Miranda James - The Silence of the Library

“I read some of those,” Lizzie exclaimed. “Didn’t the titles all have a color in them?”

“Yes, they sure did.” Mrs. Taylor beamed at Lizzie. “Connie was more sophisticated than most of the other girl detectives.”

By now several other library patrons had drawn near to listen to the discussion. Two of them were women about Mrs. Taylor’s age, and another was a girl who looked about fourteen.

“Mrs. Taylor, we definitely need to include you in our programs for National Library Week. Perhaps a talk on the different girl detectives? I think our patrons would enjoy that.” I glanced at the bystanders and was pleased to see the teenager nod enthusiastically.

“I know my book club would love to come to something like that.” This came from one of the older women. She turned to her companion. “Don’t you think so, Martha?”

Martha nodded. “I surely do, Kathryn. There are about twenty of us, and I know most of us read Nancy Drew and Veronica Thane growing up.”

Mrs. Taylor appeared delighted at their enthusiasm. “I’d love to give a talk. That was one of the things I discussed with your director, and she was interested.”

“Then we will definitely set it up,” I said. Once again beside me, Diesel rubbed against my leg and warbled loudly. Everyone laughed, and he warbled again. He enjoyed being in the spotlight when it suited him.

“Excuse me, who’s in charge here?”

The loud voice startled me, and I noticed a similar reaction from Mrs. Taylor and a few of the others around us.

While we were talking, a woman I’d never seen before had come into the library. She stood at the reference desk and appeared slightly aggrieved over the lack of attention she was receiving.

I stepped forward past Mrs. Taylor, Lizzie, and Bronwyn, who had blocked my view of the desk. “How may I assist you, ma’am?”

Diesel followed alongside me, and as he became visible, the woman spotted him. She paled, and her mouth opened, but only strangled sounds, not words, came forth.

Then she turned and fled out the door.

SEVEN

“What on earth is the matter with her ?” Lizzie, like the rest of us, stared at the door as it closed behind the stranger.

“Severe ailurophobia,” Mrs. Taylor said before she took off after the woman. She pushed open the door and strode out. We could her hear shout, “Della, come back here.”

“Severe what?” Bronwyn asked.

“Ailurophobia,” I replied. “It means an abnormal fear of cats.” I looked down at Diesel, and he regarded me almost quizzically, like a child might do. “Sorry, boy, but there are people who are terrified of kitties.”

“Sounded like Mrs. Taylor knows her,” Lizzie said. “Poor woman. Imagine being afraid of a sweet boy like Diesel.”

At the sound of his name, Diesel chirped, and Lizzie and Bronwyn nearly bumped heads as they bent to pet him. “You first,” Bronwyn said with a grin.

While Lizzie and Bronwyn took turns rubbing the cat’s head, I went to the door and walked outside. I could see Mrs. Taylor with her arm around Della’s shoulders, and the stranger appeared calmer now. I noticed that she wore a well-tailored skirt and jacket, both a bright yellow, with an emerald green blouse. The colors complemented her dark hair, cut in an old-fashioned bob that framed an attractive face.

I debated whether to approach them, but when Mrs. Taylor spotted me, she motioned me over.

“Della, dear, this is Mr. Harris,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Mr. Harris, Della Duffy.” She gave the other woman’s shoulders a brief squeeze and then released her.

Della Duffy held out a hand that felt cold and clammy in mine as I gave it a gentle shake. “How do you do, Mr. Harris? I’m sorry but I couldn’t stay in there with that cat.” Her mouth twisted in a grimace. “I’d like to know what the heck a cat was doing here. They shouldn’t let animals in the library.”

I dropped her hand and resisted the urge to pull out my handkerchief to wipe it. My tone was stiff as I replied, “No need to apologize, Ms. Duffy. Diesel is pretty large for a domestic cat, and he’s been known to startle people before. He’s a gentle giant, though, I can assure you, and has always been welcome at the library.”

Ms. Duffy’s grimace lingered. “Is he yours?”

I nodded.

“Sorry, but I can’t stand cats. He might be gentle, but if I go back in there, I’ll just have another panic attack.” Mrs. Taylor patted her shoulder.

Despite my irritation at her brusqueness, I felt sorry for her. Irrational fear can wreak havoc in a person’s life, and I could only imagine the terror she felt because of her phobia. “Perhaps I could help you now, out here, so that you don’t have to go back in the building. Or I can take Diesel home, and you can get help from one of the other library staff.”

Ms. Duffy shook her head. “No, don’t bother. If there’s somewhere to sit outside, you might as well help me here. At least the weather is pleasant. Not too hot, with a little breeze.” She glanced about and spotted the bench in front of the shrubbery near the front door. She headed for it, and Mrs. Taylor and I followed. I would have to overlook the woman’s less-than-gracious behavior.

The two women sat, and I stood in front of them because the bench was made for two. Mrs. Taylor spoke for the first time since her introduction. “Della is a collector, Mr. Harris. I’ve known her for a dozen years or so.”

“Charlie, please.” I forced a smile, though Mrs. Taylor had been anything but rude. I addressed the other woman. “I suppose you read about the library’s planned event with Electra Barnes Cartwright.”

Ms. Duffy nodded. “Carrie here also e-mailed me, and I can’t tell you how excited I was to hear such wonderful news. I’ve been a fan of Mrs. Cartwright’s since I was ten years old, and the thought of actually getting to meet her . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“We know, dear.” Carrie Taylor patted the other woman’s arm. “Both Charlie and I are fans of EBC’s, too.”

“Do you always refer to her as EBC ?” I asked Mrs. Taylor.

She grinned. “I’m so used to it now I hardly realize I’m doing it. It’s convenient shorthand, and the readers of my newsletter are used to it, too.”

“Her full name is rather a mouthful.” I turned to Ms. Duffy. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

Her response was tart. “I want to know when I can meet Mrs. Cartwright.”

“There will be a public interview with her. The schedule will be up on the library’s website soon.” I regarded her warily. Was she going to be like Gordon Betts and demand that she be given Mrs. Cartwright’s address for a private visit?

“That’s not good enough.” Ms. Duffy frowned. “I have one of the most extensive collections of Veronica Thane and EBC books of any collector I know, and I want her to sign as many of them as possible.”

I did my best to suppress my irritation as I answered. “We don’t know yet whether Mrs. Cartwright will be able to sign books. I doubt she could sign a whole collection anyway. You do realize that she is about to turn a hundred soon?”

“Is she so decrepit that can’t write her name?” Ms. Duffy glared at me. “If she’s strong enough to come and do an interview, then she ought to be able to sign her name.”

Mrs. Taylor and I exchanged glances. I wondered if she was as appalled at Della Duffy’s callous disregard for Mrs. Cartwright as I was. I had a good mind to tell her what I thought of her demands, but generations of good Southern manners made that difficult. Instead I settled for milder words. “Mrs. Cartwright will be the one to decide that, and we will all have to abide by her wishes. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”