The Silence Of The Library

TWENTY-FOUR

Even if Winston Eagleton was in dire financial straits, how did that connect him to the murder of Carrie Taylor? Desperation could drive a person to do things he might not otherwise contemplate, but there had to be a link between the need for money and the act of murder.

I realized that it was likely the one had nothing to do with the other in this case. Eagleton’s finances could well be a side issue.

Then again, what motivated the killer in this instance?

I mulled it over while I loaded my plate with potato chips, onion dip, a few grapes, and a dozen cubes of cheddar. I turned to see that Della Duffy was the new arrival. When I shifted position, I bumped my wineglass with my elbow. Red wine spilled all over the tablecloth.

At least my clumsiness saved me from having to dispose of it elsewhere. I set my plate down and grabbed a couple of napkins to sop up as much of the wine as I could. Once I had disposed of them, I took my plate and moved toward Eagleton and Della Duffy. I was embarrassed by my klutziness but I ought to apologize to the man.

My host and Ms. Duffy were engaged in a low-voiced conversation but they broke off when they realized I was approaching them.

“Evening, Ms. Duffy,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”

Della Duffy, dressed in a low-necked, black linen cocktail dress with flounces around the sleeves and the hem, examined me warily, I thought. “Did you bring that cat with you?”

I didn’t care for her tone. Rudeness on her part was bringing out the worst in me. I tried to keep a straight face as I responded. “No, he stayed home. He doesn’t like cocktail parties.” I stuffed a cube of cheddar in my mouth and chewed to keep from laughing.

Ms. Duffy’s eyes narrowed, as she no doubt realized I was poking fun at her. “Nice to see you again, too.” The patent insincerity of her tone was payback for my comment.

“Della my dear, may I offer you a drink?” Eagleton, seemingly oblivious to the tension between his two guests, patted Ms. Duffy’s arm. He leaned closer and for a moment appeared to lose his balance before he managed to steady himself. I noticed his tall glass was empty, and I figured I knew why he was oblivious. He was well on the way to getting totally pickled on scotch.

Perhaps I should have stayed home with Diesel. This little shindig had all the makings of a disaster. I munched a few more cubes of cheese.

Della Duffy shook off her host’s arm. “Campari and soda, if you have it.”

Eagleton stared at her a moment, and I wondered if he was about to fall flat on his face. “What? Confound it, I knew I forgot something. No Campari, my dear. Afraid the catering didn’t run to that. How about scotch and soda instead? Plenty of scotch.” He smiled.

“Oh, very well.” Ms. Duffy sniffed. “I hope it’s not that cheap rotgut stuff you served last time.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Eagleton drew himself up, very much on his dignity. “Only buy fine scotch. Connoisseur, you know.” He swayed a couple of times.

“Whatever.” Ms. Duffy rolled her eyes at me. “I’ll get something to nosh on while you fix my drink. Excuse me.” She brushed past me, nearly jostling my plate-holding arm. I muttered, “Excuse me,” but she didn’t slow down on her way to the food.

I followed Eagleton to the bar, concerned that in his current state he might stumble and hurt himself. He made it fine, though, and while he fumbled with the bottle of scotch, I apologized for my mishap with the wine.

He blinked at me. “My dear chap, these things happen. Not to worry, not to worry.” He splashed three fingers of scotch in a glass, squirted soda into it, then toddled off to present the drink to Della Duffy.

Could the evening possibly go uphill from here?

When Eagleton went to the door in response to loud knocking and admitted Gordon Betts, I knew uphill was a far distant prospect.

Betts pushed past our host, evidently having spotted the bar. “I need a drink,” I heard him mutter as he breezed past me without bothering to acknowledge my presence.

Eagleton remained by the door, his head stuck out into the hallway. I wondered whether he was about to be sick, but then he stepped back and admitted Teresa Farmer. Finally, someone with some couth that I could talk to.

“So lovely to see you, my dear.” Eagleton swayed. “Oh, my, the room does appear to be moving rather quickly, doesn’t it?” He stumbled past Teresa and plopped down on the sofa. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped at his perspiring face. “Rather warm in here, don’t you think?”

He must have had another nip or three of the scotch without my noticing, I reckoned. I set my plate on the coffee table as Teresa hurried over to me. “Is he drunk?” she whispered.

I nodded. I stepped closer to our afflicted host. “Mr. Eagleton, could I get you something? Water, perhaps?”

Blearily the man focused on my face. “That would be extraordinarily kind of you, sir.”

Marveling at his ability to enunciate clearly while under the influence, I fetched a bottle of water from the bar and brought it back to him. Teresa stood by, watching Eagleton intently for signs of further distress.

I twisted the cap off. “Sip this.” I held the water to Eagleton’s lips, and his right hand grasped the bottle. He tilted it up and chugged down two-thirds of the contents.

“Thank you.” Eagleton grimaced. “I must apologize for my disgraceful behavior. One does tend to fret over these social occasions, and sometimes one forgets to eat before indulging in a wee dram or two of scotch.” He started to rise, but I indicated he should remain where he was.

“Let me fix you a plate,” I said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten a bit.”

“Of course you will.” Teresa sat beside Eagleton and patted his arm. “And if there’s anything else you need, let us know.”

Leaving our host in Teresa’s capable hands, I went over to the table. Betts was still at the bar, I noticed, and the scotch bottle appeared empty now. Della Duffy stood at the window, plate in hand, seemingly unaware of the rest of us. She and Betts probably knew each other, given their devotion to their collections, but I guessed they weren’t all that chummy. Frankly, it was hard to imagine Betts having friends of any kind—except, perhaps, imaginary ones.

I took a full plate back to Eagleton, and he tucked into the chips and dip with great enthusiasm. How long had it been since the man had eaten? I wondered. I had seen swine at the trough take longer to chew their food.

I motioned for Teresa to join me, and we ambled over to the bar. I warned her, sotto voce, to avoid the wine at all costs. Betts was rooting around in the cabinets, no doubt in search of more hard booze. Teresa and I grabbed water bottles.

“Gotcha.” Betts faced us triumphantly, a bottle of Laphroaig in hand. “I knew he had to have the good stuff hidden somewhere. Never goes anywhere without it.” He opened the whiskey, smiling gleefully. “You want some?” he asked after he filled his own glass, sans soda as befit a true connoisseur.

“No, thank you,” Teresa and I responded in unison.

“Suit yourselves.” Betts shrugged and sipped his whiskey. “What’s up with Winnie? He toasted already?”

Teresa frowned. “I think he was suffering from low blood sugar. He simply needed something to eat.” Diplomatic of her, I thought approvingly, but sadly, patently false.

Betts snickered. “Yeah, and Nancy Drew was really Frank Hardy in drag. Tell me another one.”

I’d bet even his imaginary friends thought he was a jerk.

Teresa and I turned away and walked back over to Eagleton. He had emptied his plate and finished the rest of the water. He smiled and got to his feet. “Thank you both again for your kind ministrations.”

“You’re most welcome,” Teresa said and patted his arm.

We all turned at a loud knocking on the door, and Eagleton started toward it. “Let me,” I said and stepped past him. I wasn’t sure he was steady enough yet.

Eagleton didn’t protest, and I went to admit Marcella Marter and Mrs. Cartwright, swathed once again in black. Marcella pushed in without a word. “Come on, Mother, or you’ll never make it in time.”

“Marcella, don’t be rude.” Mrs. Cartwright tried to pull her arm loose but Marcella clung to it.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, careful to move out of the way.

“Mother needs the restroom.” Marcella grimaced. “Right away. Where is it?”

I glanced around. This suite appeared identical to others in the hotel I had visited, and I remembered there was a bathroom in the hall between the living room and the bedroom. I pointed. “That way, I believe.”

Marcella Marter didn’t bother to thank me, though Mrs. Cartwright smiled. Marcella hurried her mother toward the hall.

I shut the door and rejoined Teresa and Eagleton. “Restroom,” I responded to their looks of inquiry, and Eagleton actually blushed.

“When, ahem, the esteemed ladies return, we should perhaps propose a toast to the dear departed Carrie Taylor, don’t you think? We must acknowledge the lack of her presence tonight, I am sure.” Eagleton nodded. “Yes, certainly. I shall prepare myself for the toast, if you will excuse me for a moment.”

“Of course.” Teresa and I nodded, and Eagleton moved toward the bar.

Teresa whispered, “This is dreadful. I wish now I’d told Mr. Eagleton I was busy tonight.”

“Me, too,” I said with a quick laugh. “Too late, but it surely has to get better.”

“It could hardly be worse.” Teresa grimaced.

The room fell silent. Della Duffy remained in position in front of the window. Betts had propped himself against one end of the bar, Laphroaig in hand. Our host retrieved a fresh bottle of water and stood at the other end of the bar.

After what seemed several agonizing minutes—but was probably only five at the most—Marcella and Mrs. Cartwright returned to the living room. Marcella guided her mother to the sofa and sat her down. “What would you like to drink, Mother?”

“Whiskey, if there is anything decent on offer.” Mrs. Cartwright adjusted the scarf at her neck, then her dark glasses. Marcella scowled but headed for the bar.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cartwright, Mrs. Marter.” Teresa moved over to the sofa and sat by the author. “How are you tonight?”

“Thirsty.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed. “Otherwise, I’m doing just fine, my dear. And you?”

While Teresa and Mrs. Cartwright chatted, I watched Marcella at the bar. She wrested the Laphroaig away from Betts, who offered no resistance. I figured by now he had downed enough of the whiskey to be in a mellower frame of mind.

“Good evening, my dear.” Eagleton beamed at Marcella as she found two glasses and poured drinks for herself and her mother. “So pleased that you and your delightful mother could join us this evening. Spending time with you twice in one day is indeed a rare benison.”

“Our pleasure.” Marcella spritzed the glasses with soda and turned away. I winced at the sight. Though I was not much of a whiskey drinker, I knew better than to insult Laphroaig that way.

Eagleton followed her to greet Mrs. Cartwright. “Dear lady, you are most welcome indeed. I take it as a great honor that you have appeared at this select gathering tonight.”

“My pleasure.” Mrs. Cartwright smiled briefly before she accepted her whiskey from Marcella.

“Allow me to propose a toast to one who is not with us this evening.” Eagleton glanced around. “Della, my dear, do please join us. You, too, Gordon. Gather near.”

He waited until Ms. Duffy and Betts drew closer, then raised his glass.

“Would that we could toast dear Carrie Taylor in her living presence, but alas that is not to be. She was a delightful person, a true devotee of our dear Mrs. Cartwright, and a wonderful champion for Veronica Thane in all things.”

“What do you mean, ‘she was a delightful person’?” Marcella appeared confused. “What happened to her?”

Betts giggled. “Somebody murdered her.” He downed his drink in one gulp.

Marcella shrieked, dropped her glass, then fainted.