CHAPTER THREE
THE RECRUIT
1.
On a perfect spring day in late April, Mercer Mann walked with some anxiety across the Chapel Hill campus of the University of North Carolina. She had agreed to meet a stranger for a quick lunch, but only because of the prospect of a job. Her current one, adjunct professor of freshman literature, would expire in two weeks, courtesy of budget cuts brought on by a state legislature dominated by those rabid about tax and spending cuts. She had lobbied hard for a new contract but didn’t get one. She would soon be out of work, still in debt, homeless, and out of print. She was thirty-one years old, quite single, and, well, her life was not exactly going as planned.
The first e-mail, one of two from the stranger, a Donna Watson, had arrived the day before and had been about as vague as an e-mail could be. Ms. Watson claimed to be a consultant hired by a private academy to locate a new teacher of creative writing for high school seniors. She was in the area and could meet for coffee. The salary was in the range of seventy-five thousand dollars a year, on the high side, but the school’s headmaster loved literature and was determined to hire a teacher who had actually published a novel or two.
Mercer had one novel under her belt, along with a collection of stories. The salary was indeed impressive and more than she was currently making. No other details were offered. Mercer responded favorably and asked a few questions about the school, specifically what was its name and where was it located.
The second e-mail was only slightly less vague than the first, but did reveal the school to be in New England. And the meeting over coffee had been elevated to a “quick lunch.” Could Mercer meet her at a place called Spanky’s, just off campus on Franklin Street, at noon?
Mercer was ashamed to admit that at the moment the idea of a nice lunch was more appealing than that of teaching a bunch of privileged high school seniors. In spite of the lofty salary, the job was definitely a step down. She had arrived in Chapel Hill three years earlier with the intention of throwing herself into teaching while, and much more important, finishing her current novel. Three years later, she was being terminated, and the novel was as unfinished as it had been when she arrived in Chapel Hill.
As soon as she walked into the restaurant, a well-dressed and perfectly put-together woman of about fifty waved her over, thrust out a hand, and said, “I’m Donna Watson. Nice to meet you.” Mercer sat across the table and thanked her for the invitation. A waiter dropped menus on the table.
Without wasting any time, Donna Watson became someone else. She said, “I must tell you that I’m here under false pretenses, okay? My name is not Donna Watson but Elaine Shelby. I work for a company based in Bethesda.”
Mercer gave her a blank look, glanced away, looked back, and tried gamely to think of an appropriate response.
Elaine pressed on. “I lied. I apologize, and I promise I will not lie again. However, I’m serious about lunch and I’m getting the check, so please hear me out.”
“I suppose you have a good reason for lying,” Mercer said cautiously.
“A very good one, and if you’ll forgive this one offense, and hear me out, I promise I can explain.”
Mercer shrugged and said, “I’m hungry, so I’ll just listen until I’m not hungry anymore, and if by then you haven’t cleared things up I’ll take a walk.”
Elaine flashed a smile that anyone would trust. She had dark eyes and dark skin, maybe of some Middle Eastern extraction, possibly Italian or Greek, Mercer thought, though her accent was upper Midwest, definitely American. Her short gray hair was cut in a style so smart that a couple of men had already looked twice. She was a beautiful woman and impeccably dressed, far out of place among the casual college crowd.
She said, “Though I didn’t lie about the job. That’s why I’m here, to convince you to take a job, one with better terms and benefits than I put in the e-mail.”
“Doing what?”
“Writing, finishing your novel.”
“Which one?”
The waiter was back, and they quickly ordered matching grilled chicken salads with sparkling water. He snatched the menus, disappeared, and after a pause Mercer said, “I’m listening.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Let’s start with the obvious challenge—you.”
“Okay. I work for a company that specializes in security and investigations. An established company that you’ve never heard of because we don’t advertise, don’t have a website.”
“We’re getting nowhere.”
“Please, hang on. It gets better. Six months ago, a gang of thieves stole the Fitzgerald manuscripts from the Firestone Library at Princeton. Two were caught and are still in jail, waiting. The others have disappeared. The manuscripts have not been found.”
Mercer nodded and said, “It was widely reported.”
“It was. The manuscripts, all five of them, were insured by our client, a large private company that insures art and treasures and rare assets. I doubt you’ve heard of it either.”
“I don’t follow insurance companies.”
“Lucky you. Anyway, we have been digging for six months, working closely with the FBI and its Rare Asset Recovery Unit. The pressure is on because in six months our client will be forced to write a check to Princeton for twenty-five million dollars. Princeton really doesn’t want the money; it wants the manuscripts, which, as you might guess, are priceless. We’ve had a few leads but nothing exciting until now. Luckily, there aren’t too many players in the murky world of stolen books and manuscripts, and we think we might have picked up the trail of a particular dealer.”
The waiter set a tall bottle of Pellegrino between them, with two glasses with ice and lemon.
When he left, Elaine continued, “It’s someone you may know.”
Mercer stared at her, offered half a grunt, shrugged, and said, “That would be a shock.”
“You have a long history with Camino Island. You spent summers there as a kid, with your grandmother, in her beach cottage.”
“How do you know this?”
“You’ve written about it.”
Mercer sighed and grabbed the bottle. She slowly filled both glasses as her mind spun away. “Let me guess. You’ve read everything I’ve written.”
“No, just everything you’ve published. It’s part of our preparation, and it’s been quite enjoyable.”
“Thanks. Sorry there hasn’t been more.”
“You’re young and talented and just getting started.”
“Let’s hear it. Let’s see if you’ve done your homework.”
“Gladly. Your first novel, October Rain, was published by Newcombe Press in 2008, when you were only twenty-four years old. Its sales were respectable—eight thousand copies in hardback, double that in paper, a few e-books—not exactly a bestseller, but the critics loved it.”
“The kiss of death.”
“It was nominated for the National Book Award and a finalist for PEN/Faulkner.”
“And won neither.”
“No, but few first novels get that much respect, especially from such a young writer. The Times chose it as one of its ten best books of the year. You followed it with a collection of stories, The Music of Waves, which the critics also praised, but, as you know, stories don’t sell that well.”
“Yes, I know.”
“After that you changed agents and publishers, and, well, the world is still waiting for the next novel. Meanwhile, you’ve published three stories in literary magazines, including one about guarding turtle eggs on the beach with your grandmother Tessa.”
“So you know about Tessa?”
“Look, Mercer, we know all there is to know, and our sources are public records. Yes, we’ve done a great deal of snooping, but we haven’t dug into your personal life beyond what is available to anyone else. With the Internet these days there’s not a lot of privacy.”
The salads arrived and Mercer picked up her knife and fork. She ate a few bites as Elaine sipped water and watched her. Finally, Mercer asked, “Are you going to eat?”
“Sure.”
“So what do you know about Tessa?”
“Your maternal grandmother. She and her husband built the beach cottage on Camino Island in 1980. They were from Memphis, where you were born, and spent their vacations there. He, your grandfather, died in 1985, and Tessa left Memphis and moved to the beach. As a little girl and as a teenager, you spent long summers with her there. Again, this is what you wrote.”
“It’s true.”
“Tessa died in a sailing accident in 2005. Her body was found on the beach two days after the storm. Neither her sailing companion nor his boat was ever found. This was all in the newspapers, primarily the Times-Union out of Jacksonville. According to the public records, Tessa’s will left everything, including the cottage, to her three children, one being your mother. It’s still in the family.”
“It is. I own one-half of one-third, and I haven’t seen the cottage since she died. I’d like to sell it but the family agrees on nothing.”
“Is it used at all?”
“Oh yes. My aunt spends the winter there.”
“Jane.”
“That’s her. And my sister vacations there in the summer. Just curious, what do you know about my sister?”
“Connie lives in Nashville with her husband and two teenage girls. She’s forty and works in the family business. Her husband owns a string of frozen yogurt shops and is doing quite well. Connie has a degree in psychology from SMU. Evidently, she met her husband there.”
“And my father?”
“Herbert Mann once owned the largest Ford dealership in the Memphis area. It looks like there was some money, enough to afford Connie’s private tuition at SMU, debt-free. The business went south for some reason, Herbert lost it, and for the past ten years he’s worked as a part-time scout for the Baltimore Orioles. He now lives in Texas.”
Mercer placed her knife and fork on the table and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but this is unsettling. I can’t help but feel as though I’m being stalked. What do you want?”
“Please, Mercer, our information was compiled by old-fashioned detective work. We have not seen anything that we were not supposed to see.”
“It’s creepy, okay? Professional spies digging through my past. What about the present? How much do you know about my employment situation?”
“Your position is being terminated.”
“So I need a job?”
“I suppose.”
“This is not public record. How do you know who’s being hired or fired at the University of North Carolina?”
“We have our sources.”
Mercer frowned and shoved her salad an inch or two away, as if she were finished. She folded her arms across her chest and scowled at Ms. Shelby. “I can’t help but feel, well, violated.”
“Please, Mercer, hear me out. It’s important that we have as much information as possible.”
“For what?”
“For the job we are proposing. If you say no, then we’ll simply go away and toss the file on you. We’ll never divulge any of our information.”
“What’s the job?”
Elaine took a small bite and chewed for a long time. After a sip of water, she said, “Back to the Fitzgerald manuscripts. We think they’re being hidden on Camino Island.”
“And who might be hiding them?”
“I need your assurance that what we discuss from this point on is extremely confidential. There’s a lot at stake here, and a loose word could cause irreparable damage, not just to our client, and not just to Princeton, but to the manuscripts themselves.”
“Who in hell might I tell about this?”
“Please, just give me your word.”
“Confidentiality requires trust. Why on earth should I trust you? Right now I find you and your company to be very suspicious.”
“I understand. But please hear the rest of the story.”
“Okay, I’m listening, but I’m not hungry anymore. You’d better talk fast.”
“Fair enough. You’ve been to the bookstore in downtown Santa Rosa, Bay Books. It’s owned by a man named Bruce Cable.”
Mercer shrugged and said, “I guess. I went there a few times with Tessa when I was a kid. Again, I haven’t been back to the island since she died and that was eleven years ago.”
“It’s a successful store, one of the best independents in the country. Cable is well known in the business and is quite the hustler. He’s connected and gets a lot of authors on their tours.”
“I was supposed to go there with October Rain, but that’s another story.”
“Right, well, Cable is also an aggressive collector of modern first editions. He trades a lot, and we suspect he makes serious money with that part of his business. He’s also known to deal in stolen books, one of the few in that rather dark business. Two months ago we picked up his trail after a tip from a source close to another collector. We think Cable has the Fitzgerald manuscripts, purchased for cash from a middleman who was desperate to get rid of them.”
“My appetite has really disappeared.”
“We can’t get near the guy. We’ve had people in the store for the past month, watching, snooping, taking secret photos and videos, but we’ve hit a brick wall. He has a large, handsome room on the main floor where he keeps shelves of rare books, primarily those of twentieth-century American authors, and he’ll gladly show these to a serious buyer. We’ve even tried to sell him a rare book, a signed and personalized copy of Faulkner’s first novel, Soldiers’ Pay. Cable knew immediately that there are only a few copies in the world, including three in a college library in Missouri, one owned by a Faulkner scholar, and one still held by Faulkner’s descendants. The market price was somewhere in the forty-thousand-dollar range, and we offered it to Cable for twenty-five thousand. At first he seemed interested but then started asking a lot of questions about the book’s provenance. Really good questions. He eventually got cold feet and said no. By then he was overly cautious, and this raised even more suspicions. We’ve made little progress getting into his world and we need someone inside.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. As you know, writers often take sabbaticals and go away to do their work. You have the perfect cover. You practically grew up on the island. You still have an ownership interest in the cottage. You have the literary reputation. Your story is completely plausible. You’re back at the beach for six months to finish the book everybody has been waiting for.”
“I can think of perhaps three people who might be waiting for it.”
“We’ll pay a hundred thousand dollars for the six months.”
For a moment Mercer was speechless. She shook her head, pushed her salad farther away, and took a sip of water. “I’m sorry but I’m not a spy.”
“And we’re not asking you to spy, only to observe. You’re doing something that is completely natural and believable. Cable loves writers. He wines them and dines them, supports them. Many of the touring authors stay at his home, and it is spectacular, by the way. He and his wife enjoy hosting long dinners with their friends and writers.”
“And I’m supposed to waltz right in, gain his confidence, and ask him where he’s hiding the Fitzgerald manuscripts.”
Elaine smiled and let it pass. “We’re under a lot of pressure, okay? I have no idea what you might learn, but at this point anything could be helpful. There’s a good chance Cable and his wife will reach out to you, perhaps even befriend you. You could slowly work your way into their inner circle. He also drinks a lot. Maybe he’ll let something slip; maybe one of his friends will mention the vault in the basement below the store.”
“A vault?”
“Just a rumor, that’s all. But we can’t exactly pop in and ask him about it.”
“How do you know he drinks too much?”
“A lot of writers pass through and, evidently, writers are horrible gossips. Word gets around. As you know, publishing is a very small world.”
Mercer raised both hands, showed both her palms, and slid her chair back. “I’m sorry. This is not for me. I have my faults, but I am not a deceitful person. I have trouble lying and there’s no way I could fake my way through something like this. You have the wrong person.”
“Please.”
Mercer stood as if to leave and said, “Thanks for lunch.”
“Please, Mercer.”
But she was gone.
2.
At some point during the abbreviated lunch, the sun disappeared and the wind picked up. A spring shower was on the way, and Mercer, always without an umbrella, walked home as fast as possible. She lived half a mile away, in the historic section of Chapel Hill, near the campus, in a small rental house on a shaded, unpaved alley behind a fine old home. Her landlord, the owner of the old home, rented only to grad students and starving, untenured professors.
With perfect timing, she stepped onto her narrow front porch just as the first drops of rain landed hard on her tin roof. She couldn’t help but glance around, just to make sure no one was watching. Who were those people? Forget about it, she told herself. Inside, she kicked off her shoes, made a cup of tea, and for a long time sat on the sofa, taking deep breaths and listening to the music of the rain while replaying the conversation over lunch.
The initial shock of being watched began to fade. Elaine was right—nothing is really private these days with the Internet and social media and hackers everywhere and all the talk about transparency. Mercer had to admit the plan was pretty clever. She was the perfect recruit: a writer with a long history on the island; even a stake in the cottage; an unfinished novel with a deadline far in the past; a lonely soul looking for new friends. Bruce Cable would never suspect her of being a plant.
She remembered him well, the handsome guy with the cool suit and bow tie and no socks, and long wavy hair, a perpetual Florida tan. She could see him standing near the front door, always with a book in hand, sipping coffee, watching everything while he read. For some reason Tessa didn’t like him and seldom went to the store. She didn’t buy books either. Why buy books when you could get them for free at the library?
Book signings and book tours. Mercer could only wish she had a new novel to promote.
When October Rain was published in 2008, Newcombe Press had no money for publicity and travel. The company went bankrupt three years later. But after a rave review in the Times, a few bookstores called with inquiries about her tour. One was hastily put together, and Mercer’s ninth stop was scheduled to be Bay Books. But the tour went off the rails almost immediately when, at her first signing, in D.C., eleven people showed up and only five bought a book. And that was her biggest crowd! At her second signing, in Philadelphia, four fans stood in line and Mercer spent the last hour chatting with the staff. Her third and, as it turned out, final book signing was at a large store in Hartford. In a bar across the street, she had two martinis while she watched and waited for the crowd to materialize. It did not. She finally crossed the street, walked in ten minutes late, and was demoralized when she realized that everyone waiting was an employee. Not a single fan showed up. Zero.
Her humiliation was complete. She would never again subject herself to the embarrassment of sitting at a lonely table with a stack of pretty books and trying to avoid eye contact with customers trying not to get too close. She knew other writers, a few anyway, and she had heard the horror stories of showing up at a bookstore and being greeted by the friendly faces of the employees and volunteers, and wondering how many of them might actually be customers and book buyers, and watching them glance around nervously in search of potential fans, and then seeing them drift away forever when it became apparent that the beloved author was about to lay an egg. A big fat goose egg.
At any rate, she had canceled the rest of her tour. She had not been too keen on the idea of returning to Camino Island anyway. She had many wonderful memories from there, but they would always be overshadowed by the horror and tragedy of her grandmother’s death.
The rain made her sleepy and she drifted into a long nap.
3.
Footsteps awakened her. At 3:00 p.m., like clockwork, the postman rumbled across her creaky porch and left her mail in the small box next to her front door. She waited a moment until he was gone, then retrieved the daily delivery, always a dismal collection of junk and bills. She flung the junk onto a coffee table and opened a letter from UNC. It was from the chair of the English department and, despite pleasant and verbose wordage, informed her, officially, that her position was gone. She had been a “valuable asset” to the staff, a “gifted teacher” who had been “admired by her colleagues” and “adored by her students,” and so on. The “entire department” wanted her to stay and viewed her as a “great addition,” but, sadly, there was simply no room in the budget. He offered her his best wishes and left the door open with the slight hope of “another position” should next year’s appropriation “return to normal levels of funding.”
Most of the letter was true. The chairman had been an ally, at times even a mentor, and Mercer had managed to survive the minefield of academia by keeping her mouth shut and avoiding, as much as possible, the tenured faculty.
But she was a writer, not a teacher, and it was time to move on. To where, she wasn’t certain, but after three years in the classroom she longed for the freedom of facing each day with nothing to do but write her novels and stories.
The second envelope contained her credit card statement. It showed a balance that reflected her frugal lifestyle and daily efforts to cut all corners. This allowed her to pay off each monthly balance and avoid the usurious rates the bank was eager to heap onto the carryovers. Her salary barely covered these balances, along with rent, auto insurance, auto repairs, and a bare-bones health insurance policy, one that she considered dropping each month when she wrote the check. She would have been financially stable, and with a little spare cash to buy a better wardrobe and perhaps have some fun, but for the contents in the third envelope.
It was from the National Student Loan Corporation, a wretched outfit that had been hounding her for the past eight years. Her father had managed to cover the first year of her private education at Sewanee, but his sudden bankruptcy and emotional crack-up had left her high and dry. Mercer had managed to squeak through her last three years with student loans, grants, jobs, and a modest inheritance from Tessa’s estate. She used the small advances from October Rain and The Music of Waves to pay down the interest on her student loans but hardly touched the principal.
Between jobs, she had refinanced and restructured her loans, and with each new scheme the horrendous balances grew even as she worked two and three jobs to stay current. The truth was, and she had told no one the truth, she found it impossible to express herself creatively while straining under a mountain of debt. Each morning, each blank page held not the promise of another chapter in a great novel, but rather another lame effort to produce something that might satisfy her creditors.
She had even talked to a lawyer friend about bankruptcy, only to learn that the banks and student loan companies had convinced Congress that such debts should be given special protection and not exempted. She remembered him saying, “Hell, even gamblers can go bankrupt and walk away.”
Did her stalkers know about her student debt? It was all private, right? But something told her that professionals could dig deep enough to find almost anything. She had read horror stories of even the most sensitive medical records being leaked to the wrong people. And credit card companies were notorious for selling information about their customers. Was anything really buried and safe?
She picked up the junk mail, tossed it in the wastebasket, filed away the final letter from UNC, and placed the two bills in a rack by the toaster. She made another cup of tea and was about to stick her nose in a novel when her cell phone buzzed.
Elaine was back.
4.
She began with “Look, I’m very sorry about lunch. I didn’t intend to ambush you, but there was no other way to start the conversation. What was I supposed to do? Grab you on the campus and spill my guts?”
Mercer closed her eyes and leaned on a kitchen counter. “It’s all right. I’m fine. It was just so unexpected, you know?”
“I know, I know, and I’m very sorry. Look, Mercer, I’m in town until tomorrow morning, when I fly back to Washington. I’d love to finish our conversation over dinner.”
“No thanks. You’ve got the wrong person for this.”
“Mercer, we have the perfect person, and, frankly, there is no one else. Please give me the time to explain everything. You didn’t hear it all, and as I said, we are in a very tough position right now. We’re trying to save the manuscripts before they’re either damaged or, worse, sold piecemeal to foreign collectors and lost for good. Please, one more chance.”
Mercer could not deny, to herself anyway, that the money was an issue. A really big issue. She wavered for a second and said, “So what’s the rest of the story?”
“It will take some time. I have a car and a driver and I’ll pick you up at seven. I don’t know the town but I’ve heard that the best restaurant is a place called The Lantern. Have you been there?”
Mercer knew the place but couldn’t afford it. “You know where I live?” she asked, and was immediately embarrassed by how innocent she sounded.
“Oh sure. I’ll see you at seven.”
5.
The car was, of course, a black sedan and looked thoroughly suspicious in her part of town. She met it at the drive and quickly hopped into the rear seat with Elaine. As it drove away, Mercer, sitting low, glanced around and saw no one looking. Why did she care? Her lease was up in three weeks and she would be leaving for good. Her shaky exit plan included a temporary stay in the garage apartment of an old girlfriend in Charleston.
Elaine, now dressed casually in jeans, a navy blazer, and expensive pumps, smothered her with a smile and said, “One of my colleagues went to school here and talks of nothing else, especially during basketball season.”
“They are indeed rabid, but it’s not my thing, not my school.”
“Did you enjoy your time here?”
They were on Franklin Street, moving slowly through the historic district, passing lovely homes with manicured lawns, then into Greek territory, where the homes had been converted to sprawling sorority and fraternity houses. The rain was gone and porches and yards were brimming with students drinking beer and listening to music.
“It was okay,” Mercer said without a hint of nostalgia. “But I’m not cut out for life in academia. The more I taught the more I wanted to write.”
“You said in an interview with the campus paper that you hoped to finish the novel while in Chapel Hill. Any progress?”
“How did you find that? It was three years ago, when I first arrived.”
Elaine smiled and looked out a window. “We haven’t missed much.” She was calm and relaxed, and she spoke in a deep voice that exuded confidence. She and her mysterious company were holding all the cards. Mercer wondered how many of these clandestine missions Elaine had put together and directed during her career. Surely she had faced foes far more complicated and dangerous than a small-town book dealer.
The Lantern was on Franklin, a few blocks past the hub of student activity. The driver dropped them off at the front door and they went inside, where the cozy dining room was almost empty. Their table was near the window, with the sidewalk and street just a few feet away. In the past three years, Mercer had read many rave reviews of the place in local magazines. The awards were piling up. Mercer had scanned the menu online and was starving again. A waitress greeted them warmly and poured tap water from a pitcher.
“Anything to drink?” she asked.
Elaine yielded to Mercer, who quickly said, “I need a martini. Up with gin, and dirty.”
“I’ll have a Manhattan,” Elaine said.
When the waitress was gone, Mercer said, “I suppose you travel a lot.”
“Yes, too much, I guess. I have two kids in college. My husband works for the Department of Energy and is on a plane five days a week. I got tired of sitting in an empty house.”
“And this is what you do? You track down stolen goods?”
“We do a lot of things, but, yes, this is my primary area. I’ve studied art my entire life and sort of stumbled into this line of work. Most of our cases deal with stolen and forged paintings. Occasionally some sculpture, though it’s more difficult to steal. There is a lot of theft these days in books, manuscripts, ancient maps. Nothing, though, like the Fitzgerald case. We’re throwing all we have at it, and for obvious reasons.”
“I have a lot of questions.”
Elaine shrugged and said, “I have a lot of time.”
“And they’re in no particular order. Why doesn’t the FBI take the lead in something like this?”
“It does have the lead. Its Rare Asset Recovery Unit is superb and hard at work. The FBI almost broke the case within the first twenty-four hours. One of the thieves, a Mr. Steengarden, left a drop of blood at the crime scene, just outside the vault. The FBI caught him and his partner, one Mark Driscoll, and locked them away. We suspect that the other thieves got spooked and disappeared, along with the manuscripts. Frankly, we think the FBI moved too fast. Had they kept the first two under intense surveillance for a few weeks, they might have led the FBI to the rest of the gang. That seems even more likely now, with the benefit of perfect hindsight.”
“Does the FBI know about your efforts to recruit me?”
“No.”
“Does the FBI suspect Bruce Cable?”
“No, or at least I don’t think so.”
“So there are parallel investigations. Yours and theirs.”
“To the extent that we don’t share all information, then, yes, we are often on two different tracks.”
“But why?”
The drinks arrived and the waitress asked if there were any questions. Since neither had touched a menu, they politely shooed her away. The place was filling up quickly, and Mercer glanced around to see if she recognized anyone. She did not.
Elaine took a sip, smiled, set her glass on the table, and thought about her answer. “If we suspect a thief has possession of a stolen painting or book or map, then we have ways of verifying this. We use the latest technology, the fanciest gadgets, the smartest people. Some of our technicians are former intelligence agents. If we verify the presence of the stolen object, either we notify the FBI, or we go in. Depends on the case and no two are remotely similar.”
“You go in?”
“Yes. Keep in mind, Mercer, we are dealing with a thief who’s hiding something valuable, something our client has insured for a lot of money. It doesn’t belong to him, and he’s always looking for a way to sell it for big money. That makes each situation rather tense. The clock is always ticking, yet we have to show great patience.” Another small sip. She was choosing her words carefully. “The police and FBI have to worry about such things as probable cause and search warrants. We’re not always constrained by these constitutional formalities.”
“So you break and enter?”
“We never break, but sometimes we enter, and only for purposes of verification and retrieval. There are very few buildings that we cannot ease into quietly, and when it comes to hiding their loot a lot of thieves are not nearly as clever as they think they are.”
“Do you tap phones, hack into computers?”
“Well, let’s say we occasionally listen.”
“So you break the law?”
“We call it operating in the gray areas. We listen, we enter, we verify, then, in most cases, we notify the FBI. They do their thing with proper search warrants, and the art is returned to its owner. The thief goes to prison, and the FBI gets all the credit. Everybody is happy, perhaps with the exception of the thief, and we’re not too worried about his feelings.”
With her third sip, the gin was settling in and Mercer began to relax. “So, if you’re so good, why not just sneak into Cable’s vault and check it out?”
“Cable is not a thief, and he appears to be smarter than the average suspect. He seems very cautious, and this makes us even more suspicious. A false move here or there, and the manuscripts could vanish again.”
“But if you’re listening and hacking and watching his movements, why can’t you catch him?”
“I didn’t say we were doing all that. We may, and soon, but right now we just need more intelligence.”
“Has anyone in your company ever been charged with doing something illegal?”
“No, not even close. Again, we play in the gray, and when the crime is solved who cares?”
“Maybe the thief. I’m no lawyer, but couldn’t the thief scream about an illegal search?”
“Maybe you should be a lawyer.”
“I can’t think of anything worse.”
“The answer is no. The thief and his lawyer have no clue that we’re even involved. They’ve never heard of us and we leave no fingerprints.”
There was a long pause as they concentrated on their cocktails and glanced at the menus. The waitress hustled by and Elaine politely informed her that they were in no hurry. Mercer eventually said, “It looks as though you’re asking me to do a job that could possibly involve getting into one of your gray areas, which is a euphemism for breaking the law.”
At least she was thinking about it, Elaine thought to herself. After the abrupt termination of lunch she was convinced Mercer was history. The challenge now was to close the deal.
“Not at all,” Elaine reassured her. “And what law might you be breaking?”
“You tell me. You have other people down there. I’m sure they’re not going away. I’m sure they’ll be watching me as closely as they’re watching Cable. So it’s a team, of sorts, a group effort, and I’ll have no idea what my invisible colleagues might be doing.”
“Don’t worry about them. They are highly skilled professionals who have never been caught. Listen, Mercer, you have my word. Nothing we ask you to do is even remotely illegal. I promise.”
“You and I are not close enough to make promises. I don’t know you.”
Mercer drained her martini and said, “I need another.” Alcohol was always important in these meetings, so Elaine drained hers too and waved at the waitress. When the second round arrived, they asked for an order of Vietnamese-style pork and crab spring rolls.
“Tell me about Noelle Bonnet,” Mercer said, easing the tension. “I’m sure you’ve done your research.”
Elaine smiled and said, “Yes, and I’m sure you went online this afternoon and checked her out.”
“I did.”
“She’s published four books now, all on antiques and decorating the Provençal way, so she’s revealed something of herself. She tours a lot, speaks a lot, writes a lot, and spends half the year in France. She and Cable have been together about ten years and seem to be quite the pair. No children. She has one prior divorce; none for him. He doesn’t go to France much, because he rarely leaves the store. Her shop is now next door to his. He owns the building and three years ago kicked out the haberdashery and gave her the space. Evidently, he has nothing to do with her business and she stays away from his, except for entertaining. Her fourth book is about their home, a Victorian just a few blocks from downtown, and it’s worth a look. You want some dirt?”
“Do tell. Who doesn’t like dirt?”
“For the past ten years they’ve told everyone that they’re married, got hitched on a hillside above Nice. It’s a romantic story but it’s not true. They’re not married, and they appear to have a rather open marriage. He strays, she strays, but they always find their way back.”
“How in the world would you know this?”
“Again, writers are blabbermouths. Evidently, some are rather promiscuous.”
“Don’t include me.”
“I wasn’t. I’m speaking in general terms.”
“Go on.”
“We’ve checked everywhere and there’s no record of a marriage, here or in France. A lot of writers pass through. Bruce plays his games with the women. Noelle does the same with the men. Their home has a tower with a bedroom on the third floor and that’s where the visitors sleep over. And not always alone.”
“So I’ll be expected to give up everything for the team?”
“You’ll be expected to get as close as possible. How you choose to do that is up to you.”
The spring rolls arrived. Mercer ordered lobster dumplings in broth. Elaine wanted the pepper shrimp, and she chose a bottle of Sancerre. Mercer took two bites and realized the first martini had deadened everything.
Elaine ignored her second drink and eventually said, “May I ask something personal?”
Mercer laughed, perhaps a bit too loud, and said, “Oh why not? Is there something you don’t know?”
“Lots. Why haven’t you been back to the cottage since Tessa died?”
Mercer looked away, sadly, and thought about her response. “It’s too painful. I spent every summer there from the age of six through the age of nineteen, just Tessa and me, roaming the beach, swimming in the ocean, talking and talking and talking. She was much more than a grandmother. She was my rock, my mom, my best friend, my everything. I would spend nine miserable months with my father, counting the days until school was out so I could escape to the beach and hang out with Tessa. I begged my father to let me live with her year-round, but he would not allow it. I suppose you know about my mother.”
Elaine shrugged and said, “Just what’s in the records.”
“She was sent away when I was six, driven crazy by her demons and I suspect by my father as well.”
“Did your father get along with Tessa?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody in my family gets along with anybody else. He hated Tessa because she was a snob who thought my mother married badly. Herbert was a poor kid from a bad section of Memphis who made a fortune selling used cars, then new ones. Tessa’s family was old Memphis with lots of history and airs and such, but no real money. You’ve heard the old saying ‘Too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash.’ That’s the perfect description of Tessa’s family.”
“She had three children.”
“Yes. My mother, my aunt Jane, and my uncle Holstead. Who would name a kid Holstead? Tessa. It came from her family.”
“And Holstead lives in California?”
“Yes, he fled the South fifty years ago and moved into a commune. He eventually married a druggie and they have four children, all total whack jobs. Because of my mother they think we’re all crazy but they’re the real loonies. It’s a glorious family.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“I’m actually being kind. None of them bothered to attend Tessa’s funeral, so I haven’t seen them since I was a kid. And, believe me, there are no plans for any reunion.”
“October Rain deals with a dysfunctional family. Was it autobiographical?”
“They certainly thought so. Holstead wrote me a filthy letter that I considered framing. That was the last nail in the coffin.” She ate half a spring roll and followed it with water. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Good idea. You said you have questions.”
“And you asked why I haven’t been back to the beach cottage. It will never be the same and the memories will be hard to deal with. Think about it. I’m thirty-one years old and the happiest days of my life are behind me, in that cottage with Tessa. I’m not sure I can go back.”
“You don’t have to. We’ll rent a nice place for six months. But your cover works better if you use the cottage.”
“Assuming I can. My sister uses it for two weeks every July and there may be some other rentals. Aunt Jane takes care of it and occasionally rents it to friends. A Canadian family takes it every November. Jane winters there from January through March.”
Elaine took a bite and then a sip of her drink.
“Just curious,” Mercer said. “Have you seen it?”
“Yes. Two weeks ago. Part of the preparation.”
“How does it look?”
“Pretty. Well cared for. I’d like to stay there.”
“Still a bunch of rentals up and down the beach?”
“Sure. I doubt if much has changed in eleven years. The area has sort of an old-time vacation feel to it. The beach is beautiful and not crowded.”
“We lived on that beach. Tessa had me up with the sun, checking on the turtles, the new arrivals that made their nests during the night.”
“You wrote about that, a lovely story.”
“Thank you.”
They finished their drinks as the entrées arrived. Elaine approved of the wine and the waitress poured some in both glasses. Mercer took a bite and put down her fork. “Look, Elaine, I’m just not up to this. You’ve got the wrong person, okay? I’m a terrible liar and I’m just not good at deceiving people. I cannot wiggle my way into the lives of Bruce Cable and Noelle Bonnet and their little literary gang and come away with anything that might be valuable.”
“You’ve already said this. You’re a writer living at the beach for a few months in the family cottage. You’re hard at work on a novel. It’s the perfect story, Mercer, because it’s true. And you have the perfect personality because you’re genuine. If we needed a con artist we wouldn’t be talking right now. Are you afraid?”
“No. I don’t know. Should I be?”
“No. I’ve promised you that nothing we put before you will be illegal, and nothing will be dangerous. I’ll see you every week—”
“You’ll be there?”
“I’ll come and go, and if you need a buddy, male or female, we can arrange to have one nearby.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, and I’m not afraid of anything but failure. You’d be paying me a lot of money to do something I can’t begin to imagine, something important, and you obviously expect results. What if Cable is as smart and tough as you think he is and reveals nothing? What if I do something stupid and he gets suspicious and moves the manuscripts? I can see a lot of ways to screw this up, Elaine. I have no experience and no clue.”
“And I love your honesty. That’s why you’re perfect, Mercer. You’re direct, sincere, and transparent. You’re also very attractive and Cable will immediately like you.”
“Are we back to sex? Is that part of this job description?”
“No. Again, what you do is up to you.”
“But I have no idea what to do!” Mercer said, raising her voice and catching a glance from the nearest table. She lowered her head and said, “Sorry.” They ate for a few minutes in silence.
“You like the wine?” Elaine asked.
“It’s very good, thank you.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“What if I say no again? What do you do then?”
Elaine tapped her lips with her napkin and drank some water. “We have a very short list of other possible writers, none as interesting as you. To be honest, Mercer, we’re so convinced you’re the perfect person that we’ve put all of our eggs in your basket. If you say no, we’ll probably scrap the entire plan and move on to the next one.”
“Which is?”
“I can’t go into that. We’re resourceful and we’re under a lot of pressure, so we’ll move fast in another direction.”
“Is Cable the only suspect?”
“Please, I can’t talk about that. I can tell you a lot more when you’re down there, when you’re good and committed and the two of us are walking on the beach. There’s a lot to talk about, including some ideas about how you should proceed. But I won’t go into it now. It is, after all, quite confidential.”
“I get that. I can keep secrets. That’s the first lesson I learned with my family.”
Elaine smiled as if she understood, as if she trusted Mercer completely. The waitress poured more wine and they worked on their entrées. After the longest silence of the meal, Mercer swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and said, “I have sixty-one thousand dollars in student debt that I can’t get rid of. It’s a burden that consumes every waking hour and it’s making me crazy.”
Elaine smiled again as if she knew. Mercer almost asked if she knew, but really didn’t want the answer. Elaine put down her fork and leaned on her elbows. She tapped her fingertips together softly and said, “We’ll take care of the student loans, plus the hundred grand. Fifty now, fifty in six months. Cash, check, gold bars, any way you want it. Off the books, of course.”
Lead weights suddenly lifted from Mercer’s shoulders and evaporated into the air. She stifled a gasp, put a hand to her mouth, and blinked her eyes as they quickly moistened. She tried to speak but had nothing to say. Her mouth was dry so she sipped water. Elaine watched every move, calculating as always.
Mercer was overwhelmed by the reality of instantly walking away from the bondage of student debt, a nightmare that had burdened her for eight years. She took a deep breath—was it actually easier to breathe now?—and attacked another lobster dumpling. She followed it with wine, which she really tasted for the first time. She would have to try a bottle or two in the coming days.
Elaine smelled a knockout and moved in for the kill. “How soon can you be there?”
“Exams are over in two weeks. But I want to sleep on this.”
“Of course.” The waitress was hovering, and Elaine said, “I want to try the panna cotta. Mercer?”
“The same. And with a glass of dessert wine.”
6.
With little to pack, the move took only a few hours, and with her Volkswagen Beetle stuffed with her clothes, computer and printer, books, and a few pots and pans and utensils, Mercer drove away from Chapel Hill without the slightest trace of nostalgia. She was leaving behind no fond memories and only a couple of girlfriends, the kind who’d keep in touch for a few months and then be gone. She had moved and said good-bye so many times she knew which friendships would endure and which would not. She doubted she would ever see the two again.
She would head south in a couple of days, but not now. Instead, she took the interstate west, stopped in the lovely town of Asheville for lunch and a quick walk around, then chose smaller highways for a winding trip through the mountains and into Tennessee. It was dark when she finally stopped at a motel on the outskirts of Knoxville. She paid cash for a small room and walked next door to a taco franchise for dinner. She slept a proper eight hours without a single interruption, and woke up at dawn ready for another long day.
Hildy Mann had been a patient at Eastern State for the past twenty years. Mercer visited her at least once a year, sometimes twice, never more than that. There were no other visitors. Once Herbert finally realized his wife was not coming home, he quietly went about the process of a divorce. No one could blame him. Though Connie was only three hours away, she had not seen her mother in years. As the oldest, she was Hildy’s legal guardian, but much too busy for a visit.
Mercer patiently went through the bureaucratic challenge of getting checked in. She met with a doctor for fifteen minutes and got the same, dismal prognosis. The patient was the victim of a debilitating form of paranoid schizophrenia and separated from rational thought by delusions, voices, and hallucinations. She had not improved in twenty-five years and there was no possible reason for hope. She was heavily medicated, and with each visit Mercer wondered how much damage the drugs had done over the years. But there was no alternative. Hildy was a permanent ward of the mental hospital and would live there until the end.
For the occasion, the nurses had forgone the standard white pullover gown and dressed her in a baby-blue cotton sundress, one of several Mercer had brought over the years. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, barefoot, staring at the floor when Mercer walked in and kissed her on the forehead. Mercer sat beside her, patted her knee, told her how much she’d missed her.
Hildy responded only with a pleasant smile. As always, Mercer marveled at how old she looked. She was only sixty-four but could pass for eighty. She was gaunt, almost emaciated, with snow-white hair and the skin of a ghost. And why not? She never left her room. Years earlier, the nurses had walked her out to the rec yard once a day for an hour or so, but Hildy had eventually balked at that. Something out there terrified her.
Mercer went through the same monologue, rambling on about her life and work and friends and this and that, some true, some fiction, none of it apparently hitting the mark. Hildy seemed to process nothing. Her face was fixed with the same simple smile and her eyes never left the floor. Mercer told herself that Hildy recognized her voice, but she wasn’t sure. In fact, she wasn’t sure why she even bothered with the visits.
Guilt. Connie could forget about their mother but Mercer felt guilty for not visiting more often.
Five years had passed since Hildy had spoken to her. Back then, she had recognized her, uttered her name, and even thanked her for stopping by. Months later, Hildy had turned loud and angry during a visit and a nurse intervened. Mercer often wondered if the medication was now juiced a bit more when they knew she was coming.
According to Tessa, as a young teenager Hildy had loved the poetry of Emily Dickinson. So Tessa, who visited her daughter often during the early years of her commitment, had always read poetry to her. Back then Hildy would listen and react, but over the years her condition had deteriorated.
“How about some poetry, Mom?” Mercer asked as she pulled out a thick, worn copy of Collected Poems. It was the same book Tessa had brought to Eastern State for years. Mercer pulled over a rocking chair and sat close to the bed.
Hildy smiled as she read and said nothing.
7.
In Memphis, Mercer met her father for lunch at a midtown restaurant. Herbert lived somewhere in Texas, and with a new wife whom Mercer had no interest in either meeting or discussing. When he’d sold cars he talked about nothing but cars, and now that he scouted for the Orioles he talked of nothing but baseball. Mercer wasn’t sure which subject held less interest, but she gamely hung on and tried to make lunch enjoyable. She saw her father once a year, and after only thirty minutes remembered why. He was in town supposedly checking on some “business interests,” but she doubted it. His businesses had flamed out in spectacular fashion after her first year in college, leaving her to the mercy of student lenders.
She still pinched herself to make sure it was true. The debts were gone!
Herbert moved back to baseball and rambled on about this high school prospect and that one, never once inquiring about her latest book or project. If he had read anything she had published, he never said so.
After a long hour, Mercer was almost missing the visits to Eastern State. Unable to speak, her poor mother was not nearly as boring as her windy and self-absorbed father. But they said good-bye with a hug and a kiss and the usual promises to get together more often. She said she’d be at the beach for the next few months finishing a novel, but he was already reaching for his cell phone.
After lunch, she drove to Rosewood Cemetery and put roses on Tessa’s grave. She sat with her back against the headstone and had a good cry. Tessa was seventy-four when she died, but youthful in so many ways. She would be eighty-five now, no doubt as fit as ever and busy roaming the beach, collecting shells, guarding the turtle eggs, sweating in her gardens, and waiting for her beloved granddaughter to come play.
It was time to go back, to hear Tessa’s voice, to touch her things, to retrace their steps. It would hurt at first, but Mercer had known for eleven years that the day would come.
She had dinner with an old high school friend, slept in her guest room, and said good-bye early the following morning. Camino Island was fifteen hours away.
8.
She spent the night in a motel near Tallahassee and arrived at the cottage, as planned, around noon. Not much had changed, though it was now painted white and not the soft yellow Tessa had preferred. The narrow drive of oyster shells was lined with neatly trimmed Bermuda grass. According to Aunt Jane, Larry the yard guy was still taking care of the place, and he would stop by later to say hello. The front door was not far from Fernando Street, and for privacy Tessa had lined her boundaries with dwarf palmettos and elderberry shrubs, now so thick and tall that the neighbors’ homes could not be seen. The flower beds where Tessa had spent the mornings away from the sun were filled with begonias, catmint, and lavender. The porch columns were covered with ever-creeping wisteria. A sweet gum tree had grown considerably and shaded most of the small front lawn. Jane and Larry were doing a nice job of landscaping. Tessa would be pleased, though she would certainly find ways to improve things.
The key worked but the door was jammed. Mercer shoved it hard with a shoulder and it finally opened. She stepped into the great room, a long wide space filled with an old sofa and chairs in one corner, facing a television, then a rustic dining table that Mercer did not recognize. Behind it was the kitchen area, surrounded by a wall of tall windows with a view of the ocean two hundred feet away, beyond the dunes. All of the furniture was different, as well as the paintings on the walls and the rugs on the floors. It felt more like a rental than a home, but Mercer was prepared for this. Tessa had lived there year-round for almost twenty years and kept it immaculate. Now it was a vacation place and needed a good dusting. Mercer walked through the kitchen and went outside, onto the wide deck filled with aging wicker furniture and surrounded by palm trees and crape myrtles. She brushed dirt and cobwebs off a rocker and sat down, gazing at the dunes and the Atlantic, listening to the waves gently rolling in. She had promised herself she would not cry, so she didn’t.
Children were laughing and playing on the beach. She could hear but not see them; the dunes blocked the view of the surf. Gulls and fish crows cawed as they darted high and low above the dunes and the water.
Memories were everywhere, golden and precious thoughts of another life. Tessa had practically adopted her when she became motherless and moved her to the beach, at least for three months each year. For the other nine months Mercer had longed to be at this very spot, sitting in these rockers in the late afternoon as the sun finally faded behind them. Dusk had been their favorite time of the day. The glaring heat was over; the beach was empty. They would walk a mile to the South Pier and back, looking for shells, splashing in the surf, chatting with Tessa’s friends, other residents who came out late in the day.
Those friends were now gone too, either dead or sent away to assisted living.
Mercer rocked for a long time, then got up. She walked through the rest of the house and found little that reminded her of Tessa. And this was a good thing, she decided. There was not a single photo of her grandmother to be found; only a few framed snapshots of Jane and her family in a bedroom. After the funeral, Jane had sent Mercer a box of photos and drawings and puzzles she thought might be of interest. Mercer had kept a few of them in an album. She unpacked it, along with the rest of her assets, and went to the grocery store to get some of the basics. She made lunch, tried to read but couldn’t concentrate, then fell asleep in a hammock on the deck.
Larry woke her as he stomped up the side steps. After a quick hug, each commented on how the years were treating the other. He said she was as pretty as ever, now “a fully grown woman.” He looked the same, a bit grayer and more wrinkled, his skin even more leathered and beaten by too much time in the sun. He was short and wiry, and he wore what appeared to be the same straw hat she remembered as a child. There was something shady in his past, Mercer couldn’t recall it at the moment, and he had fled to Florida from somewhere far up north, maybe Canada. He was a freelance gardener and handyman, and he and Tessa had always bickered over how to care for the flowers.
“You should have come back before now,” he said.
“I suppose. You want a beer?”
“No. Stopped drinking a few years back. Wife made me quit.”
“Get another wife.”
“I’ve tried that too.”
He’d had several wives, as Mercer remembered things, and he was a terrible flirt, according to Tessa. She moved to a rocker and said, “Sit down. Let’s talk.”
“Okay, I guess.” His sneakers were stained green and his ankles were caked with grass clippings. “Some water would be nice.”
Mercer smiled and fetched the drinks. When she returned she twisted off the top of a beer bottle and said, “So what have you been up to?”
“The same, always the same. And you?”
“I’ve been teaching and writing.”
“I read your book. Liked it. I used to look at your picture on the back and say ‘Wow, I know her. Known her for a long time.’ Tessa would’ve been so proud, you know?”
“Indeed she would have. So what’s the gossip on the island?”
He laughed and said, “You’ve been gone forever and now you want the gossip.”
“What happened to the Bancrofts next door?” she asked, nodding over her shoulder.
“He died a couple of years ago. Cancer. She’s still hangin’ on but they put her away. Her kids sold the house. New owners didn’t like me; I didn’t like them.” She remembered his bluntness and efficiency with words.
“And the Hendersons across the street?”
“Dead.”
“She and I swapped letters for a few years after Tessa died, then we sort of lost interest. Things haven’t changed much around here.”
“The island doesn’t change. Some new homes here and there. All the beach lots have been built up, some fancy condos down by the Ritz. Tourism is up and I guess that’s good. Jane says you’re gonna be here for a few months.”
“That’s the plan. We’ll see. I’m between jobs and I need to finish a book.”
“You always loved books, didn’t you? I remember stacks of them all over the house, even when you were a little girl.”
“Tessa took me to the library twice a week. When I was in the fifth grade we had a summer reading contest at school. I read ninety-eight that summer and won the trophy. Michael Quon came in second with fifty-three. I really wanted to get to one hundred.”
“Tessa always said you were too competitive. Checkers, chess, Monopoly. You always had to win.”
“I guess. Seems kind of silly now.”
Larry took a drink of water and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. Gazing at the ocean, he said, “I really miss the old gal, you know. We bickered nonstop over the flower beds and the fertilizer, but she would do anything for her friends.”
Mercer nodded but said nothing. After a long silence, he said, “Sorry to bring it up. I know it’s still tough.”
“Can I ask you something, Larry? I’ve never talked to anyone about what happened to Tessa. Later, long after the funeral, I read the newspaper stories and all that, but is there something I don’t know? Is there more to the story?”
“No one knows.” He nodded at the ocean. “She and Porter were out there, three or four miles, probably within view of land, and the storm came out of nowhere. One of those late summer afternoon jobs, but a pretty nasty one.”
“Where were you?”
“At home, puttering. Before you could turn around the sky was black and the wind was screaming. The rain was thick and blowing sideways. Knocked down a bunch of trees. Power was out. They said Porter got off a Mayday but I guess it was too late.”
“I was on that boat a dozen times, but sailing was not my thing. I always thought it was too hot and too boring.”
“Porter was a good sailor, and as you know, he was crazy about Tessa. Nothing romantic. Hell, he was twenty years younger.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Larry. They were awfully friendly, and as I got older I became suspicious. I found a pair of his old deck shoes in her closet one time. I was snooping around, like a kid will do. I didn’t say anything, but just listened harder. I got the impression Porter spent a lot of time around here when I was gone.”
He was shaking his head. “No. Don’t you think I’d know it?”
“I suppose.”
“I’m here three times a week and I keep an eye on the place. Some dude hanging around? I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Okay. But she really liked Porter.”
“Everybody did. A good guy. Never found him, never found the boat.”
“And they searched?”
“Oh yes, biggest search I ever saw. Every boat on the island was out there, including me. Coast Guard, helicopters. A jogger found Tessa up at the North Pier at sunrise. As I remember, it was two or three days later.”
“She was a good swimmer but we never used life jackets.”
“It wouldn’t matter in that storm. So, no, we’ll never know what happened. I’m sorry.”
“I asked.”
“I’d better go. Anything I can do for you?” He stood slowly and stretched his arms. “You have my phone number.”
Mercer stood too and gave him a light hug. “Thanks, Larry. It’s good to see you.”
“Welcome back.”
“Thanks.”
9.
Late in the day, Mercer kicked off her sandals and headed for the beach. The boardwalk began at the deck and rose and fell with the dunes, which were off-limits and protected by laws. She ambled along, as always looking for the gopher tortoises. They were endangered, and Tessa had been a fanatic about protecting their habitat. They lived off the sea oats and cordgrass that covered the dunes. By the time she was eight years old, Mercer could identify all the vegetation—the sandburs, beach stars, yuccas, and Spanish bayonets. Tessa had taught her about these plants and expected her to remember from summer to summer. Eleven years later, she still remembered.
Mercer closed the narrow boardwalk gate behind her, walked to the edge of the water, and headed south. She passed a few beachcombers, all of whom nodded and smiled. Most of them had dogs on leashes. Ahead, a woman walked directly toward her. With her perfectly starched khaki shorts and chambray shirt, and cotton sweater draped over her shoulders, she looked like a model straight out of a J.Crew catalog. The face was soon familiar. Elaine Shelby smiled and said hello. They shook hands and walked together, stepping barefoot in the sea foam.
“So how’s the cottage?” Elaine asked.
“It’s in good shape. Aunt Jane runs a pretty tight ship.”
“Did she ask a lot of questions?”
“Not really. She was happy that I wanted to stay here.”
“And you’re clear until early July?”
“Around July 4. Connie and her family will have it for two weeks then, so I won’t be around.”
“We’ll get you a room nearby. Any other rentals for the cottage?”
“No, not until November.”
“You’ll be done by then, one way or the other.”
“If you say so.”
“Two initial ideas,” Elaine said, quickly getting down to business. It appeared to be an innocent walk on the beach, but it was actually an important meeting. A golden retriever on a leash wanted to say hello. They rubbed his head and exchanged the usual pleasantries with his owner. Walking again, Elaine said, “First, I’d stay away from the bookstore. It’s important that Cable comes to you, not the other way around.”
“And how do I arrange that?”
“There’s a lady on the island, Myra Beckwith, a writer you might have heard of.”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. She’s written a pile of books, really raunchy romance novels, and she uses a dozen pen names. She once sold well in that genre but she’s slowed down with age. She lives with her partner in one of the old homes downtown. She’s a big woman, six feet tall and broad, a real bruiser. When you meet her you won’t believe she’s ever had sex with anybody, but she has an impressive imagination. A real character, very eccentric and loud and colorful, and she’s sort of the Queen Bee of the literary crowd. Of course, she and Cable are old friends. Drop her a note, make the introduction, tell her what you’re doing here, the usual routine. Say you’d like to stop by for a drink and say hello. Cable will know about it within twenty-four hours.”
“Who’s her partner?”
“Leigh Trane, another writer you might have heard of.”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. She aspires to write literary fiction, really impenetrable stuff that the stores can’t give away. Her last book sold three hundred copies and that was eight years ago. They’re an odd couple in every sense of the word, but they’ll probably be a hoot to hang out with. Once they know you, Cable will not be far behind.”
“Simple enough.”
“The second idea is a little riskier but I’m certain it will work. There’s a young writer named Serena Roach.”
“Bingo. Someone I’ve heard of. Never met her but we have the same publisher.”
“Right. Her latest novel came out a few days ago.”
“I saw a review. Sounds dreadful.”
“That’s not important. What’s interesting is that she’s touring and she’ll be here Wednesday of next week. I have her e-mail. Drop her a note, give her the spiel, and say you’d like to have coffee and so on. She’s about your age, single, and it could be fun. Her signing will be the perfect reason for you to visit the store.”
“And since she’s young and single we can expect Cable to be on his best behavior.”
“With you in town for a spell, and with Ms. Roach on tour, there’s a chance Cable and Noelle might host a dinner after the signing. By the way, Noelle is in town these days.”
“I’m not going to ask how you know this.”
“Quite simple. We went antiques shopping this afternoon.”
“You said this might be risky.”
“Well, over drinks it might come out that you and Serena have never met until now. A convenient coincidence, maybe. Maybe not.”
“I don’t think so,” Mercer said. “Since we have the same publisher, it seems believable that I would stop by and say hello.”
“Good. There will be a box delivered to your cottage in the morning at ten. It’s a pile of books, all four of Noelle’s and the three by Serena.”
“Homework?”
“You love to read, right?”
“That’s part of my job.”
“I’ll also throw in some of Myra’s garbage just for fun. Total trash but quite addictive. I could find only one of Leigh Trane’s books and it will be in the collection. I’m sure she’s out of print and with good reason. Not sure I’d bother. I couldn’t finish chapter 1.”
“Can’t wait. How long are you here?”
“I leave tomorrow.” They walked in silence, still at the water’s edge. Two kids on paddleboards splashed nearby. Elaine said, “When we were having dinner in Chapel Hill you had questions about the operation. I can’t say much, but we are quietly offering a reward for information. A couple of months ago, we found a woman who lives in the Boston area. She was once married to a book collector who deals in the rare stuff and is known to handle books with shady backgrounds. Evidently, the divorce was fairly recent and she’s carrying some baggage. She told us that her ex-husband knows a lot about the Fitzgerald manuscripts. She thinks he bought them from the thieves and quickly flipped them out of fear. She thinks he got a million bucks but we haven’t been able to trace the money, nor has she. If it happened, it was probably an offshore deal with hidden accounts and such. We’re still digging.”
“Have you talked to the ex-husband?”
“Not yet.”
“And he flipped them to Bruce Cable?”
“She gave us his name. She worked in the business with her ex until things went sour, so she knows something about the trade.”
“Why would he bring them here?”
“Why not? This is home and he feels secure. As of now, we are assuming the manuscripts are here, but that’s a rather significant assumption. We could easily be wrong. As I’ve said, Cable is very smart and clever and knows what he’s doing. He’s probably too savvy to keep them in a place that would be incriminating. If there’s a vault under the bookstore, I doubt he would store them there. But who knows? We’re just guessing and will continue to do so until we have better information.”
“But what kind of information?”
“We need a set of eyes inside the store, specifically inside his First Editions Room. Once you get to know him and start hanging around the store, buying books, showing up at author events, and so on, you will gradually develop a curiosity about his rare stuff. You’ll have some old books that Tessa left behind and these will be your entrée. How much are they worth? Does he want to buy them? We have no idea where these conversations might go, but at least we’ll have someone on the inside, someone he does not suspect. At some point, you’ll hear something. Who knows what, when, and where. The Fitzgerald heist might be dinner conversation. As I said, he drinks a lot and alcohol causes loose lips. Things slip out.”
“It’s hard to believe he’d let that slip.”
“True, but the slip might come from someone else. What’s crucial now is to have eyes and ears on the inside.”
They stopped at the South Pier and turned around and headed north. Elaine said, “Follow me,” and they walked to a boardwalk. She opened the gate and they climbed the steps to a small landing. She pointed to a two-story triplex at the far end and said, “The one on the right belongs to us, for now anyway. That’s where I’m staying. In a couple of days someone else will be there. I’ll text you their number.”
“Will I be watched?”
“No. You’re on your own, but you’ll always have a friend just in case. And I’d like an e-mail every night, regardless of what’s going on. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“I’m leaving now.” She held out her right hand and Mercer shook it. “Good luck, Mercer, and try to think of this as a vacation at the beach. Once you get to know Cable and Noelle, you might actually enjoy them and have some fun.”
Mercer shrugged and said, “We’ll see.”
10.
The Dumbarton Gallery was a block off Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. It was a small gallery on the ground floor of an old redbrick town house, one in need of a good paint job and perhaps a new roof. Despite the heavy foot traffic only a block away, the gallery was usually deserted, its walls practically bare. It specialized in minimalist modern stuff that, evidently, wasn’t too popular, at least not in Georgetown. Its owner didn’t really care. His name was Joel Ribikoff, fifty-two years old and a convicted felon, busted twice for dealing in stolen valuables.
His art gallery on the first floor was a front, a ruse designed to convince anyone who might be watching, and after two convictions and eight years in the slammer Joel believed that someone was always watching, that he had gone straight and was now just another struggling gallery owner in Washington. He played the game, had some shows, knew a few artists and even fewer clients, and halfheartedly maintained a website, again for the benefit of watchful eyes.
He lived on the third floor of the town house. On the second he had his office where he tended to his serious business, that of brokering deals for stolen paintings, prints, photographs, books, manuscripts, maps, sculpture, and even forged letters allegedly written by famous dead people. Even with the horrors of two convictions and life in prison, Joel Ribikoff simply could not stick to the rules. For him, living in the underworld was far more exciting, and profitable, than minding a small gallery and pushing art few people wanted. He loved the thrill of connecting thieves to their victims, or thieves to intermediaries, and structuring deals that involved multiple layers and parties with the valuables moving in the dark as money was wired to offshore accounts. He rarely took possession of the loot, but preferred to be the savvy middleman who kept his hands clean.
The FBI had stopped by a month after the Fitzgerald heist at Princeton. Of course, Joel knew nothing. A month later, they were back, and he still knew nothing. After that, though, he learned a lot. Fearing the FBI had tapped his phones, Joel had disappeared from the D.C. area and went under deep cover. Using prepaid and disposable cell phones, he had made contact with the thief and had met him at an interstate motel near Aberdeen, Maryland. The thief had introduced himself as Denny and his accomplice was Rooker. A couple of tough guys. On a cheap bed in a double room that was worth seventy-nine dollars a night, Joel took a look at the five Fitzgerald manuscripts that were worth more than any of the three could imagine.
It had been obvious to Joel that Denny, undoubtedly the leader of the gang or what was left of it, was under enormous pressure to unload them and flee the country. “I want a million dollars,” he’d said.
“I can’t find that much,” Joel had replied. “I have one and only one contact who will even talk about these books. All the boys in my business are extremely spooked right now. The Feds are everywhere. My best, no, my only, deal is half a million.”
Denny had cursed and stomped around the room, pausing occasionally to peek through the curtains and glance at the parking lot. Joel got tired of the theatrics and said he was leaving. Denny finally caved and they completed the details. Joel left with nothing but his briefcase. After dark, Denny left with the manuscripts and instructions to drive to Providence and wait. Rooker, an old Army pal who had also turned to crime, met him there. Three days later, and with the assistance of another intermediary, the transfer had been completed.
Now Denny was back in Georgetown, with Rooker, and looking for his treasure. Ribikoff had given him a good screwing the first time around. It would not happen again. As the gallery was closing at 7:00 p.m. on Wednesday, May 25, Denny walked in its front door while Rooker pried open a window to Joel’s office. When all doors were locked and all lights were off, they carried Joel to his apartment on the third floor, bound and gagged him, and began the ugly business of extracting information.