttering slowed.

“There it is.” The car’s lights shone on a large sign about seventy yards ahead, and I slowed for the approaching turn. The rain, fierce at first, began to decrease in volume, and I sent up a thankful prayer that the storm seemed to be moving quickly over us.

“From here it should only be about two miles.” Teresa peered at her directions while Diesel’s tail twitched in my lap. “Then there’s a driveway on the left, and the house is about four hundred yards up the driveway behind a stand of trees.”

The sky lightened as we headed down the byroad, and the rain continued to slacken. There seemed to be no other houses close to the road, though I spotted three driveways before we reached one on the left. A small sign, about two feet by four, boasted Marter Family Farm in faded Gothic lettering.

“This is it.” I pointed the car down the driveway, and moments later we drove through a stand of pine trees. On the other side the drive swept up a slight rise to circle in front of a rambling, two-story farmhouse. I figured it had been built sometime between the two world wars, with maybe a few additions along the way. A wide porch extended across the front of the house, which faced south, and around on the western side as well. There were a couple of porch swings and three chairs. Light gleamed dimly in a window to the west of the front door.

Rain still sprinkled as I parked the car, and I debated whether to bother with an umbrella. “Hang on to Diesel for a moment, until I can get around to pick him up.” He didn’t like getting his pads wet, so I would carry him up to the porch.

Once I had Diesel in my arms, I let Teresa scurry up the walk ahead of us. Under cover of the porch, I put the cat down and stood aside as Teresa pulled open a screen door to knock on the wooden door behind it.

After a moment Teresa knocked again, and seconds later the door swung back to reveal a short, heavyset woman who appeared to be in her late sixties or early seventies. She scowled at the sight of Teresa and said, “What are you doing here?”

THREE

Thunder crashed, and I jumped as the rain poured down once again. What was wrong with this woman? We needed to get inside and out of the storm. I was thankful we had avoided getting soaked as we scurried from the car onto the porch, but if the wind picked up again, we would soon be dripping.

“I beg your pardon.” Teresa stepped back from the door, obviously confused. “When I spoke to you yesterday, you said this morning would be fine.”

Her posture rigid and her expression suspicious, the woman stared at Teresa a moment. She reached toward the wall inside the door, and the porch light flickered on. The woman’s face relaxed, and she flashed a brief smile.

“I’m sorry, couldn’t really see who you were.” She stood aside and motioned for us to enter. “I thought you were that, um, salesman I talked to the other day. He just won’t leave me alone, trying to sell me, uh, life insurance.”

I followed Teresa inside, and Diesel almost got tangled in between my legs in his haste to enter the house. I managed not to stumble and moved out of the way. The woman closed the door behind us. I was grateful to be out of the storm but a bit skeptical of our would-be hostess’s explanation of her earlier rude words to Teresa. She didn’t sound particularly convincing—especially since Teresa in no way resembled a sales man . It wasn’t that dark on the porch.

The woman’s eyes widened as Diesel stretched and warbled a greeting. “I’m Marcella Marter, Mrs. Cartwright’s daughter.” She continued to stare at my boy. “What kind of cat is that? I surely don’t think I ever saw one that big before, outside of a zoo.” She brayed like a frightened donkey—her version of a laugh, I supposed—and startled the rest of us. Diesel drew back with a jerk, and I patted his head in reassurance.

“His name is Diesel, and he’s a Maine Coon, the oldest natural breed of domestic cat in the U.S. They tend to be larger than other breeds, but Diesel here is well above average in the size department.” When he heard his name, the cat warbled again as he looked up at me and then at Mrs. Marter.

“It’s almost like he’s talking.” Again Mrs. Marter emitted that raucous laugh, and Diesel shifted back against me. “He’s a beautiful thing. Mother will eat him up with a spoon.”

“I’m Teresa Farmer, and this is Charlie Harris. We’re really looking forward to meeting Mrs. Cartwright.” Teresa spoke in a firm tone as Mrs. Marter had made no move to take us beyond the front hall.

Our hostess nodded. “Sure thing. Y’all come on through. Mother’s having a good day, and I know she’s anxious to talk to you.” She turned and headed down the hallway that divided the house. As we followed her, I glanced around and noted that the hardwood floor, where it wasn’t covered by rag rugs, shone with polish. The house had a pleasant smell, a light tang of citrus in the air. Whoever did the cleaning here appeared to be as meticulous as Azalea.

Thunder boomed directly over the house, or so it seemed, and the building shook. Diesel mewed anxiously, and I paused to calm him with a hand on his head.

Teresa and Mrs. Marter continued down the hall ahead of us and turned into a room on the left near the end of the corridor. I stepped into the doorway with Diesel by my legs, and I paused to get my first glimpse of my childhood idol. The room blazed with light—enough to make me blink—and several seconds passed before my eyes began to adjust. In addition to the overhead fixture, I counted seven lamps placed around the large sitting room, all glowing. The effect reminded me of family outings to the beach in Galveston with the summer sun that blazed without mercy. The glare was intimidating at first, and the resulting heat stifling. I could already feel the sweat on my forehead, and I knew my slightly damp clothing ought to dry quickly. I supposed, like many elderly people, Mrs. Cartwright liked the heat, but all these lights seemed an odd way to keep her warm.