“I believe I read in an article once that other nonsyndicate writers complained that the syndicate tried to get their series quashed so they wouldn’t compete with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, for example.” Those claims, I reasoned at the time, might have been nothing more than the proverbial sour grapes, due to the phenomenal success of Nancy and the Hardys, but I didn’t really know for sure. Mrs. Cartwright naturally had a right to her own opinion on the matter.
“I could tell you plenty.” The elderly author shook her head. “But there’s no point in it now. Everyone else concerned is long gone.” She flashed a sudden grin. “I’ve outlived them all.”
Teresa addressed Mrs. Cartwright. “You and your work will be the focus of this exhibit. I want to assure you of that. We’ll have examples of the other girl detectives, but you and your books are the centerpiece.”
“That’s good. If I’ve got pride of place, then I don’t mind sharing.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed again. “What other plans did you have beside the exhibit?”
“That was the sum of it originally,” Teresa said. “But with your being so close by, we wondered whether you would be interested in some kind of public appearance.”
“Meet my adoring fans, you mean.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed. “Sure, I would love to do that. Haven’t actually talked to one of them face-to-face in years. Had plenty of letters, though.”
“That’s terrific,” I said. “One idea I had was a public interview. You wouldn’t have to give a speech, unless of course you want to. More along the lines of my interviewing you in front of an audience, give them a chance to listen and perhaps ask a few questions of their own at the end.”
“I think I’d like that. Less wear and tear on me. Count me in.” Mrs. Cartwright smiled, obviously pleased. “It would be lovely to see a roomful of my readers.”
“Absolutely not. That’s a terrible idea.” Marcella Marter plunked a tray of drinks down on a nearby table and glared at her mother. “I absolutely forbid it.”
FOUR
Teresa and I exchanged startled glances. Neither of us had expected such unpleasant family dynamics.
“I beg your pardon.” Mrs. Cartwright stuck out her chin as she gazed in Marcella Marter’s direction. Her voice grew slightly deeper, perhaps from irritation, as she continued, “You forbid it? No, I don’t think so.”
I would have sworn I felt the temperature drop in the room when Mrs. Cartwright responded. Diesel, in obvious distress at the sudden tension, pulled away from Mrs. Cartwright. He sprang from the sofa and landed mere inches from my feet. He took refuge under my chair, and I leaned sideways to rub his back.
“Mother, I don’t think you realize how exhausted you’ll be if you try to do something like that. You’re not used to going out in public anymore.” Marcella, arms crossed over her chest, regarded her parent intently. She didn’t appear to be backing down, despite her mother’s displeasure.
“I’m well aware of all that, you silly woman.” Mrs. Cartwright’s tone grew fiercer as she continued. “I will not tolerate your attempts to dictate the terms of my life. I have the Lord only knows how much longer on this earth, and I want some little bit of pleasure out of it before I go.”
By now I figured Teresa was as uncomfortable and ready to get the heck out of this room as Diesel and I were, but there was little we could do.
“Are you going to keep standing there like a stone-faced baboon, or are you going to offer our guests a cool drink?” Mrs. Cartwright faced Teresa and me without waiting to see whether her daughter would comply with her command. “Marcella goes overboard trying to look after me. I’m old, but I’m not completely decrepit yet. I have more stamina than she thinks.”
“We’re delighted to know that you’re in such good health.” I decided I’d better speak in an effort to defuse the situation. “It’s only natural that Mrs. Marter wants to take care of you.”
“We’ll make every effort to see that the events we’re planning don’t tax your strength too much,” Teresa said. “And if at any time you don’t feel up to participating, you just let us know. Everyone will understand.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Mrs. Cartwright accepted a tall glass from her daughter. Mrs. Marter’s expression remained mulish, but I supposed she had decided that protesting further in front of guests would not be seemly. “Marcella makes the best sweet tea. Y’all drink up. I’m sure you’re parched by now.”
That was the first kind thing I’d heard Mrs. Cartwright say about her daughter. I surely hoped they got along better in private than they did with company around.
Teresa and I accepted glasses, and I took a cautious sip. Mrs. Cartwright hadn’t exaggerated. The tea was absolutely delicious, sweet, but not cloyingly so, and brewed to perfection. I drank half of my glass quickly, happy to feel the cold liquid sliding down.
“I brought water for your cat.” Mrs. Marter plunked a bowl on the floor by my chair and poured water from a small pitcher into it. Diesel peeped out from under my chair and looked first at Mrs. Marter, then at me. “Go ahead, boy, if you want some,” I told him. He sniffed at the bowl before he dipped his head and began to lap at the liquid.
“Thank you. It was kind of you to think of him.” I held up my glass. “And your mother is right. This tea is wonderful.”
“It sure is.” Teresa smiled. “Hits the spot beautifully.”
Mrs. Marter flushed, apparently embarrassed by the praise. “Thank you. There’s more if you want.”
Teresa and I both asked for refills, and Mrs. Cartwright regarded us benignly—or so I thought, since it was hard to read her expression thanks to her dark glasses. When you can’t see a person’s eyes, you can never truly tell what’s going on in her head. At least she smiled at us.
Teresa set her glass on the floor beside her chair and then reached into her purse to extract a few pages. She examined them before she stood to hand one to Mrs. Cartwright. “This is a tentative schedule I drew up. Please look over it at your leisure, and let me know later if everything is okay. We can adjust it however you like.”
Mrs. Cartwright accepted the paper and appeared to examine it. “At first glance this looks just fine to me, but I’ll go over it with Marcella and Eugene and then let you know.”
“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.”