The Silence Of The Library

Mrs. Taylor craned her neck around to see. I stood to offer my chair to Mrs. Cartwright.

“Marcella, move out of the way.” Mrs. Cartwright’s voice sounded from outside the office. “I need to sit down.”

“There isn’t much room in my office,” Teresa said as Mrs. Marter moved aside at her mother’s command. “Why don’t we go to our small meeting room instead? It’s only a few feet farther.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Cartwright allowed Teresa to take her left arm as she leaned heavily on the cane in her right hand. Though slightly stooped, she was an inch or so taller than Teresa, who was about five-five. Marcella Marter trailed behind them, and Mrs. Taylor and I brought up the rear.

Teresa flipped the light switch as she guided our guest into the room and helped her to a chair. She sat next to the elderly woman around a smallish rectangular table that could accommodate ten people. Mrs. Marter took the chair on her mother’s free side, while Mrs. Taylor and I went to sit across from them.

Mrs. Cartwright, swathed in black, with a black scarf around her neck and black gloves on her hands, sported large-framed dark sunglasses. The red hair provided a sharp contrast to her clothes, and her face had been expertly—though heavily from what I could tell—made up. I supposed she was vain enough about her appearance that she didn’t want to look like a centenarian in public.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Cartwright.” Teresa smiled. “I thought your grandson was coming with you.”

“Eugene had something else to do.” Mrs. Cartwright bumped her cane against the edge of the table. “Besides, this is my business, not any of his. Nor any of my daughter’s. Isn’t that right, Marcella?”

“Yes, Mother.” Marcella stared at her lap and spoke in a whisper.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cartwright. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in person.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice, quavery at first, grew more assured as she continued. “I thought I wouldn’t get to meet you until next week, but here you are.”

“Who are you?” Mrs. Cartwright sounded brusque. “I know Mr. Harris there”—she nodded at me—“but I don’t know you.”

Mrs. Taylor giggled. “Oh, dear, I have completely forgotten my manners, haven’t I? I’m Carrie Taylor, the editor and publisher of the EBC newsletter, The Thane Chronicles.”

“Then I suppose I should thank you for all the work you’ve done to keep Veronica Thane’s name alive.” Mrs. Cartwright smiled. “I’ve been happy to know that there are readers out there who still remember me and my little books.”

“Oh, there are, there are. Millions, probably. If you only knew how much people love you and your writing.” Mrs. Taylor bobbed up and down a bit in her chair.

“That’s wonderful to hear.” The author turned to Teresa, and beside me Mrs. Taylor stopped moving. “Now, about the speaker’s fee for my appearance next week. Marcella said there is a problem.”

“I’m afraid so.” Teresa paused for a breath. “Before we discuss that, though, I wonder if you could tell me why you didn’t mention a fee when we visited you the other day. We proceeded with our plans in all good faith that you were happy to appear without one.”

“I thought you had already discussed that with my daughter.” Mrs. Cartwright frowned. “At least, that is what she led me to believe.”

“We did not talk about a fee at any time.” Teresa shook her head. “We simply don’t have that kind of money in our budget. We can’t afford to pay you.”

“That’s outrageous.” Marcella Marter’s head jerked up. “You have to pay what we’re asking. You’ve already told everyone my mother will appear here next week.”

“Yes, we have,” I said to offer Teresa my support. “It’s unfortunate, but small public libraries like ours can’t afford to pay speakers such a large amount.”

“Dear EBC, please consider your fans. You don’t know how much it means to us to hear you talk about your life and career. Could you possibly see your way to appearing for free?” Mrs. Taylor’s impassioned plea startled us all. Before anyone could respond, Mrs. Taylor continued. “And think of the publicity this will generate. There could be several hundred people here next week to hear you. When publishers get wind of this, one of them might want to reprint the Veronica Thane series.”

There was a long, tense moment of silence while we waited for the author or her daughter to respond.

“That’s a very good point, Marcella, don’t you think?” Mrs. Cartwright prodded her daughter’s arm with a gloved finger. “Think of the publicity for the unpublished manuscripts. I could get a lot more money than that fool Eagleton is offering.”

ELEVEN

“Unpublished manuscripts?” Teresa sounded bewildered, as well she might.

Mrs. Taylor squealed—with delight, I presumed. “Oh, my goodness me. You mean Winnie Eagleton wasn’t making it all up?”

“When did you talk to Eagleton?” Mrs. Cartwright’s tone was sharp. “He was not supposed to discuss this with anyone.”