The Silence Of The Library

EIGHTEEN

For a moment I was too taken aback by the identity of the caller to say anything. Then I realized he was waiting for an answer. “Good morning, Mr. Marter. I’d be happy to talk with you. Right now I’m at the French bakery on the square. Do you know the place?”

He assured me he did and would be along in a few minutes. I told him to look for me at the corner table by the register, then ended the call.

I was certainly curious to meet Mrs. Cartwright’s grandson. He had been mentioned several times but thus far hadn’t appeared. I wondered why he wanted to talk to me instead of, say, Teresa.

Then another question hit me. How did he get my cell number? I couldn’t remember giving it to his mother or his grandmother. I would have to find a tactful way to ask.

In the meantime I decided to get something to drink, so I ambled over to the refrigerated counter near the register and chose a bottle of still water. Diesel remained by the table while I got in line to pay.

The last person ahead of me in the queue dithered for a moment, scrambling through an oversized purse in search of her wallet. When she found it, she couldn’t decide whether to use her credit card or write a check. People like this—male or female—drove me nuts. The rest of her life must have been a sad trial if she couldn’t cope any better than this with what seemed like such an innocuous decision.

At last she left—she used her credit card, by the way—and I stepped up to the register.

“Bonjour, mon amour,” Helen Louise said with a wide smile. “I’d give you a big kiss if there weren’t people in line behind you.”

“Hello, sweetheart.” I mimed a kiss, and her smile grew even wider. “Maybe things will slow down in a few minutes, and we’ll have a chance to talk.” I handed her money for the water, and she tried to wave it away. I insisted, and she finally took it.

“As soon as I can,” she promised. She pulled a bowl from beneath the counter and handed it across to me. She kept one nearby for Diesel in case he was thirsty.

I resumed my seat at the table with what Laura would call my “goofy” smile in place. Helen Louise had that effect on me. It had taken me a while to realize the truth—and the depth—of my feelings for my dear friend, but now that I had, well, I occasionally felt like a gangly adolescent with his first crush. I poured water in the bowl and set it on the floor. Diesel sniffed at it, then started lapping it up. When he finished he curled up by my chair and closed his eyes.

Eugene Marter ought to be here any minute now, I reckoned while I sipped my own water. The buzz of numerous conversations swarmed around me, but I paid little attention. Perhaps three minutes later, the bell on the door chimed, and I looked up to see a youngish man, perhaps in his late thirties, walk in, stop, and look around.

When he spotted me in the corner, he smiled broadly and headed my way. This had to be Eugene Marter, and I observed him with curiosity as discreetly as I could. I judged him to be about five foot six, and he had dark, close-clipped hair, and a pale face that reminded me vaguely of his grandmother. He wore faded jeans, worn sneakers, and a flannel shirt that had been through the wash a few times too often. He had the appearance of a man who had little money to spend on himself. Or was he an eccentric who preferred to dress this way? Neither his mother nor his grandmother looked shabby.

I stood as he neared the table. “Good morning. You must be Eugene Marter.” I stuck out my hand.

He grasped it firmly and gave it two quick, hard shakes. “Morning, Mr. Harris. Mighty nice to meet you. Grandma sure does think you’re a gentleman.” His bland countenance split in a brief but charming smile.

“Please, have a seat.” I indicated a place at the table. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Well, I could probably use some water right about now. All this running around’s made me kinda thirsty.” He glanced over at the counter. “I’ll just get me a bottle of that fancy imported stuff and be right back.”

I nodded, and he walked away. I resumed my seat, and Diesel, alerted by the presence of a stranger, sat up and stretched. When Eugene Marter came back with his bottle, Diesel went around to him. The cat waited until Marter was seated, then laid a paw on the denim-clad knee. Diesel chirped at the man, and Marter stared at him.

“Hey, there, big guy. Mama and Grandma told me about you. Ain’t never seen a kitty cat this big before.” Marter glanced up at me. “He got some kind of gland problem? Or is he s’posed to be that big?” His touch was tentative as he stroked Diesel’s head.

“He’s large for his breed,” I said. “He’s a Maine Coon, and they are generally larger than most domestic cats.”

“Well, I’ll swan.” Marter shook his head, and I struggled to hide my amusement over an expression I hadn’t heard since my own grandmother passed away thirty-five years ago.

“You mentioned on the phone that you wanted to talk to me about something.” I thought a gentle prompt wouldn’t hurt, since Marter seemed in no hurry to talk. Instead, he sat staring at the cat, and Diesel seemed equally fascinated by him.

Marter focused on me. “Huh? Oh, yeah, matter of fact there was something I wanted to talk to you about.” He leaned forward. “According to Grandma, you’re a pretty sharp guy. She also said she’d read in the paper where you was some kinda detective or something. That right?”

I felt like squirming in embarrassment. I had managed—mostly—to keep my name out of the local newspaper, thanks to the cooperation of Ray Appleby, reporter for the Athena Daily Register. But my name had been mentioned a couple of times in connection with some recent investigations, plus I knew my good friend Melba had been busy on the grapevine, singing my praises. I had begged her not to, but I knew she hadn’t really listened to me.

“I’m not a detective,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my tone. “It’s true that I’ve been involved in helping the authorities solve several murder cases. But I’m a librarian, not a gumshoe.”

Marter frowned. “I reckon that’s all right. Long’s you ain’t a real detective, it figgers you don’t charge nobody for helping, right?”

“I certainly would not charge anyone for helping them.” Had he planned to hire me to be a detective? I could hear my grandmother saying, Don’t that beat all!

“That’s good, ’cause I sure ain’t got the money to pay you.” Marter grinned. “Been outta work awhile, and just between you and me and the fencepost, Grandma ain’t too liberal with the spending money.”

Where was he going with this? I wondered. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, especially when I recalled Carrie Taylor’s dismissal of the man as being lazy and shiftless, more or less.

“That’s too bad,” I said with as much sympathy as I could muster—and it wasn’t very much. Perhaps Mrs. Taylor had been right about him. He looked more than healthy enough to be holding down a job.

“It’s like this, see.” Marter leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He glanced around, perhaps to see whether anyone was within earshot. “Mama and Grandma told me about these here collector-type people, and how crazy they are about getting to Grandma. That don’t sound right to me. All she did was write those old books, and I don’t think they should be bothering her.”

I started to say something but Marter didn’t appear to notice as he continued. “She’s as old as Methuselah, and she ain’t got the energy to deal with all that crap. They’re like to kill her with all this crazy-ass stuff. Just between you and me and the cat here, I’m kinda worried they might cause her to have a heart attack and die on us.”

“I respect your concern for your grandmother,” I said. What was it he actually wanted from me? “And if she doesn’t feel up to doing the event, then of course we will understand.” My stomach knotted at the thought of having to cancel, but we couldn’t insist Mrs. Cartwright go through with it, not at her age.

Marter rolled his eyes. “You don’t know my grandma. She’s loving every bit of attention she’s getting, like an old coonhound soaking up the sunshine. People done been ignoring her so long, and now all they want to do is hang around her like she’s some little tin god or something. She probably ain’t got many years left, and I don’t want one of them crazy fans of hers to kill her off before she’s due to go.”

“Is her heart really as frail as that? The two times I’ve seen her, I have to say she looked like she was in pretty good shape for someone who’s about to be a hundred years old.”

“Her heart’s okay, far as I know. She ain’t been to the doctor in years, though. Don’t believe in ’em.” Marter stared hard at me. “But what I’m talking about here is an actual honest-to-goodness lowdown threat.”