“She was in a crowded bar last Saturday night, drinking heavily, and apparently someone spiked her drink. From there we don’t know. Her body was found in a ditch behind the bar. Official cause was too much oxycodone, which is hard to believe since she was drinking and partying with friends and not swallowing pain pills. My guess is that someone grabbed her as she was fading, injected her with a massive dose, and left her for dead.”
“The same people who killed Nelson,” Nick said.
Lindsey nodded in agreement but said nothing. Bruce said, “So, in a way, we’re responsible for her death.”
“I disagree,” she said. “No more so than Nelson’s. The people doing the killing are running scared and trying to hide dirty secrets. They knew Brittany filched the E3 and they could take no chances. They also knew that Nelson knew, and they wanted to silence him.”
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “But I feel some level of responsibility. You assured me that you do not break laws.”
“Look, Bruce, in this line of work we often operate in the gray areas. We didn’t steal the bottle of E3, rather, we borrowed it and then took it back.”
Bruce exhaled in frustration, stood, and walked around the room, obviously bothered. Lindsey watched him with a tight, smug smile as if she had no concerns. He would come around because he had no choice.
Finally, Bruce said, “I don’t buy it, Lindsey. I’m sorry. Those two girls are dead because of our, what do you call it, ‘infiltration.’ ”
“Our hands are clean, Bruce,” she replied coolly, completely unruffled. “The patient had been brain-dead for years. If she was raped and impregnated, that’s hard to pin on us. As for Brittany, we had nothing to do with her murder.”
“How can you say that? We had everything to do with it. Under your scenario, she was murdered because she swiped a bottle of their secret drug, one that they are, evidently, quite touchy about. And she ‘borrowed’ the E3 at your suggestion and direction. You were paying her. That implicates the hell out of us.”
“She was sloppy, Bruce. Jumper warned her repeatedly about surveillance cameras, especially around the pharmacy. She got herself caught on video—”
“While she was stealing for you, for us. I can’t believe this. Nick, help me out here.”
Nick shrugged and raised his hands in mock surrender and said, “I’m just a college boy and right now I’d love to be back on campus. What am I doing here?”
“Thanks for nothing,” Bruce shot back.
“Don’t mention it.”
Lindsey, eager to control the narrative, said, “We are not implicated because we committed no crime, and nothing we did in Kentucky can be traced to us. As I promised you up front, we are very careful and we know what we’re doing. Brittany was handled in a proper fashion and she simply missed a surveillance camera.”
“So let’s blame her for getting herself killed,” Bruce said.
“If she had noticed the camera she would probably be alive.”
“I’m not believing this.” Bruce was standing in the window, peering through the blinds, talking over his shoulder.
Nick cleared his throat and asked, “Is her death being investigated?”
“Yes, sort of. There was an autopsy but I don’t know the results. If they find traces of club drugs they’ll know they’ve got a problem.”
“Club drugs?” Bruce asked.
Nick said, “Roofies, GHB, Ecstasy, Special K, the usual date rape stuff.”
“Jumper says there’s a rumor that a witness saw her outside the bar with a stranger. Who knows? It’s hard to have confidence in the local boys in rural Kentucky.”
Nick said, “Well, we got the Florida State Police on the ball and they haven’t made it halfway to first base.”
“We had nothing to do with Brittany’s death,” Lindsey said defensively.
“You keep saying that,” Bruce said, still talking to the blinds. “Who are you trying to convince?”
“You know, Bruce, I’m a bit perplexed by your tone and attitude. We are in a gray area here and that’s often where we are forced to go. Need I remind you of where you were three years ago when our company first met you? The stolen manuscripts? You were so far out of bounds you weren’t even near a gray area.”
“What happened three years ago?” Nick asked.
“None of your business,” Bruce snapped.
“Just thought I’d ask.”
Bruce suddenly turned around and took a few steps toward Lindsey. He glared at her, pointed a finger, said, “Your company is fired as of now. Close the file and keep the change. Don’t lift another finger on behalf of me or the estate of Nelson Kerr. Send me a termination letter.”
“Come on, Bruce.”
“Let’s go, Nick.” Nick jumped to his feet and followed Bruce through the door. Lindsey Wheat kept her cool and took another sip of coffee.
Nothing was said as they drove the seven minutes to their hotel. Nothing was said as they entered it and walked through the lobby and went straight to the bar. Both ordered coffee, though both really wanted a drink. Nick managed to keep quiet and knew that Bruce should speak first.
When the coffee arrived, both ignored it. Finally, Bruce rubbed his eyes and said, “You think I’m wrong?”
“No. There’s something about her I don’t like and I’m not sure she would ever tell the whole story.”
“We don’t need her anymore, Nick. That’s one reason I walked out. We know the name of the company, the name of their secret drug, and the informant has made contact with me. We never told Miss Lindsey about the secret messages. We debated that and thankfully we didn’t say anything. She’d probably screw it up or get someone else killed. Probably me. They almost got Mercer hurt three years ago.”
“Then why’d you hire them?”
“Because they’re good. They found the drug, Nick. Who else could have done that? The Florida State Police? The yokels in Kentucky? Not even the FBI, because they have to play by the rules.”
“Are you going to tell me the story?”
“I’ll tell you part of the story and if you ever breathe a word I’ll take away your employee discount.”
“It’s only twenty percent. At Barnes and Noble it’s forty.”
“I can’t do this over coffee. I need a drink.”
“Me too.”
Bruce walked to the bar and brought back two beers. He took a mighty gulp and smacked his lips. “You remember when the Fitzgerald manuscripts were stolen from Princeton, about four years ago?”
“Sure. Big story. Somebody paid a ransom and the thieves returned the manuscripts.”
“Something like that. The stolen loot was on Camino Island. It’s a long story.”
“For this, I have all the time in the world.”
In the normal scheme of things, Camino Island came to life each year in the middle of March when students on spring break headed in droves to Florida. They took over the beach hotels and condos and summer rentals, and they drank and danced and frolicked on the beaches because they were nineteen years old and weary from the rigors of study. Daddy could afford it. Daddy was told it was simply part of the entire college experience. And Daddy himself had probably been drunk and sunburned for an entire week back in the day.
But the island was still wounded, so the parties went farther south. A few hotels had reopened but there was construction everywhere. The last thing the recovery needed was twenty-five thousand young idiots loose in the streets. Quietly, the island advertised that it was not yet open for business. Come back next year and we’ll be ready.
When Ole Miss turned them loose, Mercer and Thomas packed up the dog and their shorts and headed for the island. Larry had finished the repairs to the cottage and Mercer was eager for a week away from the classroom. She was also excited about her first book party since Leo had ruined her last one. For weeks, Bruce had insisted on throwing a “major author event” and wouldn’t take no for an answer. The paperback of Tessa had just been released and Mercer had signed on for another grueling summer tour to promote it. Bruce insisted that the first stop be at Bay Books and harangued the publisher into underwriting half of it.
The party began on Saturday afternoon with barbecue and a bluegrass band on the sidewalk and street in front of the store. The locals needed some fun, and the crowd was large and continued to grow. At 3:00 p.m., Mercer took her spot downstairs behind a table, with stacks of books all around her, and greeted her admirers.
She chatted them up, posed for dozens of photos and selfies, autographed the paperbacks and some hardbacks as well, held a couple of babies, signed the cast on a broken arm, answered questions from people who claimed they knew Tessa, did a quick interview with the island’s newspaper, and all in all had a delightful time being the popular author with a long line of fans snaking out the front door.
When Bruce wasn’t working the crowd and selecting other titles for certain preferred customers, he and Thomas and Bob Cobb sat outside on the balcony and sipped tequila. The music switched to reggae late in the afternoon and the air was filled with soothing music and plenty of laughter. Benny’s Oyster Truck arrived at five and a crew began shucking on the side street. Two kegs of beer materialized from somewhere and attracted the faithful.
It was springtime and the weather was perfect.
At six, Mercer moved upstairs where a hundred folding chairs had been arranged for her reading. Three years earlier during her brief sabbatical on the island she had attended several author talks in the same space, and at the moment she couldn’t help but remember the twinge of jealousy she had felt for those touring writers who were publishing, selling, and drawing crowds. Now, it was her turn at the podium.
Leigh and Myra were in the front row, as always, and they beamed at her like proud grandparents. Leigh appeared ready to cry. Next to her was Amy Slater, the vampire girl, present with her husband and all three kids. Andy Adam stood in a corner with a diet drink and smiled at Mercer. Jay Arklerood, the sour poet, was in the second row and looked out of place, as always. Mercer was certain that Bruce had threatened him to compel his attendance. His last book, a thin collection of incomprehensible free-verse poems, had sold only a thousand copies across the country. Bay Books was responsible for half of them. If Bruce wanted a favor, Jay couldn’t say no.
Back in the good old days, before Leo, the store hosted several author events each week. Some of the writers were popular with large followings that made for easy draws. But others were the rookies or mid-list authors wanting desperately to sell more, and for them Bruce guaranteed a crowd. He did so by calling, cajoling, charming, and strong-arming his friends and loyal customers. To him, a small turnout was a crushing defeat, one he simply couldn’t tolerate.
And he was determined to make Mercer Mann a success. He admired her as a writer and adored her as a person, and with her he dreamed of doing something he had never fully accomplished: to make her a literary star, one who could slay the critics while selling books. He, Bruce Cable, wanted to be responsible for her greatness. No one knew this, not even Noelle, though she knew he was quite fond of Mercer. She had the talent, but he wasn’t sure about the drive, the ambition.
She smiled at Bruce and Thomas near the back and began her talk. She was delighted to be back, as always, and impressed with the resiliency of the island. It had been six months since her last visit and she marveled at the recovery. She was grateful for the thousands of volunteers and hundreds of nonprofits who had rushed down to help. She switched gears and talked about her summers on the island—every summer from the age of seven through nineteen she stayed with Tessa, her beloved grandmother. Her parents were divorced. Her mother was ill. For nine months she suffered at home in Memphis with a father who had no interest in her. She begged him to let her live with Tessa permanently, but he wouldn’t yield.
Thomas watched and listened with enormous pride. He had accompanied her the previous summer on her thirty-four-stop book tour, and he had heard these stories at least as many times. Her transformation, though, had been remarkable. Never timid, she had gone from being a chatty speaker who ran out of things to say after thirty minutes, to a seasoned raconteur who could tell the same story three different ways and draw tears with each telling. By the end of the tour, no audience wanted her to stop after only an hour.
And Thomas knew a deep secret that one day soon everyone else would know. Mercer was hard at work on her next novel. She had written half of it, and it was brilliant, by far her best work to date. Bruce, of course, had, over drinks, already tried to pry out anything to do with the next novel, and Mercer had warned Thomas about this. So he admitted only that she was working but keeping it all to herself.
She opened up the discussion with questions from the floor, and when it became obvious they might go on for hours, Bruce pulled the plug at 7:30 and said Mercer needed dinner. He thanked her, hugged her, and made her promise to return soon with the next novel. The crowd stood and applauded loudly. Both Leigh and Myra were in tears.
They walked as a group to the Marchbanks House, four long blocks from the store. Noelle, who had sort of enjoyed the first five hundred or so book signings but had long since stopped attending them, was fussing around the kitchen and veranda, waiting for her guests. All went straight to the bar, where Bruce and Noelle fixed drinks. Andy Adam finished another diet soda, gave Mercer a hug, and drifted away. After a round or two, Noelle called them to order and got them seated.
For a second, Bruce flashed back to last August when his little literary mafia had gathered at the same table. It was their last gathering before Leo, and his friend Nelson Kerr sat right over there to his left and seemed to enjoy the evening. Twenty-four hours later he would be dead.
It was Mercer’s day and all talk revolved around her, though she was weary of the attention. Salads were served, wine was poured. The spring air turned chilly and Bruce lit an outdoor heater. Hours passed as everyone seemed to talk at once.
After dessert, Bruce abruptly stood and reached for Noelle. As they held hands, he said, “Attention please. I have an important announcement. Tomorrow evening at exactly six p.m., you are invited to a wedding on the beach. Your attendance is not voluntary, but rather mandatory.”
“Who the hell’s getting married?” Myra blurted.
“We are.”
“It’s about time.”
“Hang on. You see, many years ago Noelle and I got married in the South of France. We were in a small, rustic village near Avignon, and we walked into this gorgeous little church that was five hundred years old. The place was so beautiful, so awe-inspiring, that we decided, on the spot, to get married there. So we did. No priest, no paperwork. Nothing official. We made up some vows and declared ourselves husband and wife. So for the past twenty years we’ve been—”
“Living in sin,” Myra blurted.
“Something like that. Thank you. And so now we have some paperwork, and we’ll have a real minister, and we’ll do it the right way. We will pledge our everlasting love, and faithfulness, to each other.”
The word “faithfulness” stunned them. Their jaws dropped and a couple actually gasped. Was the open marriage finally coming to a close? Was Bruce Cable, playboy extraordinaire and legendary stalker of lonely female authors on tour, finally growing up? Was Noelle finished with her French-style affairs across the ocean?
Myra, on a roll and fairly well liquored-up, asked, “Did you say ‘faithfulness’?” The others laughed nervously as they breathed again.
“I did.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Now, Myra,” Leigh chided.
Bob Cobb looked at Myra and cut his throat with an index finger. Shut up!
She did.
“We expect you all to be there. On the beach, so shoes are optional. No gifts, please.”
The caterer pitched a party tent not far from the Main Pier, which had been rebuilt and christened with a ribbon cutting only a week earlier. Half the island turned out for the party, and politicians spoke for hours. The new pier was a welcome symbol that the famous twelve-mile stretch of open and wide sand was now clean and ready for a new future.
Under the tent, two clerks from the store, earning double time, poured champagne while soft jazz emanated from hidden speakers. Two waiters circulated with trays of fresh raw oysters and marinated shrimp on skewers. There were about fifty in attendance and everyone felt honored to be included. All friends, no family. Noelle’s parents had divorced years earlier and didn’t speak. Bruce’s father was dead and his mother lived in Atlanta, which was not that far away but dealing with her was not worth the trouble. He was somewhat friendly with his sister but she was too busy for an impromptu wedding.
Noelle was stunning in a white linen pantsuit with the cuffs rolled halfway up to the knees. Bruce, true to form, wore a brand-new white seersucker suit with shorts instead of pants. No shoes for either. At 6:30, as the sun began to fade, they gathered in a semicircle at the water’s edge. The officiant was a young Presbyterian minister from the island who had worked in the store through high school. In bare feet, he welcomed the friends and offered a prayer, followed by a verse from Second Timothy. Bruce and Noelle exchanged vows they had written, the crux of which was that they were renewing their love and devotion, and basically dedicating themselves to a new lifestyle, one in which they were completely committed to each other.
It was over in fifteen minutes, and, once pronounced husband and wife, Bruce pulled out a sheet of paper, the marriage certificate, for all to see as proof that this time they were properly hitched.
The wedding party then returned to the tent for more champagne and oysters.
The second yellow envelope arrived with Tuesday’s mail. Bruce stared at it for a long time. No return. A preprinted mailing label was addressed to him at the store. And, remarkably, a postmark dated yesterday from the Santa Rosa post office across the street.
“So he was here,” Bruce said under his breath. “And probably in the store.”
He thought about taking a quick photo of the envelope, but then changed his mind. Everything was hackable, right? If the bad guys were watching and listening with sophistication far beyond his comprehension, then why couldn’t they steal his photos?
He slowly opened the envelope and removed one folded sheet of paper, the same color yellow. The typed message read:
LOVELY CEREMONY SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE BEACH.
YOUR WIFE IS VERY PRETTY. CONGRATULATIONS.
SNAIL MAIL, EMAIL, IT ALL LEAVES A TRAIL.
THERE ARE SERIOUS PEOPLE WATCHING YOUR EVERY MOVE.
THEY KILLED NELSON. THEY KILLED BRITTANY.
THEY ARE DESPERATE MEN.
BULLETTBEEP, A CHAT ROOM, TOMORROW AT 3 PM. YOU’LL BE 88DOGMAN.
SO LONG, HOODEENEE36
Bruce was certain that in his forty-seven years he had never felt as though he was being watched or followed or observed, especially by people whose interests he did not share. He left the store, something he did at least four times a day, and stepped onto the sidewalk along Main. He could almost feel the lasers of someone’s surveillance locking in on his back. He stood straighter, walked with a purpose, tried his damnedest not to cut his eyes in all directions, and after fifty yards called himself an idiot for being so paranoid. What could anyone gain by watching Bruce Cable walk down Main Street in Santa Rosa, Florida?
He ducked into his favorite wine bar and ordered a glass of rosé. He sat in his favorite corner with his back to the door and studied his notes. Why would “he” mention Noelle? Was it a way of threatening Bruce? It certainly felt like a threat. Was “he” friend or enemy? No one outside Bruce’s circle knew about the wedding, right? How would “he” know to be at the beach at the right moment? Bruce had not mentioned the ceremony to anyone in an email or text. And how could “he” get close enough to Noelle to know she was “very pretty”? Bruce had been occupied with his bride and the party at hand, and had not bothered to glance around at the beachcombers. There were always people on the beach, but not many on a cool late afternoon in mid-March. He didn’t remember seeing anyone.
If they were listening to his phone calls and reading his emails, for how long had they been at it? He recalled when he first contacted Elaine Shelby, he did so by phone. She immediately warned him against using emails. He then flew to Washington and met Lindsey Wheat. Was it possible that “they” knew he had hired a private security firm to find Nelson’s killers? It seemed doubtful, but then with technology what was not possible?
He puzzled and pondered and took pages of notes, none of them revealing or helpful. He ordered another glass of rosé, and the second one proved as ineffective as the first.
With Nick away at school, Bruce’s favorite employee was Jade, a thirty-year-old part-timer with two college degrees and two toddlers at home. She was still looking for a career but in the meantime thoroughly enjoyed the flexible hours Bruce offered. She was a tech whiz, addicted to social media, knew the hottest and latest apps, and was contemplating a graduate degree in computer science. Without getting too specific, Bruce asked her to walk him through the scenario of corresponding through anonymous chat rooms. He fibbed and said such activity was a subplot in Nelson’s novel and he wanted it to be accurate. He knew it was quite unlikely Jade would ever read it.
She took a seat in his office and said, “BullettBeep is just another secret chat room, based in Bulgaria. Most are in Eastern Europe because privacy laws are tighter there. Crazy Ghost is based in Hungary. I found three dozen of these sites in half an hour. They’re legit, for a fee. Most are around twenty bucks for thirty days.”
“Can they be hacked?” Bruce asked.
“In my opinion, it would be very difficult for someone stalking you to read your messages on one of these sites.”