I glanced at the four-poster, almost as if I expected to see my late aunt lying there. For a moment I could have sworn I saw the dim outline of a person, but when I blinked, the image faded. Diesel warbled and rubbed against my leg. I wondered whether he sensed another presence in the room as I had.

“Yes, she loved her books.” I showed The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion to Azalea, and she glanced at the cover. “This series was one of her favorites. What I came looking for, actually. The public library is doing a special exhibit for National Library Week next month, and it’s going to feature the author. She would have been a hundred years old this year.”

Azalea peered at the book again. “Miz Dottie loved those from when she was a little bitty thing. I reckon she told me about that Veronica girl a hundred times, how much she admired her when she was growing up.”

I felt a sudden lump in my throat as another memory surfaced from a conversation with my aunt when I was about twelve. I asked her why she didn’t have any children of her own, and she told me she once had a little girl, but the angels came for her when she was only six months old and took her back to Heaven with them. She had named her daughter Veronica.

Azalea must have sensed my sudden discomfort, and Diesel did, too. He warbled loudly and rubbed against my leg again as Azalea stepped back and motioned for me to follow her into the hall.

I clicked off the light and shut the door behind us. “You were looking for me, weren’t you?” I asked.

Azalea nodded. “Yes, sir, you had a phone call from that lady at the library, Miz Farmer. When I couldn’t find you right away, I told her I’d get you to call her back soon as I did.”

“Sorry it took you so long to find me.” I followed her toward the stairs, Diesel at my heels. “I’ll go call her back right now.”

Azalea continued down the stairs when we reached the second floor, but Diesel followed me into my bedroom, where I retrieved my cell phone from the nightstand.

I speed-dialed Teresa Farmer, director of the Athena Public Library. She answered right away. I identified myself, but before I could apologize for the delay, she spoke over me.

“Charlie, you’re not going to believe this.” I heard the excitement bubbling in Teresa’s voice. “She’s not dead!”

TWO

Before I could respond, Teresa repeated her last statement. “She’s not dead!”

Teresa had me flummoxed. “Who’s not dead?”

“Sorry, Charlie.” Teresa chuckled. “Electra Barnes Cartwright. I found out she’s still alive and apparently sharp as the proverbial tack.”