The Silence of the Library

ELEVEN

“Unpublished manuscripts?”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.