“There will be a public interview with her. The schedule will be up on the library’s website soon.” I regarded her warily. Was she going to be like Gordon Betts and demand that she be given Mrs. Cartwright’s address for a private visit?

“That’s not good enough.” Ms. Duffy frowned. “I have one of the most extensive collections of Veronica Thane and EBC books of any collector I know, and I want her to sign as many of them as possible.”

I did my best to suppress my irritation as I answered. “We don’t know yet whether Mrs. Cartwright will be able to sign books. I doubt she could sign a whole collection anyway. You do realize that she is about to turn a hundred soon?”

“Is she so decrepit that can’t write her name?” Ms. Duffy glared at me. “If she’s strong enough to come and do an interview, then she ought to be able to sign her name.”

Mrs. Taylor and I exchanged glances. I wondered if she was as appalled at Della Duffy’s callous disregard for Mrs. Cartwright as I was. I had a good mind to tell her what I thought of her demands, but generations of good Southern manners made that difficult. Instead I settled for milder words. “Mrs. Cartwright will be the one to decide that, and we will all have to abide by her wishes. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Obviously not. I guess I’ll just have to find EBC on my own. I’ll make it worth her while to sign her name as many times as I need.” Ms. Duffy flashed what I took to be a smile of self-satisfaction and conviction.

Beside her Mrs. Taylor sighed and shook her head gently. “Della, you and Gordon are going to have to realize that you can’t just bully your way into getting what you want. Throwing money around isn’t going to accomplish anything, either. Charlie is right. EBC is an old woman, and I can’t believe you’re truly that blindly selfish.”

Before Ms. Duffy had a chance to respond, a voice hailed us from behind me. “What ho, ladies? What are you two lovely specimens of the gentler, fairer sex up to this beautiful day?”

Wondering who on earth talked like a character out of a third-rate English novel, I turned to find out.

An elderly man who had the appearance of an overripe cherub stood about six feet away. He beamed at the women like a chubby sun emerging from a cloud. No more than five feet tall, he sported a gray suit that wouldn’t have been out of place on Madison Avenue in the 1950s.

“Oh, goody, just what this little shindig needed.” The venom in Della Duffy’s tone startled me. “Winnie, shouldn’t you be back in your hobbit hole finding another dead writer to rip off?”