Free The Silence of the Library by Miranda James

of her claim appeared to be lost on Mrs. Taylor.
    “What about this agent?” I asked. “Should we call her and explain the situation? She must have dealt with this kind of thing before.”
    “I have her number written down somewhere.” Teresa hunted through three small stacks of paper on her desk until she found what she needed. She punched in the digits on her office phone while Mrs. Taylor and I waited in silence.
    “Good afternoon. I’d like to speak to Yancy Thigpen please.” Teresa paused for a moment. “Teresa Farmer, director of the public library in Athena, Mississippi. I’ve spoken with Ms. Thigpen before.” Another pause, much longer this time. Finally Teresa said, “I see. Thank you very much.” She put down the receiver.
    “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Taylor said, “she wouldn’t talk to you, would she?” She sounded upset.
    “No, it wasn’t that.” Teresa smiled. “Actually, it’s probably good news. The assistant, or whoever he was, told me Ms. Thigpen is flying down to Athena today.” She checked her watch. “In fact, she should have arrived at the airport in Memphis by now. She ought to be in town in an hour or so, unless she gets lost on the way.”
    “Do you think we should try to postpone this discussion with Mrs. Marter until the agent is here and can take part?” That would be the best thing to do, I thought.
    “Too late,” Teresa said in an undertone. She stood and nodded toward the doorway. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Marter.” She came from behind her desk to approach the visitor.
    Mrs. Taylor craned her neck around to see. I stood to offer my chair to Mrs. Cartwright.
    “Marcella, move out of the way.” Mrs. Cartwright’s voice sounded from outside the office. “I need to sit down.”
    “There isn’t much room in my office,” Teresa said as Mrs. Marter moved aside at her mother’s command. “Why don’t we go to our small meeting room instead? It’s only a few feet farther.”
    “Very well.” Mrs. Cartwright allowed Teresa to take her left arm as she leaned heavily on the cane in her right hand. Though slightly stooped, she was an inch or so taller than Teresa, who was about five-five. Marcella Marter trailed behind them, and Mrs. Taylor and I brought up the rear.
    Teresa flipped the light switch as she guided our guest into the room and helped her to a chair. She sat next to the elderly woman around a smallish rectangular table that could accommodate ten people. Mrs. Marter took the chair on her mother’s free side, while Mrs. Taylor and I went to sit across from them.
    Mrs. Cartwright, swathed in black, with a black scarf around her neck and black gloves on her hands, sported large-framed dark sunglasses. The red hair provided a sharp contrast to her clothes, and her face had been expertly—though heavily from what I could tell—made up. I supposed she was vain enough about her appearance that she didn’t want to look like a centenarian in public.
    “This is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Cartwright.” Teresa smiled. “I thought your grandson was coming with you.”
    “Eugene had something else to do.” Mrs. Cartwright bumped her cane against the edge of the table. “Besides, this is my business, not any of his. Nor any of my daughter’s. Isn’t that right, Marcella?”
    “Yes, Mother.” Marcella stared at her lap and spoke in a whisper.
    “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cartwright. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in person.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice, quavery at first, grew more assured as she continued. “I thought I wouldn’t get to meet you until next week, but here you are.”
    “Who are you?” Mrs. Cartwright sounded brusque. “I know Mr. Harris there”—she nodded at me—“but I don’t know you.”
    Mrs. Taylor giggled. “Oh, dear, I have completely forgotten my manners, haven’t I? I’m Carrie Taylor, the editor and publisher of the EBC newsletter,
The Thane Chronicles
.”
    “Then I suppose I should thank you for all the work you’ve done to