Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

I picked up the box and placed it on the bed. The shallow, grooved lid came off easily, and inside lay a stack of papers—what I had been looking for during the past half hour or more.

I replaced the lid and tucked the box under my arm. I was halfway down the hall, having shut the door behind me before I remembered that Diesel remained under the bed. I smiled. This was what I’d planned to do anyway, because Diesel didn’t like being shut in a room by himself.

After standing in place for about two minutes, I moved quietly back to the door. I waited a few moments more, then I heard the cat scratching at the door.

“Come on, then, and I’ll give you a treat,” I said when I swung it open. “I told you I wanted to go downstairs.”

Diesel stared up at me for about three seconds and then shot out into the hall and down the stairs. I knew he would be waiting in the kitchen for the promised treat to materialize.

I stopped by my bedroom to retrieve the scrapbook. When I reached the kitchen, the cat sat near the chair I usually occupied. He warbled, obviously irritated with me for taking so long to fulfill my promise. I set the box and scrapbook on the table and retrieved the treat. I ended up giving him a small handful of the little tidbits, and he scarfed them down in three seconds flat. He stared hopefully at me, but I waved my hands in the air and said, “That’s all.” He muttered but didn’t press me any further. He stretched out on the floor by my chair and started grooming his front paws.

After my labors in the closet, I was thirsty, and before I set to work going through the newsletters and the scrapbook, I washed my hands and drank two glasses of water. Only then did I sit and pull the box toward me. Perhaps three inches deep, the box was filled almost to the brim with paper.

The initial newsletter lay on top. A single sheet, neatly typed and single-spaced, it featured a photocopied image of one of the illustrated plates from The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion , but greatly reduced from its original size. I scanned the text quickly. Carrie Taylor described briefly her first acquaintance with the series and went on to discuss her devotion to Veronica Thane and the works of Electra Barnes Cartwright through the years. The verso of the sheet featured a list of the books with their publication dates. The newsletter concluded with Mrs. Taylor’s address and phone number. She entreated anyone interested in her subjects to get in touch with her to get on a mailing list for further issues.

I set the sheet aside and picked up the next issue. This one was three sheets of paper, and the heading labeled it as The Thane Chronicles and denoted it as volume one, issue one. There was a date and a brief reprise of pertinent information from the initial sheet, followed by the subscription information. There was no mention of a cost for subscribing.

There were three short articles. One was a plot summary of Spellwood Mansion , and I skipped that. Next came a brief piece on the setting for the series. Mrs. Taylor speculated that the books were set in the author’s native Mississippi, though she admitted there were no direct references to the state, only consistently vague acknowledgments that Veronica and her guardian lived in the American South. The final article discussed the clothing in the series. Laura would find that interesting. I didn’t particularly, and I put the pages aside.

The issues grew longer as I moved down through the stack. Aunt Dottie, being the organized person she was, had kept them in chronological order. The publication pattern of the newsletter—as we librarians would call it—was irregular to begin with. There was an eighteen-month gap between the first two issues, and a fifteen-month lapse between number two and number three. After the fifth issue the pattern was more regular with two issues a year, usually spring and fall.

With issue number six, Mrs. Taylor offered content written by other Veronica fans and experts. I didn’t recognize any of the names but wondered if eventually I would encounter contributions by Gordon Betts or Della Duffy. I only skimmed most of the content, but one short article I read completely discussed Veronica’s injuries through the course of thirty-six adventures. She was knocked out seventeen times, got drugged eight times, was tied up in eleven books, and imprisoned eighteen times—once even in a trunk. The writer observed wryly that Veronica was a neurological marvel because she never suffered any cognitive impairment from all those bangs on the head and the drugging with unknown substances.

After an hour I had examined eleven issues without a hint of a clue—at least one that I recognized—relevant to Carrie Taylor’s murder. The newsletters might not end up having anything to do with the solution to the crime, but I felt I had to be thorough and examine every one in the box.

Before I started on the twelfth issue, I needed caffeine to pep up my brain cells. I retrieved a can of diet soda from the fridge and happened to glance at the clock. I felt my stomach rumble as I noted that it was almost eleven thirty. Breakfast seemed a long time ago. I might as well break for lunch.

I stuck my head back in the fridge to investigate the possibilities. I didn’t feel like cooking but the prospects for a quick meal seemed scant at best. The ham was gone, and I didn’t fancy more pimento cheese, delicious as it was. I could make a salad, but I wanted something more substantial.

“Morning, Dad. Ready for lunch?”

Sean’s voice startled me, and I almost banged my head on the fridge door as I turned. He stood grinning a few feet away with a large box emblazoned with the logo of Helen Louise’s bakery.

“I sure am.” I let the door swing shut. “What do you have there?”

Diesel perked up and warbled. He stood and stretched before he walked around the table to rub against my son’s legs.

“Salad and quiche.” Sean set the box on the table. “I was at the office this morning, and I decided to stop by the bakery on the way home. Figured you might join me for lunch.”

“You’re my favorite son.” I beamed at him and watched while he retrieved plates and utensils.

“Gee, thanks.” Sean laughed as he set the table.

“What would you like to drink?” I opened the fridge again.

“A beer if there’s any left.” He turned to grab napkins from the drawer.

“You’re in luck.” I found a bottle, opened it, and set it on the table. We sat and served ourselves. Diesel hovered anxiously by my chair. He was going to be disappointed, though, because the quiche was made with cheese, onions, and ham. A large paw tapped my thigh. I looked down at him. “Sorry, boy, but this isn’t Diesel food.” He meowed, but I shook my head at him. He stared at me for a moment before he stalked off toward his food bowl in the utility room.

After a couple of bites of salad and a few of the delicious quiche, I said, “You were at the office this morning? You must have left pretty early.”

Sean nodded and finished chewing before he answered. “Left about six. I had things to do on this new case, then I swung by the jail to talk to Mr. Eagleton again.”

“Any new developments?”

“Something pretty strange.” Sean set his fork down. “Evidently a neighbor across the street happened to be looking out a front window and saw a man at Mrs. Taylor’s front door about the time she left that phone message for Ms. Gilley.”

“That’s lucky,” I said. “Could he identify the man?”

“He said all he could really see was an outline, and his night vision isn’t good. The nearest streetlight is out, and Mrs. Taylor’s porch light was pretty dim. He thought the man looked slender.”

“Obviously not Winston Eagleton,” I said. “No way he could be described as slender.”