The Silence Of The Library

“Come on, Diesel, we’re going downstairs.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Diesel looked up at me from the box he was investigating and meowed with what sounded like an indignant edge.

“Yes, I know you just started playing with those boxes, but I have something I need to do. You can’t stay here by yourself.”

He stared at me and meowed again. Then he darted under the bed.

“Diesel, come out from under there. Right now.” He was like a contrary child sometimes.

I waited for perhaps thirty seconds before I repeated my command.

Still no results.

Aggravated, I got down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. Luckily for me it was an old-fashioned one, high enough off the floor that I didn’t have to lie prone to see exactly where he was.

Against the wall halfway between the legs of the bed, naturally. I wasn’t going to crawl under to drag him out, however. I knew a better way to get him to come with me.

I put my left hand on the bed for leverage. I stood, wincing as my knees creaked. As I steadied myself, I glanced across the bed at the wall beyond where an old chifforobe stood.

A six-drawer chifforobe.

Why hadn’t I thought about checking there for the newsletters? The antique piece was the only other furniture in the room that could hold them.

I moved around the bed, and momentarily left Diesel to his own devices. I pulled open the door of the wardrobe half, but it was empty except for three hangers on the rail.

The top two drawers held old linens, now yellowed with age. The middle two were empty, but the fifth drawer down held a wooden box of a size appropriate to contain the newsletters. I checked the bottom drawer, and it was empty.

I picked up the box and placed it on the bed. The shallow, grooved lid came off easily, and inside lay a stack of papers—what I had been looking for during the past half hour or more.

I replaced the lid and tucked the box under my arm. I was halfway down the hall, having shut the door behind me before I remembered that Diesel remained under the bed. I smiled. This was what I’d planned to do anyway, because Diesel didn’t like being shut in a room by himself.

After standing in place for about two minutes, I moved quietly back to the door. I waited a few moments more, then I heard the cat scratching at the door.

“Come on, then, and I’ll give you a treat,” I said when I swung it open. “I told you I wanted to go downstairs.”

Diesel stared up at me for about three seconds and then shot out into the hall and down the stairs. I knew he would be waiting in the kitchen for the promised treat to materialize.

I stopped by my bedroom to retrieve the scrapbook. When I reached the kitchen, the cat sat near the chair I usually occupied. He warbled, obviously irritated with me for taking so long to fulfill my promise. I set the box and scrapbook on the table and retrieved the treat. I ended up giving him a small handful of the little tidbits, and he scarfed them down in three seconds flat. He stared hopefully at me, but I waved my hands in the air and said, “That’s all.” He muttered but didn’t press me any further. He stretched out on the floor by my chair and started grooming his front paws.

After my labors in the closet, I was thirsty, and before I set to work going through the newsletters and the scrapbook, I washed my hands and drank two glasses of water. Only then did I sit and pull the box toward me. Perhaps three inches deep, the box was filled almost to the brim with paper.

The initial newsletter lay on top. A single sheet, neatly typed and single-spaced, it featured a photocopied image of one of the illustrated plates from The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion, but greatly reduced from its original size. I scanned the text quickly. Carrie Taylor described briefly her first acquaintance with the series and went on to discuss her devotion to Veronica Thane and the works of Electra Barnes Cartwright through the years. The verso of the sheet featured a list of the books with their publication dates. The newsletter concluded with Mrs. Taylor’s address and phone number. She entreated anyone interested in her subjects to get in touch with her to get on a mailing list for further issues.

I set the sheet aside and picked up the next issue. This one was three sheets of paper, and the heading labeled it as The Thane Chronicles and denoted it as volume one, issue one. There was a date and a brief reprise of pertinent information from the initial sheet, followed by the subscription information. There was no mention of a cost for subscribing.