The Silence of the Library (2 page)

Before I could respond, Teresa repeated her last statement. “She’s not dead!”

Teresa had me flummoxed. “Who’s not dead?”

“Sorry, Charlie.” Teresa chuckled. “Electra Barnes Cartwright. I found out she’s still alive and apparently sharp as the proverbial tack.”

“That’s amazing.” I sat on the bed, and Diesel hopped up beside me. “She’ll be a hundred on her birthday this year, whenever it is.”

“That’s right. I looked her up in
Contemporary Authors.
She’ll be a hundred in May. How do you remember these things?”

“One of my habits, storing away useless trivia.” I laughed. “There must be some connection between girls’ mystery series and longevity. Both Mildred Wirt Benson and Margaret Sutton lived to be nearly a hundred.”

“I know Benson wrote many of the early Nancy Drew books,” Teresa said. “Who was Margaret Sutton?”

“She wrote the Judy Bolton books.”

“I don’t remember reading those,” Teresa said. “They must not have been around when I first discovered and read books like that.”

Teresa, in her midthirties, was a good fifteen years younger than I, and the Judy Bolton books were out of print by the time she came along. I mentioned this, and she laughed.

“Obviously I’ve missed a good series. You’ll have to tell me more about them later, because you probably know all there is to know about Judy Bolton. Otherwise you wouldn’t be advising us on our National Library Week exhibit.”

I had picked up a fair amount of knowledge over the years about series books, such as Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, and I was delighted to put my seemingly arcane knowledge to good use for once.

“Now back to Ms. Cartwright.” Teresa reclaimed my attention. “I started noodling around on the Internet. Came up with the number for an agent named Yancy Thigpen and thought I’d take a chance and call.”

“What did you want from the agent?” I asked. “Unless you suspected that Electra Barnes Cartwright was actually still alive.”

“I thought that was unlikely,” Teresa said. “I was hoping the agent might know of any artifacts or special materials we could use for the exhibit. I never dreamed she would tell me that the author was still living.”

“That is a wonderful surprise.”

“This whole thing is coming together like it’s truly meant to be.” I could picture her bouncing in her chair judging from the enthusiasm bubbling in her voice. “Now for the really big news—not only is she still alive, but Electra Barnes Cartwright lives nearby. How’s
that
for amazing?”

I felt dazed. “I knew she grew up around Calhoun City”—a small town about a hundred miles south of Athena—“but from what little I remember reading about her, she left the South and settled in Connecticut when she was in her twenties. When did she come back to Mississippi?”

“About twenty years ago. Yancy said Mrs. Cartwright lives quietly out in the country with her widowed daughter and grandson, between here and Mineola. Do you know them? Marcella and Eugene Marter.”

“No, can’t say as I do.” Diesel bumped his head against my arm to signal his need for attention. I rubbed my hand along his back as Teresa continued.

“Marcella has a library card but I don’t think she uses it much. But that’s neither here nor there. One more awesome thing.” She chuckled.

When she didn’t continue immediately, I said, “Okay, out with it before I pop a gasket here.”

“If you aren’t too busy tomorrow,” Teresa responded, “how would you like to go with me to meet Electra Barnes Cartwright?”

I laughed heartily. “I think you can figure out my answer. What time and where shall I meet you?”

We arranged to meet at the library a little before nine for an appointment at nine thirty. The drive to the Marter home should take only twenty minutes at most.

“Bring Diesel along,” Teresa said. “I asked whether Ms. Cartwright would have any objection to a cat, and Yancy told me she loves animals. Besides, he’s such a good icebreaker if we need one.”

“He definitely is that.” Plus he always seemed to know when he was being talked about, because I noticed him staring intently at the phone. He chirped loudly several times, as if to tell me he would be happy to go along. “Did you hear that?”

Teresa laughed. “Yes, I did. He’s given his approval to the visit, too.”

“That settles it. See you tomorrow.” I rang off and stowed the phone in my pocket. “Come on, boy, let’s go downstairs and get something to eat.” I set the copy of
The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion
on the nightstand for bedtime reading before I followed Diesel out of the bedroom.

• • •

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?”

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.

Once I was able to focus, I spotted the reason for our visit ensconced on a sofa to my right, and my heart raced. This was a thrill I never expected to have. I absorbed as many details as I could without appearing rude.

Electra Barnes Cartwright, at nearly a century of life, appeared thin, but not unhealthily so. Clothed in trousers and a heavy cardigan over a collared blouse, neck swathed in a scarf, she looked ready for an outing. Dark glasses protected her eyes from the light, and her hennaed hair surprised me. I had expected—I realized—a fluffy, white-haired lady, but Electra Cartwright didn’t project that image.

“Mother, here are those nice people from the library in Athena that we talked about.” Mrs. Marter moved to within three feet of her parent and stood, hands clasped, in front of her. She waited until Mrs. Cartwright nodded before she made the formal introductions.

“Nice to meet you all.” Mrs. Cartwright had a rasp in her voice, like that of a hardened smoker. “Especially this four-legged gentleman. Aren’t you beautiful?” Diesel evidently agreed because he moved closer to her outstretched hand and warbled three times. Mrs. Cartwright laughed as she stroked the cat’s head.

“Diesel likes attention.” I noted the happy smile Mrs. Cartwright wore as she continued to lavish attention on the cat.

“He’s not conceited,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “He’s simply convinced. Aren’t you, sir?” She looked up at me, her hand finally still atop Diesel’s willing head. “You’re a fortunate man to have such a wonderful companion.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” I ducked my head in acknowledgment. “He has brought considerable joy to my family and me.”

“Marcella, where are our manners?” Mrs. Cartwright’s tart tone took me aback, especially when Mrs. Marter twitched into action and shoved a chair at Teresa. “Please pardon my daughter,” Mrs. Cartwright continued. “We don’t get many visitors these days, and our company manners sure aren’t what they used to be.”

That was an understatement, I thought. The relationship between mother and daughter appeared tense, and that made me feel uncomfortable.

“Thank you.” After a swift glance at me, Teresa nodded at Mrs. Marter as she sat down. I found another chair and pulled it near. In the meantime Mrs. Cartwright patted the empty space beside her on the sofa and indicated that Diesel should join her. He glanced my way first, as if he sought permission. When I nodded, he climbed up beside Mrs. Cartwright and settled his head and front legs in her lap.

My eyes teared up every other minute or so from the intense light, and I wished mightily for a pair of sunglasses. This quirk of Mrs. Cartwright’s made the room unpleasant for visitors, but I supposed that if I made it to the century mark, I ought to be allowed a few quirks.

“We really appreciate you taking the time to visit with us.” Teresa leaned forward to address Mrs. Cartwright. “As your daughter might have told you, we are featuring you and your work in an exhibit for our upcoming National Library Week festivities next month. It was certainly a stroke of luck to find out that you were living so near Athena.”

Mrs. Cartwright laughed. “That I’m still alive and kicking is what you really mean. I know that little fact will be a shock to some.” She glanced at her daughter, who hovered behind Teresa. Mrs. Marter frowned at her mother before she turned and left the room.

Mrs. Cartwright called after her daughter. “Bring us something cold to drink.” She focused on Teresa. “Exactly what are you going to do for these festivities?”

“Primarily an exhibit of your life and works, highlighting the fiction you wrote for children and young adults.” Teresa nodded in my direction. “For example, thanks to his late aunt, Charlie has an amazing collection of the Veronica Thane series. He has offered to let the library borrow items from it for the exhibit.”

Mrs. Cartwright stroked Diesel’s back with her right hand. “Your aunt is a reader of mine?”

“Yes, ma’am, she was,” I said. “She passed away several years ago, but she left her house and all its contents to me. She had a superb collection of juvenile mysteries, like the Veronica Thane series—her personal favorite—along with others like Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton.”

Mrs. Cartwright snorted and startled Diesel into meowing. “That dratted Nancy Drew. She was the bane of my existence. I know my Veronica books could have sold even better if the syndicate hadn’t interfered.”

Teresa cast me a bewildered glance, no doubt thrown by the reference to a
syndicate
and the vitriol in our hostess’s tone.

“I presume you’re talking about the Stratemeyer Syndicate.” I smiled, and Teresa’s face cleared. I had given her the basic history of Edward Stratemeyer and his fiction factory when we first discussed our ideas for the Cartwright exhibit.

Mrs. Cartwright scowled. “Just hearing that name makes my blood pressure go up. I was lucky enough not to work for him, or receive the hack wages he paid. And the stories I heard from other writers who did, and had to work with those daughters of his.” She glared at me, but I realized that I was not the target of her evident wrath.

“I believe I read in an article once that other nonsyndicate writers complained that the syndicate tried to get their series quashed so they wouldn’t compete with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, for example.” Those claims, I reasoned at the time, might have been nothing more than the proverbial sour grapes, due to the phenomenal success of Nancy and the Hardys, but I didn’t really know for sure. Mrs. Cartwright naturally had a right to her own opinion on the matter.

“I could tell you
plenty.
” The elderly author shook her head. “But there’s no point in it now. Everyone else concerned is long gone.” She flashed a sudden grin. “I’ve outlived them all.”

Teresa addressed Mrs. Cartwright. “You and your work will be the focus of this exhibit. I want to assure you of that. We’ll have examples of the other girl detectives, but you and your books are the centerpiece.”

“That’s good. If I’ve got pride of place, then I don’t mind sharing.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed again. “What other plans did you have beside the exhibit?”

“That was the sum of it originally,” Teresa said. “But with your being so close by, we wondered whether you would be interested in some kind of public appearance.”

“Meet my adoring fans, you mean.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed. “Sure, I would love to do that. Haven’t actually talked to one of them face-to-face in years. Had plenty of letters, though.”

“That’s terrific,” I said. “One idea I had was a public interview. You wouldn’t have to give a speech, unless of course you want to. More along the lines of my interviewing you in front of an audience, give them a chance to listen and perhaps ask a few questions of their own at the end.”

“I think I’d like that. Less wear and tear on me. Count me in.” Mrs. Cartwright smiled, obviously pleased. “It would be lovely to see a roomful of my readers.”

“Absolutely not. That’s a terrible idea.” Marcella Marter plunked a tray of drinks down on a nearby table and glared at her mother. “I absolutely forbid it.”