Mrs. Cartwright called after her daughter. “Bring us something cold to drink.” She focused on Teresa. “Exactly what are you going to do for these festivities?”

“Primarily an exhibit of your life and works, highlighting the fiction you wrote for children and young adults.” Teresa nodded in my direction. “For example, thanks to his late aunt, Charlie has an amazing collection of the Veronica Thane series. He has offered to let the library borrow items from it for the exhibit.”

Mrs. Cartwright stroked Diesel’s back with her right hand. “Your aunt is a reader of mine?”

“Yes, ma’am, she was,” I said. “She passed away several years ago, but she left her house and all its contents to me. She had a superb collection of juvenile mysteries, like the Veronica Thane series—her personal favorite—along with others like Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton.”

Mrs. Cartwright snorted and startled Diesel into meowing. “That dratted Nancy Drew. She was the bane of my existence. I know my Veronica books could have sold even better if the syndicate hadn’t interfered.”

Teresa cast me a bewildered glance, no doubt thrown by the reference to a syndicate and the vitriol in our hostess’s tone.

“I presume you’re talking about the Stratemeyer Syndicate.” I smiled, and Teresa’s face cleared. I had given her the basic history of Edward Stratemeyer and his fiction factory when we first discussed our ideas for the Cartwright exhibit.

Mrs. Cartwright scowled. “Just hearing that name makes my blood pressure go up. I was lucky enough not to work for him, or receive the hack wages he paid. And the stories I heard from other writers who did, and had to work with those daughters of his.” She glared at me, but I realized that I was not the target of her evident wrath.

“I believe I read in an article once that other nonsyndicate writers complained that the syndicate tried to get their series quashed so they wouldn’t compete with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, for example.” Those claims, I reasoned at the time, might have been nothing more than the proverbial sour grapes, due to the phenomenal success of Nancy and the Hardys, but I didn’t really know for sure. Mrs. Cartwright naturally had a right to her own opinion on the matter.

“I could tell you plenty.” The elderly author shook her head. “But there’s no point in it now. Everyone else concerned is long gone.” She flashed a sudden grin. “I’ve outlived them all.”

Teresa addressed Mrs. Cartwright. “You and your work will be the focus of this exhibit. I want to assure you of that. We’ll have examples of the other girl detectives, but you and your books are the centerpiece.”

“That’s good. If I’ve got pride of place, then I don’t mind sharing.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed again. “What other plans did you have beside the exhibit?”