The Silence Of The Library

TWENTY-THREE

Stewart was pottering about in the kitchen when I came through on my way to Winston Eagleton’s dinner party early that evening. Diesel trailed hopefully in my wake, unaware that he was destined to remain home tonight.

“What ho, Sherlock.” Stewart shot me a mischievous grin. “Whither art thou bound? And to what fell purpose?”

“What on earth have you been reading, to spout dialogue like that?” I shook my head in mock sadness. “Such a good mind he had, once upon a time.”

Stewart snorted with laughter, and Diesel padded over to him and meowed loudly. Stewart had yet to notice the cat, and Diesel obviously meant to bring this to the man’s attention.

“Shakespeare, actually,” Stewart said as he rubbed the cat’s head. “To be more precise, Macbeth, hence the mention of fell purpose.”

“Why this sudden interest in Shakespeare?” I was curious because Stewart, a chemistry professor at Athena College, tended to read mostly nonfiction, with the occasional lurid thriller or trashy best-seller thrown into the mix.

“Trying to elevate my mind above the mundane table of elements that I spend so much of my life with.” Stewart’s airy tone didn’t fool me. Something—more likely, someone—had prompted this interest in the Bard, but I knew Stewart wouldn’t tell me who until he was darned good and ready. I didn’t think Laura was responsible, despite her avowed devotion to the playwright. There had to be an attractive man involved somehow.

“Shakespeare is a good elevator for the mind.” I did my best to keep a straight face, but when Stewart rolled his eyes at my atrocious pun, I had to laugh. “Seriously, I hope you’re enjoying Macbeth. Great play, but my favorite is actually The Tempest.”

“Haven’t made it to that one yet.” Stewart rubbed Diesel’s head a few more times before he turned to the sink to wash his hands. “Now where are you going? You never did answer me.”

“Sorry.” I explained briefly about the dinner party. “Laura said she and Frank would keep Diesel company until I get home. They ought to be here any minute.”

“I’m staying in tonight. He can come upstairs and play with Dante.” Stewart went to the stove, lifted the lid of a pot, and sniffed appreciatively. “Minestrone. Smells sinfully delicious.”

“Sure does,” I said as the scent wafted my way. “Where is Dante anyway?” Usually the little poodle bounced around Stewart like a tiny dervish.

Stewart grimaced. “He’s having a time-out in his crate for a couple of hours. He was a bad boy earlier today while I was out—he tried to eat one of my expensive Italian loafers.”

Diesel started chattering, and Stewart and I exchanged amused glances. I would have sworn the cat was commenting on the poodle’s bad behavior, and not politely, either. The chatter stopped, and Diesel looked up at Stewart as if waiting for a reply.

Stewart winked at me. “That’s right, honey, you are a sweet, well-behaved kitty, and he’s a bad, bad little dog.”

The cat blinked, then calmly started washing his left front paw.

Stewart adjusted the heat under the minestrone. “Laura told me about the murder. That poor woman.”

“Did you know her?” I glanced at my watch to check the time. I had a good ten minutes before I had to leave.

“I might know her if I saw her.” Stewart grimaced. “That didn’t come out right. The name rang a faint bell, but I can’t match a face with it, sorry.”

“No reason you would know her, I expect.”

“Did you really get to meet Electra Barnes Cartwright?” Stewart’s eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement, I thought.

“Yes, I did. Don’t tell me you’re a fan, too.” I had no idea he had ever read the Veronica Thane books.

“My mother had a set of the books. She adored Veronica when she was a girl, and she let me read them when I was about ten.” Stewart smiled. “I had the biggest crush on Artie. I wanted him to be the hero, not that sappy ‘oh I’m so perfectly brave and amazing’ Veronica.” His voice took on a posh, exaggerated drawl over those last words.

That cracked me up. Veronica had rather outshone Nancy Drew in the perfection stakes. Stewart laughed with me.

“Artie did cut a dashing figure, didn’t he? Even though Veronica treated him like a lapdog most of the time.”

Stewart nodded. “At least he got the opportunity once a book to show off his brawn. He wasn’t all lapdog. Now tell me, what is Mrs. Cartwright like?”

“In surprisingly good shape for a woman who’s about to turn a hundred.” I shrugged. “She’s pleasant, for the most part, but I suspect she’s not terribly easy to live with. She and her daughter bicker a lot, but I suppose that’s not unusual.” I checked my watch. “Time for me to get going. Diesel, you have to stay home tonight. Sorry, boy, but you can’t go with me.”

The cat stopped cleaning his paw and meowed loudly. He got up, turned around, and sat again with his back to me. Stewart and I grinned. Diesel knew what the words you can’t go with me meant.

The Farrington House was a five-minute drive from my house. I quickly found a parking space and entered the hotel. A pleasant young woman at the front desk, in response to my inquiry, directed me to Winston Eagleton’s suite on the fifth floor. That seemed an odd place for a dinner party. Had I misunderstood Eagleton’s invitation?

My host answered my knock on his door right away, almost as if he had been standing right on the other side, waiting.

“Good evening, sir, please do come in.” Eagleton gestured grandly with his left arm, and I stepped into the room.

“Thank you.” When I moved farther into the main area of the suite, I could see that, as was often the case, I was evidently the first to arrive. I abhorred being late, and had for as long as I could remember. That meant I often arrived early. Even when I tried not to be on time, I seldom managed to be more than a couple minutes late.

“How are you this evening?” I inquired of my host.

“Absolutely tip-top,” Eagleton said. “So kind of you to join me for tonight’s little soiree.” He indicated one of the sofas. “Please, won’t you sit down? Can I offer you something to drink? Wine, scotch, a soft drink perhaps?”

“A glass of red wine would be fine.” I chose a spot at the end of the sofa next to a small table and made myself comfortable. “I hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all, my dear chap, not at all.” Eagleton nodded briskly as he moved to the bar to pour my wine. “Punctuality seems to be a rare trait these days, but it is one I admire tremendously.” He brought me the wine, and I took a cautious sip.

I tried not to make a sour face, because the wine had a sour taste. I forced myself to smile as I swallowed because my host was watching intently for my reaction. “Nice,” I said as I put the wineglass down on the end table. I would have to find somewhere to dump the rest of it, because there was no way I was going to drink any more. I thought of Helen Louise and how appalled she would be. She despised bad wines, and this was one of the worst I’d ever had.

“Lovely.” Eagleton beamed as he went back to the bar, where he poured himself a tall glass of scotch—with no soda in sight. He downed about half of it in one long gulp, and he beamed even more widely when he came back to stand near the sofa. “There has been a change of plans, I regret to inform you, for this evening’s gathering.” Eagleton focused his gaze on a point behind me as he continued. “The confounded hotel mislaid my request—so terribly shoddy of them, don’t you think?—and informed me at the last minute that they would be unable to accommodate my dinner party. Thus I am unable to offer you and my other guests the repast that I had planned. I do beg your pardon most humbly.” He looked down at me again. “But I did manage to find some comestibles that I trust will be suitably tasty and nourishing.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” I offered a polite smile.

“Do help yourself.” Eagleton pointed to the dinner table on the other side of the room. “Ah, another guest at the door. Please excuse me.” He walked away.

Taking my wine, I got up and moved over to the table to survey the food on offer—the usual chips, dip, and cheese tray one could find at most supermarkets. There were paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils. Altogether a sad little array of party food.

There was something distinctly odd about this. Donna Evans, the catering manager at the Farrington House, was one of the most organized and detail-oriented people I had ever met. I didn’t buy the story that the hotel had “mislaid” Eagleton’s request. I was willing to bet the hotel had checked his credit card limit, found that he was maxed out, and turned him down.

Just how desperate for money was he?