The Silence Of The Library

THIRTEEN

“Dead?” I woke up fast. Beside me, Diesel warbled anxiously. I rubbed his head as I continued. “I can’t believe it. I saw her just yesterday. Twice as a matter of fact.”

“I want to talk to you, but it’ll have to wait until I’m done here. Maybe about an hour. You’ll be at home.” That last statement didn’t sound much like a question, more like a command.

“I’ll be here.” The dial tone buzzed in my ear. I wondered if Kanesha even heard me. I hung up the phone and stared at Diesel. He had stuck his face right up in mine and chirped as he rubbed his head against my chin. I put an arm around him and hugged him, and he bore it for a few seconds before pulling away. “I’m okay, boy, don’t worry.”

Evidently reassured, Diesel sat back and commenced cleaning one front paw. I watched him while my thoughts raced.

Carrie Taylor, murdered. That was terrible. Why on earth would someone murder her? She had seemed like a nice lady who wouldn’t make enemies easily.

I recalled what Helen Louise told me last night, that Mrs. Taylor and Melba Gilley were bosom buddies. She couldn’t be that close to Melba without loving to gossip the way Melba did. Perhaps the roots of her death could be traced there. What could she know, however, that made someone angry enough—or desperate enough—to kill?

Poor Melba. She would be devastated by this. I started to pick up the phone to call her but stopped myself when I realized how bad an idea it was. For one thing I couldn’t tell her news like that over the phone. Not to mention the fact that Kanesha would have me strung up by my thumbs if she found out I had done such an idiotic thing.

No, Melba would have to find out the news some other way. I’d have to tell Kanesha, naturally, about their friendship. I knew she would want to question Melba to discover whether she knew anything pertinent.

Then a horrible thought struck me. Melba could be in danger, too, if the killer knew about her closeness to the dead woman. What if Carrie Taylor had shared with Melba the information that led to her death? Perhaps I should call Melba after all.

Diesel meowed anxiously again, and I realized he had picked up on my rapidly escalating unease.

Get a grip, Charlie, I told myself sternly. Don’t get hysterical. Melba is probably fine and in no danger whatsoever. I scratched the cat’s head to calm him, and he settled down to groom his other paw.

I decided I’d better get up and in the shower. Kanesha might be here sooner than the predicted hour, and I ought to be ready. Besides, I discovered I was hungry despite the horror of the situation.

Diesel disappeared while I was in the shower—not an unusual occurrence. He was either down in the utility room, doing his business and munching on dry food, or snuggled up in another bed, probably Laura’s.

The aroma of fresh coffee hit my nose as I entered an empty kitchen. Stewart Delacorte, the second of my two current boarders, had probably prepared the coffeemaker last night and set it for the morning, bless him. I poured myself a cup, added some half-and-half and sweetener, and had a few sips before I went out to fetch the paper.

I decided on cereal and fruit for breakfast—a healthy change from the delicious, but cholesterol-laden, meals Azalea prepared during the week. I kept telling myself I should make more of an effort to eat healthy during the week instead of only on the weekends, but Azalea’s old-fashioned Southern cooking was irresistible. Now that she had recovered from the health problems she suffered around Christmastime she seemed more indefatigable than ever. She didn’t even ask her sister Lily to help out, as she had done for a couple of months after her brief hospital stay.

While I munched my cereal and read the paper, I did my best to avoid thinking about poor Carrie Taylor for the moment. With the grilling I’d soon get from Kanesha Berry, I wouldn’t be thinking of much else.

No other member of the household—not even my cat—had put in an appearance by the time I rinsed my bowl in the sink and stuck it in the dishwasher. For Saturday mornings, this quiet was typical. I was the only early riser on the weekend. Just as well today, I thought, because Kanesha wouldn’t want anyone else in the room when she questioned me.

The doorbell rang about ten minutes after eight as I was enjoying my second cup of coffee. My stomach lurched. Back to reality, I told myself as I went to answer.

Kanesha Berry, grim-faced as ever, stood on the front doorstep. Her ever-present shadow, Deputy Bates, was not in evidence this morning, and I wondered where he was as I invited her in.

Kanesha followed me into the kitchen. “Sorry to have to bother you so early on a Saturday morning, Mr. Harris, but murder can’t wait.”

“I understand,” I said as I reached for the coffeepot and a fresh mug. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Kanesha pulled out a chair and sat, and I noticed how weary she looked, her face drawn and almost haggard. “No cream or sugar.”

I ventured a question. “Have you been up all night?”

She nodded as she accepted her mug. “Domestic dispute on the north side near the county line, and then we got the call about Mrs. Taylor around five this morning.”

I decided to risk another question. As tired as she was, she might let me get by with it. “Who found her? Since she’s a widow, I thought she lived alone.”

Kanesha stared at me over the rim of her mug while she drank. She set the mug down before she responded. “She did, except for a dog. Little yappy thing, like that poodle of Mr. Delacorte’s. He was barking his head off, and her neighbor went over to complain. Looked in through the back door when Mrs. Taylor didn’t answer the knocking and saw her slumped over her desk in a corner of the kitchen. Turned out she’d been strangled to death.”

I nodded as I offered her a refill, and she accepted. I sat down across from her and waited for the questions to start.

“You saw her twice yesterday, you said. What was she doing?” She sipped at her coffee and regarded me intently.

“She came to the library—the public library, that is—for meetings with Teresa Farmer and me about an event for National Library Week.” I went on to explain the nature of the event and the participation of Electra Barnes Cartwright. “Mrs. Taylor published a newsletter devoted to the author—she always referred to her by her initials, EBC.”

Kanesha frowned. “That explains part of the note that was puzzling me. Above your phone number and your name she—or someone—had written EBC.”

“Maybe she was planning to call me about something to do with Mrs. Cartwright,” I said. “When she left the library the second time, she said she was going home to look through her EBC archive.”

“What was she looking for? Did she say?” Kanesha drained the last of her coffee, but waved away the offer of another refill.

I thought for a moment. “She had a picture she wanted to find, of the garden shed where Mrs. Cartwright used to write when she was younger.” There was something else, but what? I dug into my memory. “Oh, and there was a remark about Gordon Betts.”

“Who is Gordon Betts?” Kanesha frowned. “I don’t remember a family in Athena called Betts.”

“No, he’s not from around here. Chicago, I think I heard him say. He’s one of the book collectors who showed up because of the information on the library website. He’s a rabid fan of Mrs. Cartwright’s, and he has a large collection of her Veronica Thane books.” I related briefly the two incidents with Betts. “The last thing Mrs. Taylor said was that she had items in her own collection that Betts didn’t know about. The way she said it, I took her to mean that he would want them badly if he knew about them.”

I had a sudden horrible feeling. Would Gordon Betts want these mysterious items badly enough to kill?

“Do you have any idea what these items were, or how valuable they might be?” Kanesha had pulled out a small notebook and a pen and was jotting down notes.

“No, I don’t. She didn’t explain, and we didn’t really have a chance to ask.”

Kanesha looked up from her notebook. “What about this Betts? If he’s a collector, does he have a lot of money?”

“According to Mrs. Taylor he does. Inherited from his father, something to do with manufacturing. She said he has never had to work.” I shrugged. “This is all hearsay, because I have no idea whether her information is accurate, or where it came from. These collectors all seem to know one another.”

“There are others?”

I nodded. I told her about Della Duffy and said that we expected more—perhaps many more—to turn up in time for Mrs. Cartwright’s appearance at the library.

Kanesha looked disgruntled at the news. “If Mrs. Taylor’s death is connected to Mrs. Cartwright in some way, that means potentially way too many suspects. I’ve had nightmares like this.”

I couldn’t believe she said anything so personal, because usually she was careful not to let her feelings show. Particularly to me.

“Maybe her death is completely unrelated to Mrs. Cartwright and her books. You should talk to Melba Gilley. According to Helen Louise, they were really close. Melba will be able to tell you if Mrs. Taylor had any enemies in town.”

That news seemed to cheer Kanesha up slightly. Her expression became a tad less morose. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll check with Ms. Gilley.” She stood. “Thanks for the coffee, too. I’ll probably have more questions for you later, but you’ve given me a lot to work on.”

“Glad I could help.” I escorted her to the door. We exchanged nods as she departed.

Back in the kitchen, I poured another cup of coffee—the last in the pot—and started to make a fresh one. While I did so, I thought again about the collecting bug and the lengths to which some people would apparently go to acquire highly desirable items.

What Mrs. Taylor had said about her own collection niggled at me. What if Betts had found out about the unique item or items she claimed to own? He might have tried to buy them, she refused, and then he killed her in a fit of rage and took what he wanted.

Nasty, but plausible, I decided, based on my interactions with Betts. He seemed to be short a card or two in his deck, as my mother would have said. Mrs. Taylor didn’t deserve what happened. Memories of her enthusiasm for Mrs. Cartwright’s books and her excitement over the planned public appearance made me determined to do what I could to identify her killer.

Time to track down Mr. Betts and ask him a few questions.