“Okay. I’m listening.”
“I don’t think there’s anything in his first three books, Bruce. Therefore, it has to be number four. And since he stepped outside his field, then someone approached him with the story. An insider. That’s the guy you have to find.”
Bruce reminded himself that this kid was only twenty-one. A well-read twenty-one, but still a kid nonetheless. “And how do we go about finding this person?”
“He’ll probably find you. What if Nelson promised him something, like a slice of the pie, or maybe some cash up front and the rest on the back end? If you had a really juicy story and wanted to spill the beans, wouldn’t you want some money?”
“Why not go to the FBI like Nelson did?”
“I don’t know. Nelson got screwed by the FBI, didn’t he?”
“He allegedly got five mil. Wanted more but he took what they offered.”
“But he wasn’t happy with the deal. Plus it’s taxable income, right?”
“Right.”
“So maybe this informant had his reasons to stay away from guys with badges, but he wanted the story told and he wanted to get paid. He cut a deal with Nelson and now Nelson got whacked. He’ll probably come sniffing around looking for his money.”
“There is no money. The book hasn’t been sold to a publisher.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know that. Will it get sold?”
“Probably. But according to my secret readers it’s not very good.”
“Do I know these readers?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Why can’t I read it?”
“Because you’re headed to Venice for a semester of hard work.”
“Let me read it and I’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll think about it. When do you leave?”
“Next week. Do the cops know about the book?”
“I don’t know. They have his computer, but, knowing Nelson, they won’t be able to turn it on.”
“Are they pushing hard?”
“What do you think?”
“Sorry. I saw online that the store has reopened. Congratulations. I already miss the place.”
“We’re open but nothing is selling. The locals aren’t thinking about books, and the tourists have disappeared.”
“Sorry, boss. I’ll send you a postcard from Venice.”
“We might get over there. I’ve never seen those canals.”
“Please come see me. I’ll need cheering up.”
“Right.”
Two hours later, as Bruce and Noelle were sipping wine on the veranda, Nick called back. “What is it now?” Bruce asked.
“Been thinking about this latest conspiracy. Is it safe to assume that Nelson’s murder will not be solved by the state police?”
“Probably.”
“Then go to the FBI. Murder for hire is a federal offense. A somewhat famous writer gets taken out with a contract. The FBI will be all over it.”
“So you’re a lawyer now?”
“No, but one of my roommates is in law school.”
“Can he find the nearest courthouse?”
“Probably not. But he’s a great guy.”
“No doubt. Look, Nick, I had lunch with my lawyer last week, and he can usually find the courthouse. On a good day. He says you have to be careful because fights between the locals and the Feds are easy to start and hard to stop. He thinks it’s best to wait a few weeks and see where the investigation goes. Fortunately, you’ll be out of the country and preoccupied elsewhere.”
“No doubt. Here’s the real reason I called. You know I really dig this stuff, and so I spend far too much time surfing the Internet. I ran across an interview with a retired super-sleuth who spent forty years investigating famous crimes. Specialized in murder. Ex-FBI and all that. He sort of let it slip that he also worked for a mysterious firm that did nothing but solve big crimes after the cops gave up. I kept digging and I found the firm, just in case you need it.”
“Why would I need it? He ain’t my brother.”
“Because I know you, and you’re about to spend whatever it takes to find Nelson’s killer. Because you care, Bruce.”
“Right, right. Shouldn’t you be studying?”
“Ha. Not this semester. I will not open a book. Or at least not a textbook. Please let me read Nelson’s manuscript.”
“I’m thinking. How’s your Italian?”
“I can say pizza and birra.”
“You’ll be fine.”
After a week on the island, Mercer was ready to leave. The cottage was intact and Larry had its repairs under control. With no tourists, the beach was deserted, and while this was usually desirable she now found it sad and depressing. The beachcombers were gone because the island was a wreck and it would be months or years before the allure of coastal living returned. She missed the laughter of children playing in the sand and wading in the surf. She missed the friendly “Good morning” from every single person she encountered. She missed the dogs straining at their leashes to say hello. The storm had disrupted the natural cycle of egg-laying by the greenbacks, and in her long solitary walks she found no trails left by the turtles. She found plenty of debris, though, and cleaning up the beach would take a long time. If she walked to the north she saw the damaged cottages and condos and family-owned motels. The gossip was filled with stories of owners who had no or inadequate flood insurance, and thus could not begin to clean up or rebuild.
Mercer decided to leave and come back in six months. Maybe then things would be better. Or maybe a year.
She and Thomas hosted a small dinner party on her deck, with Bruce and Noelle, and Myra and Leigh. Bob Cobb was still away pursuing cooler weather. Jay Arklerood, the poet, didn’t answer his phone. Amy was too busy with her kids. Summer was over and the gang was scattering. The gang was also burdened by the aftermath and fearful that life might never be the same. Bay Books was practically deserted these days, and that was enough to worry all its writers.
As Mercer packed her car early the next morning, she was delighted to be leaving the island. Her teaching duties at Ole Miss were calling, she had a novel to start, Thomas was bored with the beach, and they sped away wonderfully unburdened because it wasn’t really their home. When they came back in six months, perhaps there would be no trace of the storm and the island would be perfect again.
A month after burying her brother, Polly McCann returned to the island to assume her official capacity as executrix of his estate. Because he had little else to do and was bored hanging around an empty bookstore, Bruce met her at the airport and they drove to the state crime lab in Jacksonville.
Wesley Butler had agreed to pry himself away from his other urgent duties and give them half an hour of his time. That proved far too generous. Even with coffee served in paper cups, the meeting could have ended ten minutes after it began.
Butler said the investigation was proceeding nicely, though he provided few details and nothing new. Fingerprint analysis showed matches for Bruce, Nick, Bob Cobb, and Nelson himself, but that was expected. There were two prints that could not be matched. One probably belonged to Maria Peña, a housekeeper who cleaned each Wednesday afternoon. They were trying to coax her into providing prints, but she was undocumented and not cooperating. No sign of Ingrid Murphy or any blonde resembling her. The surveillance footage from the Hilton was gone. They were plowing through the digital records of dozens of rental units in the area, but it was the old needle-in-a-haystack routine. Nelson’s hard drive was impenetrable. Its encryption scheme had tied their experts in knots.
Not once did Butler think to ask Polly if she knew anything about Nelson’s last work in progress. The meeting was all about himself and his efforts, lame as they were. Driving away, Bruce and Polly were convinced that the state had all but closed the file. Butler and his “team” probably considered Nelson’s death an accident because they had no chance of solving a crime.
Bruce said, “I have a summary of the novel.”
“From Mercer Mann?”
“Yes.”
“She sent the thumb drive back. Let’s hear it.”
They had lunch at the Blue Fish, Bruce’s favorite seafood place in Jacksonville, and they arrived early enough to get a table in a quiet corner. The waitress brought Polly an herbal tea. For Bruce, a glass of sauvignon blanc. He ordered the crab salad and she asked for some raw tuna dish.
She said, “The initial appraisal of his condo is nine hundred thousand, and there’s no mortgage. I’m inclined to sell it because I don’t have time to play landlord.”
“I agree. But it might take a year or so for the market to rebound.”
“No other real estate. There is eight hundred thousand in cash—CD’s, Treasurys, a checking account. In Nelson’s will he leaves behind a hundred thousand in trust to each of my sons, his only nephews. That was a nice surprise because he never told me.”
“Who gets the rest?”
“Me, Mom, Dad, split three ways. And since the estate is under three million we shouldn’t worry about estate taxes. However, there is one complicating factor, an issue that may cause problems. Nothing with Nelson was ever easy.”
“He buried some money?”
“How’d you know?”
“It’s a common theme in his books. Someone is always funneling money through offshore accounts. In real life he was a lawyer who understood international trade. I’m not surprised. Did he hide it from his ex?”
“Apparently. When he got the reward for blowing the whistle, he bought a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stock in a new tech venture in Silicon Valley, but he did it through a shell company in Singapore. His wife and her lawyers never found it.”
“How’d you find it?”
“Two years ago he whispered to our father. I’ve reviewed his divorce papers and the stock was never mentioned.”
“What’s it worth?”
“Eight million.”
“Nice investment.”
“Brilliant. Now what do we do with it?”
“You need a lawyer.”
“I’ve hired a firm here in Jacksonville. My lawyer thinks we’ll have to deal with the ex-wife. A really unpleasant person. She’s already divorced number two and is living with number three.”
“But there’ll be a lot left over, right?”
“All of it. It’s tax-free under current law.”
“Congratulations.”
“I suppose,” she said softly as their plates arrived.
Bruce said, “I’m sorry. That was crude. There’s nothing to celebrate here.”
She smiled and glanced away. Ignoring the tuna, she sipped her tea and said, “It doesn’t seem fair. The money was invested eleven years ago and Sally, the ex, had nothing to do with the transaction. She never knew about it. Nelson was smart enough to pick the right stock and to keep it away from her. Otherwise, she would have blown through it. She got more cash and assets in the divorce than he did, and now I’m supposed to contact this dreadful woman and inform her that she gets a few more million.”
“I wouldn’t do it,” Bruce said with certainty. “I’d leave the stock right where it is and not say a word. Probate the estate, close the estate, let the clock tick away.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead. I know a little about offshore banking.”
“I’m all ears.”
A long pull on the sauvignon blanc. A glance around the empty dining room. “Well, you see, from time to time I deal in rare books and manuscripts. Occasionally, I’ll look at one with a provenance that’s a bit shady and the seller might want to do the deal offshore.”
“Is that legal?”
“Let’s call it a gray area. It’s certainly illegal to steal a rare book, or any book for that matter, and I’ve never done that, not even close. But it’s also impossible to look at an old book and say for certain that it has been stolen. I never ask the seller or his broker if the book was stolen because the answer will always be ‘No.’ Sometimes I’ll get too suspicious and back away. There’s a lot of thievery these days in the business and I’m very careful.”
“This is pretty interesting.”
“That’s why I do it. I love the business. The bookstore keeps me busy and pays the bills, but if and when I make money it’s in the old stuff.”
She sliced a thick wedge of tuna and shoved it around her plate. Bruce was working on his crab salad and ordered a second glass of wine.
She said, “So, I’m intrigued. Can you give me an example?”
He laughed and said, “No, but let’s try a hypothetical. Let’s say a dealer I know in Philly contacts me and says he has a client whose wealthy parents have died off and he’s in charge of the estate. The old man collected rare books and the client has his hands on a few of them. Books are like jewelry, very portable and not always accounted for. They can be walked right out of one’s estate. Let’s say the client has a first edition of Ulysses by James Joyce, and that it’s in extraordinarily fine condition with a dust jacket. He’ll send me photographs of the book. At auction it would fetch around half a million, but auctions also attract a lot of attention. The client does not want attention. We’ll negotiate, and let’s say we agree on three hundred thousand. I’ll meet the dealer somewhere in the Caribbean and he’ll have the book. I’ll transfer the money into a new account at an old bank, and everybody is happy.”
“What happens to the book?”
“Hypothetically, it stays in a vault in another old bank down there. I’ll sit on it for a year or so and put out feelers to potential buyers. Time is always on our side. Memories fade. The authorities lose interest.”
“Sounds dishonest.” She finally took a small bite of raw tuna.
“Maybe, maybe not. The client might have included the book with the estate’s inventory. How am I supposed to know?”
She took another bite, had some tea, and seemed suddenly bored with the conversation. “And you would not include this stock in Nelson’s estate?”
“Oh, I’m not sure what I’d do, really. Who knows about it?”
“Just me and Pops.”
“And he’s in bad health, right?”
“Quite bad. He won’t last a year.”
Bruce took a drink of wine and watched as four businessmen were seated at the table next to them. He lowered his voice an octave or two and said, “Me, I’d leave it alone, but then I’m willing to take more risks than most people.”
She ate another small bite, took another sip. “This is overwhelming, Bruce. I didn’t ask for this job.”
“Most executors don’t. And the pay is lousy.”
“Why don’t you do it? You’re here, much closer to the courthouse and the lawyers and his condo, and you know more about this stuff.”
“What stuff? Offshore accounts and contract killings? No, thanks, Polly. I’ll help when I can but Nelson chose you for a reason. And the lawyers do most of the work anyway. Aside from the hidden stock, it’s a pretty simple estate.”
“Nothing seems simple, especially his death.”
“You can do it.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to simply go along with the police and close the file? Who needs to waste the emotional energy worrying about an unsolved murder? Nelson’s dead. I can accept that. He’s gone. Does it really matter how he died?”
“Of course it does.”
“Why?”
“Because he was murdered, Polly. We can’t simply walk away from that.”
“We?”
“Yes, those of us who knew Nelson, his family and friends. Somebody out there paid a pro to kill your brother. I can’t believe you want to go back to the West Coast and forget about it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. For now, we wait for the police to either finish whatever they’re doing or close the file. After that, we’ll have lunch again and decide what to do.”
By the end of September, Bruce had figures to support what he already suspected—Bay Books was down 50 percent from a year ago. During an average year, almost 40 percent of its sales were to tourists, and there were none to be found on Camino Island these days. The locals were loyal but many were still cleaning up and watching their money. He canceled all author events for the rest of the year, laid off two part-time employees, convinced Noelle to lock up her antiques store, and together they fled the country.
They flew to Milan and took the train to Verona where they roamed the old city and took in its gardens, museums, piazzas, and restaurants. They drove deep into the Dolomites and spent four nights in a rustic, family-run outpost twenty miles from the Slovenian border. During the day they hiked the spectacular mountains until they were exhausted, and at night they consumed large meals of Ladin cuisine—dumplings and schnitzel—with local wines, grappa, and even homemade schnapps.
Late on their last afternoon at the lodge, they cuddled under thick quilts on the patio, sipped hot cocoa, and watched the sun disappear behind the mountains.
“I don’t want to go back,” Bruce said. “It’s still hot in Florida and there’s still trash in the trees.”
“Where do you want to go?” Noelle asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve had the store for twenty-three years and retail takes a toll. We have enough stashed offshore to quit working forever.”
“You’re forty-seven years old, Bruce, and you’re not wired to stop working. You’d go nuts in retirement.”
“Oh, I’ll always trade rare books, and you’ll always trade French antiques. But we can do that anywhere. It’ll take years for the island to recover from the storm, and I’m not sure I want to grind it out waiting for the good old days. Let’s at least talk about a change.”
“Okay. Where do you want to go?”
“I want to keep the house, not sure about the store. What if we lived there when the weather is nice, then go north? Six months at the beach, six months in the mountains? A small town in New England, or maybe out west. I don’t know, but it might be fun looking around.”
“Europe? What’s wrong with this view?”
Bruce thought for a long time before saying, “You belong to someone else in Europe, and I’d rather stay away.”
“Things are changing, Bruce. There is bad news. Jean-Luc has cancer and the prognosis is not good.”
She watched him closely for a reaction but he revealed nothing. Not sympathy, because he cared nothing for her French boyfriend. Not relief, because Bruce knew the rules when he fell in love with her. She and Jean-Luc had been together long before Bruce entered the picture, and, being French, she was perfectly willing to balance the two men, but only with complete disclosure up front and brutal transparency. She couldn’t marry Jean-Luc because he was married to an older woman with money. His wife knew the score, as did Bruce, and for almost twenty years the two open marriages had survived without major conflict. The open door gave Bruce the green light to spend time with any of his favorite authors who stopped by on tour.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t say that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Don’t say anything.”
“That doesn’t work either. When did you find out?”
“Back in the summer. Right before the storm. It’s pancreatic cancer, Bruce, he has only weeks.”
“Do you need to go?”
“No. He’s at home and Veronique is taking good care of him. There’s nothing I can do. We said goodbye, Bruce. We said goodbye.” Her voice cracked and her eyes watered.
“You should’ve told me before now,” he said.
“Why? It’s only a matter of time. I spoke to Veronique last week and he’s going down pretty fast.”
Bruce suddenly felt incredibly guilty because he wanted Noelle all to himself. He was tired of sharing, tired of being jealous and wondering which man she preferred to be with. He believed he would get the nod, but he had never been certain.
“We’re almost middle-age, Bruce.”
“Speak for yourself. When does that start?”
“At fifty, so say the experts. Fifty to sixty-five.”
“What’s after that?”
“Something about seniors.”
“This is depressing. What’s your point?”
“My point is that I think it’s time that we grow up a bit and recommit ourselves to the marriage.”
“Monogamy?”
“Yes. Let’s say the games are over and we learn to trust each other.”
“I’ve never distrusted you, Noelle. I’ve always known exactly what you were doing, just as I was open with my adventures.”
“Games, adventures, see what I mean, Bruce? I love you and I’m tired of sharing. Do you love me?”
“You know I do. Always.”
“Then let’s change the rules.”
Bruce took a deep breath, then another sip of hot cocoa. He was tempted to offer the opinion that Noelle was suddenly interested in a monogamous relationship because her boyfriend was dying, but he let it pass. He was not going to lose Noelle, because he adored her and had for twenty years. He loved her beauty, grace, easy disposition, chicness, intelligence.
But old playboys don’t exactly fade away. As a general rule, they go down swinging.
Carefully, he said, “Okay, let’s agree to start the conversation about a new set of rules.”
She nodded in agreement, but she knew it would be a challenge.
They left late the following morning and drifted toward Venice, stopping for lunches in picturesque villages and sleeping wherever they could find a room at an inn.