The Silence Of The Library

TWENTY-TWO

I smiled as I finished the second chapter. Poor Veronica. I wondered idly how many times during the course of the series she had been drugged or hit on the head. She got tied up a few times, too, as I recalled. Being a feisty girl detective had the occasional drawback.

I turned the page.

From somewhere far distant Veronica heard a gentle voice. It seemed to be calling her name. “Ronnie, oh dear Ronnie, please do wake up. Can you hear me at all?”

Veronica wanted to answer that she could hear, but an overwhelming darkness surrounded her. She tried to open her eyes. The eyelids refused to obey. They felt heavy and lifeless. She struggled, determined to open them, and at last her eyelids moved.

Where was she? Veronica had no idea of her location or what was wrong with her. Why did she feel like every part of her body was too heavy to move?

“I hear y-you,” she managed to croak. Her throat was dry, painfully so. “W-w-water, p-please.”

A gentle hand slid behind her head and lifted it slightly. Her eyelids closed again, but she felt light pressure against her lips.

“Here’s the water, dearest, open your mouth just a little for me.”

Veronica knew that voice, knew that it belonged to someone who meant her no harm. But who was this ministering angel?

She managed a few sips of water, and her throat felt better. Next she felt a damp cloth on her forehead, and she welcomed the cooling effect. She began to revive, but with agonizing slowness.

“Where am I?” she whispered. She forced her eyelids open, and in the dim light she began to recognize the familiar outlines of her own room. “I’m home?”

“Yes, dearest, you are,” the voice responded tenderly. “You are safe where you belong, with your dear guardian and your devoted friends. It’s me, darling, Lucy.”

“Lucy?” Veronica felt stronger, knowing that her best chum Lucy was with her. Perhaps Lucy could explain what had happened to her, why her memory was curiously blank.

After more water and cool compresses, and more of Lucy’s devoted attentions, Veronica was able to sit up. Her mind cleared a little of the fog, and she felt a sense of urgency. There was danger somewhere, but where?

And for whom?

My phone rang, and I set the book aside. I suppressed a groan when I saw the number. Kanesha must have done some checking into the e-mail I sent her.

Her first words confirmed it. “Thanks again for the e-mail. At least now I know why that book might be valuable, to somebody anyway.”

“You’re welcome.” I decided to venture a question. “Have you found Mrs. Taylor’s copy yet?”

“No, not so far. I don’t think it’s in the house. They’ve searched it pretty thoroughly.” She paused. “Do you think she might have put it in a safe-deposit box?”

“It’s possible,” I replied. “But somehow I don’t think she would have. Most book collectors in my experience like to have the books easily at hand so they can look at them whenever they want. Remember James Delacorte and his collection? He had books far more valuable than Mrs. Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion, and his were on display in the house.”

Thinking about Mr. Delacorte always saddened me. His untimely end came about in part because of his collection. Had the same thing happened to Mrs. Taylor?

“Yes, I recall.” Kanesha’s tone was dry. “I’m going to have to check on a safe-deposit box, though. Have to rule that out.”

I decided to venture another question, since Kanesha seemed to be in a forthcoming mood—or what passed for one with her. “Do you have any other potential motives?”

“Not yet, but it’s early on. We have a lot more fact-gathering to do. Thanks again for that e-mail. If I have any other questions, I’ll let you know.”

I barely had time to say “Of course” before she ended the call. I’d had no chance to voice my suspicions of Gordon Betts, but perhaps that was just as well. Kanesha’s tolerance of my interference would extend only so far.

Why had I focused solely on Gordon Betts? That thought struck me suddenly. I couldn’t in all fairness concentrate only on him simply because of my antipathy to his combative, self-centered personality. Della Duffy could as easily have been interested in Mrs. Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion. She hadn’t been that much more pleasant, frankly, than Gordon Betts even after I made allowance for her phobia of cats. She and Carrie Taylor obviously knew each other. I ought to find out more about her.

I recalled what Melba told me about the message from Mrs. Taylor. Even though there had apparently been a man at the door when she ended the call to Melba, that didn’t mean the man was her final visitor last night. Another person could have come along later, so I couldn’t rule out a woman as the killer.

An Internet search might yield information. I wondered, though, how common the name Della Duffy might be. I picked up the laptop and typed the name, enclosed in quotation marks, into the search engine.

There were many pages of results. I skimmed the list on the first page, and two of them looked promising. The rest appeared to be obituaries. I checked the links connected to social media, but the pictures didn’t match the woman I’d met.

I examined four more pages of links but found only one hit that appeared useful. The link led me to a mention of Della Duffy on a blog devoted to girls’ series fiction. What I read shocked me.

According to the blogger, who evidently went by the bizarre name ILoveVeronicaThane, Della Duffy was involved in an altercation with another collector—unnamed—at a convention devoted to juvenile literature. The blogger gave a brief description of the incident, which took place in the book dealers’ room. Duffy and the other collector both allegedly claimed to have spotted a much-desired item on a table and reached for it at the same time. The other collector insisted that he touched it first, but Della Duffy was equally insistent that she did. When the man snatched it up from the table, she pushed him and tried to grab the book away from him. He slipped and fell on his backside. He never let go of the book, however, and purchased it for his collection. Della Duffy protested loudly but to no avail. According to the blogger, sympathies evidently lay with the victor, who was a popular and well-known figure among collectors.

That was definitely interesting, but I wished the blogger hadn’t been so coy about the identity of the man Della Duffy attacked. I skimmed through the comments attached to the blog post, but no one named the man, though the discussion was lively. One person claimed to have witnessed a similar incident involving Ms. Duffy at another convention but provided no details. I looked further through the entire blog but could find no other mentions of Della Duffy.

Not much to go on, and not completely reliable since they were really only hearsay, but these incidents left me with the impression that Della Duffy went after what she wanted. She appeared to have a temper, also, and that intrigued me.

If she’d wanted Carrie Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion, for example, how far would she go to own it?

I hesitated for a moment, but then I decided I ought to share this information with Kanesha. I e-mailed her the link to the blog posting with a note that I had found another item of interest I thought she should consider.

Okay, out of my hands for now.

Beside me, Diesel stirred. One eye opened, then the other. He blinked at me and yawned. He had a good stretch before he sat up. He warbled, hopefully, I thought. He hadn’t eaten in a while so he was on the point of utter starvation.

“Okay, boy,” I said as I shut down the laptop and put it aside. “Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll see if I can find you a morsel or two.”

The cat leapt to the floor and disappeared before I could get off the bed. I smiled as I followed Diesel downstairs. I knew he would be waiting in the utility room by his food and water bowls.

After I saw to the needs of my poor starving kitty, I rooted around in the fridge for my own snack. Azalea had baked a ham two days ago, and there was enough left for a sandwich.

Sandwich in one hand and a can of diet cola in the other, I climbed the stairs, intent on further research on the Internet. I might as well see what I could find about my host for the evening, Winston Eagleton. With such a distinctive name to search, I figured I would get far fewer results, and those that I did retrieve would be on target.

I was right. My search on Eagleton yielded only seven pages of hits. There were even images this time, not simply text.

I took a bite of my sandwich and clicked on one of the images, and there was Eagleton, beaming like a cherub into the camera lens. The next image contained a surprise. Eagleton, radiant smile in place, had his arm around none other than Gordon Betts, who looked more than a bit uncomfortable.

The chummy pose appeared staged to me, and I wondered what the occasion for it was. I clicked on the link to visit the page where the image resided, and the resulting explanation gave me another surprise.

According to what I read, Gordon Betts was a major investor in Eagleton’s publishing concern.

If that were the case, I wondered why Eagleton appeared so desperate to get his hands on Mrs. Cartwright’s unpublished manuscripts. I remembered Eugene Marter’s allegations that Eagleton threatened his grandmother over them.

With Betts’s alleged millions behind him, surely Eagleton could offer Mrs. Cartwright enough money to clinch the deal.

Unless Eagleton and Betts had fallen out, and Betts had withdrawn his support from the publishing venture.

Interesting fodder for speculation, but could any of it be connected with the murder of Carrie Taylor?