5.

Bruce lived in a Victorian home ten minutes by foot from Bay Books. After the obligatory post-lunch siesta in his office at the store, he left midafternoon and walked home to prepare for dinner. Even in the depths of summer, he preferred to have his fancy meals on the veranda, under a couple of creaky old fans and next to a gurgling fountain. His favorite cuisine came from south Louisiana, and for the evening he had hired Chef Claude, a bona-fide Cajun who’d been on the island for thirty years. He was already in the kitchen, whistling as he hovered over a large copper pot on the stove. They bantered for a moment but Bruce knew better than to hang around. The chef was a big talker and when fully engaged often forgot about his food.

The temperature was in the low nineties and Bruce went upstairs to change. He peeled out of his daily seersucker and bow tie and put on grungy shorts and a T-shirt, no shoes. Back in the kitchen, he opened two cold bottles of beer, gave one to the chef, and took the other one to the veranda to set the table.

At these moments he really missed Noelle. She imported antiques from the South of France and was a master at decorating. Her favorite chore was preparing a table for a dinner party. Her collection of vintage china, glasses, and flatware was astonishing and still growing. Some she bought to stock her store, but the rarest stuff, and the most beautiful, she kept for their private use. In Noelle’s book, a gorgeous table was a gift to their guests, and no one could do it like her. She often photographed them both before and during the dinners, and framed the best ones to hang for her customers to admire.

The table was twelve feet long and for centuries had been used in a winery in Languedoc. They had found it together a year earlier when they spent a month on a shopping spree. Flush with ill-gotten cash, they had virtually raided Provence and bought so much stuff that they rented space in a warehouse in Avignon.

On a sideboard in the dining room, Noelle had carefully laid out the perfect dishes. Twelve vintage porcelain plates that had been hand-painted for a minor count in the 1700s. Lots of silverware, six pieces for each setting. And dozens of glasses for water and wine and digestifs.

The wineglasses were often problematic. Evidently Noelle’s French ancestors didn’t drink as much as Bruce’s American writers, and the old glasses held barely three ounces when fully loaded. At a rowdy dinner party years earlier, Bruce and his guests had become frustrated with the need to refill the dainty glasses every ten minutes or so. Since then, he insisted on more modern versions that held eight ounces of red, six for white. Noelle, who drank little, had acquiesced and found a collection of goblets from Burgundy that would impress an Irish rugby team.

Next to the dishes was a detailed diagram of the proper setting that she had prepared three days earlier when she left town. Bruce went about the business of arranging the linen placemats, the silk table runners, the candelabras, and then the dishes and glasses. The florist arrived and fussed over the table as she rearranged things and bickered with Bruce. When the table was perfect, according to her, Bruce took a photo and sent it to Noelle, who was somewhere in the Alps with her other companion. It was of magazine quality and ready for a dozen guests, though with their dinners the exact number was never certain until the food was served. Strays often materialized at the last moment and added to the fun.

Bruce went to the fridge for another beer.

6.

Cocktails were scheduled for 6:00 p.m. However, the guests were a bunch of writers and none would dare arrive before seven. Myra Beckwith and Leigh Trane showed up first and entered without knocking. Bruce met them on the veranda and mixed a rum and soda for Leigh and poured a stout ale for Myra.

The ladies had been a couple for over thirty years. As writers, they had struggled to pay the bills until they discovered the genre of soft porn romance novels. They cranked out a hundred of them under a dozen pseudonyms and made enough money to retire to the island and live in a quaint old house just around the corner from Bruce. Now, in their mid-seventies, they wrote little. Leigh fancied herself a tortured literary artist but her writing was impenetrable and her novels, the few she got published, sold next to nothing. She was always working on a novel but never finishing one. She claimed to be embarrassed by the junk they’d published but enjoyed the money. Myra, on the other hand, was proud of their work and longed for the glory days creating steamy sex scenes with pirates and young virgins and such.

Myra was a large woman with a crew cut dyed lavender. In a lame effort to hide some of her bulk, she wore loud flowing robes that would work nicely as bedsheets for a queen-size. Leigh, on the other hand, was tiny with dark features and long black hair piled neatly into a bun. Both ladies adored Bruce and Noelle, and the four dined together often.

Myra gulped her brew and asked him, “Have you seen Mercer?”

“Yes, we had lunch today, along with Thomas, her bodyguard these days.”

“Is he cute?” Leigh asked.

“He’s a nice-looking guy, a few years younger. One of her students.”

“Go, girl,” Myra said. “Did you ever learn the real reason she left here so abruptly three years ago?”

“Not really. Some sort of family business.”

“Well, we’ll get to the bottom of it tonight, I can assure you of that.”

“Now Myra,” Leigh said softly. “We’ll not be prying.”

“Hell if we won’t. Prying is what I do best. I want the gossip. Is Andy coming by?”

“Maybe.”

“I’d like to see him. He was so much more fun when he was in the sauce.”

“Now Myra. That’s a touchy subject.”

“If you ask me, there’s nothing more boring than a sober writer.”

“He needs sobriety, Myra,” Bruce said. “We’ve had this conversation.”

“And what about this Nelson Kerr fellow? I find him boring even when he’s not sober.”

“Now Myra.”

“Nelson will be here,” Bruce said. “I was thinking he might be a good match for Mercer, but she’s occupied at the moment.”

“Who made you a matchmaker?” Myra quipped as they noticed J. Andrew Cobb, or Bob Cobb as they called him, walking through the door. As usual, he was wearing pink shorts, sandals, and a gaudy floral print shirt. Without missing a beat Myra said, “Hello Bob. You shouldn’t have dressed up for the occasion.” She gave him a quick hug as Bruce stepped to the bar and mixed vodka and soda.

Cobb was an ex-con who’d served time in a federal pen for sins that were still vague. He wrote crime novels that sold well but had far too much prison violence, at least in Bruce’s opinion. He hugged Leigh, said, “Hello ladies. Always a pleasure.”

“A good day on the beach?” Myra asked, looking for trouble.

Cobb’s skin was a dark, leathery brown, a perpetual tan that he maintained with hours in the sun. His reputation was that of an aging beach bum who admired bikinis and was always on the prowl. He smiled at Myra and said, “Every day on the beach is a good one, my dear.”

“How old was she?” Myra asked.

“Now Myra,” Leigh cooed as Bruce handed him a drink.

“Old enough, barely,” Cobb said and laughed.

Amy Slater was the youngest of the group and was making more money than the others combined. She had struck gold with a series about young vampires, and there was even a movie in the works. She and her husband, Dan, arrived on the veranda along with Andy Adam. Jay Arklerood was right behind them and managed a rare smile as greetings were made. He was a brooding poet who often dodged the dinners. Myra, the Queen Bee, had no use for him. Bruce fetched drinks, an ice water for Andy, and listened to the banter. Amy went on about her movie, though there were problems with the script. Dan stood quietly by her side. He had retired from employment and took care of the kids so she could write full-time.

The party was buzzing when Mercer and Thomas made their entrance. She swapped hugs as she introduced her new fella. The gang was delighted to see her and gushed about her new book, which most had read. As they talked, Nelson Kerr eased onto the scene and fixed a drink at the bar. He joined the circle around Mercer, and Bruce made the introductions.

After a few minutes, the conversations spun off in different directions. Andy and Bruce discussed the storm. Myra cornered Thomas and began drilling into his past. Bob Cobb and Nelson had gone fishing the day before and needed to relive their catches. Leigh was going through Mercer’s novel chapter by chapter and couldn’t get enough of the story. Drinks were refilled and no one was in a hurry to sit down to dinner.

The last guest to join them was Nick Sutton, a college boy who spent his summers on the island tending to a fine home owned by his grandparents. As was their annual ritual, they had fled the Florida heat and were roaming the country in a camper. Nick worked at the bookstore, and when he wasn’t on duty he surfed and sailed and looked for girls. He read at least one crime novel a day and dreamed of writing bestsellers. Bruce had read his short stories and thought the kid had talent. Nick had lobbied hard for the invitation to dinner and was almost overwhelmed to be included.

At 7:30, Chef Claude informed Bruce that it was time to eat. Andy whispered to his host and eased away without another word. Sobriety was difficult enough during dry evenings. He wasn’t tempted to drink, but the last thing he wanted was a three-hour dinner with wine flowing.

Bruce pointed to chairs and got them seated properly. He sat at one end and Mercer, the guest of honor, had the other, with Thomas to her right. There were eleven in all, the literary mafia of Camino Island plus Nick Sutton. Bruce passed along best wishes from Noelle, who hated to miss the fun but was with them in spirit. Everyone knew she was off in Europe with her steady French boyfriend and no one was surprised. They had long ago accepted the open marriage and no one cared. If Bruce and Noelle were happy, their friends were not about to question the arrangement.

Bruce had never liked by-the-hour servers buzzing around his table and eavesdropping on the conversations, so he didn’t use them. He and Claude poured the wine and water and served the first appetizer course, a small bowl of spicy gumbo.

“It’s too hot for gumbo,” Myra growled mid-table. “I’ll be soaked.”

“Cold wine always helps,” Bruce shot back.

“What’s the main course?” she asked.

“Everything’s spicy.”

Bob Cobb said, “So, Mercer, last stop on the tour, right? And I loved the book, by the way.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Yes, the last stop.”

“Coast to coast?”

“Yes, thirty-three stops. Tomorrow is thirty-four.”

“You’ll have a huge crowd tomorrow, Mercer,” Amy said. “A lot of the locals remember your grandmother and they’re very proud of you.”

“I knew Tessa,” Bruce said. “But, as I look around the table, I believe that no one here was living on the island when she died. What was it, Mercer, twelve years ago?”

“Fourteen.”

Myra said, “We moved here thirteen years ago to get away from a bunch of writers. Look what’s happened. Everyone followed us here.”

Bob said, “And I believe I was next, about ten years ago, right after I got paroled.”

“Please, Bob,” Myra snapped. “No more prison stories. After your last book I felt like I’d been gang-raped.”

“Now Myra.”

“So you liked it?” Bob asked.

“Loved it.”

“Anyway,” Bruce said loudly. “I’d like to propose a toast to, first of all, Mr. Leo. May he remain at sea and just go away. And, more importantly, to our dear friend Mercer and her wonderful new book, number five on the big list and rising. Cheers!”

They clinked glasses and took a drink.

“I have a question, Mercer,” Leigh said. “Did your grandmother, the real Tessa, really have a steamy romance with a younger man, here on the island?”

“That was the best part,” Myra interjected quickly. “That first seduction scene made my teeth sweat. Really well done, girl.”

“Thanks, Myra,” Mercer said. “Coming from you, that’s quite a compliment.”

“Don’t mention it. Of course I would’ve gone way overboard.”

“Now Myra.”

“But yes, once I was old enough to realize what was going on, I suspected Tessa spent a lot of time with the younger man when I wasn’t around.”

“And that was Porter, in real life?” Leigh asked.

“Yes. Porter lived here for many years. Fourteen years ago they died together in a storm.”

“I remember Porter, and the storm,” Bruce said. “It was one of the worst we’ve seen on the island, short of a hurricane.”

“Who’s talking about hurricanes?” Amy asked.

“Sorry. We’ve had our share of glancing blows but nothing terrible. The storm that got Tessa and Porter was an old-fashioned summer heat cell that came from the north with no warning.”

“And where was Tessa?” Amy asked. “I’m sorry, Mercer, if you don’t want to talk about this.”

“No, it’s fine. Tessa and Porter were not far out, just a lazy summer’s day in his sailboat. Porter and the boat were never seen again. Tessa was found in the surf near the North Pier two days later.”

Myra said, “Well, thank God you didn’t kill her off in your novel. I certainly would have.”

“You killed everyone, Myra,” Leigh said. “After you ran them through the sex grinder.”

“Murder sells, Leigh, almost as much as sex. Remember that when those royalty checks arrive.”

“So what’s next, Mercer?” Bob Cobb asked.

She smiled at Thomas and said, “Rest for a couple of weeks, though I’m already being hounded by Thomas and Bruce to start another novel.”

“I need something to sell,” Bruce said.

“So do I,” added Leigh, for a laugh.

Jay, the brooding poet, said, “My last book sold twenty copies. No one reads poetry.” As always, it was an awkward effort at humor and got a sympathetic laugh or two.

Myra almost blurted something like: And no one can read the crap you write. But instead she said, “I’ve told you before, Jay, you should write some really raunchy fiction under a pen name, make some money, like Bob, and do your little poetry thing as the real you. Still won’t sell, though.”

Bruce had seen this conversation go off the rails before, and he quickly intervened with “Can we toast the new deal, Mercer?”

She smiled and said, “Oh why not? Secrets are hard to keep around here.”

Bruce said, “A new two-book deal with Viking, as of this morning.”

They cheered and took turns congratulating Mercer as Claude removed the bowls. He poured more wine, a cold Chablis, and began serving the next course, a small platter of smoked oysters. A breeze materialized from the east and gently ruffled the thick air.

On his trips to and from the kitchen, Claude kept one eye on the small television near the stove. Leo was still out there, drifting, churning, puzzling the experts, with no apparent destination.