“Eugene is my son. He is such a comfort to me, and to Mother, of course.” The quiet pride in Marcella Marter’s voice revealed a more pleasant side to her personality than we had witnessed thus far.

Teresa must have decided it was time to bring the visit to a close. She thanked Mrs. Cartwright and Mrs. Marter for their hospitality. “We really appreciate y’all letting us barge in on you today. It has been such a pleasure meeting you both.”

“It certainly has.” As I stood, Mrs. Marter stepped closer to take my empty glass, and I flashed a grateful smile at her. “Mrs. Cartwright, I’ve loved your books ever since I first discovered them, and I know everyone is going to be thrilled to see you at the library.”

Mrs. Cartwright cackled with laughter. “It’s going to shake a few people up when they realize I’m still alive and kicking. I’ve been living such a quiet life here, out on the edge of nowhere, most people think I died years ago.” She laughed again. “Ought to be pretty interesting when I show up at the library and see who’s there.”

The elderly writer’s tone gave me pause. Was I reading more into it than was really there, or was there something slightly ominous in those words?

I decided I was imagining things. I had been involved in too many strange goings-on during the past year, and now I was making trouble out of thin air.

Diesel emerged from beneath my chair and approached the sofa. He chirped at Mrs. Cartwright, and she scratched his head. “I sure do hope you’ll have this handsome boy at the library when I’m there. He’s the sweetest thing. You’d better watch out, or I might steal him from you.”

“He loves coming to the library with me.” I observed the old lady’s obvious pleasure as she bonded with Diesel. “He will remember you, and I know he’ll pester you for more attention.”

Mrs. Cartwright petted the cat, then smiled and held out her hands to me. I grasped them for a moment. She squeezed lightly, then I let go. Her hands were cool, despite the heated room, and I noted that, although wrinkled and spotted with age, her fingers were long and slender. I remembered how cruelly my maternal grandmother’s hands had been twisted by rheumatoid arthritis, and I was pleased to see that Mrs. Cartwright hadn’t suffered that indignity.

Mrs. Marter waited in the doorway to the hall, and Teresa and I moved in her direction. I called to Diesel, and he pulled away from Mrs. Cartwright. He seemed rather taken with her, despite the earlier tension between her and her daughter. He followed us to the front door without any further urging on my part.