The Silence Of The Library

I moved on to the next stack, turning it sideways so I could again read the spines. Midway down I spotted a copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion.

I walked back over to the sofa, and a quick glance assured me that Betts was still asleep. I went back to the table and carefully pulled the copy of Spellwood Mansion from the stack.

My hands trembled slightly as I opened it from the back and found the page where the identifying error would be.

There it was. Clarevoyant’s Clew. A true, rare first printing of the book.

Was this really his copy? Or was it Carrie Taylor’s?

TWENTY-SIX

I examined the book more carefully. There were no labels, no marks of any kind that I found. The book looked like it had seldom been opened, the binding tight, the colors of the jacket fresh and unfaded. A rare copy indeed, to have survived eighty years in this condition.

Nothing to answer my question about its provenance, of course. Betts could have possessed this copy for years. Or he could have stolen it from Carrie Taylor after he killed her.

Then I realized how stupid I had been to pick up the book in the first place. Fingerprints. I had added mine to whatever prints the Mylar cover might hold. I might even have smudged those of another person. Hastily I put the book down on top of the pile from which I had pulled it.

I dreaded the inevitable glare of irritation and disapproval I’d get when I told Kanesha about this. But I had to tell her, in case this copy of the book had anything to do with the murder.

I turned to go, but a question popped into my head. Did Betts have another copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion?

Without touching any of the books on the table, I examined the piles, looking for a second copy of the first Veronica Thane book.

I didn’t find one. What did that tell me?

I really wasn’t certain. Betts had boasted that he had over five hundred Veronica Thane books in various formats, and there couldn’t be more than sixty or seventy books on the table. The others were probably somewhere in the suite, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to try to find them and go through them all.

I decided I had better get going and not yield to temptation to see what else he had. I glanced at the sleeping man on my way to the door, and he seemed fine.

Before I could open the door, however, I heard a groan emanating from the area of the sofa. I hesitated, but the groaning continued, then intensified. I turned back to see what was wrong. Betts was struggling to get the blanket off and rise from the sofa.

“Going to be sick.” He managed to get the words out before his body convulsed.

I spotted a small, decorative garbage can at the end of sofa and scooped it up. Barely in time, I managed to stick it in front of him, and he vomited into it. He clutched at the can and pulled it to his chest, letting his head hang over it.

He threw up again. I watched, alert for any sign that he was about to drop the can or to collapse. He seemed steady enough. I waited, and though he made a few retching sounds, nothing else issued forth. His grasp on the can loosened, and I took it from him and set it aside, trying not to look at or smell the contents.

Betts stared up at me, bleary-eyed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Could you get me a wet towel?”

“Sure. Be right back.” I hadn’t expected to play nursemaid to a drunken man tonight, but I couldn’t in all good conscience abandon him at this point, no matter how tempted I was to walk right out.

I found a washcloth, luxuriously thick, in the bathroom and soaked it in cold water. After I’d wrung out most of the water, I carried it back to the ailing Betts.

He mumbled his thanks and wiped his face several times, then folded the cloth and pressed it to his forehead.

Figuring he would be okay on his own now for a few minutes, I took the garbage can, thankfully metal, and carried it into the bathroom. I dumped the contents into the toilet and flushed them, then I stuck the can under the faucet in the bathtub and ran water into it. I sloshed that around a bit, then dumped it again in the toilet.

I did that a couple more times before I was satisfied that the garbage can was as clean as I was going to get it. Back in the living room, I set the can on the floor near Betts, just in case. He raised his head and focused on me as I was about to sit down. “Sorry to trouble you,” he said, sounding actually humble, “but would you mind getting me some soda from the bar fridge? And some crackers if you can find some? I think that would help settle my stomach a bit.”

“Sure.” I found a can of soda along with some peanut butter crackers and brought them back to him. He fumbled with the tab on the aluminum can, so I opened it for him. Then I opened the crackers, too. Once again he thanked me.