The Silence Of The Library

That much was true. Melba liked to talk, but in general she didn’t bad-mouth people—unless they deserved it, in her estimation. Then she could be merciless.

“I understand,” I said. “But a person who didn’t know Carrie well might not look at it quite the same way. Might not be happy if he or she thought Carrie knew something they didn’t want anyone else to know. Do you see what I mean?”

Melba didn’t answer straightaway. Instead she got up and poured herself more coffee. Diesel padded after her, evidently determined to keep an eye on her in case she needed more comfort. Melba leaned against the counter and regarded me over the rim of her mug as she sipped. Diesel sat at her feet and looked up at her.

“Yeah, I do see what you mean. But it’s hard to imagine that she knew something worth killing her over.” Melba shrugged. “I certainly don’t know anything.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Night before last,” Melba said. “Usually we talked for at least a few minutes every night, but last night my allergies were driving me crazy. I took one of my heavy-duty pills, and it zonked me out by eight o’clock. I usually sleep for nine or ten hours when I take one.” She shook her head. “And then I feel groggy for half the day afterward.”

“So if she called you last night, you wouldn’t have heard the phone ring?”

Melba’s eyes widened. “Oh, my Lord, I hadn’t thought about that. No, I wouldn’t have heard.” She stuck her hands in the pockets of her robe. “Where the heck is my cell phone?”

The search of her pockets yielded nothing except the sodden handkerchief. Melba gazed around the kitchen, but the cell phone didn’t appear to be anywhere in sight.

“Did you use it to call me this morning?” I asked. I hadn’t paid attention to the number. She could have used her landline.

“No, I didn’t. Carrie’s neighbor doesn’t have my cell number. I called you right after I hung up with her.” Melba ran her hands through her hair, smoothing it back. “I must have left it in my purse when I got home yesterday. I’ll go check.”

She disappeared down the hall, and Diesel followed her, a faithful shadow. I realized I was thirsty, so while I waited, I found a glass and filled it with water from the tap. I had just set the glass in the sink when Melba returned, cell phone in hand, manipulating it as she walked. Diesel was right beside her.

“Still in my purse, and my purse was in the living room. No wonder I didn’t hear anything.” She looked up at me. “Carrie did call me, around nine forty-five, and there’s a voice mail message.” She sat at the table and motioned for me to do the same. She punched a few buttons, then turned on the speaker before setting the phone on the table between us.

Carrie Taylor spoke clearly in the silence. “Hey, Melba, just me. Thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing. I know your allergies are playing up something awful. I’ll bet you took one of your pills and you’re sound asleep by now.” She paused for about three seconds. “It’s a shame because I really do need to talk to you. So much has been going on the past few days. I would’ve tried to call earlier tonight, but I actually had people over. First time in ages anybody besides you and Thelma have been in here. Oh, now hush, Zippy.” There was the sound of a barking dog in the background. “There must be somebody at the front door, otherwise he wouldn’t carry on so. I’ll just go see who it is.”

There was another pause, of perhaps six or seven seconds, then she spoke again. “There is somebody at the door, but I can’t imagine who it could be at this time of night. Hang on a second while I check who it is.” Another pause, only a couple of seconds this time. “Now what on earth does he want? Hush, Zippy, it’s okay. Listen, honey, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Better get this over with so I can get to bed. ’Bye.”

The call ended, and Melba and I stared at each other. I was sure we shared the same thought, and it was an utterly chilling one.

Had we just heard Carrie Taylor say “’Bye” before she opened the door to admit her killer?

SIXTEEN

While Melba and I stared at the phone, the voice mail program directed Melba to punch various numbers, depending on what she wanted to do with the messages. Though her hands shook, Melba picked up the phone and made a selection—to save the message, I presumed. She set the phone back on the table. We both stared at it.

“That had to be the person who killed her.” Melba’s voice came out barely above a whisper. Her eyes filled with tears, and she pulled her hanky out of her pocket and scrubbed her face.

I felt pretty shaken myself. Diesel quickly picked up on our mutual distress and meowed anxiously. He came to me and rubbed his head against my thigh, seeking reassurance. I scratched his head as I tried to collect my thoughts. Diesel quieted under my ministrations.