Camino Island by John Grisham (6)

CHAPTER SIX

THE FICTION

1.

Entering Noelle’s Provence was like walking into the middle of one of her handsome coffee-table books. The front room was filled with rustic country furniture, armoires and dressers and sideboards and armchairs arranged comfortably on ancient stone tile flooring. The side tables were loaded with old jugs and pots and baskets. The plaster walls were peach colored and adorned with sconces and smoky mirrors and dingy framed portraits of long-forgotten barons and their families. Scented candles emitted the thick aroma of vanilla. Chandeliers hung in clusters from the wood-and-plaster ceiling. An opera played softly in the background on hidden speakers. In a side room, Mercer admired a long, narrow wine-tasting table set for dinner with plates and bowls of sun yellow and olive green, the basic colors of rustic Provençal tableware. Against the wall near the front window sat the writer’s table, a beautiful hand-painted piece that she was supposed to covet. According to Elaine, it was being offered for three thousand dollars and perfect for their needs.

Mercer had studied all four of Noelle’s books and easily identified the furniture and furnishings. She was admiring the writer’s table when Noelle entered the room and said, “Well, hello, Mercer. What a nice surprise.” She greeted her with the casual French salute of obligatory pecks on both cheeks.

“This place is gorgeous,” Mercer said, almost in awe.

“Welcome to Provence. What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing. Just browsing. I love this table,” she said, touching the writer’s table. There were at least three featured in her books.

“I found it in a market in the village of Bonnieux, near Avignon. You should have it. It’s perfect for what you do.”

“I need to sell some books first.”

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” She took Mercer’s hand and led her from one room to the next, all filled with furnishings straight from her books. They climbed an elegant staircase of white stone steps and wrought-iron handrails to the second floor, where Noelle modestly showed off her inventory—more armoires and beds and dressers and tables, each with a story. She spoke so affectionately of her collection that she seemed reluctant to part with any of it. Mercer noted that not a single piece on the second floor had a price tag.

Noelle had a small office downstairs in the rear of the store, and beside its door was a small flip-top wine-tasting table. As she described it, Mercer wondered if all French tables were used for wine tasting. “Let’s have some tea,” Noelle said and pointed to a chair at the table. Mercer took a seat and they chatted as Noelle boiled water on a small stove next to a marble sink.

“I adore that writer’s table,” Mercer said. “But I’m afraid to ask its price.”

Noelle smiled and said, “For you, dear, it has a special price. For anyone else it’s three thousand, but you can have it for half of that.”

“That’s still a stretch. Let me think about it.”

“Where are you writing now?”

“At a small breakfast table in the kitchen, with a view of the ocean, but it’s not working. I’m not sure if it’s the table or the ocean, but the words are not coming.”

“What’s the book about?”

“I’m not sure. I’m trying to start a new one but it’s not going too well.”

“I just finished October Rain and think it’s brilliant.”

“You’re very kind.” Mercer was touched. Since coming to the island she had now met three people who spoke highly of her first novel, more encouragement than she had received in the past five years.

Noelle placed a porcelain tea service on the table and deftly poured boiling water into matching cups. Both added a cube of sugar but no milk, and as they stirred Noelle asked, “Do you talk about your work? I ask because most writers talk too much about what they’ve written or want to write, but a few find it difficult for some reason.”

“I prefer not to, especially about what I’m doing now. My first novel feels old and dated, like I wrote it many years ago. In many ways, it’s a curse to get published so young. Expectations are high, the pressure is on, the literary world is waiting for some great body of work. Then a few years pass and there’s no book. The promising star is slowly forgotten. After October Rain, my first agent advised me to hurry up and publish my second novel. She said that since the critics loved my first one they would certainly hate my second, whatever it was, so go ahead and get the sophomore jinx over with. Probably good advice, but the problem was I didn’t have a second novel. I guess I’m still searching.”

“Searching for what?”

“A story.”

“Most writers say the people come first. Once they are onstage, they somehow find a plot. Not you?”

“Not yet.”

“What inspired October Rain?”

“When I was in college I read a story about a missing child, one who was never found, and what it did to the family. It was an incredibly sad, haunting story, but also beautiful in many ways. I couldn’t forget about it, so I borrowed the story, fictionalized it thoroughly, and wrote the novel in less than a year. That seems hard to believe now, working that fast. Back then I looked forward to every morning, to the first cup of coffee and the next page. It’s not happening now.”

“I’m sure it will. You’re in the perfect place to do nothing but write.”

“We’ll see. Frankly, Noelle, I need to sell some books. I don’t want to teach and I don’t want to find a job. I’ve even thought about writing under a pen name and cranking out mysteries or something that might sell.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Sell some books and then you can write whatever you want.”

“That plan is slowly taking shape.”

“Have you thought about talking to Bruce?”

“No. Why would I?”

“He knows the business and the art from every angle. He reads everything, knows hundreds of writers and agents and editors, and they often come to him for his insights, not necessarily his advice. He won’t give any, unless he’s asked. He likes you and he admires your work and he would probably say something helpful.”

Mercer shrugged as if the idea might have merit. The front door opened and Noelle said, “Excuse me, but I may have a customer.” She left the table and disappeared. For a few moments, Mercer sipped her tea and felt like a fraud. She wasn’t there to shop for furniture or chat about writing or pretend to be another lonely, troubled author trying to make friends. No, she was there snooping for any scrap of information she could hand over to Elaine, who might one day use it against Noelle and Bruce. A sharp pain hit deep in her bowels as a wave of nausea swept over her. She endured it, waited for it to pass, then stood and steadied herself. She walked to the front of the store, where Noelle was helping a customer who appeared to be serious about a dresser.

“I need to be going,” Mercer said.

“Of course,” Noelle said almost in a whisper. “Bruce and I would love to have you over for dinner soon.”

“How lovely. I’m free for the rest of the summer.”

“I’ll call.”

2.

Later in the afternoon, Noelle was arranging a collection of small ceramic urns when a well-dressed couple in their forties entered the store. Her first glance told her they were far more affluent than the average tourists who dropped in from the street, browsed long enough to understand the prices, then hustled away empty-handed.

They introduced themselves as Luke and Carol Massey from Houston and said they were staying at the Ritz for a few days, their first visit to the island. They had heard about the store, had even seen its website, and were immediately attracted to a tile-top dining table that was a hundred years old and, at that moment, the most expensive item in the store. Luke asked for a tape measure and Noelle handed one over. They measured the table from all directions, mumbling between themselves that it would be perfect in the guesthouse dining room. Luke rolled up his sleeves and Carol asked if they could take photos. Of course, Noelle said. They measured two dressers and two large armoires, and in doing so asked intelligent questions about the wood, the finishes, the histories. They were building a new home in Houston and wanted it to look and feel like a Provençal farmhouse, one they had vacationed in the year before near the village of Roussillon in the Vaucluse. The longer they stayed the more enamored they became with virtually everything Noelle had to offer. She took them upstairs to the pricier furniture and their interest intensified. After an hour in the store, and at almost 5:00 p.m., Noelle opened a bottle of champagne and poured three glasses. While Luke was measuring a leather chaise and Carol was snapping photos, Noelle excused herself to go downstairs and check on the front. When two stragglers left, she locked the door and returned to the wealthy Texans.

They gathered around an old comptoir and got down to business. Luke asked questions about shipping and storage. Their new home was at least six months away from completion and they were using a warehouse to gather furniture and furnishings. Noelle assured them that she shipped all over the country and that was no problem. Carol clicked off the items she wanted to purchase at that moment, one of which was the writer’s table. Noelle said no, she was holding it for someone else, but she could easily find another one during her upcoming trip to Provence. They walked downstairs to her office, where she poured more champagne and began working on a bill. The total was $160,000, a figure that didn’t faze them. Haggling over prices was part of the business, but the Masseys had no interest in it. Luke laid down a black credit card as if dealing in pocket change, and Carol signed the order.

At the front door, they hugged her like old friends and said they might be back tomorrow. When they were gone, Noelle tried to remember a sale of that magnitude. She could not.

At 10:05 the following morning, Luke and Carol breezed back into the store with bright smiles and high energy. They said they’d spent half the night looking at photos and mentally moving pieces around their unfinished home, and, well, they wanted more. Their architect had e-mailed them scaled drawings of the first two levels and they had sketched in designs and placements of where they wanted Noelle’s furniture. She couldn’t help but notice that the house covered nineteen thousand square feet. They went to her second floor, spent the entire morning measuring beds, tables, chairs, and armoires, and in doing so wiped out her inventory. The bill for the second day was over $300,000, and Luke again whipped out the black credit card.

For lunch, Noelle locked the store and took them to a popular bistro around the corner. While they ate, her lawyer checked the validity of the credit card and learned that the Masseys could buy whatever they wanted. He also dug into their backgrounds but found little. Why did it matter? If the black card worked, who cared where the money came from?

Over lunch, Carol asked Noelle, “When will you get more inventory?”

Noelle laughed and said, “Well, obviously sooner rather than later. I was planning a trip to France in early August, but now that I have nothing to sell I need to move it up.”

Carol glanced at Luke, who seemed a bit sheepish for some reason. He said, “Just curious. We are wondering if perhaps we could meet you over there and shop together.”

Carol added, “We love Provence, and it would be a blast hunting for antiques with someone like you.”

Luke said, “We don’t have kids and love to travel, especially to France, and we’re really into these antiques. We’re even looking for a new designer who could help with the flooring and wallpaper.”

Noelle said, “Well, I happen to know everyone in the business. When would you want to go?”

The Masseys looked at each other as if trying to recall their busy schedules. Luke said, “We’re in London on business in two weeks. We could meet you in Provence after that.”

“Is that too soon?” Carol asked.

Noelle thought for a second and said, “I can make it work. I go several times a year and even have an apartment in Avignon.”

“Awesome,” Carol said with great excitement. “It will be an adventure. I can just see our home filled with stuff that we find ourselves in Provence.”

Luke raised a wineglass and said, “Here’s to antiques hunting in the South of France.”

3.

Two days later, the first truck was loaded with most of Noelle’s inventory. It left Camino Island bound for a warehouse in Houston where a large space was waiting. A thousand square feet had been leased to Luke and Carol Massey. The bill, though, would eventually cross the desk of Elaine Shelby.

In several months, when the project was over, for better or for worse, the lovely antiques would slowly reenter the market.

4.

At dusk, Mercer went to the beach, turned south, and drifted along at the water’s edge. The Nelsons, from four doors to the south, stopped her for a quick chat as their mutt sniffed her ankles. They were in their seventies and held hands as they walked the beach. They were friendly to the point of being nosy and had already extracted the reason for Mercer’s little vacation. “Happy writing,” Mr. Nelson said as they left her. A few minutes later she was stopped by Mrs. Alderman, from eight doors to the north, who was walking her twin poodles and always seemed desperate for human contact. Mercer wasn’t desperate, but she was enjoying the neighborhood.

Almost to the pier, she left the water and approached a boardwalk. Elaine was back in town and wanted to meet. She was waiting on the small patio outside the triplex she had leased for the operation. Mercer had been there once before and seen no one but Elaine. If there were others involved in the surveillance, or if someone was shadowing her, she was unaware of it. Elaine had been vague when quizzed about it.

They stepped into the kitchen and Elaine asked, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Water is fine.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“No.”

“Well, we can order a pizza, sushi, or Chinese takeout. What will it be?”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“Neither am I. Let’s sit here,” Elaine said, pointing to a small breakfast table between the kitchen and the den. She opened the fridge and removed two bottles of water. Mercer took a seat and looked around. “Are you staying here?” she asked.

“Yes, for two nights.” Elaine sat across from her.

“Alone?”

“Yes. There’s no one else on the island as of today. We come and go.”

Mercer almost asked about the “we” part but let it pass.

Elaine said, “So, you’ve seen Noelle’s store.” Mercer nodded. Her nightly report by e-mail was deliberately vague.

“Tell me about it. Describe the layout.”

Mercer walked her through each display room, upstairs and down, adding as much detail as possible. Elaine listened carefully but did not take notes. It was obvious she knew a lot about the store.

“Is there a basement?” Elaine asked.

“Yes, she mentioned it in passing, said she had a workshop down there, but had no interest in showing it to me.”

“She’s holding the writer’s table. We tried to buy it but she said it’s not for sale. At some point soon you’re going to buy it, but perhaps you’ll want it painted. Perhaps she’ll do this in the basement, and maybe you’ll want to take a look to see a sample of the new color. We need to have a look in the basement because it adjoins the bookstore’s.”

“Who tried to buy it?”

“We. Us. The good guys, Mercer. You’re not alone.”

“Why is this not comforting?”

“You’re not being watched. We come and go, as I’ve said.”

“Okay. Suppose I get into her basement. Then what?”

“Look. Observe. Take it all in. If we’re lucky there might be a door that leads to the bookstore.”

“I doubt that.”

“I doubt it too but we need to know. Is the wall concrete, brick, wood? We might need to go through it one day, or night. What about the store’s video surveillance?”

“Two cameras, one aimed at the front door, the other in the back above the small kitchen area. There could be more but I didn’t see any. None on the second floor. I’m sure you already know this.”

“Yes, but in this business we triple check everything and we never stop gathering information. How is the front door locked?”

“Dead bolt, with a key. Nothing fancy.”

“Did you see a rear door?”

“No, but I didn’t go all the way to the rear. I think there are some more rooms back there.”

“To the east is the bookstore. To the west is a realtor’s office. Any door connecting to it?”

“None that I saw.”

“Nice work. You’ve been here three weeks, Mercer, and you’ve done a superb job of blending in and not arousing suspicion. You’ve met the right people, seen all you can see, and we’re very pleased. But we need to make something happen.”

“I’m sure you have something up your sleeve.”

“Indeed.” Elaine walked to the sofa, picked up three books, and placed them in the center of the table. “Here’s the story. Tessa left Memphis in 1985 and moved here for good. As we know, her will left her estate to her three children in equal shares. It had a provision leaving you twenty thousand dollars in cash for college. She had six other grandchildren—Connie, Holstead’s bunch out in California, and Jane’s only child, Sarah. You were the only one who got a specific bequest.”

“I was the only one she really loved.”

“Right, so our new story goes something like this. After she died, you and Connie were going through her personal items, the small stuff that’s not mentioned in the will, and the two of you decided to divide it. A few items of clothing, some old photos, maybe some inexpensive art, whatever. Create the fiction you want. In the deal, you received a box of books, most of them kids’ books Tessa had bought for you over the years. At the bottom, though, were these three books, all first editions from the public library in Memphis, all checked out by Tessa in 1985. When Tessa moved to the beach, she either intentionally or inadvertently brought these three books with her. Thirty years later, you have them.”

“Are they valuable?”

“Yes and no. Look at the one on top.”

Mercer picked it up. The Convict by James Lee Burke. It appeared to be in perfect condition, its dust jacket pristine and encased in Mylar. Mercer opened it, turned to the copyright page, and saw the words “First Edition.”

Elaine said, “As you probably know, this was a collection of Burke’s short stories that got a lot of attention in 1985. The critics loved it and it sold well.”

“What’s it worth?”

“We bought this one last week for five thousand dollars. The first printing was small and there aren’t many of these left in circulation. On the back of the dust jacket you’ll see a bar code. That’s what the Memphis library was using in 1985, so the book is virtually unmarked. Of course we added the bar code and I’m sure Cable will know someone in the business who can remove it. It’s not that difficult.”

“Five thousand dollars,” Mercer repeated, as if she were holding a gold brick.

“Yes, and from a reputable dealer. The plan is for you to mention this book to Cable. Tell him its story but don’t show him the book, at least initially. You’re not sure what to do. The book was obviously taken by Tessa and she had no legitimate claim to it. Then it was taken by you, outside her estate, and so you have no legitimate claim to it. The book belongs to the library in Memphis, but after thirty years who really cares? And, of course you need the money.”

“We’re making Tessa a thief?”

“It’s fiction, Mercer.”

“I’m not sure I want to defame my deceased grandmother.”

“ ‘Deceased’ is the key word. Tessa’s been dead for eleven years and she didn’t steal anything. The fiction you tell Cable will be heard by him only.”

Mercer slowly picked up the second book. Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, published by Random House, 1985, a first edition with a shiny dust jacket. “What’s this one worth?” she asked.

“We paid four thousand a couple of weeks ago.”

Mercer laid it down and picked up the third one. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, published by Simon & Schuster, also in 1985. The book had obviously been passed around, though the dust jacket was pristine.

“That one is a little different,” Elaine said. “Simon & Schuster was anticipating big numbers and the first printing was around forty thousand, so there are a lot of first editions in the hands of collectors, which, obviously, suppresses the value. We paid five hundred bucks, then put a new dust jacket on it to double the value.”

“The dust jacket is a forgery?” Mercer asked.

“Yes, happens all the time in the trade, at least among the crooks. A perfectly forged dust jacket can greatly increase the value. We found a good forger.”

Mercer once again caught the “we” angle and marveled at the size of the operation. She laid the book down and gulped some water.

“Is the plan for me to eventually sell these to Cable? If so, I don’t like the idea of selling fake stuff.”

“The plan, Mercer, is for you to use these books as a means to get closer to Cable. Start off by merely talking about the books. You’re not sure what to do with them. It’s morally wrong to sell them because they really don’t belong to you. Eventually, show him one or two and see how he reacts. Maybe he’ll show you his collection in the basement or the vault or whatever he has down there. Who knows where the conversation will go. What we need, Mercer, is for you to get inside his world. He might jump at the chance to buy The Convict or Blood Meridian, or he may already have them in his collection. If we have him pegged correctly, he’ll probably like the idea that the books are not exactly legitimate and want to buy them. Let’s see how honest he is with you. We know what the books are worth. Will he give you a lowball offer? Who knows? The money is not important. The crucial aspect here is to become a small part in his shady business.”

“I’m not sure I like this.”

“It’s harmless, Mercer, and it’s all fiction. These books were legitimately purchased by us. If he buys them, we get our money back. If he resells them, he gets his money back. There’s nothing wrong or unethical about the plan.”

“Okay, but I’m not sure I can play along and be believable.”

“Come on, Mercer. You live in a world of fiction. Create some more.”

“The fiction is not going too well these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Mercer shrugged and took a sip of water. She stared at the books as her mind raced through various scenarios. Finally, she asked, “What can go wrong?”

“I suppose Cable could contact the library in Memphis and snoop around, but it’s a big system and he’d get nowhere. Thirty years have gone by and everything has changed. They lose about a thousand books a year to folks who simply don’t return them, and, being a typical library, they have no real interest in tracking them down. Plus, Tessa checked out a lot of books.”

“We went to the library every week.”

“The story holds together. He’ll have no way of knowing the truth.”

Mercer picked up Lonesome Dove and asked, “What if he spots this forged dust jacket?”

“We’ve thought about that and we’re not sure we’ll use it. Last week we showed the book to a couple of old dealers, guys who’ve seen it all, and neither spotted the forgery. But you’re right. It could be a risk we decide not to take. Start with the first two, but make him wait. Drag it out as you struggle with what’s right and fair. It’s a moral dilemma for you and let’s see what kind of advice he gives.”

Mercer left with the books in a canvas bag and returned to the beach. The ocean was still and at low tide. A full moon lightened the sand. As she walked she heard voices that slowly grew louder. To her left and halfway to the dunes she saw two young lovers frolicking on a beach towel, their whispered words punctuated by sighs and groans of erotic pleasure. She almost stopped to watch until it was over, until the final heave and thrust, but she managed to move on, absorbing it all as much as possible as she ambled along.

She was consumed with envy. How long had it been?

5.

The second new novel came to an abrupt end after only five thousand words and three chapters, because by then Mercer was already tired of her characters and bored with her plot. Frustrated, depressed, even a bit angry with herself and the entire process, she put on a bikini, the skimpiest one in her growing collection, and went to the beach. It was only 10:00 a.m., but she had learned to avoid the midday sun. From noon until around five it was simply too hot to be outside, whether in the water or not. Her skin was now tanned enough and she worried about too much exposure. Ten o’clock was also about the time that the jogger came by, a stranger about her age. He ran barefoot at the edge of the water, his tall lean frame glistening with sweat. He was obviously an athlete, with a seriously flat stomach and perfect biceps and calves. He ran with an easy, fluid grace, and, she told herself, he seemed to slow just a little as she came into view. They had made eye contact on at least two occasions the previous week, and Mercer was convinced they were ready for the first hello.

She arranged her umbrella and folding chair and covered herself with sunblock, watching all movements to the south as she did so. He always came from the south, from the direction of the Ritz and the fancy condos. She unfolded her beach towel and stretched herself in the sun. She put on her sunglasses and straw hat and waited. As always on weekdays, the beach was practically deserted. Her plan was to see him in the distance and walk casually to the water, timing her movements to coincide with his. She would nail him with a casual “Good morning,” the same as everyone else on this friendliest of beaches. She rested on her elbows, and as she waited she tried not to think of herself as just another failed writer. The five thousand words she’d just deleted was the worst junk she’d ever written.

He had been there for at least ten days, too long for a hotel stay. Perhaps he was renting a condo for a month.

She had no idea what to write next.

He was always alone but too far away for her to check on a wedding band.

After five years of lame characters and clunky prose and ideas so bad that she didn’t even like them, she was convinced she would never again finish a novel.

Her phone rang and Bruce began with “Hope I’m not interrupting the genius at work.”

“Not at all,” she said. In fact, I’m lying on the beach practically nude scheming to seduce a stranger. “I’m taking a break,” she said.

“Good. Look, we have a signing this afternoon and I’m a bit worried about the crowd. It’s an unknown guy with a first novel that’s not very good.”

What does he look like? How old is he? Straight or gay? But she said, “So this is how you sell books. You rally your writers to come to your rescue.”

“You bet. And Noelle is doing a last-minute dinner party at the house, in his honor, of course. Just us, you, him, and Myra and Leigh. Should be fun. Whatta you say?”

“Let me check my calendar. Yes, I’m free. What time?”

“Six, dinner to follow.”

“Casual attire?”

“Are you kidding? You’re at the beach. Anything goes. Even shoes are optional.”

By eleven, the sun was baking the sand and the breeze had moved elsewhere. Evidently, it was too hot for jogging.

6.

The writer’s name was Randall Zalinski, and a quick look online revealed little. His brief bio was deliberately vague and intended to give the impression that his career in “dark espionage” had given him rare insights into all manner of terrorism and cyber crime. His novel was about a futuristic showdown between the U.S., Russia, and China. Its two-paragraph summary was sensationalized to the point of being ridiculous, and Mercer found even it to be boring. His doctored photo was of a white male in his early forties. No mention of a wife or family. He lived in Michigan, where, of course, he was at work on a new novel.

His would be the third signing Mercer had attended at Bay Books. The first two had brought back painful memories of her aborted book tour seven years earlier, and she had vowed to avoid the rest, or at least try to. Doing so, though, might be difficult. The signings gave her good reason to hang around the store, something she needed to do and something Elaine strongly suggested. And, it would be next to impossible to tell Bruce she was too busy to support touring authors, especially when he called her with a personal invitation.

Myra had been right; the store had a loyal following and Bruce Cable could organize a crowd. There were about forty of the faithful milling around upstairs near the café when Mercer arrived. For the event, tables and shelves were shoved back to make an open space where chairs were packed haphazardly around a small podium.

At six, the crowd filled the seats and chatted away. Most were drinking cheap wine from plastic cups and everyone seemed relaxed and happy to be there. Myra and Leigh assumed their seats in the front row, just inches from the podium, as if the best seats were always reserved for them. Myra was laughing and cackling and talking to at least three people at once. Leigh sat quietly beside her, chuckling when appropriate. Mercer stood to the side and leaned on a shelf, as if she really didn’t belong. The crowd was gray-haired and retired, and she once again noticed that she was the youngest one there. The atmosphere was warm and cozy as a bunch of book lovers gathered to enjoy a new writer.

Mercer admitted she was envious. If she could only finish a damned book then she too could go on tour and draw admirers. Then she remembered her tour, short as it was. It made her appreciate stores like Bay Books and people like Bruce Cable, those rare booksellers who worked hard to maintain a following.

He stepped to the podium, welcomed his customers, and began a glowing and generous introduction of Randy Zalinski. His years in the “intelligence community” had given him rare insights to the unseen dangers lurking around every corner. And so on.

Zalinski looked more like a spy than a writer. Instead of the usual faded jeans and rumpled jacket, he wore a fine dark suit, white shirt, no tie, and had not a trace of whiskers on a face that was tanned and handsome. And no wedding ring. He spoke off the cuff for thirty minutes and told frightening stories about future cyber wars and how the U.S. was at a great disadvantage in keeping up with our enemies, the Russians and Chinese. Mercer suspected she might hear the same stories over dinner.

He appeared to be touring alone, and as Mercer drifted away she decided that the guy had potential, though, unfortunately, he was in town for only one night. She also thought about the legend, the one in which Bruce hit on the younger female authors and Noelle did the same with the men. The Writer’s Room in their tower was allegedly used for the sleepovers. Now that Mercer had met them, though, she found this hard to believe.

The audience applauded when Zalinski finished, then formed a line in front of a table where his books were stacked. Mercer preferred not to buy one, and had no desire to read it, but really had no choice. She remembered the frustration of sitting at the table and desperately hoping someone would buy a book, plus she was about to spend the next three hours with the author. She felt obliged and waited patiently as the line moved along. Myra saw her and struck up a conversation. They introduced themselves to Zalinski and watched him scribble his autograph in their copies.

As they walked down the stairs, Myra mumbled, almost too loudly, “Thirty bucks down the drain. I’ll never read a word of it.”

Mercer chuckled and said, “Same here, but we made our bookseller happy.”

At the front counter, Bruce whispered to them, “Noelle is at the house. Why don’t you head on over?”

Mercer, Myra, and Leigh left the store and walked four blocks to the Marchbanks House. “Have you seen it already?” Myra asked.

“No, but I’ve seen the book.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat, and Noelle is the perfect hostess.”

7.

The house was much like Noelle’s store, filled with rustic country furniture and richly decorated. Noelle gave a quick tour of the downstairs, then hustled off to the kitchen to check on something in the oven. Myra, Leigh, and Mercer took their drinks to the rear veranda and found a cooler spot under a wobbly fan. The night was sticky and Noelle had let it be known that dinner would be indoors.

Dinner took an unexpected twist when Bruce arrived, alone. He said that their guest, Mr. Zalinski, suffered from migraines and was having a bout. Randy sent his apologies but needed to go lie down in a dark hotel room. As soon as Bruce fixed his drink and joined them, Myra went after Zalinski. “I’d like a refund of thirty dollars, please,” she said, and it wasn’t clear if she was joking. “I wouldn’t read his book at gunpoint.”

“Careful,” Bruce said. “If my little bookshop did refunds you’d owe me a fortune.”

“So all sales are final?” Mercer asked.

“Damned right they are.”

Myra said, “Well, if you’re going to make us buy the books, please get some decent authors in the store.”

Bruce smiled and looked at Mercer. “We have this conversation at least three times a year. Myra, the queen of trash, disapproves of almost all other commercial writers.”

“Not true,” Myra fired back. “I just don’t dig espionage and all that military crap. I won’t touch the book and don’t want it cluttering up my house. I’ll sell it back to you for twenty bucks.”

“Now, Myra,” Leigh said. “You always say that you love the clutter.”

Noelle joined them on the veranda with a glass of wine. She was concerned about Zalinski and asked if they should call a doctor friend. Bruce said no, Zalinski was a tough guy who could take care of himself. “And I thought he was quite dull,” Bruce added.

“How’s his book?” Mercer asked.

“I skimmed a lot. Too much technical stuff, too much of the writer showing off how much he knows about technology and gadgets and the dark web. I put it down several times.”

“Well, I’m damned sure not picking it up,” Myra said with a laugh. “And, to be honest, I was not looking forward to dinner.”

Leigh leaned in and looked at Mercer. “Dear, don’t ever turn your back on this crowd.”

Noelle said, “Well, now that you’re okay with dinner, let’s eat.”

In a wide rear hallway, somewhere between the veranda and the kitchen, Noelle had decorated her table, a dark, round wooden piece that looked oddly contemporary. Everything else was old, from the mutton-bone chairs to the fine French flatware and large earthen plates. Again, it looked like something lifted straight from one of her books, a setting that was almost too pretty to disturb with a meal.

As they took their places and refilled their glasses, Mercer said, “Noelle, I think I want to buy that writer’s table.”

“Oh, it’s yours. I had to put a sold sign on it because so many folks have been trying to buy it.”

“It may take some time to get the money straight, but I must have it.”

“And you think that’s going to cure your writer’s block?” Myra asked. “An old table from France?”

“Who said I had writer’s block?” Mercer asked.

“Well, what do you call it then when you can’t think of anything to write?”

“How about a ‘drought’?”

“Bruce? You’re the expert.”

Bruce was holding the large salad bowl as Leigh took a serving. He said, “ ‘Block’ sounds too severe. I think I prefer ‘drought.’ But, who am I? Y’all are the wordsmiths.”

Myra laughed for no apparent reason and blurted, “Leigh, remember the time we wrote three books in a month? We had this slimeball publisher who wouldn’t pay us, and so our agent said we couldn’t jump to another house because we owed the guy three books. So Leigh and I came up with three of the worst plots ever, really ridiculous stuff, and I banged the typewriter ten hours a day for thirty straight days.”

“But we had a great one in the wings,” Leigh said, passing along the salad bowl.

Myra said, “Right, right. We had the best idea ever for a semi-serious novel, but we were not about to give it to our jackass publisher. We had to get out of his lousy contract so we could snag a better house, one that would appreciate the genius behind our great idea. That part of it worked. Two years later, the three awful books were still selling like crazy while the great novel flopped. Go figure.”

Mercer said, “I think I might want to paint it, though, the writer’s table.”

“We’ll look at some colors,” Noelle said. “And make it perfect for the cottage.”

“Have you seen the cottage?” Myra asked in mock surprise. “We haven’t seen the cottage. When do we see the cottage?”

“Soon,” Mercer said. “I’ll throw a dinner.”

“Tell them the good news, Noelle,” Bruce said.

“What good news?”

“Don’t be coy. A few days ago a rich couple from Texas bought Noelle’s entire inventory. The store is practically empty.”

“Too bad they’re not book collectors,” Leigh said.

“I saved the writer’s table,” Noelle said to Mercer.

“And Noelle is going to close for a month so she can hustle back to France and restock.”

Noelle said, “They’re very nice people, and very knowledgeable. I’m meeting them in Provence for more shopping.”

“Now, that sounds like fun,” Mercer said.

“Why don’t you go with me?” Noelle said.

“Might as well,” Myra said. “Can’t do any more damage to your novel.”

“Now, Myra,” Leigh said.

“Have you been to Provence?” Noelle asked.

“No, but I’ve always wanted to see it. How long will you be there?”

Noelle shrugged as if a schedule was not important. “Maybe a month or so.” She glanced at Bruce and something passed between them, as if the invitation to Mercer had not been discussed beforehand.

Mercer caught it and said, “I’d better save my money for the writer’s table.”

“Good call,” Myra said. “You’d better stay here and write. Not that you need my advice.”

“She doesn’t,” Leigh said softly.

They passed around a large serving bowl of shrimp risotto and a basket of bread, and after a few bites Myra began looking for trouble. “Here’s what I think we should do, if I might say so,” she said, chomping away with a mouth full of food. “This is very unusual and I’ve never done it before, which is all the more reason to do it now, you know, venture into unknown territory. We should have a literary intervention, right now, around this table. Mercer, you’ve been here for what, a month or so, and haven’t written a damned word that might one day be sold, and, frankly, I’m getting kinda tired of your moaning and bellyaching about not making any progress with the novel. So, it’s pretty obvious to all of us that you don’t have a story, and since you haven’t published in, what, ten years—”

“More like five.”

“Whatever. It’s plain as day that you need some help. So what I propose is that we intervene as your new friends and help you find a story. Just look at all the talent around the table here. Surely we can steer you in the right direction.”

Mercer said, “Well, it can’t get any worse.”

“See what I mean,” Myra said. “So, we’re here to help.” She gulped some beer from a bottle. “Now, for purposes of this intervention, we need to set some parameters. First and most important is to decide whether you want to write literary fiction, stuff you can’t give away, hell, Bruce can’t even sell it, or do you want to write something more popular. I’ve read your novel and your stories and I’m not the least bit surprised they didn’t sell. Forgive me, okay? This is, after all, an intervention so we have to be brutally blunt. Okay? Everybody okay with the bluntness thing?”

“Go for it,” Mercer said with a smile. The rest nodded. We’re all having fun. Let’s hear it.

Myra crammed in a fork stuffed with lettuce and kept talking. “I mean, you’re a beautiful writer, girl, and some of your sentences just stopped me cold, which, one could argue, is not something a good sentence is supposed to do, but anyway you can write like hell and I think you can write anything. So what’s it gonna be—literary fiction or popular fiction?”

“Can’t it be both?” Bruce asked, thoroughly enjoying the conversation.

“For a handful of authors, right,” Myra replied. “But for the vast majority the answer is no.” She looked at Mercer and said, “This is something we’ve been debating for about ten years, since the first day we met. But, anyway, let’s assume that you will probably not be able to write literary fiction that will slay the critics and also rack up impressive royalties. And by the way, there is no envy here. I don’t write anymore so my career is over. I’m not sure what Leigh is doing these days but she’s damned sure not publishing anything.”

“Now, Myra.”

“So we can safely say her career is over too, and we don’t care. We’re old and we have plenty of money, so there’s no competition. You’re young and gifted and you’ll have a future if you can just figure out what to write. Thus this intervention. We’re just here to help. By the way, this risotto is delicious, Noelle.”

“Am I supposed to respond?” Mercer asked.

“No, it’s an intervention. You’re supposed to sit there and listen to us as we beat you up. Bruce, you go first. What should Mercer write?”

“I would start by asking what you read.”

“Everything by Randy Zalinski,” Mercer said and got a laugh.

“Poor guy’s laid up with a migraine and we’re trashing him over dinner,” Myra said.

“God help us,” Leigh said quietly.

Bruce asked, “What are the last three novels you read?”

Mercer took a sip of wine and thought for a second. “I loved The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah, and I believe it sold well.”

Bruce agreed. “Indeed it did. It’s out in paperback and still selling.”

Myra said, “I liked it, but you can’t make a living writing books about the Holocaust. Besides, Mercer, what do you know about the Holocaust?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to write about it. She’s written twenty books, all different.”

“Not sure it qualifies as literary fiction,” Myra said.

“Are you sure you would recognize it if you saw it?” Leigh asked with a grin.

“Was that a cheap shot, Leigh?”

“Yes.”

Bruce regained control with “Anyway, the other two novels?”

“A Spool of Blue Thread by Anne Tyler, one of my favorites, and LaRose by Louise Erdrich.”

“All girls,” Bruce said.

“Yes, I rarely read books written by men.”

“Interesting, and smart, since about 70 percent of all novels are purchased by women.”

“And all three sell, right?” Noelle asked.

“Oh yes,” Bruce said. “They write great books that sell well.”

“Bingo,” said Mercer. “That’s the plan.”

Bruce looked at Myra and said, “Well, there you have it. A successful intervention.”

“Not so fast. What about murder mysteries?” Myra asked.

“Not really,” Mercer replied. “My brain doesn’t work like that. I’m not devious enough to drop off clues and pick them up later.”

“Suspense? Thrillers?”

“Not really. I can’t do intricate plots.”

“Spies, espionage?”

“I’m too much of a girl.”

“Horror?”

“Are you kidding? After dark I’m afraid of my shadow.”

“Romance?”

“Don’t know the subject matter.”

“Porn?”

“I’m still a virgin.”

Bruce added, “Porn doesn’t sell anymore. You can get all you want for free online.”

Myra exhaled dramatically and said, “Those were the days. Twenty years ago Leigh and I could make the pages sizzle. Science fiction? Fantasy?”

“Never touch the stuff.”

“Westerns?”

“I’m afraid of horses.”

“Political intrigue?”

“I’m afraid of politicians.”

“Well, that does it. Looks like you’re destined to write historical fiction about screwed-up families. Now get to work. We expect some progress from this point on.”

“I’ll start first thing in the morning,” Mercer said. “And thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Myra said. “And since we’re on the subject of interventions, has anyone seen Andy Adam? Reason I ask is that I bumped into his ex at the grocery store a few days ago and she seemed to think he’s not doing too well.”

“Let’s just say he’s not sober these days,” Bruce said.

“Anything we can do to help?”

“Nothing I can think of. Right now Andy is just a drunk, and until he decides to sober up he’ll be nothing more than a drunk. His publisher will probably turn down his latest, and that will mean more trouble. I’m worried about him.”

Mercer was watching Bruce’s wineglass. Several times Elaine had said he drank too much, but Mercer had not seen this. At Myra and Leigh’s dinner party, and now again tonight, he sipped his wine, was slow to refill, and was in perfect control.

With Andy out of the way, Myra led them through a recap of their other friends’ lives. Bob Cobb was on a sailboat down around Aruba. Jay Arklerood was in Canada spending some time isolated in a friend’s cabin. Amy Slater was busy with the kids, one of whom was playing T-ball. Bruce grew noticeably quiet. He was careful to absorb the gossip but not repeat any of it.

Noelle seemed excited to be leaving the Florida heat for a month. Provence was warm too, but not as humid, she explained. After dinner, she again asked Mercer to join her there, maybe not for a month, for perhaps a week or so. Mercer thanked her but said she needed to work on the novel. That, plus money was tight and she was saving for the writer’s table.

“It’s yours, dear,” Noelle said. “I’m saving it for you.”

Myra and Leigh left at nine and walked home. Mercer helped Bruce and Noelle in the kitchen and managed to say good-bye before ten. When she left, Bruce was sipping coffee in the den, his nose stuck in a book.

8.

Two days later, Mercer ventured downtown and had lunch at a small café with a shaded courtyard. Afterward, she strolled along Main Street and noticed that Noelle’s shop was closed. A handwritten sign on the door explained that the owner was in France shopping for antiques. The writer’s table was on full display in the front window, in an otherwise empty room. She went next door, said hello to Bruce, and walked upstairs to the café, where she ordered a latte and took it outside to the balcony overhanging Third Street. As expected, he soon joined her.

“What brings you downtown?” he asked.

“Boredom. Another unproductive day at the typewriter.”

“I thought Myra had cured your writer’s block.”

“Wish it could be that simple. Do you have a few minutes, to talk?”

Bruce smiled and said of course. He glanced around and noticed a couple at a nearby table, too close for a serious conversation. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said. She followed him down to his First Editions Room and he closed the door behind them. “This must be serious,” he said with a warm smile.

“It’s somewhat delicate,” she said. She told him the story of Tessa’s old books, the ones she had “borrowed” from the Memphis Public Library in 1985. She had rehearsed the tale a dozen times and seemed genuinely perplexed about what to do. She was not surprised that he enjoyed the story and was interested in the books. In his opinion, there was no need to contact the library in Memphis. Sure, it would love to have the books back, but their losses had been written off decades ago. Besides, the library would have no appreciation for their real values. “They would probably just put them back on the shelves for the next person to steal,” he said. “Believe me, nothing good would happen to the books. They should be protected.”

“But they’re not really mine to sell, right?”

He smiled and shrugged as if this was a technicality of little consequence. “What’s the old saying? Possession is nine-tenths of the law. You’ve had the books for over ten years. I’d say they belong to you.”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right for some reason.”

“Are the books in good shape?”

“They seem to be. I’m no expert. I’ve taken good care of them. In fact, I’ve rarely touched them.”

“Can I see them?”

“I don’t know. This is just the first step. If I show you the books, then we would be getting closer to a transaction.”

“At least let me see them.”

“I don’t know. Do you have the titles in your collection?”

“Yes. I have all of James Lee Burke’s books and all of Cormac’s.”

Mercer glanced at the shelves as if looking for them. “Not here,” he said. “They’re with the rare books downstairs. Salt air and humidity are brutal on books, so I keep the valuable ones in a vault where the temperature is controlled. Would you like to see them?”

“Maybe later,” Mercer managed to say casually. In fact, she was wonderfully indifferent. “Any idea what these two might be worth, you know, just ballpark figures?”

“Sure,” he said quickly, as if anticipating the question. He swung around to a desktop computer, hit a few keys, and studied the screen. “I bought the first copy of The Convict in 1998 for twenty-five hundred bucks, so it’s probably more than doubled in value. It all depends on the condition, which of course I won’t know until I actually take a look. I bought another copy in 2003 for thirty-five hundred.” He continued scrolling. Mercer couldn’t see the screen but it appeared to be loaded with an extensive collection. “I have one copy of Blood Meridian, bought it from a dealer pal in San Francisco about ten years ago. Nine to be exact, paid, let’s see, two thousand for it but it had a slight chip on the jacket and some aging. Not in great shape.”

Well, just buy a forged jacket, Mercer thought, now that she knew so much about the business. Instead, she managed to seem pleasantly surprised. “Are you serious? They’re that valuable?”

“Don’t doubt me, Mercer, this is my favorite part of the business. I make more money trading rare books than selling new ones. Sorry if that sounds like bragging, but I love this stuff. If you’d like to sell the books I’ll be happy to help.”

“They have the library’s bar codes on the dust jacket. Wouldn’t that hurt their value?”

“Not really. They can be removed and I know every restorer in the business.”

And probably every forger. “How would I show them to you?” she asked.

“Put ’em in a bag and bring ’em in.” He paused and swiveled back to face her. “Or better yet, I’ll stop by the cottage. I’d like to see the place. I’ve driven by it for years and always thought it was one of the prettiest on the beach.”

“I really don’t want to haul them around.”

9.

The afternoon dragged on, and at one point Mercer could not resist the temptation to call Elaine for an update. Their plan was progressing faster than they had imagined, and now Bruce was ready to pounce on the books. The fact that he was stopping by the cottage was almost too good to be true, at least for Elaine.

“Where’s Noelle?” she asked.

“Gone to France, I guess. Her store is closed indefinitely while she’s off shopping.”

“Perfect,” Elaine said. She knew that the day before Noelle had flown from Jacksonville to Atlanta, where she boarded an Air France flight at 6:10 p.m. for a nonstop to Paris. She had arrived at Orly at 7:20, on schedule, and caught a 10:40 a.m. flight to Avignon. Their man on the ground there followed her to her apartment on Rue d’Alger in the old section of the city.

When Bruce arrived at the cottage a few minutes after six, Noelle was having a late dinner with a handsome French gentleman at La Fourchette, a famous little restaurant on Rue Racine.

When Bruce arrived at the cottage, Mercer was peeking through the blinds covering a front window. He was driving his convertible Porsche, the one she had seen parked at the Marchbanks House, and he had changed into khaki shorts and a golf shirt. At forty-three, he was lean, fit, and tanned, and though she had yet to hear him reveal the usual boring details of any workout routine, it was obvious he stayed in shape. After two long dinners, she knew that he ate little and drank in moderation. Same for Noelle. Good food was important to them; they just consumed it in small portions.

He was carrying a bottle of champagne, evidence that he was not one to waste time. His wife/partner had left the day before and he was already moving in on his latest prospect. Or so she figured.

Mercer met him at the door and showed him around. On the breakfast table, where she was trying to write her novel, she had placed the two books. “I guess we’re having champagne,” she said.

“It’s just a housewarming gift, maybe for later.”

“I’ll put it in the fridge.”

Bruce sat at the table and stared at the books, as if enthralled. “May I?”

“Of course. They’re just old library books, right?” she said with a laugh.

“Hardly.” He gently picked up The Convict and caressed it as if handling rare jewels. Without opening it, he examined the dust jacket, front, back, and spine. He rubbed the jacket and said, almost mumbling to himself, “First-issue jacket, bright and unfaded, no chips or blemishes anywhere.” He slowly turned to the copyright page. “First edition, published by LSU Press in January of 1985.” He turned more pages and closed the book. “Very fine copy. I’m impressed. And you’ve read it?”

“No, but I’ve read a few of Burke’s mysteries.”

“I thought you preferred female writers.”

“I do, but not exclusively. Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes. He’s been to the store twice. Great guy.”

“And you have two of these, first editions?”

“Yes, but I’m always looking for more.”

“What would you do if you bought it?”

“Is it for sale?”

“Maybe. I had no idea these two were so valuable.”

“I would offer five thousand for this, and I would then try to sell it for twice that. I have a number of clients, serious collectors, and I can think of two or three who’d like to add this to their collections. We would haggle for a few weeks. I would come down. They might go up, but I would hold the line at seven thousand. If I couldn’t get that, I’d lock it in the basement for five years. First editions are great investments because they can’t print any more of them.”

“Five thousand dollars,” Mercer repeated, apparently stunned.

“On the spot.”

“Can I haggle for more?”

“Sure, but six is my top dollar.”

“And no one will ever know where it came from? I mean, they can’t trace it back to me and Tessa?”

Bruce laughed at the question. “Of course not. This is my world, Mercer, and I’ve been playing this game for twenty years. These books disappeared decades ago and no one will suspect anything. I’ll place them privately with my clients and everyone will be happy.”

“There are no records?”

“Where? Who could keep up with all the first editions in the country? Books don’t leave trails, Mercer. A lot of them are passed down like jewelry—not always accounted for, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Outside of probate.”

“Oh, I get it. Are they ever stolen and resold?”

“It happens. I’ll turn down a book if its provenance is too shaky, but it’s impossible to look at a book and say it’s stolen. Take The Convict. Its first printing was small. Over time most have disappeared, and as this happens the remaining ones, those in fine condition, become more valuable. But that’s still a lot of copies out there in the market and they’re identical, or at least they were when they came off the press. Many are passed from one collector to the next. I suppose a few get stolen.”

“Can I be downright nosy and ask what’s your most valuable first edition?”

Bruce smiled and paused for a second. “You’re not being nosy, but let’s be discreet. A few years ago I bought a pristine copy of The Catcher in the Rye for fifty thousand. Salinger rarely autographed his masterpiece, but he gave this one to his editor, who kept it in his family for years, virtually untouched. Perfect condition.”

“How’d you find it? I’m sorry, but this is fascinating.”

“For years there were rumors about the book, rumors probably stoked by the editor’s family, who smelled a big score. I tracked down a nephew, flew to Cleveland, stalked the guy, and pestered him until he sold me the book. It was never on the market, and as far as I know, no one knows I have it.”

“And what will you do with it?”

“Nothing. Just own it.”

“Who’s seen it?”

“Noelle, a couple of friends. I’ll be happy to show it to you, along with the rest of the collection.”

“I’d like that. Back to business. Let’s talk about Cormac.”

Bruce smiled and picked up Blood Meridian. “Do you read him?”

“I’ve tried. He’s too violent.”

“I find it somewhat unusual that a person like Tessa would be a fan of Cormac McCarthy.”

“She read all the time, as long as the books came from the library.”

He examined the dust jacket and said, “A couple of chips here on the spine, probably due to aging, with a bit of fading. Overall, the jacket is in good condition.” He opened the book, examined the endpapers, turned to the half-title page and the copyright page, and read it carefully. He turned more pages, almost slowly enough to read the text. Softly, he said, as he flipped through, “I love this book. It’s McCarthy’s fifth one and his first novel set in the West.”

“I hung in there for about fifty pages,” she said. “The violence is explicit and gruesome.”

“Indeed it is,” Bruce said, still turning pages, as if he reveled in the violence. He gently closed the book and said, “A near-fine copy, as we say in the trade. Better than the one I already own.”

“And you paid how much for it?”

“Two thousand, nine years ago. I would offer four thousand for this and I would probably just keep it in my collection. Four thousand is the top.”

“That’s ten thousand for these two books. I had no idea they could be worth that much.”

“I know my stuff, Mercer. Ten thousand is a good deal for you, and for me as well. You want to sell?”

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

“Okay. No pressure from me. But, please allow me to keep these in my vault until you decide. As I said, the salt air is brutal.”

“Sure. Take them. Give me a couple of days and I’ll make up my mind.”

“Take your time. No rush. Now, about that champagne.”

“Yes, of course. It is pushing seven o’clock.”

“I have an idea,” Bruce said as he stood and took the books. “Let’s drink it on the beach and go for a walk. I don’t get much beach time, not in this business. I love the ocean and most days don’t even get the chance to see it.”

“Okay,” she said with a slight hesitation. Nothing like a romantic stroll in the surf with a man who claimed to be married. Mercer took a small cardboard box from the counter and handed it to him. He placed the books in it as she removed the champagne from the refrigerator.

10.

It took an hour to walk to the Ritz and back, and by the time they returned to the cottage shadows were falling across the dunes. Their glasses were bone dry and Mercer wasted no time refilling them. Bruce fell into a wicker rocker on the deck and she sat nearby.

They had covered his family: the sudden death of his father; the inheritance that bought the bookshop; his mother he hadn’t seen in almost thirty years; a distant sister; no contact with aunts, uncles, cousins; grandparents long gone. Mercer had matched him story for story, then went one up with the tragedy of her mother’s mental illness and commitment. That was something she told no one, but Bruce was easy to talk to. And to trust. And since both were scarred by the wreckage of abnormal families, they were on common ground and felt comfortable comparing notes and talking about it. The more they revealed, the more they managed to laugh.

Halfway through the second glass of champagne, Bruce said, “I disagree with Myra. You shouldn’t write about families. You’ve done it once, and brilliantly, but once is enough.”

“Don’t worry. Myra is perhaps the last person I would take advice from.”

“Don’t you love her, though, crazy as she is?”

“No, not yet, but I’m growing fond of her. Does she really have a lot of money?”

“Who knows? She and Leigh seem to be quite comfortable. They wrote a hundred books together, and by the way Leigh was far more involved in the romance fiction than she will admit. Some of their titles still sell.”

“Must be nice.”

“It’s hard to write when you’re broke, Mercer, I know that. I know a lot of writers and very few of them sell enough to write full-time.”

“So they teach. They find a campus somewhere and get a steady paycheck. I’ve done it twice and I’ll probably do it again. Either that or sell real estate.”

“I don’t think that’s an option for you.”

“Got any other ideas?”

“Actually, I have one great idea. Top me off and I’ll tell you a long story.” Mercer got the champagne out of the refrigerator and emptied the bottle. Bruce took a long drink, smacked his lips, and said, “I could drink this stuff for breakfast.”

“Me too, but coffee’s a lot cheaper.”

“So I had this girlfriend once, long before Noelle. Her name was Talia, a sweet girl who was gorgeous and talented and really messed up in the head. We dated off and on for about two years, more off than on because she was slowly losing her grip on reality. I couldn’t help her and it was painful watching her deteriorate. But she could write, and she was working on a novel that had enormous potential. It was a highly fictionalized story of Charles Dickens and his mistress, a young actress named Ellen Ternan. Dickens was married for twenty years to Catherine, a really stern woman in the Victorian sense. She bore ten children, and in spite of the obvious physical attraction the marriage was notoriously unhappy. When he was forty-five, and perhaps the most famous man in England, he met Ellen, who was eighteen and an aspiring actress. They fell madly in love and he left his wife and kids, though divorce was out of the question in those days. It’s never been clear whether he and Ellen actually lived together, and there was even a pretty strong rumor that she had a child that died at birth. Whatever the arrangement, they did a good job of hiding and covering up. However, in Talia’s novel, they had a full-blown affair that is narrated by Ellen and no details are spared. The novel got convoluted when Talia introduced another famous affair, one between William Faulkner and Meta Carpenter. Faulkner met her when he was in Hollywood cranking out screenplays for a buck, and from all indications they were in love. This got fictionalized too and was very well done. Then, to make the novel even more complicated, Talia introduced yet another affair between a famous writer and his girlfriend. There was a story, one that was never verified and is probably not true, that Ernest Hemingway had a quick romance with Zelda Fitzgerald when they were living in Paris. As you know, facts often get in the way of a good story, so Talia created her own facts and wrote a highly engaging account of Ernest and Zelda carrying on behind F. Scott’s back. So the novel had three sensational, literary love affairs raging by alternating sections, and it was just too much for one book.”

“She let you read it?”

“Most of it. She kept changing the stories and rewriting entire sections, and the more she wrote the more muddled it became. She asked for advice, I gave it to her, and she always did the opposite. She was obsessed with it and wrote nonstop for two years. When the manuscript passed a thousand pages I quit reading. We were fighting a lot then.”

“What happened to it?”

“Talia said she burned it. She called one day out of her mind and said she had destroyed it for good and would never write another word. Two days later she overdosed in Savannah, where she was living at the time.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Twenty-seven years old and more talent than I’ve ever seen. A month or so after her funeral, I wrote to her mother and rather gently asked about what, if anything, Talia might have left behind. Never heard a word, and the novel has never been mentioned. I’m convinced she burned it, then killed herself.”

“How awful.”

“It was tragic.”

“You didn’t have a copy?”

“Oh no. She would bring the manuscript here for a few days and make me read it while she kept working. She was paranoid about someone stealing her masterpiece and guarded it closely. Poor girl was paranoid about a lot of things. In the end she was off her meds and hearing voices, and there was nothing I could do. Frankly, by then I was trying to avoid her.”

They pondered the tragedy for a minute or so, each sipping slowly. The sun was gone and the deck was dark. Neither had mentioned dinner, but Mercer was prepared to say no. They had spent enough time together for one day.

She said, “That’s a great story.”

“Which one? Dickens, Faulkner, Zelda, or Talia? There’s a lot of material there.”

“And you’re giving it to me?”

Bruce smiled and shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“And the Dickens and Faulkner stories are true, right?”

“Yes. But the best one is Hemingway and Zelda. It was Paris in the 1920s, the Lost Generation, all that colorful background and history. They certainly knew each other. F. Scott and Hemingway were pals and drinking buddies and the Americans all partied together. Hemingway was always on the prowl—he married four women—and had a kinky side. In the right hands, the story could be so salacious that even Myra would approve.”

“I could only hope.”

“You’re not too enthused.”

“I’m not sure about historical fiction. Is it history or make-believe? For some reason it seems dishonest to tamper with the lives of real people and make them do things they didn’t really do. Sure they’re dead, but does that give writers the license to fictionalize their lives? Especially their private matters?”

“Happens all the time, and it sells.”

“I guess, but I’m not sure it’s for me.”

“Do you read them? Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald?”

“Only if I have to. I try to avoid old dead white men.”

“Me too. I prefer to read the people I’ve met.” He drained his glass and set it on the table between them. He said, “I’d better go. Enjoyed the walk.”

“Thanks for the champagne,” she said. “I’ll show you out.”

“I can find the door,” he said, and as he walked behind her gently kissed her on the top of her head. “See you.”

“Good night.”

11.

At eight the following morning, Mercer was sitting at the breakfast table, staring at the ocean, ignoring the laptop, daydreaming about something she couldn’t describe had she been asked, when she was startled by her cell phone. It was Noelle, calling from France, six hours ahead. She greeted Mercer with a hearty “Bonjour,” and apologized for disturbing her creative time, but she needed to check in before the day got away from her. She explained that a man named Jake would be at her store the next day and could meet with Mercer. Jake was her favorite restorer and painter and stopped by periodically. He would be repairing an armoire in the basement workroom, and it would be an excellent time for Mercer to discuss painting the writer’s table. The store would be closed and locked, but Jake had a key and so on. Mercer thanked her and they chatted for a few minutes about things in France.

As soon as she said good-bye, Mercer called Elaine Shelby, who was in Washington. Mercer had sent her a lengthy e-mail the night before with all the details of the day’s events and conversations, so Elaine was fully briefed. Suddenly it looked as though Mercer might get to see both basements on the same day.

She called Bruce at noon and said she would take his offer for the two books. She would be downtown the following day to see Jake, and she would pop in the bookstore to pick up the check. Plus, she really wanted to see that copy of The Catcher in the Rye.

“Perfect,” he said. “How about lunch?”

“Sure.”

12.

Elaine and her team arrived after dark and too late for a meeting. At nine the following morning, Mercer walked the beach and stopped at the boardwalk leading to their condo. Elaine was sitting on the steps with a cup of coffee and sand between her toes. She shook hands firmly, as always, and said, “Nice work.”

“We’ll see,” Mercer said.

They walked to the condo, where two men were waiting, Graham and Rick. They were sitting at the kitchen table with their coffee and a large kit or box of some variety. In it, as Mercer was about to learn, were the toys of the trade. Mikes and bugs and transmitters and cameras so small she wondered how they could possibly capture any image. They began pulling out the various devices and discussing the pros and cons and possibilities of each.

At no time had Elaine asked Mercer whether she was willing to wear a hidden camera. It was just assumed that she would, and for a moment this irritated her. As Graham and Rick talked on, Mercer felt a knot in her stomach. She finally blurted, “Is this legal? You know, filming someone without their permission?”

“It’s not illegal,” Elaine answered with a confident smile. Don’t be ridiculous. “No more so than taking a photograph of someone in public. Permission is not required, nor is full disclosure.”

Rick, the older of the two, said, “You can’t record a telephone conversation without full disclosure, but the government has yet to pass a law prohibiting camera surveillance.”

“Anytime, anywhere, except for a private residence,” Graham added. “Just look at all the surveillance cameras watching buildings and sidewalks and parking lots. They don’t need permission to film anyone.”

Elaine, who was very much in charge and outranked the two men, said, “I like this scarf with a buckle ring. Let’s try it.” The scarf was a flowery mix of colors and appeared to be expensive. Mercer folded it into a tri-fold and put it around her neck. Rick handed her the buckle ring, a golden clasp with tiny fake jewels, and she slipped the ends of the scarf through it. With a tiny screwdriver, and moving in far too close, Rick examined the buckle ring as he tapped it with the screwdriver.

“We’ll put the camera right there and it will be virtually invisible,” he said.

“How big is the camera?” Mercer asked.

Graham held it up, a ridiculously tiny device smaller than a raisin. “That’s a camera?” she asked.

“High-def. We’ll show you. Hand me the buckle ring.” Mercer slid it down and gave it to Rick. He and Graham put on matching pairs of surgical magnifying glasses and hovered over their work.

Elaine asked, “Do you know where you’re going to lunch?”

“No, he didn’t say. I’m meeting Jake at Noelle’s store at eleven, then I’ll walk next door and see Bruce. Lunch will follow but I don’t know where. How am I supposed to use that thing?”

“You don’t do anything, just act normally. The camera will be activated remotely by Rick and Graham. They’ll be in a van near the store. There’s no audio, the camera is too small, so don’t worry about what is said. We have no idea what’s in either basement so try to scan everything. Look for doors, windows, more cameras.”

Rick added, “And look for security sensors on the doors to the basement. We’re almost positive there are no doors that lead to the outside. Both basements appear to be completely below ground surface with no stairways on the exterior leading down.”

Elaine said, “This is our first look and it could well be the only one. Everything is crucial, but obviously we’re looking for the manuscripts, stacks of papers that are larger than printed books.”

“I’m familiar with a manuscript.”

“Of course you are. Look for drawers, cabinets, anyplace they could possibly fit.”

“What if he sees the camera?” Mercer asked, somewhat nervously.

Both men grunted. Impossible. “He won’t, because he can’t,” Elaine said.

Rick handed the buckle ring back and Mercer slid the ends of the scarf through it again. “I’m activating,” Graham said as he punched keys on a laptop.

Rick said, “Would you please stand and turn around slowly?”

“Sure.” As she did so, Elaine and the boys stared at the laptop. “Pretty amazing,” Elaine said, almost to herself. “Take a look, Mercer.”

Standing beside the table and facing the front door, Mercer glanced down at the screen and was surprised at the clarity of the image. The sofa, television, armchair, even the cheap rug in front of her were vividly clear. “All from this tiny camera,” she said.

“It’s a piece of cake, Mercer,” Elaine said.

“The scarf really doesn’t match anything I have.”

“Then what are you wearing?” Elaine asked, reaching for a bag. She pulled out half a dozen scarves.

Mercer said, “Just a little red sundress, I think. Nothing fancy.”

13.

Jake opened the front door and locked it behind her. He introduced himself and said he’d known Noelle for many years. He was a craftsman with rough, callused hands and a white beard, and had the look of a hard worker who’d spent a lifetime with hammers and tools. He was gruff and explained that the writer’s desk was already in the basement. She followed him down the steps, slowly and at a distance, trying to remind herself that everything in front of her was being filmed and analyzed. Down ten steps with her hand on the rail and into a long, cluttered room that seemed to run the length of the store, which, as she well knew, was 42 feet wide and 165 feet in depth, same as the bookshop next door. The ceiling was low, no more than eight feet tall, and the flooring was unfinished concrete. All manner of disassembled, broken, unfinished, and mismatched furniture and furnishings were stored haphazardly along the walls. Mercer nonchalantly browsed around, turning slowly in all directions. “So this is where she keeps the good stuff,” she said, but Jake had no sense of humor. The basement was well lit and there was a room of some sort near the back. Most important, there was a door in the brick wall between the room and the basement next door, the basement where Elaine Shelby and her mysterious company were betting that Mr. Cable was hiding his treasure. The brick wall was old and had been painted many times, now a dark gray, but the door was much newer. It was metal and solid and there were two security sensors at its top corners.

Elaine’s team knew that the two stores were virtually identical in width, length, height, and layout. They were part of the same building, one that had been built a hundred years earlier, and had basically been split in two when the bookstore opened in 1940.

Sitting in a van across the street and staring at their laptops, Rick and Graham were delighted to see that a door connected the two basements. Sitting on a sofa in the condo, Elaine had the same reaction. Go, Mercer!

The writer’s table was in the middle of the room, with newspapers spread below it, though the floor had collected paint droppings for years, and Mercer examined it carefully, as if it were some prized possession and not simply a pawn in their game. Jake pulled out a sheet of paint colors and they talked about several, with Mercer being quite hard to please. She eventually settled on a soft pastel blue that Jake would apply with a thin coat to produce the look of something old and distressed. He didn’t have that color in his truck and it would take a few days to find it.

Great. She could always come back for the next visit, to monitor his progress. And who knows? With the toys Rick and Graham had in their arsenal she might have cameras in her earrings next time.

She asked if there was a restroom downstairs, and Jake nodded toward the back. She took her time finding it, using it, and strolling back to the front, where he was sanding the top of the writer’s table. As he hunched over, she stood directly in front of the metal door for the best footage yet. But there might be a hidden camera watching her, right? She backed away, impressed with her situational awareness and growing experience. She might make a decent spy after all.

She left Jake at the front door and walked around the block to a small Cuban deli where she ordered an iced tea and sat at a table. Within a minute, Rick entered and paid for a soft drink. He sat across from her, smiling, and said almost in a whisper, “Perfect job.”

“I guess I’m just a natural at this,” she said, the knot in her stomach momentarily gone. “Is the camera on?”

“No, I turned it off. I’ll reactivate it when you enter the bookstore. Don’t do anything different. The camera is working perfectly and you got us plenty of footage. We are thrilled that there’s a door connecting the two basements. Now get as close to it as you can from the other side.”

“Nothing to it. I’m assuming we’ll leave the store and walk to lunch. Will you keep the camera on?”

“No.”

“And I’ll be sitting across the table from Cable for at least an hour. You’re not worried about him noticing anything?”

“After you’ve been to the basement, go to the restroom, the one upstairs on the main floor. Take off the scarf and the buckle ring and stick them in your purse. If he says anything, tell him the scarf was too warm.”

“I like that. It would be hard to enjoy lunch knowing I was pointing a camera at his face.”

“Right. You leave now and I’m right behind you.”

Mercer entered the bookstore at 11:50 and saw Bruce rearranging the magazines on a rack near the front. Today’s seersucker suit was striped in a soft aqua shade. So far Mercer had noticed at least six different tints to his suits and she suspected there were more. Bow tie of bright yellow paisley. As always, dirty buckskins, no socks. Never. He smiled, pecked her on the cheek, said she looked great. She followed him into the First Editions Room and he picked up an envelope on his desk. “Ten grand for the two books Tessa borrowed thirty years ago. What would she think?”

“She would say, ‘Where’s my share of the profits?’ ”

Bruce laughed and said, “We get the profits. I have two clients who want The Convict, so I’ll play one off the other and clear twenty-five hundred with a few phone calls.”

“Just like that?”

“No, not always, just the luck of the day. That’s why I love this business.”

“A question. That pristine copy of The Catcher in the Rye you mentioned. If you decided to sell it, what would you ask?”

“So, you’re liking this business too, huh?”

“No, not at all. I have no brain for business. Just curious, that’s all.”

“Last year I turned down eighty grand. It’s not for sale, but if I were somehow forced to put it on the market I would start at one hundred.”

“Not a bad deal.”

“You said you wanted to see it.”

Mercer shrugged as if she were indifferent and offered a casual “Sure, if you’re not too busy.” It was apparent Bruce wanted to show off his books.

“Never too busy for you. Follow me.” They walked past the stairs, through the children’s section, and to the very back of the store. The stairs going down were behind a locked door that was out of the way and gave every appearance of being rarely used. A camera watched it from a high corner. A security sensor was attached to its top. With a key, Bruce unlocked a dead bolt and turned an old knob, which was not locked. He pulled the door open and turned on a light. “Careful,” he said as he started down. Mercer hung back, careful as he said. He flipped another switch at the bottom of the stairs.

The basement was divided into at least two sections. The front and larger section included the stairs and the metal door that connected to Noelle’s, along rows of old wooden shelves sagging with thousands of unwanted books and galleys and advance reading copies. “It’s known as the graveyard,” Bruce said, waving an arm at the mess. “Every store has a junk room.” They took a few steps toward the rear of the basement and stopped at a cinder-block wall that had obviously been added long after the construction of the building. It ran the height and width of the room and seemed to have been wedged snugly into place. It had another metal door with a keypad beside it. As Bruce punched in the code, Mercer noticed a camera hanging from an old rafter and pointed at the door. Something buzzed and clicked, and they stepped through the door as Bruce turned on the lights. The temperature was noticeably cooler.

The room appeared to be completely self-enclosed, with rows of shelves against cinder-block walls, a concrete floor with a slick finish, and a lowered ceiling made of some fibrous material Mercer had no chance of describing. But she filmed it for her experts. Within the hour they would speculate that the room was forty feet in width and about the same in depth; a spacious room with a handsome table in the center; eight-foot ceilings; tight joints; every indication of a room that was airtight, secure, and fireproof.

Bruce said, “Books are damaged by light, heat, and moisture, so all three must be controlled. In here there’s almost no humidity and the temperature is always fifty-five degrees. No sunlight, obviously.”

The shelves were made of thick metal with glass doors so the spines of the books were visible. There were six shelves in each unit with the bottom about two feet off the floor and the top a few inches above Mercer’s head, so about six feet, she guessed. Rick and Graham would agree.

“Where are Tessa’s first editions?” she asked.

He stepped to the back wall and put a key into a narrow side panel next to the shelves. When he turned it, something clicked and all six glass doors were released. He opened the second shelf from the top. “Right here,” he said, removing the copies of The Convict and Blood Meridian. “They are safe and sound in their new home.”

“Very safe,” she said. “This is impressive, Bruce. How many books are down here?”

“Several hundred, but they’re not all mine.” He pointed to a wall by the door and said, “Those I store for clients and friends. A few are here sort of on consignment. I have one client who’s going through a divorce and he’s hiding his books right there. I’ll probably get a subpoena and get hauled into court, and not for the first time. But I always lie to protect my client.”

“And what’s that?” she asked, pointing to a tall, bulky, oversized cabinet standing in a corner.

“It’s a safe and it’s where I keep the really good stuff.” He punched in a code on its keypad—Mercer was careful to properly look away—and a thick door unlatched itself. Bruce swung it open. At the top and center there were three shelves, all lined with what appeared to be the spines of fake books, some with titles in gold print. Bruce gently pulled one off the middle shelf and asked, “Are you familiar with a clamshell?”

“No.”

“It’s this protective box, custom made for each book. Obviously, these books were printed in different sizes, so the clamshells vary. Step over here.”

They turned around and moved to the small table in the center of the room. He placed the clamshell on it, opened it, and gently removed the book. Its dust jacket was encased in a clear laminate cover. “This is my first copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Got it from my father’s estate twenty years ago.”

“So you have two copies of it?”

“No, I have four.” He opened to the front endpaper and pointed to a slight discoloration. “A little fading here, and a chip or two on the jacket, but a near-fine copy.” He left the book and the clamshell on the table and stepped back to the safe. As he did, Mercer turned to it so Rick and Graham would have their full frontal view. At its bottom, below the three shelves of the rarest of books, were what appeared to be four retractable drawers, all closed tightly at the moment.

If Bruce indeed had the manuscripts, then that’s where they are. Or so she thought.

He placed another clamshell on the table and said, “This is my most recent edition of the four, the one actually signed by Salinger.” He opened the clamshell, withdrew the book, and turned to the title page. “No dedication, no date, just his autograph, which, as I said, is quite rare. He simply refused to sign his books. He went crazy, don’t you think?”

“That’s what they say,” Mercer replied. “These are beautiful.”

“They are,” he said, still caressing the book. “Sometimes when I’m having a lousy day I sneak down here and lock myself in this room and pull out the books. I try to imagine what it was like being J. D. Salinger in 1951, when this was published, his first novel. He had published a few short stories, a couple in The New Yorker, but he wasn’t well known. Little, Brown printed ten thousand of these at first, and now the book sells a million copies a year, in sixty-five languages. He had no idea what was coming. It made him rich and famous and he couldn’t handle the attention. Most scholars believe he sort of cracked up.”

“I taught it in my class two years ago.”

“So you know it well?”

“It’s not my favorite. Again, I prefer female writers, preferably those still alive.”

“And you would like to see the rarest book I have by a woman, dead or alive, right?”

“Sure.”

He returned to the safe, with Mercer filming every step and even moving away slightly for another clear frontal assault with her little camera. He found his book and returned to the table. “How about Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own?” He opened the clamshell and removed the book. “Published in 1929. First edition, near-fine copy. I found it twelve years ago.”

“I love this book. I read it in high school and it inspired me to become a writer, or at least give it a shot.”

“It’s quite rare.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand for it.”

They shared a laugh and he politely said, “Sorry. It’s not for sale.” He handed it to her. She gently opened it and said, “She was so brave. Her famous line is ‘A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.’ ”

“She was a tortured soul.”

“I’ll say. She killed herself. Why do writers suffer so much, Bruce?” She closed the book and handed it back to him. “So much destructive behavior, even suicide.”

“I can’t understand the suicide, but I sort of get the drinking and bad habits. Our friend Andy tried to explain it years ago. He said it’s because the writing life is so undisciplined. There’s no boss, no supervisor, no time clock to punch or hours to keep. Write in the morning, write at night. Drink when you want to. Andy thinks he writes better with a hangover, but I’m not sure about that.” Bruce was fitting the books back into their clamshells. He returned them to the safe.

Impulsively, she asked, “What’s in the drawers?”

Without the slightest hesitation, he replied, “Old manuscripts, but they’re not worth a lot, not when compared to these books. John D. MacDonald is a favorite of mine, especially his Travis McGee series, and a few years ago I was able to buy two of his original manuscripts from another collector.” He was closing the door as he said this. Obviously, the drawers were off-limits.

“Seen enough?” he asked.

“Yes. This is fascinating stuff, Bruce. It’s another world I know nothing about.”

“I seldom show off these books. The rare book trade is a quiet business. I’m sure no one knows that I have four copies of Catcher, and I’d like to keep it that way. There is no registry, no one is looking, and many transactions take place in the dark.”

“Your secrets are safe. I can’t think of a soul I would want to tell.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Mercer. This is all legitimate. I report the profits and pay the taxes, and if I dropped dead my estate would include these assets.”

“All of them?” she asked with a smile.

He returned the smile and said, “Well, most of them.”

“Of course.”

“Now, how about a business lunch?”

“I’m starving.”

14.

The team dined on carryout pizza and washed it down with soft drinks. At the moment, food was not important. Rick, Graham, and Elaine sat at the condo’s dining table and reviewed dozens of still photos taken from Mercer’s video. She had produced eighteen minutes of footage from Noelle’s store and twenty-two from Bruce’s; forty minutes of precious evidence they were thrilled to now possess. They had studied it, but more important it was being analyzed by their lab in Bethesda. Facts were being established: the size of his vault, the dimensions of his safe, the presence of surveillance cameras and security sensors; dead bolts on doors; push-button entry panels. The safe weighed eight hundred pounds, was made of eleven-gauge steel, and had been manufactured fifteen years earlier by a factory in Ohio, sold online, and installed by a contractor out of Jacksonville. When locked, it was secured by five dead bolts made of lead and sealed by hydraulics. It could withstand heat of 1,550 degrees for two hours. Opening it would not be a problem, but the obvious challenge was getting to it without ringing bells.

They had spent the afternoon around the table, often in long, intense conversations, often on the speakerphone with their colleagues in Bethesda. Elaine was in charge but welcomed collaboration. There were a lot of opinions offered by smart people, and she listened. The FBI consumed most of their time. Was it time to call in the Feds? To introduce them to their favorite suspect? To tell them everything they had learned so far about Bruce Cable? Elaine didn’t think so, not yet anyway. And her reason was sound: there was not enough evidence to convince a federal magistrate that Cable had the manuscripts buried in his basement. At the moment, they had a tip from a source in Boston, a forty-minute video of the premises, and some still shots lifted from the video. In the opinions of their two attorneys in Washington, it was simply not enough to get a search warrant.

And, as always, when the Feds entered the picture, they took charge and changed the rules. As of now, they knew nothing of Bruce Cable and had no idea Elaine’s little mole had wormed her way inside. Elaine wanted to keep it this way for as long as possible.

One scenario, suggested by Rick but with little enthusiasm, called for the diversion of arson. Start a small fire after midnight on the ground floor of the bookstore, and as alarms wailed and security monitors erupted, enter the basement through Noelle’s side and do a smash and grab. The risks were abundant, not the least of which was the commission of several crimes. And what if Gatsby wasn’t there? What if Gatsby and friends were being hidden elsewhere, on the island or somewhere else in the country? Cable would be so unnerved he would scatter them across the globe, if he hadn’t already done so.

Elaine nixed the plan not long after Rick mentioned it. The clock was ticking but they still had time, and their girl was doing magnificent work. In less than four weeks she had endeared herself to Cable and infiltrated his circle. She had earned his trust and brought them this—forty minutes of valuable footage and hundreds of still shots. They were closing in, or at least they believed so. They would continue to be patient and wait for whatever happened next.

One significant question had been answered. They had debated why a small-town book dealer working in an old building could be such a fanatic about security. And since he was their prime suspect, everything he did was viewed with even more suspicion. The little fortress in his basement was being used to protect the ill-gotten loot of his trade, right? Not necessarily. They now knew that there was a lot of valuable stuff down there. After lunch, Mercer had reported that along with the four copies of The Catcher in the Rye and the one of A Room of One’s Own there were about fifty other books in protective clamshells lined neatly on the shelves of the safe. The vault itself held several hundred books.

Elaine had been in the business for over twenty years and was amazed at Cable’s inventory. She had dealt with the established rare book houses and knew them well. Their business was buying and selling and they used catalogs and websites and all manner of marketing to enhance their trade. Their collections were vast and well advertised. She and her team had often wondered if a small-time player like Cable could round up a million dollars for the Fitzgerald manuscripts. Now, though, that question too had been answered. He had the means.