The Silence of the Library

Miranda James

COVER

PRAISE FOR TITLES BY MIRANDA JAMES

PRAISE FOR

Out of Circulation

“This installment of the adventures of Charlie and Diesel has all the twists and turns that make a good mystery a great read.”

—Sharon’s Garden of Book Reviews

“The old Southern charm recollects Rita Mae Brown’s Sneaky Pie series (without the talking animals), while Charlie’s investigative techniques may bring some of Agatha Christie’s characters to mind.”

—Library Journal

“Like its predecessors, Out of Circulation offers a pleasing blend of crime and charm, filled with familiar and cherished characters, biped and quadruped.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Even if you don’t like cats, there’s plenty to enjoy in this traditional cozy.”

—RT Book Reviews

“This fourth installment of the Cat in the Stacks series keeps you involved until the last page.”

—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

File M for Murder

“Readers who have come to love Charlie and Diesel and the small-town ambience of Athena will find File M for Murder another pleasant diversion, complete with an intriguing plot in which the silence of the library threatens to become the silence of the grave.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

“This charming, classic cozy features full-on Southern charm. Well plotted and evenly paced, with fairly laid out clues for those who like to solve along with the sleuth. Charlie and Diesel are a delightful detective team, and the idea of a male amateur sleuth/librarian with a cat is a refreshing twist on an old trope.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Will make you a cat lover if you are not already one.”

—Once Upon a Romance

“This cozy mystery makes for a leisurely and enjoyable read. It is well plotted, and the protagonist and the secondary characters are multidimensional and likable. And of course, there’s Diesel . . . a thoroughly lovable cat who is an integral part of the story.”

—The Conscious Cat

“James has [a] winner with this one, readers won’t want to miss it.”

—Debbie’s Book Bag

Classified as Murder

“Bringing local color to life, this second entry in the series . . . is a gentle, closed-room drama set in Mississippi. Ideal for Christie fans who enjoy a good puzzle.”

—Library Journal

“Readers will enjoy this entertaining regional whodunit as the librarian and the cat work the case.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“A hit with bibliophiles and animal lovers, not to mention anyone who likes a well-plotted mystery. The characters are unique and often eccentric. Having a male amateur sleuth with a subplot that explores his relationship with his adult son brings a fresh twist to the genre.”

—RT Book Reviews

Murder Past Due

“Combines a kindhearted librarian hero, family secrets in a sleepy Southern town, and a gentle giant of a cat that will steal your heart. A great beginning to a promising new cozy series.”

—Lorna Barrett, New York Times bestselling author

“Courtly librarian Charlie Harris and his Maine coon cat, Diesel, are an endearing detective duo. Warm, charming, and Southern as the tastiest grits.”

—Carolyn Hart, national bestselling author of
the Bailey Ruth Mysteries

“Brings cozy lovers an intriguing mystery, a wonderful cat, and a librarian hero who will warm your heart. Filled with Southern charm, the first in the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries will keep readers guessing until the end. Miranda James should soon be on everyone’s list of favorite authors.”

—Leann Sweeney, author of
the Cats in Trouble Mysteries

“Murder Past Due has an excellent plot, great execution, and a surprising ending. This book is a must read!”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“Miranda James begins the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries with a bang . . . [An] absolute breath of fresh air.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Readers will adore Charlie and Diesel.”

—Socrates’ Book Reviews Blog

“Read Murder Past Due for the mystery and an enjoyable amateur sleuth . . . You’ll find yourself wishing for the next book to catch up with Diesel.”

—Lesa’s Book Critiques

Please visit Diesel the cat at facebook.com/DieselHarriscat.

ALSO BY MIRANDA JAMES

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Miranda James

MURDER PAST DUE

CLASSIFIED AS MURDER

FILE M FOR MURDER

OUT OF CIRCULATION

THE SILENCE OF THE LIBRARY

TITLE PAGE

THE SILENCE OF
THE LIBRARY

Miranda James

COPYRIGHT

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

THE SILENCE OF THE LIBRARY

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13731-8

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2014

Cover illustration by Dan Craig.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

DEDICATION

With great respect and admiration, and with
thanks for countless hours of pleasure and vicarious
adventure, this book is dedicated to the memories
of Mildred Wirt Benson, Margaret Sutton, and Julie
Campbell Tatham. Without Nancy Drew, Judy Bolton,
and Trixie Belden, I would never have had so
much fun in childhood and adolescence.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks go as always to the members of my weekly critique group for their consistently valuable input: Julie, Kay F., Kay K., Laura, Millie, and Bob. Huge thanks as well to the Soparkar-Hairston clan for their hospitality in providing an inviting atmosphere for our meetings.

Without the support and patience of my wonderful editor, Michelle Vega, and my indefatigable agent, Nancy Yost, I would be lost. Berkley Prime Crime has provided a happy home for Charlie and Diesel, and I am thrilled with the consistently gorgeous covers. Diesel thinks the “cover cat” who serves as his body double is a handsome dude—though, of course, not nearly so handsome as he is!

Finally, my two dear friends and constant cheerleaders, Patricia Orr and Terry Farmer, patiently read each book, chapter by chapter, in spurts and deluges, and offer helpful comments and unfailing support. I am truly blessed to have such friends.

ONE

Lightning tore through the sky, and a brilliant flash of light struck the ground near the road. Sparks flew, and a massive tree split and started to fall. The pert red roadster trembled as Veronica Thane urged it forward.

The huge oak threatened to land on her car, and only the girl’s swift reflexes saved her from sure annihilation. The car shot ahead as a section of the mighty tree struck the road behind it.

Veronica Thane’s hands tightened on the wheel as she peered through the sudden deluge of rain on her windscreen that rendered her all but blind. When another bolt of lightning briefly illuminated the dark sky, the intrepid girl caught a glimpse of a driveway ten feet ahead.

Her heart thudded painfully as terror gripped her, but she called upon her deep reserves of fortitude and guided the roadster through the storm. Her breath coming in gasps, she jerked the wheel to the right, and her car shot into the driveway at a fast clip. More lightning, now mercifully farther away, offered her just enough light to see the dark, hulking outlines of a mansion some distance ahead.

Shelter lay before her!

Through the wind-whipped trees that lined the drive, Veronica spotted dim lights in several windows. Now she had only to reach the house, and surely the residents would offer her refuge from the wild turmoil of the storm.

The roadster shuddered to an abrupt halt as Veronica reached the impressive double front door. Lightning once again offered a fleeting look at the building that now loomed over her. Rain pelted down as the light faded, but the plucky girl had seen her goal.

She thrust her door open and stepped into the tempest. As she darted forward, instantly drenched, she recalled her handbag, still in the roadster. Now there was no turning back.

The girl pounded up the stairs of the portico that protected the massive front entrance. She raised the heavy, ornate knocker, shaped like a gargoyle’s monstrous head, and banged it against the dark heavy oak. Surely, despite the fury of the storm, someone within would hear her and invite her inside.

I smiled as I closed the book and laid it next to me on the bed. I first read The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion over forty years ago when, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I discovered my late aunt Dottie’s collection of the adventures of Veronica Thane. I had finished my library books and was desperate for something to read, but the library was closed. Aunt Dottie sent me to one of the spare bedrooms on the third floor and told me to search the bookshelves there.

“That’s where I keep some of my treasures.” Aunt Dottie had smiled as she shooed me out of the kitchen. “Mind you, handle them gently.” The words floated after me as I scurried away.

Odd how certain memories linger.

I recalled my headlong rush up the two flights of stairs and the moment when I turned on the light and beheld a wall of books. How had I missed this room before?

I don’t know how long I stood and gazed at the hundreds of books, but I ended up seated on the floor in front of the shelves. My hands ran over the spines, all covered in dust jackets, and the titles in one section tantalized me with words such as mystery, secret, clue, and terror.

Finally I stopped my fingers from roaming and pulled a book gently off the shelf. I examined the cover. A dark-haired girl stood under a tree in the foreground, her eyes focused on a spooky-looking manor. The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion stood out in bold letters, followed by A Veronica Thane Mystery by Electra Barnes Cartwright.

I stretched out on the floor, opened the book, and began to read.

From what I recall, I didn’t move from the spot until I finished the book. By then, Aunt Dottie was calling me down for dinner. All I could talk about that evening was Veronica Thane, and Aunt Dottie joined in the conversation about her childhood favorite.

After that I always associated Aunt Dottie with Veronica and the other girl detectives whose adventures made up that amazing collection. Nancy Drew, the Dana Girls, Judy Bolton, Cherry Ames, Vicki Barr, Connie Blair, Penny Parker, and more besides. Then there were the boy sleuths: the Hardy Boys, Ken Holt, Rick Brant, and so on.

Over the next several years I worked my way through hundreds of those books before moving on to more adult fare, such as Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, and Henry Gamadge. Aunt Dottie sparked my love of mysteries and fed it with her huge collection. I still had every one of her books, each too precious ever to let go.

A large, furry creature leapt onto the bed near my feet and interrupted my reverie. My Maine Coon cat, Diesel, chirped at me, determined to capture my focus.

“Sorry to neglect you, boy, but I was reliving my youth for a few minutes there.” I grinned as Diesel butted my head, still chirping. He loved attention, and he returned it with often energetic affection. He climbed onto my legs, all thirty-six pounds of him.

“Hang on a moment, boy, you’re a bit heavy.” Diesel muttered as I spread my legs. He slid between them and resettled himself, his head in my lap with his body stretched out. He purred loudly with a sound reminiscent of his namesake engine.

With the cat comfortably in place and myself reasonably so, I picked up my book, found my place, and delved into the story again.

Lightning rent the sky once more, and the bedraggled girl huddled in the meager shelter of the portico. She grasped the knocker, ready to knock a second time, when the door swung inward, quickly and silently. She stumbled forward into the dimly lit foyer, righted herself, and turned to greet the person who admitted her. The door creaked shut.

Veronica Thane stifled a gasp as her eyes beheld the cadaverous, elongated figure of the ancient man who stood before her. “He must be eighty years old,” she thought. “And well over six feet tall.”

“Good afternoon, miss.” The butler—for so he must be, as he wore the usual garb of such a servant—spoke in a high, thin voice. “The mistress will be pleased that you managed to arrive early, despite the storm.”

Veronica gasped. What could he mean?

A voice called my name, and I put the book aside with some reluctance. “Yes, Azalea, I’m in here.” I sat up and tried to disentangle Diesel from my legs, but he wasn’t interested in moving. I had to scoot myself backward a few inches before I was clear enough to swing one leg over him. Then I twisted until I sat on the side of the bed.

“What you doing all the way up here, Mr. Charlie?” Azalea Berry, my housekeeper, frowned at me from the doorway. “And what you doing messing up that bed after I cleaned in here this morning?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb things.” I retrieved the book and tucked it under my arm before I stood. “Diesel and I were just reading. I came up here to look for something, and I got sidetracked by the books. I just had to lie down and read for a few minutes.”

Azalea nodded as the ghost of a smile flitted by. “Miss Dottie used to do that, too. Sometimes I couldn’t find her nowhere, and up here she’d be, stretched out on that bed, reading one of them books of hers.”

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.”

“That’s amazing.” I sat on the bed, and Diesel hopped up beside me. “She’ll be a hundred on her birthday this year, whenever it is.”

“That’s right. I looked her up in Contemporary Authors. She’ll be a hundred in May. How do you remember these things?”

“One of my habits, storing away useless trivia.” I laughed. “There must be some connection between girls’ mystery series and longevity. Both Mildred Wirt Benson and Margaret Sutton lived to be nearly a hundred.”

“I know Benson wrote many of the early Nancy Drew books,” Teresa said. “Who was Margaret Sutton?”

“She wrote the Judy Bolton books.”

“I don’t remember reading those,” Teresa said. “They must not have been around when I first discovered and read books like that.”

Teresa, in her midthirties, was a good fifteen years younger than I, and the Judy Bolton books were out of print by the time she came along. I mentioned this, and she laughed.

“Obviously I’ve missed a good series. You’ll have to tell me more about them later, because you probably know all there is to know about Judy Bolton. Otherwise you wouldn’t be advising us on our National Library Week exhibit.”

I had picked up a fair amount of knowledge over the years about series books, such as Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, and I was delighted to put my seemingly arcane knowledge to good use for once.

“Now back to Ms. Cartwright.” Teresa reclaimed my attention. “I started noodling around on the Internet. Came up with the number for an agent named Yancy Thigpen and thought I’d take a chance and call.”

“What did you want from the agent?” I asked. “Unless you suspected that Electra Barnes Cartwright was actually still alive.”

“I thought that was unlikely,” Teresa said. “I was hoping the agent might know of any artifacts or special materials we could use for the exhibit. I never dreamed she would tell me that the author was still living.”

“That is a wonderful surprise.”

“This whole thing is coming together like it’s truly meant to be.” I could picture her bouncing in her chair judging from the enthusiasm bubbling in her voice. “Now for the really big news—not only is she still alive, but Electra Barnes Cartwright lives nearby. How’s that for amazing?”

I felt dazed. “I knew she grew up around Calhoun City”—a small town about a hundred miles south of Athena—“but from what little I remember reading about her, she left the South and settled in Connecticut when she was in her twenties. When did she come back to Mississippi?”

“About twenty years ago. Yancy said Mrs. Cartwright lives quietly out in the country with her widowed daughter and grandson, between here and Mineola. Do you know them? Marcella and Eugene Marter.”

“No, can’t say as I do.” Diesel bumped his head against my arm to signal his need for attention. I rubbed my hand along his back as Teresa continued.

“Marcella has a library card but I don’t think she uses it much. But that’s neither here nor there. One more awesome thing.” She chuckled.

When she didn’t continue immediately, I said, “Okay, out with it before I pop a gasket here.”

“If you aren’t too busy tomorrow,” Teresa responded, “how would you like to go with me to meet Electra Barnes Cartwright?”

I laughed heartily. “I think you can figure out my answer. What time and where shall I meet you?”

We arranged to meet at the library a little before nine for an appointment at nine thirty. The drive to the Marter home should take only twenty minutes at most.

“Bring Diesel along,” Teresa said. “I asked whether Ms. Cartwright would have any objection to a cat, and Yancy told me she loves animals. Besides, he’s such a good icebreaker if we need one.”

“He definitely is that.” Plus he always seemed to know when he was being talked about, because I noticed him staring intently at the phone. He chirped loudly several times, as if to tell me he would be happy to go along. “Did you hear that?”

Teresa laughed. “Yes, I did. He’s given his approval to the visit, too.”

“That settles it. See you tomorrow.” I rang off and stowed the phone in my pocket. “Come on, boy, let’s go downstairs and get something to eat.” I set the copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion on the nightstand for bedtime reading before I followed Diesel out of the bedroom.

• • •

The sky on Tuesday morning promised heavy rain, and the clouds grew darker as Teresa and I departed the library in my car. I’d checked the weather report last night, and the forecast gave only a twenty percent chance of rain. More like eighty percent, it seemed to me as I examined conditions.

Diesel stretched out in the backseat, his purr a basso continuo to our thoughts. Teresa provided the directions, and I cast anxious eyes to the heavens as I drove. The weather reminded me eerily of the opening scene in The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion. No lightning yet, but I had a feeling the distant rumble of thunder presaged plenty of it to come.

“Yancy said Ms. Cartwright is a hoot to talk to. Definitely knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to speak it.” Teresa fiddled with the strap of the seat belt across her chest, and I could tell the weather made her as nervous as it did me. “She’s also pretty active. Walks at least a couple miles a day, unless the weather’s bad, or it’s too hot.”

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