The Silence of the Library (14 page)

I examined the book more carefully. There were no labels, no marks of any kind that I found. The book looked like it had seldom been opened, the binding tight, the colors of the jacket fresh and unfaded. A rare copy indeed, to have survived eighty years in this condition.

Nothing to answer my question about its provenance, of course. Betts could have possessed this copy for years. Or he could have stolen it from Carrie Taylor after he killed her.

Then I realized how stupid I had been to pick up the book in the first place. Fingerprints. I had added mine to whatever prints the Mylar cover might hold. I might even have smudged those of another person. Hastily I put the book down on top of the pile from which I had pulled it.

I dreaded the inevitable glare of irritation and disapproval I’d get when I told Kanesha about this. But I had to tell her, in case this copy of the book had anything to do with the murder.

I turned to go, but a question popped into my head. Did Betts have another copy of
The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion
?

Without touching any of the books on the table, I examined the piles, looking for a second copy of the first Veronica Thane book.

I didn’t find one. What did that tell me?

I really wasn’t certain. Betts had boasted that he had over five hundred Veronica Thane books in various formats, and there couldn’t be more than sixty or seventy books on the table. The others were probably somewhere in the suite, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to try to find them and go through them all.

I decided I had better get going and not yield to temptation to see what else he had. I glanced at the sleeping man on my way to the door, and he seemed fine.

Before I could open the door, however, I heard a groan emanating from the area of the sofa. I hesitated, but the groaning continued, then intensified. I turned back to see what was wrong. Betts was struggling to get the blanket off and rise from the sofa.

“Going to be sick.” He managed to get the words out before his body convulsed.

I spotted a small, decorative garbage can at the end of sofa and scooped it up. Barely in time, I managed to stick it in front of him, and he vomited into it. He clutched at the can and pulled it to his chest, letting his head hang over it.

He threw up again. I watched, alert for any sign that he was about to drop the can or to collapse. He seemed steady enough. I waited, and though he made a few retching sounds, nothing else issued forth. His grasp on the can loosened, and I took it from him and set it aside, trying not to look at or smell the contents.

Betts stared up at me, bleary-eyed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Could you get me a wet towel?”

“Sure. Be right back.” I hadn’t expected to play nursemaid to a drunken man tonight, but I couldn’t in all good conscience abandon him at this point, no matter how tempted I was to walk right out.

I found a washcloth, luxuriously thick, in the bathroom and soaked it in cold water. After I’d wrung out most of the water, I carried it back to the ailing Betts.

He mumbled his thanks and wiped his face several times, then folded the cloth and pressed it to his forehead.

Figuring he would be okay on his own now for a few minutes, I took the garbage can, thankfully metal, and carried it into the bathroom. I dumped the contents into the toilet and flushed them, then I stuck the can under the faucet in the bathtub and ran water into it. I sloshed that around a bit, then dumped it again in the toilet.

I did that a couple more times before I was satisfied that the garbage can was as clean as I was going to get it. Back in the living room, I set the can on the floor near Betts, just in case. He raised his head and focused on me as I was about to sit down. “Sorry to trouble you,” he said, sounding actually humble, “but would you mind getting me some soda from the bar fridge? And some crackers if you can find some? I think that would help settle my stomach a bit.”

“Sure.” I found a can of soda along with some peanut butter crackers and brought them back to him. He fumbled with the tab on the aluminum can, so I opened it for him. Then I opened the crackers, too. Once again he thanked me.

He sipped at the cola and ate a couple of crackers, avoiding my gaze for the moment. His color appeared normal again, and his eyes seemed clearer when he did at last look directly at me. He drained the can and set it aside.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

“Much,” he said with a faint smile. “Look, I really owe you one for helping me like this. Didn’t realize how lit I was getting. I don’t often drink like that.”

“It can hit you pretty quickly if you’re not used to it.” I kept my tone mild, though I was pretty irritated with him. Still, I reckoned, he had suffered from his overindulgence, and he was acting much nicer than I had seen him do so far in our brief acquaintance.

“I’m not used to it, despite what you probably think of me.” Betts managed a wry grin. “I know I come on way too strong sometimes.”

“Yes, you most certainly do.” I softened my words with a brief smile.

He leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes. “I really feel wonky, but the soda and the crackers helped.”

“Best thing you can do now is go to bed and sleep.” I stood. “Would you like some help? I should probably be going now.”

“No, I’ll be okay, I think.” Betts pushed himself up from the sofa. He didn’t wobble on his feet, and I took that as a positive sign. “Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. I decided to ask him something before I left, though, and take advantage of his pliant, repentant mood. “Did you get Mrs. Cartwright to sign your books yet?”

Betts shook his head. “No, not yet. I still have to work out the arrangements with her daughter.” He paused. “To be honest, the daughter is insisting on one thing that I’m not happy about.”

“Really? What is that?”

“She wants me to bring all of the books to their house and leave them there for as long as it takes Mrs. Cartwright to sign them all. I know she’s an old lady, but Mrs. Marter said it could take her three or four weeks. I’m not sure I want to leave my books with them that long. They could get damaged, and there wouldn’t be much I could do about it.”

“That is rather odd,” I said, though I could understand that Mrs. Cartwright might not be up to signing several hundred books in a couple of days’ time. “But what if that’s the only way you can get them all signed?”

Betts shrugged. “I don’t have much choice, do I? I gave them the money before Mrs. Marter informed me of that particular condition.”

“It sounds like you have a truly impressive collection.” I hoped he might volunteer to show me at least part of it.

“Yeah, I do.” Betts yawned. “Look, I need to get to bed. You can show yourself out, right?” He glanced pointedly toward the door.

“Sure. I hope you feel better after a good night’s sleep.” I headed for the door, wondering why he suddenly seemed so ready to get me out of his suite. Was it because he didn’t want me to look through his books?

I pondered the question on the drive home. Betts had more facets to his personality than I’d anticipated, given his rude behavior at our first meeting. I had no doubt he could be ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted, but would he go as far as murder?

Diesel greeted me in the kitchen with a chorus of plaintive meows, I supposed to let me know how lonely he had been without me. Naturally I had to take a couple of minutes to reassure him how wonderful he was and that I was abjectly sorry for abandoning him, although I knew Stewart had given him every attention while I was out.

With the cat pacified—for a few minutes, at least—I decided it was my stomach’s turn for attention. Winston Eagleton’s offerings hadn’t lasted long. I made myself a couple of ham sandwiches and sat at the table to eat. Diesel, from his vantage point right beside my chair, took great interest in my food. Before the impersonation of cat-starving-to-death got under way, I offered him several small bites of ham.

After I polished off the sandwiches, I decided I should let Kanesha know about the copy of
Spellwood Mansion
I’d found in Gordon Betts’s suite. A brief text message asking her to call me ought to suffice. I didn’t feel like getting out the laptop to do e-mail, nor did I want to attempt it via the phone. I hated typing longer messages on those tiny letters. My fingers were big enough to hit two or three at a time.

The house was quiet as Diesel and I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I wondered idly whether Stewart had allowed Dante out of his crate yet and whether Laura and Frank had ever come to baby-sit Diesel. With Stewart available, they probably decided they weren’t needed.

I changed into pajamas, despite the fact that it wasn’t quite nine. I felt tired after the events of the evening, but I didn’t want to go to sleep just yet in case Kanesha called me back.

Diesel stretched out on his side of the bed and warbled to let me know he needed more attention. After rubbing his head and along his spine for a bit, I made myself comfortable and picked up
Spellwood Mansion
. I was in the mood to read more Veronica Thane, and it would pass the time while I waited for a response from Kanesha.

Veronica was being ministered to by her best friend Lucy, I recalled, when I last put the book aside. I found my place once again.

“What happened, Lucy?” Veronica reclined against the pillows. “What time is it?”

“It will soon be eleven. You’ve been asleep all day.” Lucy patted Veronica’s hand. “We don’t really know what happened. When you didn’t return home last night, your guardian became worried. She asked Artie and me if we had heard from you, and when we told her we had not, she became even more agitated.”

“Dear Aunt Araminta,” Veronica murmured. “I regret so deeply that she was worried about me. And dear Artie, too.”

Arthur Marsh, known to his intimates as “Artie,” was a classmate of Veronica Thane and Lucy Carlton. Tall, handsome, and athletic, he was the son of Mrs. Buff-Orpington’s lawyer and chief advisor, Horatio Marsh. He was devoted to Veronica and often escorted her to dances and social affairs. His best friend, Anthony Rutherford, was Lucy Carlton’s frequent escort.

“She knew you would not do such a thing on purpose,” Lucy assured her. “She suspected that you might be in the midst of another adventure, and she asked Artie if he would search for you.”

“I was on my way home from visiting our old chum Mary Ferris in Trentville,” Veronica said slowly. “There was a frightful storm.”

“Yes, it was certainly fierce,” Lucy agreed. “Artie suspected you might have had an accident, driving in such conditions, but he said nothing of that to your guardian.”

“Where did Artie find me? And my car? Is my car damaged?” Veronica had great affection for her trusty red roadster, for it had served her well.

“Your car is fine,” Lucy assured her with a smile, well aware of Veronica’s attachment to the vehicle. “Artie found you, sound asleep in it, just a couple of miles outside of town along the river road. He was unable to rouse you, you were so deeply asleep.” Her troubled expression revealed her affectionate concern for her best chum.

“How very strange,” Veronica murmured. She did not remember feeling tired driving home from Trentville. But the storm—something about the storm. The memory teased her with its elusiveness. She expressed her frustration to Lucy.

“Dearest, you must not force your poor head to remember. It will all come back to you in time.” Lucy again patted Veronica’s hand, then offered her more water to drink, which she accepted gratefully. Her throat still felt quite parched.

“What happened after Artie found me in my car?” Veronica asked, still anxious about her roadster.

“He brought you home immediately, of course,” Lucy said. “As soon as you were safely in your bed and the doctor called to attend you, he went back with one of his chums to retrieve your roadster. It is in its accustomed place in the garage, never fear.”

“Dear Artie,” Veronica said, her eyes gleaming with the faint sheen of tears. Really, she did have the most devoted and worthy friends.

“Artie was desperately worried about you,” Lucy said. “As indeed we all were, for we could not wake you. Dr. Rhodes tried several remedies, but you remained asleep.” She paused, her expression pensive.

“How very peculiar,” Veronica said. “In general I do sleep rather soundly, but I am not hard to awaken.”

“It was very strange,” Lucy agreed. She hesitated before she continued, “Dr. Rhodes concluded that somehow you must have been drugged.”

I was about to turn the page to the next chapter—and find out Veronica’s reaction to the news that she had been drugged—when my cell phone rang.

To my surprise, the caller wasn’t Kanesha Berry. Instead the call was coming from the Farrington House.

The moment I said “Hello,” Winston Eagleton launched into speech. He sounded distraught.

“I do beg your pardon for calling you on such a matter, Mr. Harris, particularly after the events of this evening when I am sure you must be rather tired and wanting to rest.” He paused for a breath but continued his rapid speech before I could interject a word. “However, I find myself in a most difficult situation, and while one hesitates to presume on the kindness of someone who is nearly a stranger, yet one sometimes has to do these things.”

“Do what things?” I felt slightly dazed. I was struggling to hone in on whatever point he was dancing around. His obvious distress apparently only increased his volubility.

“In the situation in which I currently find myself, I desperately need the services of a competent lawyer. I was told by a most reliable source that your son is a lawyer, and while I realize it is the height of presumption on my part, I wondered whether you would ask him to represent me.”

“Yes, my son, Sean, is a lawyer, and a very good one,” I said. “I am sure he would be happy to help you, but exactly what situation are you in?”

“Oh, dear, I am not explaining things at all well, am I?” Eagleton sighed into the phone. “This is the inevitable result when I am overset by events. The situation is this. The police, in the form of a Kanesha Berry, who I gather is with your sheriff’s department, rather than the police department, intends to take me in for questioning. I am hesitant to go with her without the knowledge that I will have adequate legal representation”—and his voice dropped to a whisper—“because one has certainly heard that terrible things can happen to one if one is incarcerated, even briefly.”

Good grief, I thought, what on earth had happened now? Was Kanesha going to arrest Eagleton for the murder of Carrie Taylor?

“I will get in touch with my son and have him meet you at the sheriff’s office. In the meantime, I know he would caution you not to answer any questions until he has had a chance to talk to you and find out exactly what is going on.” I was burning with curiosity to know exactly what was going on myself but I didn’t feel like I should ask. Better to talk to Sean and let him sort things out. Kanesha’s patience was probably worn out by now. I could imagine the effect that Eagleton would have on her.

“Thank you, Mr. Harris. I shall not forget your kindness in my hour of need, I can assure you. Oh, dear, the policewoman is looking at me rather fiercely now, so I suppose I must end this call and wait for my legal representation to sort this out. But pray do not believe what you will hear, for I am not a thief.” The phone clicked in my ear.

Thief?
What had Eagleton allegedly stolen? Carrie Taylor’s copy of
Spellwood Mansion
? That was the only thing I could come up with that was pertinent to the case.

Diesel nudged my hand, his signal that more attention should be paid, and I rubbed his head with that hand while I speed-dialed Sean with the other.

“Hey, Dad,” he said when he answered. “What’s up? Everything okay?”

I assured him I was fine before I told him that he had a new client. I explained who Winston Eagleton was and related what I knew of the circumstances—precious little, actually. “It must have something to do with Carrie Taylor’s murder, though,” I concluded.

“I’ll get down there right away,” Sean said. “Alex and I were watching a movie, but it can wait. I’ll see what I can do for the man.”

“Thanks, Son,” I said. “I’ll just warn you that he tends to use seven words when one will do, particularly when he’s excited. So be prepared.”

Sean chuckled. “Got you. Talk to you later.”

I put the phone down, confident that Sean would advise Eagleton well. If only I could go with Sean, I thought. I burned with curiosity over what happened. Who accused Eagleton of theft? If I knew that, I might have some idea of what it was he was supposed to have stolen.

If he was indeed in financial straits, as I suspected, he might well have stolen a valuable item in hopes of selling or pawning it. Or maybe he couldn’t pay his hotel bill, and the Farrington House management sent for the police.

Would they really do that, though?
I wondered.

I was giving myself a headache from the fruitless speculation. I went into the bathroom, found the aspirin in the medicine cabinet, and downed a couple with water.

Too restless to read, I put my book away. Perhaps I should try to relax and get some sleep. I doubted Kanesha would call me tonight when she was busy dealing with Winston Eagleton. Diesel had dozed off again, and I stretched out beside him and switched off the light.

Though my mind buzzed for a while over the happenings of the past couple of days, I eventually relaxed and felt myself slipping into sleep.

When I awoke later, I thought at first morning had come, but the bedside clock informed me it was a few minutes shy of midnight. I turned the light on and sat up. Diesel was gone, and I felt suddenly alert. And hungry.

Time for a midnight snack, I decided. I slipped on my house shoes and headed downstairs in search of nibbles. I could see from the stairs that the light was on in the kitchen, and as I came closer, I heard my children’s voices in conversation.

Laura broke off talking when she spotted me. “Hi, Dad. What are you doing up this late?” Diesel lay on the floor beside her chair. He raised his head briefly to acknowledge my presence but didn’t vocalize.

Sean turned to greet me. “We didn’t wake you up, did we? I didn’t think we were that loud.”

I laughed. “No, you didn’t wake me.” I padded over to the fridge. “I guess my stomach did. I feel like a snack. Maybe another ham sandwich.”

Sean shook his head at me. “Sorry, Dad, but we polished off the ham about ten minutes ago.”

“I think there’s still some of the pimento cheese, though,” Laura said. She knew how fond I was of it, particularly Azalea’s homemade variety.

“That will do.” I found the plastic container, retrieved a knife and crackers, and joined my children at the table. Diesel abandoned Laura and came to sit hopefully by my chair. He was destined to be disappointed, though, because cats shouldn’t have cheese.

Sean raised his mug. “We made decaf if you want some of that.”

“In a minute maybe,” I said as I spread pimento cheese on a cracker. “What were you two plotting when I came in?” Diesel batted at my arm with one of his large paws, and I frowned at him and shook my head. He knew what that meant.

Laura grinned. “No plotting, I swear. Sean was telling me about his new client. He sounds like a real trip.”

“Were you discussing Eagleton’s case with her?” I frowned at Sean.

“Don’t worry.” Sean gave me one of his surely-you-know-better looks. “I haven’t violated the attorney-client privilege.”

“He was only telling me about Mr. Eagleton and how eccentric he is.” Laura stood and carried her mug to the dishwasher. “Nothing inappropriate.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Guess I was too hungry to think before I spoke.”

Sean grinned. “No offense taken, Dad. I do have Eagleton’s permission to talk to you about it, though.”

I paused, about to stick another cheese-laden cracker in my mouth. “Really? Why?”

My children exchanged a look, one that I interpreted easily, having seen it countless times, particularly in their teenage years. It meant,
How’s Dad going to take this?

Sean kept a straight face as he answered me, though I knew it was an effort. “Mr. Eagleton somehow heard about your previous experiences in sleuthing, and he wants you to help me clear his name. He’s convinced you’re Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot rolled into one.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “And before you say anything, he didn’t hear it from me.”

“Or me,” Laura said with a broad smile. “Especially as I haven’t met the man. I’m off to bed, and I’ll leave Holmes and Watson to it.” She dropped a kiss on my cheek and walked out of the kitchen. Diesel, apparently having decided that no treat was forthcoming, scampered after her.

I finished my cracker before I spoke. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It was bound to happen sooner or later, considering the situations I’ve been involved with.” I grimaced. “I hope no one ever says anything like that in front of Kanesha, or I’m liable to get my head lopped off.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want that to happen.” Sean kept his expression solemn. “At least until you’ve made out your will.”

“Very funny.” I got up to fix myself a cup of decaf. “I’ve already made out my will, and I’ve left everything to Diesel, just so you know.” I smiled sweetly as I sat down again.

Sean rolled his eyes at me. “Back to Mr. Eagleton. He really does want your help. He told me you had already been of considerable assistance to him in a matter of some delicacy.”

I knew he was quoting the man. “Yes, I suppose I had been.” I told Sean about taking care of a drunken Gordon Betts.

“Too bad you got stuck with that,” Sean said. “Now, about my client. He’s being held in the county jail.”

“On what charge?” I sipped my coffee. “Surely not for murder, or you wouldn’t be so casual about this.”

“No, not murder. There’s no evidence of that.” Sean leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand across his face. Now that I took a good look, I could see how tired he was. “The charge is theft.”

When Sean paused and didn’t continue right away, I tried to keep my impatience out of my voice. “What on earth did he allegedly steal?”

“Five unpublished manuscripts belonging to Electra Barnes Cartwright.”