The Silence of the Library (10 page)

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.”

“Has someone actually
threatened
harm to your grandmother?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Diesel, upset by my obvious agitation, pushed against my legs and meowed. I stroked his head while I waited for Marter to explain his provocative statement.

“Yes siree Bob, they sure have.” Marter nodded several times as if to emphasize his point. “That funny little guy that claims he’s a publisher, what’s-his-name? Eagleton, that’s it.” His head bobbed again. “He got downright ugly on the phone with me last night. He was carrying on all about how Grandma done promised him he could publish those books of hers—you know, the ones ain’t never been published before?” When I nodded, he continued. “He said he ain’t gonna stand for Grandma going back on her word now that she thinks one of them big New York City outfits might be interested.”

Marter sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and focused his gaze on me. He nodded two times more, as if to say,
See, what did I tell you?

“I’m sure he was angry with your grandmother”—and privately I thought Eagleton had a right to be, if she was planning to renege on an agreement with him—“but I’m not sure that constitutes an actual threat. Was that all he said, he wasn’t going to
stand for it
?”

“No, he said more than that.” Marter scowled. “He said, ‘Miz Cartwright don’t want me mad at her.’ In fact, he musta said that two or three times.”

I had to admit, those words did sound like a threat. A vague one, but still a threat. I said as much to Marter.

“It don’t sound that vague to me.” Marter’s tone was heated. “That little bastard means to do my grandma harm if she don’t do what he wants.”

Surely the man realized he was talking to the wrong guy. “If you’re really worried that Eagleton might do something violent, you should go to the police. I don’t see what I can do about it.”

Diesel didn’t like the tension he could sense. He scrunched up against my legs again and meowed plaintively. I kept petting him, hoping he would relax and not be so worried.

Marter’s glance shifted sideways, then back again. “Well, it’s kinda like this.” He paused. “Me and the police don’t get along too good. I kinda had a little trouble with ’em now and again, and I don’t figger they’d take too kindly to me coming and bothering ’em. I got what you might call a ‘credibility gap’ when it comes to the law.” He glanced away again.

Now I could see what he was getting at, coming to me instead of going to the authorities. He must have thought I had a good working relationship with the police since I was some kind of detective. I suppressed a deep sigh as I put those thoughts into words. “So you figured if I talked to the police, they would pay more attention?”

Marter nodded, suddenly willing to face me again. “Yeah, that’s it. Can you do it and keep me out of it?”

“I could mention it to Chief Deputy Berry—she’s with the sheriff’s department—but there’s one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I wasn’t the one who heard Eagleton threaten your grandmother.” I paused. “Even if I went to the deputy with your story, she’d still have to talk to you to confirm it. She wouldn’t accept it on my word alone.”

“Couldn’t you just say you heard him say that somewhere?” Marter gave me a weak grin.

I shook my head. “No, I can’t. I’m not going to lie to the police.”

“That ain’t much help.” Marter looked disgruntled. “Done wasted my time talking to you.” He stood.

“Sorry, but I still think you should talk to the police yourself. Call the sheriff’s department and ask for Chief Deputy Berry. Tell her your story, and you can tell her I said to call her.” That was the best I could do under the circumstances.

Marter sighed. “Well, I reckon I’ll think about it.” He bobbed his head in my direction before he turned and strode off.

He was barely out the door before Helen Louise walked up behind me and startled me by putting her hands on my shoulders. She chuckled. “Sorry, love, didn’t mean to make you jump like that.” She kissed my cheek before taking the seat vacated by Marter.

Diesel immediately sidled up to her and started chirping. No doubt he was explaining how he was at the point of utter starvation and that only tidbits of chicken, straight from her hands to his mouth, would save him.

Helen Louise started to rise—headed for the kitchen and the chicken, I was sure—but I forestalled her. “He’s already had his chicken treat this morning, thanks to Melba Gilley.”

Helen Louise pursed her lips and glared, first at me, then at the cat. “
Sacrebleu!
Fickle, the both of you. Here I am, slaving away, making treats just for you, and then you go and take up with that woman.” She tossed her head. “I never in my life knew two such faithless males.”

Then she spoiled the effect by giggling. Diesel warbled at her. He probably thought she was serious, but he looked relieved when she laughed. I grinned at her. She had a silly side that I found appealing.

“How is Melba, by the way? I haven’t seen her in weeks.” Helen Louise rubbed Diesel’s head, and he rewarded her with his rumbling purr.

“Not so good.” I informed her of Carrie Taylor’s murder, and she was duly shocked. “She and Melba were really close, and Melba’s taking it hard.”

“What on earth could Carrie Taylor have done that would make somebody want to kill her?” Helen Louise shook her head. “If she was that close to Melba, she obviously liked to gossip like I like French wines. Otherwise, she was about as inoffensive a woman as I’ve ever met.”

I had a lot to tell Helen Louise to bring her up to date, and I made it as concise and quick as I could. Activity inside the bakery had slowed; otherwise it wouldn’t have been possible to claim her attention for more than a few minutes. Helen Louise didn’t interrupt, and by the time I’d finished, I had the beginnings of a headache. I realized it was lunchtime, and I was hungry.

“So that was Mrs. Cartwright’s grandson.” Helen Louise looked thoughtful. “Do you think he’s right to be worried about potential violence against her? It sounds far-fetched to me.”

“Before Carrie Taylor was murdered, I would have agreed with you.” My head began to ache in earnest now. I rubbed my right temple. “After having met these groupies of Mrs. Cartwright’s, though, I’m not so sure Eugene isn’t right. They all seem slightly deranged to me.”

“Poor baby, you look like your head’s really bothering you. Need some aspirin?” Helen Louise patted my knee, her concern obvious.

I managed a weak grin. “Food and caffeine would do the trick, I think.”

She laughed. “And you say Diesel’s the con artist in the family. Hang on, love, I’ll be back in a flash with treats for both my guys.” She got up and headed for the kitchen.

Diesel chirped because he heard the word
treats
. He had figured that one out early on.

“Yes, I guess you can have a bit more,” I told him. “But only a bit.”

The cat stared at me for a moment, then held up a paw and licked it.
We’ll see about that
. I could almost hear him saying the words.

Helen Louise appeared with a small tray of food and drink. More water and some chicken for Diesel, an iced Diet Coke and a small quiche for me.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” I said. “The quiche looks wonderful. What kind is it?”

“Spinach, onion, and Gruyère cheese. No bacon or sausage, I’m afraid.” She grinned.

“Sounds heavenly.” I cut into it with my knife and fork while Helen Louise doled out chicken. The flavor of the first mouthful made me happy, and I chewed with enthusiasm. Helen Louise watched and then relaxed when I smiled broadly.
“Très délicieux
.
”
My accent was execrable, no doubt, but I knew she appreciated my effort. She wanted to take me to Paris one day, and I had no argument with the plan, but I was determined to learn a bit of French before we went.

She fed Diesel the last of the chicken and wiped her fingers on a napkin. Her assistant, Debbie, called her then, and she shrugged an apology. “Later,” she promised as she went back to work.

Diesel grumbled because there were no more treats forthcoming. He stared hopefully at me, but I couldn’t let him have anything with onions and cheese in it. Onions in particular were not good for felines. “Sorry, boy, this is not Diesel-appropriate. You’ve had more than enough goodies for today.”

When he realized I wasn’t going to give in and let him have a bite, he stretched out under the table, his head facing away from me. He could sulk all he wanted but he wasn’t getting anything more to eat.

I finished my quiche, savoring every bite, and polished off the Diet Coke as well. My headache disappeared, and I felt much better. Activity in the bakery had picked up again, and I figured Helen Louise would be too busy for a while to chat any further. I managed to catch her eye and wave good-bye. She smiled and waved back. I didn’t try to pay for my lunch. I had won a minor skirmish over the bottled water, and I decided not to press my luck.

“Come on, boy, time to go home.” I called Diesel from under the table and picked up his leash to lead him out to the car. He refused to move for a moment, but after I tugged on the leash three times, he relented and came with me. He was single-minded when it came to chicken, the stubborn little cuss.

The cat hopped in the backseat and stared out the window. I carefully backed out and headed the car toward home. About halfway there my cell phone rang. I didn’t like to talk while driving, so I pulled over to the curb on a residential street and retrieved my phone.

I didn’t recognize the number, but it wasn’t the same as Eugene Marter’s. This one had an unknown area code. I answered it and identified myself.

Winston Eagleton’s cheery voice came through clearly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harris. I do hope I find you in good health and spirits this fine day.”

“I’m doing well, Mr. Eagleton. How are you?”

“Not tip-top, I must confess. In fact I am rather distraught over the sad news of the death of dear Carrie Taylor.” His cheery tone gave the lie to his words, I thought. But perhaps he was putting a brave face on things. Given his mode of speech, I figured that’s how he would have put it.

“Yes, it’s terrible. I didn’t know her well at all, but she seemed like such a nice person.”

“Oh, she was, she was, let me assure you. Salt of the earth, dear, dear Carrie.” Eagleton sighed heavily. “One simply cannot imagine why a psychopath would attack such a defenseless creature. It boggles the mind, does it not?”

I agreed that it did even as I wondered whether he would ever get to the point of this call—unless discussing the sad event
was
the point.

“There are those, one must presume, who would think me callous in the extreme for what I am about to tell you, Mr. Harris.” Eagleton paused, and I waited, unsure whether he expected a response. “Er, that is, I had decided late yester eve to hold a small soiree at my hotel, the Farrington House, and invite those who, like myself, are drawn to the works of dear Electra Cartwright. A select group, of course, because one cannot have the
hoi polloi
to dine with one.”

“Certainly not,” I murmured, wondering at the man’s lung capacity. He hardly seemed to pause for a breath when delivering these long sentences.

“One hopes that you will not think it too gauche of me to go forward with these plans, but perhaps we can raise a toast to the memory of dear Carrie and celebrate all that was good and fine about her life and contributions. That would be fitting, would it not?”

“Yes, it would be.” Before I could say anything else, he was off again.

“Dear Electra has promised to attend, and I have secured promises from Gordon Betts, Della Duffy, and your delightful cohort from the library, Teresa Farmer. Dare I assume that you will join us? One would also suggest that you bring that charming feline of yours, but I gather the hotel frowns upon that sort of thing. And Della does have that unfortunate fear of all things feline.”

“Yes, that is regrettable,” I said. I would not have considered taking Diesel with me anyway. There are times when it is not appropriate to bring him along, and this would be one. “I will be there. What time does your soiree commence?” Good grief, I was starting to sound like him.

“Shall we say seven, for seven thirty? There will of course be cocktails and hors d’oeuvres beforehand. No black tie necessary.” He chuckled. “One mustn’t be too formal.”

“That sounds fine. I’ll see you there.”

“Good-oh,” Eagleton said. “I shall look forward to it.
Au revoir
.”

I put the phone down but didn’t immediately pull out into the street again. Instead, I sat there wondering what the true purpose was for this get-together of Eagleton’s. Perhaps I was being overly suspicious, but the man was up to something, I was sure.

But what?