The Silence Of The Library

That was definitely interesting, but I wished the blogger hadn’t been so coy about the identity of the man Della Duffy attacked. I skimmed through the comments attached to the blog post, but no one named the man, though the discussion was lively. One person claimed to have witnessed a similar incident involving Ms. Duffy at another convention but provided no details. I looked further through the entire blog but could find no other mentions of Della Duffy.

Not much to go on, and not completely reliable since they were really only hearsay, but these incidents left me with the impression that Della Duffy went after what she wanted. She appeared to have a temper, also, and that intrigued me.

If she’d wanted Carrie Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion, for example, how far would she go to own it?

I hesitated for a moment, but then I decided I ought to share this information with Kanesha. I e-mailed her the link to the blog posting with a note that I had found another item of interest I thought she should consider.

Okay, out of my hands for now.

Beside me, Diesel stirred. One eye opened, then the other. He blinked at me and yawned. He had a good stretch before he sat up. He warbled, hopefully, I thought. He hadn’t eaten in a while so he was on the point of utter starvation.

“Okay, boy,” I said as I shut down the laptop and put it aside. “Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll see if I can find you a morsel or two.”

The cat leapt to the floor and disappeared before I could get off the bed. I smiled as I followed Diesel downstairs. I knew he would be waiting in the utility room by his food and water bowls.

After I saw to the needs of my poor starving kitty, I rooted around in the fridge for my own snack. Azalea had baked a ham two days ago, and there was enough left for a sandwich.

Sandwich in one hand and a can of diet cola in the other, I climbed the stairs, intent on further research on the Internet. I might as well see what I could find about my host for the evening, Winston Eagleton. With such a distinctive name to search, I figured I would get far fewer results, and those that I did retrieve would be on target.

I was right. My search on Eagleton yielded only seven pages of hits. There were even images this time, not simply text.

I took a bite of my sandwich and clicked on one of the images, and there was Eagleton, beaming like a cherub into the camera lens. The next image contained a surprise. Eagleton, radiant smile in place, had his arm around none other than Gordon Betts, who looked more than a bit uncomfortable.

The chummy pose appeared staged to me, and I wondered what the occasion for it was. I clicked on the link to visit the page where the image resided, and the resulting explanation gave me another surprise.

According to what I read, Gordon Betts was a major investor in Eagleton’s publishing concern.

If that were the case, I wondered why Eagleton appeared so desperate to get his hands on Mrs. Cartwright’s unpublished manuscripts. I remembered Eugene Marter’s allegations that Eagleton threatened his grandmother over them.

With Betts’s alleged millions behind him, surely Eagleton could offer Mrs. Cartwright enough money to clinch the deal.

Unless Eagleton and Betts had fallen out, and Betts had withdrawn his support from the publishing venture.

Interesting fodder for speculation, but could any of it be connected with the murder of Carrie Taylor?

TWENTY-THREE

Stewart was pottering about in the kitchen when I came through on my way to Winston Eagleton’s dinner party early that evening. Diesel trailed hopefully in my wake, unaware that he was destined to remain home tonight.

“What ho, Sherlock.” Stewart shot me a mischievous grin. “Whither art thou bound? And to what fell purpose?”

“What on earth have you been reading, to spout dialogue like that?” I shook my head in mock sadness. “Such a good mind he had, once upon a time.”

Stewart snorted with laughter, and Diesel padded over to him and meowed loudly. Stewart had yet to notice the cat, and Diesel obviously meant to bring this to the man’s attention.

“Shakespeare, actually,” Stewart said as he rubbed the cat’s head. “To be more precise, Macbeth, hence the mention of fell purpose.”

“Why this sudden interest in Shakespeare?” I was curious because Stewart, a chemistry professor at Athena College, tended to read mostly nonfiction, with the occasional lurid thriller or trashy best-seller thrown into the mix.

“Trying to elevate my mind above the mundane table of elements that I spend so much of my life with.” Stewart’s airy tone didn’t fool me. Something—more likely, someone—had prompted this interest in the Bard, but I knew Stewart wouldn’t tell me who until he was darned good and ready. I didn’t think Laura was responsible, despite her avowed devotion to the playwright. There had to be an attractive man involved somehow.