The Silence of the Library (6 page)

Diesel chirped away in the backseat during our second trip of the day to the public library. My daughter, Laura, laughingly claimed he was conversing with us when he did that, because sometimes he was quite voluble. He would occasionally pause, cock his head to the side, and gaze up at the recipient of his confidences as if he expected a response. There were even times when I figured I knew what he was attempting to tell me, but now wasn’t one of those times. I let him chatter on until I parked the car at the library.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go in and see your buddies again.”

Diesel hopped over the seat and climbed out as I held the door open for him. Finally quiet, he padded beside me as we entered the library.

Bronwyn looked up from the reference desk as we neared. After greeting us in turn—Diesel first, as usual—she said, “Teresa is in her office. She’s really upset. Do you think she’ll cancel the whole exhibit?” Diesel disappeared behind the desk, and I knew he went to rub against Bronwyn. That would make her feel better.

Bronwyn had put in many hours preparing for the exhibit. She had a flair for art and had created the posters, besides the work she had done getting our exhibit cases cleaned and ready. “We’ll do our best to resolve things with Mrs. Cartwright and her family.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt, but I wanted to erase the worried look from Bronwyn’s face. She nodded and attempted a smile.

I heard Diesel warble at her, and with her attention diverted to the cat, I headed to Teresa’s office.

When I walked in, I found her seated at her desk, glaring at her computer screen. “There’s no way. Absolutely no way.”

“Looking at the budget, I presume.” I sat in one of the chairs across from her.

Teresa nodded wearily as she turned to face me. “The money just isn’t there. Even if they were asking only a few hundred dollars.”

“How much do they want?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the figure.

“Seventy-five hundred.” Teresa still sounded shaken as she spoke the words.

“Good heavens.” Far worse than I’d imagined. “How do they think a small public library could come up with money like that?”

“You tell me.” She closed her eyes and massaged her temples with her fingertips. “I knew that big-name writers often get paid for doing talks at libraries, but I’ve heard they will sometimes waive their fees in special cases. This is as about as special a case as I can imagine.”

“Perhaps we can bargain with them, get them to drop the price.” I tried to sound encouraging. “Maybe even persuade them to drop their demand for a fee at all.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. When Mrs. Marter called to inform me about the fee, she sounded firm. I don’t think they’ll budge.”

“In that case we will simply tell them the exhibit will go on but without any appearance by Mrs. Cartwright. That would be a shame, but we have no other choice.”

Teresa nodded. “I thought about calling Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce, but they’re so generous as it is. I hate to go to them with my hands out yet again.”

The Ducote sisters—known to everyone in Athena as Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce—were the town’s richest citizens and the mainstays of all charitable efforts. They might be happy to oblige such a request, but I understood Teresa’s reluctance to approach them in this instance.

“I called Carrie Taylor,” Teresa continued, “and asked her to join us. I may be grasping at straws, but since she has devoted so much of her time to Mrs. Cartwright and her work, I didn’t think it would hurt to have another person to make an appeal on our behalf.”

“Good idea. Let’s hope you’re right.” I was about to say more, but Teresa looked past me at the doorway. I turned to see Mrs. Taylor paused there. I stood and offered her my chair and pulled another one near the desk for myself.

Teresa quickly filled Mrs. Taylor in, and the older woman frowned when she heard the details. “That’s outrageous. I dearly love Mrs. Cartwright and her books, but they ought to be ashamed for trying to stick the library with such a crazy demand.” She sniffed. “I’ll be willing to bet you EBC doesn’t know a thing about this. It’s that greedy grandson of hers. Never could hold down a job from what I’ve heard tell.”

Mrs. Taylor evidently knew more about the family than I realized. I wondered who the source of her information was. I was about to ask when she forestalled me. “I’m in frequent contact with EBC’s agent, Yancy Thigpen. She’s been a lot more informative about things than the man who used to represent EBC.”

Gossiping about a client didn’t sound at all ethical to me, but it didn’t appear to faze Mrs. Taylor.

“Of course, there are things I can’t print.” Mrs. Taylor gave us a smug smile. “Yancy tells me my little newsletter is the best of its kind she’s ever seen, and she doesn’t mind sharing these little tidbits with me. I’m sure she has EBC’s permission anyway. She knows I won’t spread them around.”

Teresa and I glanced at each other and then quickly away. The irony of her claim appeared to be lost on Mrs. Taylor.

“What about this agent?” I asked. “Should we call her and explain the situation? She must have dealt with this kind of thing before.”

“I have her number written down somewhere.” Teresa hunted through three small stacks of paper on her desk until she found what she needed. She punched in the digits on her office phone while Mrs. Taylor and I waited in silence.

“Good afternoon. I’d like to speak to Yancy Thigpen please.” Teresa paused for a moment. “Teresa Farmer, director of the public library in Athena, Mississippi. I’ve spoken with Ms. Thigpen before.” Another pause, much longer this time. Finally Teresa said, “I see. Thank you very much.” She put down the receiver.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Taylor said, “she wouldn’t talk to you, would she?” She sounded upset.

“No, it wasn’t that.” Teresa smiled. “Actually, it’s probably good news. The assistant, or whoever he was, told me Ms. Thigpen is flying down to Athena today.” She checked her watch. “In fact, she should have arrived at the airport in Memphis by now. She ought to be in town in an hour or so, unless she gets lost on the way.”

“Do you think we should try to postpone this discussion with Mrs. Marter until the agent is here and can take part?” That would be the best thing to do, I thought.

“Too late,” Teresa said in an undertone. She stood and nodded toward the doorway. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Marter.” She came from behind her desk to approach the visitor.

Mrs. Taylor craned her neck around to see. I stood to offer my chair to Mrs. Cartwright.

“Marcella, move out of the way.” Mrs. Cartwright’s voice sounded from outside the office. “I need to sit down.”

“There isn’t much room in my office,” Teresa said as Mrs. Marter moved aside at her mother’s command. “Why don’t we go to our small meeting room instead? It’s only a few feet farther.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Cartwright allowed Teresa to take her left arm as she leaned heavily on the cane in her right hand. Though slightly stooped, she was an inch or so taller than Teresa, who was about five-five. Marcella Marter trailed behind them, and Mrs. Taylor and I brought up the rear.

Teresa flipped the light switch as she guided our guest into the room and helped her to a chair. She sat next to the elderly woman around a smallish rectangular table that could accommodate ten people. Mrs. Marter took the chair on her mother’s free side, while Mrs. Taylor and I went to sit across from them.

Mrs. Cartwright, swathed in black, with a black scarf around her neck and black gloves on her hands, sported large-framed dark sunglasses. The red hair provided a sharp contrast to her clothes, and her face had been expertly—though heavily from what I could tell—made up. I supposed she was vain enough about her appearance that she didn’t want to look like a centenarian in public.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Cartwright.” Teresa smiled. “I thought your grandson was coming with you.”

“Eugene had something else to do.” Mrs. Cartwright bumped her cane against the edge of the table. “Besides, this is my business, not any of his. Nor any of my daughter’s. Isn’t that right, Marcella?”

“Yes, Mother.” Marcella stared at her lap and spoke in a whisper.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cartwright. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in person.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice, quavery at first, grew more assured as she continued. “I thought I wouldn’t get to meet you until next week, but here you are.”

“Who are you?” Mrs. Cartwright sounded brusque. “I know Mr. Harris there”—she nodded at me—“but I don’t know you.”

Mrs. Taylor giggled. “Oh, dear, I have completely forgotten my manners, haven’t I? I’m Carrie Taylor, the editor and publisher of the EBC newsletter,
The Thane Chronicles
.”

“Then I suppose I should thank you for all the work you’ve done to keep Veronica Thane’s name alive.” Mrs. Cartwright smiled. “I’ve been happy to know that there are readers out there who still remember me and my little books.”

“Oh, there are, there are. Millions, probably. If you only knew how much people love you and your writing.” Mrs. Taylor bobbed up and down a bit in her chair.

“That’s wonderful to hear.” The author turned to Teresa, and beside me Mrs. Taylor stopped moving. “Now, about the speaker’s fee for my appearance next week. Marcella said there is a problem.”

“I’m afraid so.” Teresa paused for a breath. “Before we discuss that, though, I wonder if you could tell me why you didn’t mention a fee when we visited you the other day. We proceeded with our plans in all good faith that you were happy to appear without one.”

“I thought you had already discussed that with my daughter.” Mrs. Cartwright frowned. “At least, that is what she led me to believe.”

“We did not talk about a fee at any time.” Teresa shook her head. “We simply don’t have that kind of money in our budget. We can’t afford to pay you.”

“That’s outrageous.” Marcella Marter’s head jerked up. “You have to pay what we’re asking. You’ve already told everyone my mother will appear here next week.”

“Yes, we have,” I said to offer Teresa my support. “It’s unfortunate, but small public libraries like ours can’t afford to pay speakers such a large amount.”

“Dear EBC, please consider your fans. You don’t know how much it means to us to hear you talk about your life and career. Could you possibly see your way to appearing for free?” Mrs. Taylor’s impassioned plea startled us all. Before anyone could respond, Mrs. Taylor continued. “And think of the publicity this will generate. There could be several hundred people here next week to hear you. When publishers get wind of this, one of them might want to reprint the Veronica Thane series.”

There was a long, tense moment of silence while we waited for the author or her daughter to respond.

“That’s a very good point, Marcella, don’t you think?” Mrs. Cartwright prodded her daughter’s arm with a gloved finger. “Think of the publicity for the unpublished manuscripts. I could get a lot more money than that fool Eagleton is offering.”

“Unpublished manuscripts?” Teresa sounded bewildered, as well she might.

Mrs. Taylor squealed—with delight, I presumed. “Oh, my goodness me. You mean Winnie Eagleton wasn’t making it all up?”

“When did you talk to Eagleton?” Mrs. Cartwright’s tone was sharp. “He was not supposed to discuss this with anyone.”

“Winnie and I have known each other for years.” Mrs. Taylor surged blithely on, apparently oblivious to her idol’s irritation. “He knew he could trust me with the news. Of course I didn’t believe him, but I am absolutely
thrilled
to death to know he was right. Your readers will be ecstatic to know there are five more Veronica Thane books.”

“I told you we shouldn’t talk to that stupid little man.” Marcella Marter might have thought no one could overhear, but her tone was a little too heated for private remarks.

“Oh, do hush, please,” Mrs. Cartwright snapped back at her daughter. “He was the only one willing to offer any money, no matter how pitiful.” She turned back to Teresa. “I think we will reconsider the speaker’s fee. My agent is coming down from New York today, and I’ll discuss it with her. She’s young and seems to understand the way publishing works these days better than I do. The world has changed so drastically since I started out writing my little books in an old garden shed of my house in Connecticut.”

“Thank you for reconsidering, Mrs. Cartwright,” Teresa said, and I echoed her. I felt the knot in my stomach loosen, and I was sure Teresa experienced a similar relief. The decision about the fee wasn’t final yet, but I decided to be hopeful Mrs. Cartwright would forgo the money in favor of the publicity and the potential impetus to finding a higher-profile publisher.

Another worry occurred to me suddenly. What would happen if we didn’t have a large crowd turn up for the event?
Tomorrow
, I told myself in best Scarlett O’Hara fashion.
I’ll think about that tomorrow
.

While I wool-gathered, Mrs. Taylor talked. I tuned back in to hear her say, “. . . that darling little garden shed. I know I have a picture in my EBC archives somewhere at home. I’ll try to find it so we can show people at the talk next week. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I know I have other pictures that your fans would love to see.”

In Mrs. Cartwright’s presence she sounded more like an adolescent rock ’n’ roll fan than a Southern matron. I had felt a bit giddy with excitement myself at my first meeting with Mrs. Cartwright, but I think I disguised it better.

Mrs. Cartwright looked puzzled. “Goodness gracious, I’m afraid I don’t remember any pictures.” She glanced at her daughter, then focused again on Mrs. Taylor. “When you’re as old as I am, you tend to forget a lot of things. I just can’t imagine—”

We never heard what she couldn’t imagine because there was a sudden loud argument taking place in the doorway. When I looked over there, I saw Bronwyn attempting to block a man from entering the room.

“I told you already, sir, this is a private meeting, and you cannot go in there.” Bronwyn had a fierce temper when roused, and by the tone in her voice, I figured she was about ready to take the man’s head off.

“Let me in there, you stupid woman. Get out of my way.” The voice sounded familiar. Then I caught a glimpse of a furious, bearded face, and I recognized Gordon Betts.

Teresa rose hastily and joined Bronwyn, adding her voice in protest. I hurried around the table to help them. I was not going to allow the jerk to get away with his bullying tactics, even if I had to pick him up and carry him out of the library myself.

I raised my voice. “Let me handle this, ladies.” Teresa and Bronwyn glanced at my face and promptly moved aside, leaving me almost toe to toe with the slightly shorter man. He looked up at me, and evidently what he saw there alarmed him because he started backing away.

I reached for his arm and grabbed it.

“Ow, that hurts.” Betts glared at me and tried to shake loose.

“What in heaven’s name is going on? And who is that loud young man?” Mrs. Cartwright’s voice stopped me before I could drag Betts toward the front door. We froze in place.

In the ensuing quiet, all I heard was my own heavy breathing and the same from my captive, until Mrs. Cartwright wheezed heavily near me.

Betts shook loose as Mrs. Cartwright stepped around me to confront her overeager fan. She leaned on her cane as she glared at the young man. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“Gordon Betts, Mrs. Cartwright.” He shot me a glance of triumph. He had succeeded after all in meeting his quarry. “I have the largest collection of your books in the world. Every foreign edition, as well as examples of the different printings and formats. Five hundred and seventy-three items, to be exact.”

Marcella Marter appeared at her mother’s side. “Well, goody for you.” Her tone was nasty. “Do you want a blue ribbon?”

Betts paid her no attention. He seemed focused completely on the author. “When I found out you lived nearby and were going to appear at the library next week, I boxed everything up and brought it with me from Chicago. I’d like you to sign my books.”

“
All
of them?” Mrs. Cartwright was clearly taken aback by the demand.

“What’s it worth to you?” Marcella moved closer to Betts, as if to shield her mother from him. “My mother is a hundred years old. If you want her to spend that much energy, then you’d better be willing to pay her to do it.”

I heard a couple of gasps from behind me. Mrs. Taylor, Teresa, and Bronwyn had crowded near to witness the bizarre scene.

“Marcella, really.” Mrs. Cartwright frowned.

“Hush, Mother.” Marcella focused a laser stare on Gordon Betts. “How much?”

“Five thousand.” Betts glared defiantly back.

“Make it ten.” Marcella’s blatant avarice shocked me.

“Seventy-five hundred,” Betts shot back.

“Done.” Marcella stuck her hand out, and Betts grasped it. They shook. “Cash.”

“Just show me the way to the nearest bank.” Betts smirked at me.

“Come with us, and we’ll take you there.” Marcella grasped her mother’s arm and started to tug her along.

Mrs. Cartwright’s lips were compressed in a tight line. I had expected further protests from her, but she remained silent. She jerked her arm free from her daughter’s grasp, however, and walked on her own power beside Marcella. Betts stayed right on their heels.

The rest of us stood rooted to the floor. Bronwyn looked stunned, Teresa furious. I was taken aback as well. There was nothing we could do after Betts managed to claim Mrs. Cartwright’s attention. Marcella Marter showed she was made of sterner stuff than I would have guessed. I felt rather sorry for Mrs. Cartwright, though I suspected she could have put a stop to it if she had really wanted to. Were they that desperate for money?

They certainly could be, I realized, because none of Mrs. Cartwright’s books had been in print during the past thirty years. No income there—and I had no idea if she had managed to save anything substantial during her career. It really was none of my business, I also realized, and further speculation would get me nowhere.

“I’m going back to the desk,” Bronwyn muttered as she stepped past me.

“I have to be going, too,” Mrs. Taylor said. “That Gordon is an embarrassment to the rest of us. He thinks money will get him whatever he wants.”

“In this case it seems to have worked,” Teresa commented wryly. “I wish I could throw money around as easily as he seems to.”

“If you had an incredibly wealthy father like Gordon’s, you could.” Mrs. Taylor sounded disgusted. “Gordon has probably never worked a day in his life. He inherited untold millions so he thinks he can do anything he likes.”

“What’s the source of the father’s wealth?” I had to ask. I was way too curious to let it go.

Mrs. Taylor shrugged. “Manufacturing, some huge conglomerate that makes all kinds of things that everybody has to have, apparently.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, as late as that? I really must be going. I have some research to do. I want to dig in my files and find that picture I mentioned.” She smiled suddenly. “Not to mention I have a few really interesting items in my collection. Gordon may think he has everything, but I know better.”

Teresa and I had no chance to bid her good-bye because she hurried to the door. We turned to each other with tired smiles.

“Thank the Lord that’s over, at least for now. I don’t think I can take one more crisis over this exhibit.” Teresa brushed her hair away from her face as she often did when she was tired or frustrated or, in this case, both.

“I know what you mean.” As I patted her shoulder, I heard warbling. I glanced down, and there was Diesel, rubbing against her legs.

Teresa laughed and scratched the cat’s head. “Thank you, sweet kitty. You know how to make me feel better.”

“I’m going to be the optimist here,” I said. “Mrs. Cartwright’s agent will advise her to forget about the speaker’s fee, and everything will go smoothly from then on. We’ll have a wonderful turnout for Mrs. Cartwright, and everyone will be thrilled, just as Mrs. Taylor said. No glitches, all smooth sailing.”

I should have kept my mouth shut.