The Silence of the Library (5 page)

Mrs. Taylor snorted in an unladylike manner. “Winnie, where did you get such an idea? A few years ago EBC wrote to me and told me that when the publisher canceled the series, she was happy to move on and write different things.”

Eagleton continued to beam, and I began to wonder if the man was on medication that kept him in a permanently sunny mood. Nothing seemed to deflate him. “Carrie, dear Electra might have told
you
such a taradiddle in the past, but I happen to know better.” He laid a finger to the side of his nose and winked. “I have another source who tells me that there is a trunk in the attic—I’m speaking metaphorically, you understand—that has five unpublished Veronica Thane novels.
Five
. Isn’t that astounding?”

“That’s one word for it,” Mrs. Taylor muttered.

Despite Mrs. Taylor’s obvious disbelief, I had to hope that Eagleton’s source was right. After all these years, how fun it would be to have new Veronica Thane adventures to read! Perhaps childish enthusiasm on my part, but I had loved the books fiercely as a boy. Many adults, I supposed, had a small corner inside them that occasionally longed to relive the pure joys of a childhood experience.

I decided to give the man encouragement. “That’s exciting news. I would love to have copies when they’re published.”

“Who is this so-called source of yours?” Mrs. Taylor’s voice had a snarky edge to it. Her reaction might perhaps stem from jealousy because Eagleton had scooped her on this. With her position as the editor of a newsletter dedicated to all things EBC, she would be annoyed she hadn’t heard about the unpublished books first.

“Dear EBC’s daughter, of course.” Eagleton sounded gleeful as he continued. “Even you, Carrie dear, must admit that the great lady’s own daughter should, above all others, know what she’s talking about.”

Mrs. Taylor’s tone was grudging when she responded. “I suppose you’re right, Winnie. If anyone knows the truth about it, Marcella certainly would. I have to hand it to you. When are you going to publish these manuscripts?”

For the first time Eagleton lost his overly perky demeanor. He frowned. “We haven’t settled the details yet, but I hope to take possession of the books sometime in the next few days. Marcella promised she would call as soon as the great lady is ready to receive her humble servant.”

“In other words, EBC hasn’t agreed to let you have the rights to publish them.” Mrs. Taylor grinned. “You scurried down here all the way from Ohio because you’re hoping to snap up the rights before a bigger publisher comes calling with a fat bankroll.”

“The big houses in New York won’t be stumbling over one another to publish these books.” Eagleton appeared cheered by this thought. “As much as
we
admire and revere EBC and Veronica Thane, the books
have
been out of print for thirty years. No other publisher has expressed interest in them before now, and I really can’t see that I’m going to have competition.”

“There are precedents for both small and large press reprints of books like the Veronica Thane series.” I decided that a few pertinent facts couldn’t hurt. “In recent years Applewood Books reprinted the whole Judy Bolton series, and they even published a title cowritten by two fans and illustrated by one of Sutton’s daughters.” Warming to my theme, I added, “Springer reprinted the Cherry Ames series, and Random House reissued Trixie Belden, though I’m not sure whether they’re still available.”

“I know about all those.” Mrs. Taylor’s expression made it clear she wasn’t all that impressed with my knowledge. “With the exception of that one new Judy Bolton title, however, they weren’t continuing the Cherry Ames or Trixie Belden series. And they certainly weren’t claiming to have a trunk full of unpublished manuscripts in the attic. That sounds more like the plot of one of these series books than actual fact.”

“I suppose I shall have to start calling you
Doubting Thomasina
instead of Carrie.” Eagleton proffered another sunny smile. “You shall see, my dear Thomasina, you shall see and be amazed.”

Mrs. Taylor appeared unmoved by Eagleton’s claim. “I think I would have heard about these manuscripts before now. After all, I’ve known Marcella for over a decade. She’s never even mentioned your name when we chat.”

Eagleton shrugged. “My dear Carrie, far be it from me to fathom the deep mysteries of the feminine mind. I have not been acquainted with Marcella as long as you, but in our recent conversations she has been
most
charming and
quite
forthcoming with details about her mother’s work. Not to mention eager to see her mother’s name in print once again so that a new generation of readers can discover the joy of such an engaging and endearing heroine as Veronica Thane.”

Mrs. Taylor stood in an abrupt movement. “I think I’ll just call Marcella and check this story with her. I think there’s something odd going on. And if you’re involved, Winnie Eagleton, it’s really, really odd.” With that, she moved quickly away, and I called “Good-bye” after her. She didn’t appear to hear me.

Eagleton shook his head. “Poor Carrie. For years she has prided herself on this deep, personal connection to the great lady and her family although they have never met face-to-face. I can imagine how distressing it must be for her to discover that she is not clasped as firmly to the Cartwright bosom as she believed.”

I had no desire to insert myself into this odd contest between Eagleton and Mrs. Taylor. The man had come to the public library, and I presumed he had a reason for his visit. “Was there anything in particular you were seeking at the library? If you’d like to come inside, I’ll be happy to help you.”

Eagleton beamed at me as he stood. “Yes, young man, there is.” I had to suppress a smile at being called
young man
. “I need access to older issues of your local paper as well as those of national papers like the
New York Times
.”

“I can certainly help you with that.” I nodded in the direction of the front door. “Come on inside, and we’ll get you started. Our local paper went online in 1998, and we have microfilm of older issues. We also have access to the
Times
and other papers online through various databases. I can show you how to find them.”

“Smashing, absolutely smashing.” Eagleton beamed as he followed me to the door.

Diesel awaited right inside the library. He often became anxious when I left him for more than a few minutes. Usually he was happy with Lizzie and Bronwyn, but I figured he had picked up on the tension when Della Duffy made her abrupt exit.

“Everything is okay, boy.” I scratched his head, and he rewarded me with chirps and meows.

“Who is this fine fellow?” Eagleton stared at my cat, evidently fascinated. “I don’t recall that I have ever seen such a large domestic feline. I suppose he is a Maine Coon, is he not?”

“Yes, he is.” A point to Eagleton for recognizing the breed. “His name is Diesel, and he accompanies me everywhere. He’s big even for his breed.”

Diesel sidled closer to the stranger to allow his head to be rubbed, and Eagleton complied. I waited a few moments to let the two become acquainted while Bronwyn and Lizzie watched. Then I gently directed Eagleton toward the small room where we kept the microfilm of the pre-1998 issues of the
Athena Daily Register
. “If you’d like to start with these,” I said, “I can show you how to load the microfilm into the reader, if you need me to.”

“Thank you, young man, but that won’t be necessary.” Eagleton nodded at the equipment. “I am quite familiar with this technology. I rather think I will start in here, and perhaps later you can show me to a computer and help me get started with the papers online.”

“Certainly,” I said. Diesel and I left him humming as he examined the drawers in which the film was stored.

Eagleton emerged from the microfilm room about ten minutes before Diesel and I completed our volunteer shift for the day. I got him settled at a computer station, logged him in, and guided him to the links for the newspaper databases.

Diesel climbed happily into the backseat for the short drive home. Nothing was very far from anything else in Athena, one of the distinct advantages of living in a smaller town. Sean’s car was in the garage when I pulled in beside it, and I was surprised he would be home at a little past three thirty in the afternoon.

In the kitchen I went straight to the refrigerator for a cold drink while Diesel visited his litter box in the utility room. I spotted a folded note with
Dad
scrawled across it stuck to the fridge door with a daisy magnet. As I sipped at my diet drink, I opened the note and scanned the contents.

Sean had written in his precise, bold hand, “News to share. Come to the back porch, and I’ll tell you.”

I tucked the note in my pocket and headed for the back of house. Diesel caught up with me before I reached the door and jogged past me. He turned his head toward me and warbled.

“Go ahead.” I grinned because I knew what he wanted. My boarder Justin Wardlaw had taught him how to open doors with his front paws, and Diesel liked showing off his skill. He reared up on his hind legs and twisted the knob. The door popped open, and the cat and I stepped onto the screened-in porch that ran the length of the rear of the house.

I had already picked up the fragrant smell of my son’s cigar. This was the only part of the house in which he was allowed to indulge his habit, and when I couldn’t find him elsewhere inside, I knew he’d be out here. I’d rather he gave it up entirely for his health, but I knew better than to argue with him about it. At least he smoked only where there was plenty of air circulating.

“Hey, Dad.” Sean turned and smiled, cigar in one hand and champagne bottle in the other. “Time to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” What was he talking about? Did this mean he had finally asked Alexandra Pendergrast to marry him? We had all been expecting this for months now.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Sean shook his head. “No, Dad, I haven’t asked her yet. I’m talking about the state bar exam.” He popped the cork on the bottle.

Of course. How could I have forgotten? Sean had taken the Mississippi bar in February, and the results were expected this month.

“You passed,” I said. I had never doubted he would. My son, I could say without boasting, was an extremely bright young man.

“I did.” Sean stuck the cigar in his mouth and picked up two champagne flutes. He filled one and handed it to me before filling his own.

“To Mississippi’s newest legal eagle.” I raised the glass and smiled. “I’m proud of you, as always.”

Sean beamed back at me as he raised his own. He drew on the cigar and expelled the smoke. We watched it waft away in the breeze coming through the screens as we sipped the champagne.

“Thanks, Dad.” Sean downed the rest of the amber liquid. “How about a refill?”

“No, thanks, one glass is enough for me,” I said.

Diesel sat in front of him and chirped. Sean glanced down and smiled. “Sorry, big guy, but I don’t think champagne is good for cats. Dad might have a fit if I give you any.”

The cat’s head turned in my direction, as if to ask my permission. “No, boy, Sean is right. No bubbly for you.”

Diesel made a rumbling noise—his method of signaling irritation when he didn’t get his way. Sean and I shared a chuckle over the cat’s behavior.

“I’m sure Alexandra is pretty excited about the news.” My son had been working with her and her father, the legendary Q. C. Pendergrast, as an assistant. Q.C. had promised to make Sean a partner when he passed the bar. I figured the old man was getting ready to ease off on his legal practice and let the youngsters take over.

“I haven’t told her yet.” Sean’s expression turned serious. “I wanted to tell you first, Dad.”

Suddenly a lump in my throat made it difficult to speak. A year ago my relationship with my son had floundered, with me clueless as to the reason. We resolved the problems between us, however, and these days I felt closer to Sean than I had since his childhood.

Diesel warbled, and I had to smile. He always sensed when my mood shifted suddenly. I rubbed his head to reassure the cat. “Thank you, Son. I’m glad you did. Hadn’t you better tell Alexandra now?”

“I will, tonight at dinner.” Sean looked away from me and focused instead on the backyard. He drew on his cigar and expelled the smoke.

Judging by his tone, he didn’t sound all that eager to talk to Alexandra. Had there been some rift between them that I didn’t know about?

I kept my tone nonchalant when I queried him. “What’s wrong? Have you two had a fight?”

Sean glanced back at me. He shook his head. “Not a fight, merely a strong disagreement.” He had another sip of champagne. “It’s this plan of her father’s to turn over the firm to Alex and me.
After
we’re married.”

I sat on one of the wicker sofas, and Diesel jumped up beside me. He stretched out, with his head and front legs on my lap. “Do you feel like he’s trying to push the two of you into marriage? Is that what’s bothering you?”

Sean shrugged and smoked in silence for a few moments. I kept quiet and stroked Diesel’s back.

“I
want
to marry Alex.” Sean’s tone was clipped as he deposited ash into the ashtray on a nearby table. “She knows that, even though I haven’t asked her yet. Q.C. knows I’ll get around to asking her eventually. I just don’t want him to hand over his practice because I’m married to his daughter.” He stuck his cigar back in his mouth and drew hard. He looked angry as he blew smoke toward the screen. “I have money saved. I can buy into the practice on my own.”

I should have realized before now that this would be an issue for Sean. He had always been proud, insistent on being independent. He wanted to earn whatever he had, and I in turn had always been proud to have reared such a self-reliant son.

“Have you expressed any of this to Q.C. and Alex?”

“When the subject first came up.”

Sean’s wry delivery of that line didn’t fool me. There had probably been a heated discussion. Sean had a bit of a temper—slow to ignite, but fiery when it burst forth. He took after me in that respect.

“What did Q.C. say when you told him how you felt?” I kept my tone mild as I continued to rub Diesel along his spine. Happy warbles repaid me for my attentions to His Majesty.

“Nonsense, my boy. After all, we can’t have you working for your wife.
What would the folks around here have to say about that?”
Sean did a fair imitation of Q.C.’s deep voice and broad drawl.

“And how did you respond?” Temperately, I hoped.

Sean cut a sideways glance at me. “Politely enough, despite the fact that I was blazingly angry. Insisted I didn’t want to be a partner on those terms, but he didn’t pay any attention to my objections. I figured there was no point in arguing, so I dropped it. For the time being.”

“Do you think he’ll start pushing again when he finds out you’ve passed the bar?” Perhaps I should have a word with Q.C., explain how proud Sean was, and ask him to back down. No, I decided after a moment’s reflection, if Sean ever found out I did that behind his back, he would find it hard to forgive.

“Probably.” Sean laughed, but there was no mirth or joy in the sound. “As long as I don’t propose to Alex, though, he won’t go through with it.” He paused. “At least, I don’t think he would.”

That was another trait Sean inherited from me—stubbornness, occasionally to the point of folly. I worried that he would break up what had so far been a happy and loving relationship. I understood his position, though, and I couldn’t blame him for resenting Q.C.’s high-handed behavior.

“Don’t worry. I know what you’re thinking. I am
not
going to screw this up. Alex is the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’d be a world-class idiot to let her get away.”

“You’ll work it out somehow, I’m sure.” I gently moved Diesel from my lap so I could stand. “If there’s anything I can do, you know all you have to do is ask.”

“I know.” Sean dropped his cigar in the ashtray and came over to give me a quick, fierce hug. “Thanks, Dad.”

That lump was back. I swallowed hard as Sean stepped away to pick up his cigar.

“I have things that need doing,” I said, my voice a little hoarse. “So Diesel and I will leave you to it. Come on, boy, back in the house.”

Diesel followed me, but I opened the door this time. As Diesel ambled through, I glanced back at my son. He stared out at the backyard and smoked. I sighed as I closed the door.

Time to box up the books I was lending for the exhibit of juvenile series books at the library. The cartons I needed were in the utility room, and while I was there, I added some dry food to Diesel’s bowl and rinsed out his water bowl and refilled it. I pulled two medium-sized cartons from the shelf and left Diesel noisily crunching as I headed for the stairs.

Happy to note that I wasn’t breathing all that hard by the time I reached the third floor, I decided I wasn’t in such bad shape after all.

Moments later, when I squatted in front of the shelves to retrieve a few books from the bottom, I revised my opinion. My knees creaked, and I had to grab on to an upper shelf to pull myself up. I moved stiffly as I put the books in a carton atop the bed.

I turned to examine the shelves and let my eyes roam over the spines.
Where are the Cherry Ames books?
I wondered. I finally spotted them in the upper left corner, against the back wall of the bedroom. I couldn’t reach the books without an uncomfortable stretch, so I retrieved the upholstered ottoman from its place in front of an old easy chair.

I stepped onto the ottoman and tested my balance. Confident that I could reach up without straining, I retrieved a couple of the volumes from the shelf—one of the older ones with a dust jacket and the green-spined final book in the series,
Cherry Ames, Ski Nurse
.

When I pulled the latter book down, I spotted what looked like a scrapbook at the end of the shelf.
What is that doing here?
I wondered. It seemed out of place. I reached for it and tugged, but the cover had stuck to the varnish of the shelf. I set the two Cherry Ames books on the shelf and reached with both hands to prize the darn thing loose. No telling how many years the scrapbook had been there, adhering to the wood.

Finally, with a forceful effort, I loosened it. Bits of the vinyl cover stuck to the shelf. I would have to try later to remove them. I scooped up the Cherry Ames books with my free hand and stepped down from the ottoman. Once again I set Cherry aside and turned my attention to the scrapbook.

I fanned the browned pages, and as I did, I could see that a few of the newspaper articles Aunt Dottie had pasted in were loose and about to flutter out. With more care I examined some of the pages and found to my delight that the items were apparently all related to children’s books. I spotted clippings from magazine articles along with the newsprint. Mildred Wirt Benson, who late in life finally gained long overdue recognition for her role in creating Nancy Drew, was featured heavily. I wondered whether Aunt Dottie had managed to find anything on Electra Barnes Cartwright. I didn’t have time now to delve thoroughly through the scrapbook, and with some reluctance I stuck it in one of the cartons and turned back to my task of choosing books for the exhibit.

Ten minutes later, satisfied that I had a representative selection of both well-known and nowadays obscure series books, I stacked one carton atop the other and carried them downstairs. I had to move with care because I couldn’t see my feet. I made it safely enough to the second floor and took the cartons into my bedroom. Since I hadn’t planned to take them to the library until tomorrow morning, they could stay here for now.

My cell phone rang while I headed down to the kitchen, and I pulled it from my pocket as I reached the first floor. According to the number that appeared on the display, Teresa was calling from her office at the library.

I barely had a chance to say “Hello” before Teresa burst into speech. “Charlie, can you come back to the library right away? Mrs. Cartwright’s daughter called. She and her son are on the way here to discuss Mrs. Cartwright’s fee for next week.”

I knew Teresa had no money in her budget to pay an author for appearing at an event. Neither Mrs. Cartwright nor her daughter had broached the subject when we visited them. What could we do about this? Especially after we’d already advertised on the library’s website that Mrs. Cartwright would appear.

I assured Teresa I would be there in a few minutes. “We’ll figure something out.” I tried to sound confident, but unless Mrs. Marter was reasonable about the amount, we would have to cancel.