Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

“Sorry, sweet boy, but I need to get to church. I’ll see you tomorrow at the office, and I might have a treat for you.” Melba smiled down at the cat. He warbled back, sounding slightly happier. The word treat always worked. He also knew what office meant.

“We’ll see you out.” Diesel and I accompanied her to the front door, and I gave her a quick hug before she headed down the walk to her car. Diesel meowed after her until I shut the door and he could no longer see her.

I stood there while Diesel ambled back toward the kitchen. I hadn’t even thought about church this morning. Nor had I thought much about the fact that it was Sunday. Usually I attended services at the college chapel, and I didn’t often miss. Today the fever of the hunt was upon me, and I trusted I might be forgiven nonattendance this once. After all, I told myself semipiously, I was trying to serve the cause of justice.

I wasn’t sure Kanesha would see it that way, but she had allowed me to help.

“Come on, Diesel, I’m going up to the third floor.” I waited a moment at the foot of the stairs, and he came trotting out of the kitchen toward me. On occasion he ignored such calls and went on with whatever he was doing, but generally he liked to be near me.

On the third floor I opened the door of the room I always thought of as Aunt Dottie’s special library. In the dim light through the gauzy curtains, I would have sworn I saw a shape on the bed. When I blinked and looked again, though, the bed was bare. I smiled. If Aunt Dottie lingered anywhere in the house, it would be either in this room or in the kitchen, her two favorite places.

I flipped the light switch and advanced toward the smallish closet. Diesel jumped on the bed, rolled onto his back, and contorted himself into a stretch that made my back hurt just to witness. Chuckling, I opened the door and pulled the string for the closet light. The faint odor of mothballs tickled my nose.

Clothes still hung on the rail, and I recognized a few dresses for Sunday wear that belonged to my aunt. I ran the back of a finger down the sleeve of one for a moment, and the sensation of my skin against the wool triggered memories of Aunt Dottie dressed for church. I could see the enormous handbag she always carried with her. For a long time I suspected her of carrying a book—besides the Bible—with her, but I never caught her reading one in church if she did.

I took a deep breath to bring myself back to the present. Time to focus on the search. I scanned the shelf over the clothes rail. About two feet deep and five feet across, it was jammed with boxes of assorted sizes. I counted seven shoe boxes. I didn’t think they were likely repositories for the newsletters. None of the other containers bore a label to give me any hints. I would have to pull out each one and check it.

The first box, heavier than I’d expected, contained five handbags of varying size. I pulled one out and opened it, curious to know whether my aunt had left anything in them. I found four bobby pins, a crumpled tissue, and an ossified stick of gum. I decided I wouldn’t look inside any of the others for now. Laura might enjoy looking through them. I never knew what retro item might be fashionable again, but my daughter would. I knew Aunt Dottie would be delighted for Laura to use one. The rest ought to go to charity. I would have to talk to Azalea about clearing this closet and any others with similar contents.

The second container held seven small bags and two large ones. The third box held six more. Quilt squares and fabric swatches filled the next two. Aunt Dottie was an indifferent quilter, but one of my treasured items was a wedding ring quilt she made for Jackie and me when we got married.

Next came a box of yarn and not-quite-finished crochet projects—scarves, one half of a sweater vest, and a blanket that might work for a Chihuahua but not much else. I smiled. Aunt Dottie always preferred reading over handiwork like this, although I knew she sewed competently. Whenever I stayed with her, she repaired rips in my clothes, because I often snagged myself on sharp things. Somehow sharp edges and I seemed to find each other way too easily.

I checked the shelf. Other than the shoe boxes, there were only two cartons left. I selected the larger one and pulled it down. The weight surprised me, and I almost dropped it on my toes. I managed to grab a firmer hold and set it gingerly atop a stack of two of the handbag containers.

The contents, I discovered, consisted of scrapbooks and photo albums. I had thought I knew where all Aunt Dottie’s albums were, but I obviously had missed several. I pulled the first one out and began to flip slowly through the pages. The theme of this one was church activities, and I figured I would find nothing relevant to my current search. Particularly since the items appeared to be at least forty years old.

The next album held neatly labeled family photos. I set that one aside for further study. Genealogy was an interest of mine, and I thought it would be fun to go through these pictures with Sean and Laura—provided that I recognized some of the subjects.

By the time I’d finished with the scrapbooks in that box and the remaining one, I was tired and thirsty, not to mention a little sweaty. I was disappointed as well, because I hadn’t found a single Veronica Thane newsletter. If they weren’t here, where else could they be?

My erstwhile assistant hadn’t moved from the bed during my labors. That surprised me because normally Diesel adored boxes—as indeed most cats do—and he couldn’t resist snooping in them and trying to get inside.

While I looked at him, though, he began to stir. He yawned and stretched before he rolled over into a sitting position. He stared at me, yawned again, then meowed. He spotted the boxes and immediately leaped off the bed to investigate. I watched, ready to intervene if it looked like he might damage anything, but he seemed content to play with flaps and poke his head inside.

My glance fell on the two boxes of scrapbooks.

Scrapbook.

I felt like an idiot. How had I forgotten the one I found a few days ago when I came to pick out books for the exhibit? The one devoted to children’s series books and their authors.

“Come on, Diesel, we’re going downstairs.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Diesel looked up at me from the box he was investigating and meowed with what sounded like an indignant edge.

“Yes, I know you just started playing with those boxes, but I have something I need to do. You can’t stay here by yourself.”

He stared at me and meowed again. Then he darted under the bed.

“Diesel, come out from under there. Right now.” He was like a contrary child sometimes.

I waited for perhaps thirty seconds before I repeated my command.

Still no results.

Aggravated, I got down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. Luckily for me it was an old-fashioned one, high enough off the floor that I didn’t have to lie prone to see exactly where he was.

Against the wall halfway between the legs of the bed, naturally. I wasn’t going to crawl under to drag him out, however. I knew a better way to get him to come with me.

I put my left hand on the bed for leverage. I stood, wincing as my knees creaked. As I steadied myself, I glanced across the bed at the wall beyond where an old chifforobe stood.

A six-drawer chifforobe.

Why hadn’t I thought about checking there for the newsletters? The antique piece was the only other furniture in the room that could hold them.

I moved around the bed, and momentarily left Diesel to his own devices. I pulled open the door of the wardrobe half, but it was empty except for three hangers on the rail.

The top two drawers held old linens, now yellowed with age. The middle two were empty, but the fifth drawer down held a wooden box of a size appropriate to contain the newsletters. I checked the bottom drawer, and it was empty.