The Silence Of The Library

“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.”