TWO
























Before I could respond, Teresa repeated her last statement. “She’s not dead!”

Teresa had me flummoxed. “Who’s not dead?”

“Sorry, Charlie.” Teresa chuckled. “Electra Barnes Cartwright. I found out she’s still alive and apparently sharp as the proverbial tack.”

“That’s amazing.” I sat on the bed, and Diesel hopped up beside me. “She’ll be a hundred on her birthday this year, whenever it is.”

“That’s right. I looked her up in Contemporary Authors. She’ll be a hundred in May. How do you remember these things?”

“One of my habits, storing away useless trivia.” I laughed. “There must be some connection between girls’ mystery series and longevity. Both Mildred Wirt Benson and Margaret Sutton lived to be nearly a hundred.”

“I know Benson wrote many of the early Nancy Drew books,” Teresa said. “Who was Margaret Sutton?”

“She wrote the Judy Bolton books.”

“I don’t remember reading those,” Teresa said. “They must not have been around when I first discovered and read books like that.”

Teresa, in her midthirties, was a good fifteen years younger than I, and the Judy Bolton books were out of print by the time she came along. I mentioned this, and she laughed.

“Obviously I’ve missed a good series. You’ll have to tell me more about them later, because you probably know all there is to know about Judy Bolton. Otherwise you wouldn’t be advising us on our National Library Week exhibit.”

I had picked up a fair amount of knowledge over the years about series books, such as Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, and I was delighted to put my seemingly arcane knowledge to good use for once.

“Now back to Ms. Cartwright.” Teresa reclaimed my attention. “I started noodling around on the Internet. Came up with the number for an agent named Yancy Thigpen and thought I’d take a chance and call.”

“What did you want from the agent?” I asked. “Unless you suspected that Electra Barnes Cartwright was actually still alive.”

“I thought that was unlikely,” Teresa said. “I was hoping the agent might know of any artifacts or special materials we could use for the exhibit. I never dreamed she would tell me that the author was still living.”

“That is a wonderful surprise.”

“This whole thing is coming together like it’s truly meant to be.” I could picture her bouncing in her chair judging from the enthusiasm bubbling in her voice. “Now for the really big news—not only is she still alive, but Electra Barnes Cartwright lives nearby. How’s that for amazing?”

I felt dazed. “I knew she grew up around Calhoun City”—a small town about a hundred miles south of Athena—“but from what little I remember reading about her, she left the South and settled in Connecticut when she was in her twenties. When did she come back to Mississippi?”

“About twenty years ago. Yancy said Mrs. Cartwright lives quietly out in the country with her widowed daughter and grandson, between here and Mineola. Do you know them? Marcella and Eugene Marter.”

“No, can’t say as I do.” Diesel bumped his head against my arm to signal his need for attention. I rubbed my hand along his back as Teresa continued.

“Marcella has a library card but I don’t think she uses it much. But that’s neither here nor there. One more awesome thing.” She chuckled.

When she didn’t continue immediately, I said, “Okay, out with it before I pop a gasket here.”

“If you aren’t too busy tomorrow,” Teresa responded, “how would you like to go with me to meet Electra Barnes Cartwright?”

I laughed heartily. “I think you can figure out my answer. What time and where shall I meet you?”

We arranged to meet at the library a little before nine for an appointment at nine thirty. The drive to the Marter home should take only twenty minutes at most.

“Bring Diesel along,” Teresa said. “I asked whether Ms. Cartwright would have any objection to a cat, and Yancy told me she loves animals. Besides, he’s such a good icebreaker if we need one.”

“He definitely is that.” Plus he always seemed to know when he was being talked about, because I noticed him staring intently at the phone. He chirped loudly several times, as if to tell me he would be happy to go along. “Did you hear that?”

Teresa laughed. “Yes, I did. He’s given his approval to the visit, too.”

“That settles it. See you tomorrow.” I rang off and stowed the phone in my pocket. “Come on, boy, let’s go downstairs and get something to eat.” I set the copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion on the nightstand for bedtime reading before I followed Diesel out of the bedroom.

• • •

The sky on Tuesday morning promised heavy rain, and the clouds grew darker as Teresa and I departed the library in my car. I’d checked the weather report last night, and the forecast gave only a twenty percent chance of rain. More like eighty percent, it seemed to me as I examined conditions.

Diesel stretched out in the backseat, his purr a basso continuo to our thoughts. Teresa provided the directions, and I cast anxious eyes to the heavens as I drove. The weather reminded me eerily of the opening scene in The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion. No lightning yet, but I had a feeling the distant rumble of thunder presaged plenty of it to come.

“Yancy said Ms. Cartwright is a hoot to talk to. Definitely knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to speak it.” Teresa fiddled with the strap of the seat belt across her chest, and I could tell the weather made her as nervous as it did me. “She’s also pretty active. Walks at least a couple miles a day, unless the weather’s bad, or it’s too hot.”

“That’s pretty amazing. Better than I usually do, and I’m almost half her age.” The sky continued to darken, and I switched on the car’s lights. I preferred being safely inside during a storm, not out in a car right in the middle of it.

“Not much farther.” Teresa drew a deep breath, perhaps to calm herself, while Diesel had stopped purring and begun muttering instead. He had obviously picked up on our unease over the weather. “There should be a sign for the byroad.” She consulted her printed directions. “It should say Applewood Hill Farm.”

I peered ahead as rain suddenly pummeled the car. I felt fur brush my sleeved arm as Diesel climbed over the center console and into Teresa’s lap. “Sorry about that,” I said as I kept my gaze focused on the road ahead. “He doesn’t like storms any more than we do.”

“No problem.” Teresa got the cat to settle, but at thirty-six pounds, he easily overflowed her lap, and his tail rested across the console and extended into my lap. “It’s okay, boy,” she murmured in soothing tones, and Diesel’s muttering slowed.

“There it is.” The car’s lights shone on a large sign about seventy yards ahead, and I slowed for the approaching turn. The rain, fierce at first, began to decrease in volume, and I sent up a thankful prayer that the storm seemed to be moving quickly over us.

“From here it should only be about two miles.” Teresa peered at her directions while Diesel’s tail twitched in my lap. “Then there’s a driveway on the left, and the house is about four hundred yards up the driveway behind a stand of trees.”

The sky lightened as we headed down the byroad, and the rain continued to slacken. There seemed to be no other houses close to the road, though I spotted three driveways before we reached one on the left. A small sign, about two feet by four, boasted Marter Family Farm in faded Gothic lettering.

“This is it.” I pointed the car down the driveway, and moments later we drove through a stand of pine trees. On the other side the drive swept up a slight rise to circle in front of a rambling, two-story farmhouse. I figured it had been built sometime between the two world wars, with maybe a few additions along the way. A wide porch extended across the front of the house, which faced south, and around on the western side as well. There were a couple of porch swings and three chairs. Light gleamed dimly in a window to the west of the front door.

Rain still sprinkled as I parked the car, and I debated whether to bother with an umbrella. “Hang on to Diesel for a moment, until I can get around to pick him up.” He didn’t like getting his pads wet, so I would carry him up to the porch.

Once I had Diesel in my arms, I let Teresa scurry up the walk ahead of us. Under cover of the porch, I put the cat down and stood aside as Teresa pulled open a screen door to knock on the wooden door behind it.

After a moment Teresa knocked again, and seconds later the door swung back to reveal a short, heavyset woman who appeared to be in her late sixties or early seventies. She scowled at the sight of Teresa and said, “What are you doing here?”

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