The Silence Of The Library

“He definitely is that.” Plus he always seemed to know when he was being talked about, because I noticed him staring intently at the phone. He chirped loudly several times, as if to tell me he would be happy to go along. “Did you hear that?”

Teresa laughed. “Yes, I did. He’s given his approval to the visit, too.”

“That settles it. See you tomorrow.” I rang off and stowed the phone in my pocket. “Come on, boy, let’s go downstairs and get something to eat.” I set the copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion on the nightstand for bedtime reading before I followed Diesel out of the bedroom.

• • •

The sky on Tuesday morning promised heavy rain, and the clouds grew darker as Teresa and I departed the library in my car. I’d checked the weather report last night, and the forecast gave only a twenty percent chance of rain. More like eighty percent, it seemed to me as I examined conditions.

Diesel stretched out in the backseat, his purr a basso continuo to our thoughts. Teresa provided the directions, and I cast anxious eyes to the heavens as I drove. The weather reminded me eerily of the opening scene in The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion. No lightning yet, but I had a feeling the distant rumble of thunder presaged plenty of it to come.

“Yancy said Ms. Cartwright is a hoot to talk to. Definitely knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to speak it.” Teresa fiddled with the strap of the seat belt across her chest, and I could tell the weather made her as nervous as it did me. “She’s also pretty active. Walks at least a couple miles a day, unless the weather’s bad, or it’s too hot.”

“That’s pretty amazing. Better than I usually do, and I’m almost half her age.” The sky continued to darken, and I switched on the car’s lights. I preferred being safely inside during a storm, not out in a car right in the middle of it.

“Not much farther.” Teresa drew a deep breath, perhaps to calm herself, while Diesel had stopped purring and begun muttering instead. He had obviously picked up on our unease over the weather. “There should be a sign for the byroad.” She consulted her printed directions. “It should say Applewood Hill Farm.”

I peered ahead as rain suddenly pummeled the car. I felt fur brush my sleeved arm as Diesel climbed over the center console and into Teresa’s lap. “Sorry about that,” I said as I kept my gaze focused on the road ahead. “He doesn’t like storms any more than we do.”

“No problem.” Teresa got the cat to settle, but at thirty-six pounds, he easily overflowed her lap, and his tail rested across the console and extended into my lap. “It’s okay, boy,” she murmured in soothing tones, and Diesel’s muttering slowed.

“There it is.” The car’s lights shone on a large sign about seventy yards ahead, and I slowed for the approaching turn. The rain, fierce at first, began to decrease in volume, and I sent up a thankful prayer that the storm seemed to be moving quickly over us.

“From here it should only be about two miles.” Teresa peered at her directions while Diesel’s tail twitched in my lap. “Then there’s a driveway on the left, and the house is about four hundred yards up the driveway behind a stand of trees.”

The sky lightened as we headed down the byroad, and the rain continued to slacken. There seemed to be no other houses close to the road, though I spotted three driveways before we reached one on the left. A small sign, about two feet by four, boasted Marter Family Farm in faded Gothic lettering.

“This is it.” I pointed the car down the driveway, and moments later we drove through a stand of pine trees. On the other side the drive swept up a slight rise to circle in front of a rambling, two-story farmhouse. I figured it had been built sometime between the two world wars, with maybe a few additions along the way. A wide porch extended across the front of the house, which faced south, and around on the western side as well. There were a couple of porch swings and three chairs. Light gleamed dimly in a window to the west of the front door.

Rain still sprinkled as I parked the car, and I debated whether to bother with an umbrella. “Hang on to Diesel for a moment, until I can get around to pick him up.” He didn’t like getting his pads wet, so I would carry him up to the porch.

Once I had Diesel in my arms, I let Teresa scurry up the walk ahead of us. Under cover of the porch, I put the cat down and stood aside as Teresa pulled open a screen door to knock on the wooden door behind it.

After a moment Teresa knocked again, and seconds later the door swung back to reveal a short, heavyset woman who appeared to be in her late sixties or early seventies. She scowled at the sight of Teresa and said, “What are you doing here?”

THREE