Camino Island by John Grisham (7)

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE WEEKEND GIRL

1.

The invitation was for dinner, a dry one. Dry because Andy Adam was also invited and Bruce was insisting that the night be alcohol-free. Dry also because the touring writer, one Sally Aranca, had kicked the booze a few years back and preferred not to be around the stuff.

Bruce told Mercer on the phone that Andy was about to go away for another detox and was trying desperately to stay sober until he went into lockdown. Mercer was eager to help and happily agreed to the rules.

At the signing, Ms. Aranca charmed her audience of about fifty as she discussed her work and read a brief scene from her latest novel. She was making a name for herself in crime fiction with a series based on a female private investigator in San Francisco, her home. Mercer had skimmed the book during the afternoon, and as she watched and listened to Sally perform she realized that her protagonist was much like Sally herself: early forties, recovering alcoholic, divorced with no kids, quick and witty, savvy and tough, and, of course, quite attractive. She published once a year and toured extensively, always stopping at Bay Books and usually when Noelle was out of town.

After the signing, the four walked down the street to Le Rocher, a small French place with a good reputation. Bruce quickly ordered two bottles of sparkling water and handed the wine list back to the waitress. Andy glanced around a few times at the other tables and seemed eager to snatch a glass of wine, but instead added a slice of lemon to his water and settled down. He was haggling with his publisher over his latest contract, one that included a smaller advance than his last deal. With a fine flair for humor and self-deprecation, he told how he had jumped from publisher to publisher until all of New York was weary of him. He’d burned them all. Over appetizers, Sally recounted her early frustrations at getting published. Her first novel had been rejected by a dozen agents and even more publishers, but she kept writing. And drinking. Her first marriage blew up when she caught her husband cheating, and her life was a mess. Her second and third novels were rejected. Thankfully, some friends intervened and she found the will to stop drinking. With her fourth novel she turned to crime, created her protagonist, and suddenly agents were calling her. The film rights were optioned and she was off and running. Now, eight novels later, the series was established and gaining popularity.

Though she told her stories without a trace of smugness, Mercer could not help but feel a twinge of envy. Sally was writing full-time. Gone were the cheap jobs and loans from her parents, and she was producing a book a year. It all sounded so easy. And Mercer could freely admit to herself that every writer she’d ever met carried a mean streak of envy; it was the nature of the breed.

Over entrées, the conversation suddenly turned to drinking, and Andy admitted he was having problems. Sally was compassionate but tough, and offered advice. She had been sober for seven years and the change had saved her life. She was inspiring, and Andy thanked her for her honesty. At times, Mercer felt as though she was sitting through an AA meeting.

Bruce was obviously quite fond of Ms. Aranca, and as the dinner dragged on Mercer realized she was getting less of his attention. Don’t be ridiculous, Mercer thought, they’ve known each other for years. But once she realized this she couldn’t let it go, and it became more obvious, at least to her. Bruce touched Sally a few times, little affectionate pats on the shoulder as his hand lingered.

They skipped dessert and Bruce paid the bill. Walking along Main Street, he said he needed to stop by the bookstore to check on the night clerk. Sally went with him. Everyone said good night and Sally promised to send Mercer an e-mail and stay in touch. As Mercer was walking away, Andy said, “Hey, got time for a drink?”

She stopped and faced him. “No, Andy, that’s not a good idea. Not after that dinner.”

“Coffee, not booze.”

It was just after nine and Mercer had nothing to do at the cottage. Maybe having a coffee with Andy would help him. They crossed the street and entered an empty coffee bar. The barista said it would close in thirty minutes. They ordered two cups of decaf and took them outside to a table. The bookstore was across the street. After a few minutes, Bruce and Sally left it and disappeared down the street, in the direction of the Marchbanks House.

“She’ll stay at his place tonight,” Andy said. “A lot of the writers do.”

Mercer absorbed this and asked, “Does Noelle figure into their plans?”

“Not at all. Bruce has his favorites. Noelle has hers. At the top of the tower there’s a round room, known as the Writer’s Room. It sees a lot of activity.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Mercer said, though she did so perfectly.

“They have an open marriage, Mercer, and sleeping around is accepted, probably even encouraged. I suppose they love each other but they have no rules.”

“That’s pretty bizarre.”

“Not for them. They seem to be happy.”

Finally, some of Elaine’s gossip was being verified.

He said, “One reason Noelle spends so much time in France is that she has a longtime boyfriend there. I think he’s married too.”

“Oh why not. Of course he is.”

“And you’ve never been married, right?”

“Correct.”

“Well, I’ve tried it twice and I’m not sure I can recommend it. Are you dating anyone?”

“No. The last boyfriend hit the road a year ago.”

“Met anyone interesting around here?”

“Sure. You, Bruce, Noelle, Myra, Leigh, Bob Cobb. Lots of interesting folks around here.”

“Anyone you want to date?”

He was at least fifteen years older, a fierce drinker, a barroom brawler with scars to prove it, a real brute of a man who offered nothing of interest. “Are you trying to pick me up, Andy?”

“No. I was thinking about dinner sometime.”

“Aren’t you leaving real soon for, how does Myra put it, booze camp?”

“In three days, and I’m trying like hell to stay sober until then. It’s not easy. In fact I’m sipping this lukewarm coffee with no caffeine and trying to pretend it’s a double vodka on the rocks. I can almost taste it. And I’m killing time because I don’t want to go home, even though there’s not a drop in the house. On the way there I’ll pass two liquor stores, still open, and I’ll have to fight myself to keep the car in the road.” His voice was fading.

“I’m sorry, Andy.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t get in this shape. It’s awful.”

“I wish I could help.”

“You can. Say a prayer for me, okay? I hate being this weak.” As if to get away from the coffee and the conversation, he suddenly stood and began walking. Mercer tried to say something but found no words. She watched him until he turned a corner.

She took the cups to the counter. The streets were quiet; only the bookstore and the fudge shop were still open, along with the coffee bar. Her car was parked on Third, and for some reason she walked past it. She made the block and kept walking until she passed the Marchbanks House. Up in the tower, a light was on in the Writer’s Room. She slowed a step or two, and, as if on cue, the light went off.

She admitted she was curious, but could she also admit to a trace of jealousy?

2.

After five weeks in the cottage, it was time to get away for a few days. Connie and her husband and two teenage girls were on the way for their annual two-week vacation at the beach. Connie had politely, almost dutifully, invited Mercer to join them, but there was no way. Mercer knew the girls would do nothing but stare at their phones all day, and the husband would talk of nothing but his frozen yogurt shops. Though he was modest about his success he worked nonstop. Mercer knew he would be up by five each morning, slugging down coffee as he fired off e-mails and checked shipments and such, and would probably never get his feet wet in the ocean. Connie had joked that he had never lasted the full two weeks. Some crisis would always intervene and he would rush back to Nashville to save his company.

Writing would be out of the question, though at her current pace she couldn’t fall much farther behind.

As for Connie, who was nine years older, the two had never been close. With their mother away and their father too self-absorbed, the girls practically raised themselves. Connie fled home at the age of eighteen for college at SMU and never returned. She had spent one summer at the beach with Tessa and Mercer, but by then she was boy crazy and bored with the beach walking and turtle watching and nonstop reading. She left when Tessa caught her smoking pot.

Now the sisters e-mailed once a week; chatted by phone once a month; kept things civil and upbeat. Mercer dropped by occasionally when she was near Nashville, often at a different address. They moved a lot, and always to larger homes in nicer neighborhoods. They were chasing something, a vague dream, and Mercer often wondered where they would be when they found it. The more money they made the more they spent, and Mercer, living in poverty, marveled at their consumption.

There was a backstory that had never been discussed, primarily because a discussion would lead to nothing but hard feelings. Connie had the good fortune of receiving four years of private college education without incurring a dime in student debt, courtesy of their father, Herbert, and his Ford business. However, by the time Mercer enrolled at Sewanee, the old boy was losing his shirt and staring at bankruptcy. For years she had resented her sister’s luck, and it was not worth mentioning that Connie had never offered a dime of support. Now that her student debt had miraculously vanished, Mercer was determined to get past the resentment. It might be a challenge, though, with Connie’s homes getting grander by the year while Mercer wasn’t sure where she’d be sleeping in a few months.

The truth was that Mercer did not want to spend time with her sister. They were living in different worlds and growing farther apart. So she had thanked Connie for the invitation to stay with her family, and both were relieved when Mercer said no. She said she might be leaving the island for a few days, needed a break and all that, might go here or there to see a friend. Elaine arranged a small suite in a bed-and-breakfast on the beach two miles north of the cottage because Mercer had no plans to go anywhere. The next move was Cable’s, and she could not afford to be off the island.

On Friday of July Fourth weekend, Mercer tidied up the cottage and stuffed two canvas bags with her clothes, toiletries, and a few books. As she walked through, turning off lights, she thought of Tessa, and how far she, Mercer, had come in the past five weeks. She had stayed away from the place for eleven years and returned with great trepidation, but in short order she had managed to put aside the awfulness of Tessa’s death and dwell on the memories she cherished. She was leaving now, and for good reason, but she would be back in two weeks and again have the place to herself. For how long, no one seemed to know for sure. That would depend on Mr. Cable.

She drove five minutes along Fernando Street to the bed-and-breakfast, a place called the Lighthouse Inn. There was a tall fake lighthouse in the center of the courtyard, one that she remembered well from her childhood. The inn was a rambling Cape Cod–style building with twenty rooms to rent and an all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast. The holiday crowd was descending on the island. A “No Vacancy” sign warned others to stay away.

With a room of her own and some money in her pocket, perhaps she could settle in and write some fiction.

3.

Late Saturday morning, as Main Street was busy with its weekly farmers’ market and throngs of vacationers clogged the sidewalks looking for fudge and ice cream and perhaps a table for lunch, Denny entered Bay Books for the third time in a week and browsed through the mystery section. With his flip-flops, camouflage cap, cargo shorts, and torn T-shirt, he easily passed for another badly dressed visitor, one certain to attract the attention of no one else. He and Rooker had been in town for a week, scoping out the points of interest and watching Cable, a little surveillance that hardly posed a challenge. If the book dealer wasn’t in his store, he was either somewhere downtown doing lunch or running errands, or he was at his fine home, usually alone. They were being careful, though, because Cable loved security. His store and house were loaded with cameras and sensors and who knew what else. A false move could mean disaster.

They were waiting and watching, reminding themselves to be patient, though their patience was running thin. Torturing information out of Joel Ribikoff, as well as threatening Oscar Stein in Boston, had been easy work compared with what they were facing now. The violence that had worked before might not work so well now. Back then, they needed only a couple of names. Now they wanted the goods. An assault on Cable or his wife or someone he cared for could easily trigger a reaction that could ruin everything.

4.

Tuesday, July 5. The crowds were gone, the beaches empty again. The island woke up slowly, and under a glaring sun tried to shake off the hangover of a long holiday weekend. Mercer was on the narrow sofa, reading a book called The Paris Wife, when an e-mail beeped through. It was from Bruce and it read, “Stop by the store next time you’re in town.”

She replied, “Okay. Anything going on?”

“Always. I have something for you. A little gift.”

“I’m bored. Be there in an hour or so.”

The bookstore was empty when she strolled in. The clerk at the front counter nodded but seemed too sleepy to speak. She went upstairs and ordered a latte and found a newspaper. Minutes later, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs and knew it was Bruce. Yellow-striped seersucker today, little green and blue bow tie. Always dapper. He got a coffee and they went outside to the balcony overhanging the sidewalk along Third Street. No one else was there. They sat in the shade at a table under a ceiling fan and sipped coffee. Bruce handed over his gift. It was obviously a book that had been wrapped in the store’s blue and white paper. Mercer tore the paper off and looked at it. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan.

“It’s a first edition, autographed,” he said. “You mentioned her as one of your favorite contemporary writers, so I tracked it down.”

Mercer was speechless. She had no idea what the book was worth and was not about to ask, but it was a valuable first edition. “I don’t know what to say, Bruce.”

“ ‘Thanks’ always works.”

“It seems inadequate. I really can’t accept this.”

“Too late. I’ve already bought it and already given it to you. Call it a welcome-to-the-island gift.”

“Then thanks, I guess.”

“And you’re welcome. The first printing was thirty thousand copies, so it’s not that rare. It eventually sold half a million in hardback.”

“Has she been here, to the store?”

“No, she doesn’t tour much.”

“This is incredible, Bruce. You shouldn’t have.”

“But I did, and now your collection has begun.”

Mercer laughed and placed the book on the table. “I don’t exactly dream of collecting first editions. They’re a bit too pricey for me.”

“Well, I didn’t dream of being a collector either. It just sort of happened.” He glanced at his watch and asked, “Are you in a hurry?”

“I’m a writer with no deadline.”

“Good. I haven’t told this story in many years, but this is how I started my collection.” He took a sip, leaned back in his chair, put an ankle over a knee, and told the story of finding his deceased father’s rare books and plucking a few for himself.

5.

Coffee became a lunch date, and they walked to the restaurant at the harbor and sat inside, where the air was substantially cooler. As usual for his business lunches, Bruce ordered a bottle of wine; today’s was a Chablis. Mercer approved and they ordered salads and nothing more. He talked about Noelle, said she called every other day, and the search for antiques was going well.

Mercer thought of asking how her French boyfriend was doing. Once again, she found it difficult to believe that they could be so open with their affairs. It might not be unusual in France, but Mercer had never known a couple so willing to share. Sure, she knew people who had cheated, but when they got caught there was everything but acceptance. On the one hand she almost admired their ability to love each other enough to allow the other to stray at will, but on the other hand her southern modesty wanted to judge them for their sleaze.

“I have a question,” she said, changing the subject. “In Talia’s book, and specifically the story of Zelda Fitzgerald and Hemingway, how did she begin? What was her opening scene?”

Bruce smiled broadly as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Well, well, progress at last. Are you serious about the story?”

“Maybe. I’ve read two books about the Fitzgeralds and the Hemingways in Paris and I’ve ordered several more.”

“Ordered?”

“Yes, from Amazon. Sorry. They’re far cheaper, you know?”

“So I hear. Order from me and I’ll knock off 30 percent.”

“But I like to read e-books too.”

“The younger generation.” He smiled, took a sip of wine, and said, “Let me think. It’s been a long time, twelve, maybe thirteen years. And Talia rewrote the book so many times I was often confused.”

“From everything I’ve read so far, Zelda hated Hemingway, thought he was a bully and a brute and a bad influence on her husband.”

“That’s probably true. It seems like there was a scene in Talia’s novel when the three of them were in the South of France. Hadley, Hemingway’s wife, was back in the U.S. for some reason, and Ernest and Scott were really boozing it up. In real life, Hemingway complained several times about Scott’s inability to hold his liquor. Half a bottle of wine and he was under the table. Hemingway had a hollow leg and could outdrink anyone. Scott was a severe alcoholic at twenty and never slowed down. Morning, noon, and night, he was always ready for a drink. Zelda and Hemingway were flirting, and they finally got their chance after lunch when Scott passed out in a hammock. Did their business in a guest room not thirty feet from the guy as he snored away. Something like that, but again it’s fiction, so write whatever you want. The affair became rather torrid as Ernest drank even more and Scott tried to keep up. When he blacked out, his pal Ernie and his wife, Zelda, would hustle off to the nearest bed for a quick one. Zelda was smitten with Ernest. Ernest appeared to be crazy about her, but was only leading her on for obvious reasons. By then he was already a serial philanderer. When they returned to Paris, and when Hadley came back from the U.S., Zelda wanted to keep up the fun, but Ernest was tired of her. He said more than once she was crazy. So he stiff-armed her, jilted her, and she hated him from then on. And that, my dear, is the novel in a nutshell.”

“And you think that will sell?”

Bruce laughed and said, “My, my, you’ve become quite mercenary in the past month. You came here with literary ambitions and now you’re dreaming of royalties.”

“I don’t want to go back to the classroom, Bruce, and it’s not like I’m being chased by a lot of colleges right now. I have nothing, nothing but ten thousand dollars, courtesy of you and my dear Tessa’s sticky fingers. I need to either sell some books or quit writing.”

“Yes, it will sell. You mentioned The Paris Wife, a fine story about Hadley and Hemingway in those days, and it sold very well. You’re a beautiful writer, Mercer, and you can pull it off.”

She smiled and took a sip of wine and said, “Thanks. I need the encouragement.”

“Don’t we all?”

They ate in silence for a few moments. Bruce held up his glass and looked at the wine. “You like the Chablis?”

“It’s delicious.”

“I love wine, almost too much. For lunch, though, it’s a bad habit. It really slows down the afternoon.”

“That’s why they invented siestas,” she said helpfully, easing him along.

“Indeed. I have a little apartment on the second floor, sort of behind the coffee bar, and it’s the perfect spot for the post-lunch nap.”

“Is this an invitation, Bruce?”

“Could be.”

“Is that your best pickup line—‘Hey, baby, join me for a nap’?”

“It’s worked before.”

“Well, it’s not working now.” She glanced around and touched the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “I don’t sleep with married men, Bruce. I mean, I have, on two occasions, and neither was particularly enjoyable. Married men have baggage I don’t care to deal with. Plus, I know Noelle and I like her a lot.”

“I assure you she doesn’t care.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He was smiling, almost chuckling, as if she had no idea what she was talking about and he would be pleased to enlighten her. He, too, glanced around to make sure no one could possibly hear. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Noelle is in France, in Avignon, and when she goes there she stays in her apartment, one she’s had for many years. Just down the street is a much larger apartment owned by Jean-Luc, her friend. Jean-Luc is married to an older woman with plenty of money. Jean-Luc and Noelle have been close for at least ten years. In fact, she met him before I met her. They do their siestas, have dinner, hang out, even travel together when his old wife says it’s okay.”

“So his wife approves?”

“Of course. They’re French. It’s all quiet and discreet and very civilized.”

“And you don’t mind? This is really bizarre.”

“No, I don’t mind at all. That’s just the way it is. You see, Mercer, I knew many years ago that I’m simply not cut out for monogamy. I’m not sure any human really is, but I won’t argue that. By the time I got to college I realized that there are a lot of beautiful women out there and there’s no way I can be happy with just one. I’ve tried the relationship thing, been through five or six girlfriends, but nothing has ever worked because I can’t resist another beautiful woman, regardless of her age. Luckily, I found Noelle, because she feels the same way about men. Her marriage blew up years ago because she had a boyfriend on the side and was sleeping with her doctor.”

“So you struck a deal?”

“We didn’t shake hands, but by the time we decided to get married we knew the rules. The door is wide open, just be discreet.”

Mercer shook her head and looked away. “I’m sorry, I’ve just never met a couple with such an arrangement.”

“I’m not sure it’s that unusual.”

“Oh, I promise you it’s very unusual. You just think it’s normal because you’re doing it. Look, I caught a boyfriend cheating one time and it took me a year to get over it. I still hate him.”

“I rest my case. You take it too serious. What’s a little fling now and then?”

“A fling? Your wife has been sleeping with her French boyfriend for at least a decade. You call that a fling?”

“No, that’s more than a fling, but Noelle doesn’t love him. That’s all about companionship.”

“I’ll say. So the other night when Sally Aranca was in town, was that a fling or companionship?”

“Neither, both, who cares? Sally comes through once a year and we have some fun. Call it whatever you want.”

“What if Noelle had been here?”

“She doesn’t care, Mercer, listen to me. If you called Noelle right now and told her we’re doing lunch and talking about having a nap and what does she think about it, I promise Noelle would laugh and say, ‘Hey, I’ve been gone for two weeks, what’s taking so long?’ You want to call her?”

“No.”

Bruce laughed and said, “You’re too uptight.”

Mercer had never thought of herself as being uptight; in fact she thought she was fairly laid-back and accepting of most anything. But at the moment she felt like a prude and hated it. “No, I’m not.”

“Then let’s hop in the sack.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t be that casual about it.”

“Fine. I’m not pushing. I just offered a little nap, that’s all.”

Both chuckled, but the tension was palpable. And they knew the conversation was not over.

6.

It was dark when they met at the beach end of the cottage boardwalk. The tide was low and the beach was wide and empty. The brightness of a full moon shimmered across the ocean. Elaine was barefoot, and Mercer kicked off her sandals. They walked to the edge of the water and strolled along, just a couple of old friends having a chat.

As instructed, Mercer was being thorough with her nightly e-mails, down to the details of what she was reading and trying to write. Elaine knew almost everything, though Mercer had not mentioned Cable’s efforts to get her in bed. Maybe later, depending on what might happen.

“When did you get to the island?” Mercer asked.

“This afternoon. We’ve spent the last two days at the office with our team, all of our experts—tech guys, operations people, even my boss, the owner of the company.”

“You have a boss?”

“Oh yes. I’m directing this project, but my boss will make the final decisions, when we get there.”

“Get where?”

“Not sure right now. This is week number six, and, frankly, we’re not sure what’s next. You’ve been magnificent, Mercer, and your progress in the first five weeks has been nothing less than astonishing. We are very pleased. But now that we have the photos and videos, and now that you’ve worked your way into Cable’s circle, we’re debating our next move. Our confidence level is pretty high, but we have a ways to go.”

“We’ll get there.”

“We adore your confidence.”

“Thanks,” Mercer said flatly, tired of the praise. “A question. I’m not sure it’s wise to pursue the ploy of this novel about Zelda and Hemingway. It just seems too convenient, with Cable sitting on the Fitzgerald manuscripts. Are we on the right track?”

“But the novel was his idea.”

“Maybe it’s his bait, his way of testing me.”

“Do you have any reason to believe he might suspect you?”

“Not really. I’ve been able to spend time with Bruce and I think I can read him. He’s very bright, quick, and charismatic, and he’s also an honest guy who’s easy to talk to. He may be deceptive with some of his business, but not when he’s dealing with his friends. He can be brutally honest and he doesn’t suffer fools, but there’s a sweetness to him that’s genuine. I like him, Elaine, and he likes me and wants to get closer. If he’s suspicious, I think I would know it.”

“You plan to get closer?”

“We’ll see.”

“He’s lying about his marriage.”

“True. He always refers to Noelle as his wife. I’m assuming you’re correct when you say they are not really married.”

“I’ve told you all we know. There are no records in France or here of them applying for or obtaining a marriage license. I suppose they could’ve gotten married in some other country, but that’s not their story.”

“I don’t know how close we’ll get and I’m not sure it can be planned. My point is that I think I know him well enough to detect any skepticism.”

“Then stick with his novel. It will give you the chance to talk about Fitzgerald. It’s even a good idea to write the first chapter and let him read it. Can you do that?”

“Oh, sure. It’s all fiction. Nothing in my life is real these days.”

7.

Bruce’s next effort was just as casual as his last, but it worked. He called Mercer Thursday afternoon and said that Mort Gasper, the legendary publisher of Ripley Press, was in town, passing through with his latest wife. Gasper came to the island almost every summer and stayed with Bruce and Noelle. It would be a small dinner, just the four of them, late on Friday, a pleasant way to end the week.

After a few days at the bed-and-breakfast, Mercer was claustrophobic and eager to escape. She was desperate to get her cottage back and counting the days until Connie and her gang went home. To keep from writing, Mercer was walking the beach at all hours, careful to stay miles away from the cottage and keeping a sharp eye for anyone who might be related to her.

And meeting Mort Gasper might one day help her waning career. Thirty years ago he had bought Ripley for peanuts and turned the sleepy and unprofitable little house into a major publisher, one that remained defiantly independent. With a brilliant eye for talent, he had collected and promoted a stable of writers known for their diverse literary aspirations, as well as their ability to sell books. A throwback to the golden age of publishing, Mort clung to his traditions of three-hour lunches and late night launch parties at his Upper West Side apartment. He was without a doubt the most colorful figure in publishing and showed no signs of slowing down, even as he approached seventy.

Friday afternoon, Mercer spent two hours online reading old magazine articles about Mort, none of them remotely boring. One from two years earlier told of a two-million-dollar advance Mort paid to an unknown star with a debut novel that sold ten thousand copies. He had no regrets and called it “a bargain.” One mentioned his latest marriage, to a woman about Mercer’s age. Her name was Phoebe and she was an editor at Ripley.

Phoebe met her at the front door of the Marchbanks House at 8:00 p.m. Friday, and after a pleasant hello warned her that the “boys” were already drinking. As Mercer followed her through the kitchen she heard the humming of a blender. Bruce was concocting lemon daiquiris on the rear porch and had stripped down to shorts and a golf shirt. He pecked Mercer on both cheeks and introduced her to Mort, who greeted her with a fierce hug and contagious smile. He was barefoot and his long shirttail was down to his knees. Bruce handed her a daiquiri and topped off the others, and they sat in wicker chairs around a small table stacked with books and magazines.

It was readily apparent that in situations like this, as in probably all others, Mort was expected to do the talking. This was fine with Mercer. After the third sip she felt a buzz and wondered how much rum Bruce had added to the recipe. Mort was raging about the presidential race and the worrisome state of American politics, a subject Mercer cared little for, but Bruce and Phoebe seemed engaged and managed to offer enough to keep him going.

“Mind if I smoke?” Mort asked of no one in particular as he reached for a leather case on the table. He and Bruce fired up black cigars and a blue fog soon hovered over them. Bruce got the pitcher and did another round of top-offs. During a rare lull in Mort’s monologue, Phoebe managed to inject, “So, Mercer, Bruce says you’re here working on a novel.”

Mercer knew it would be coming at some point during the evening. She smiled and said, “Bruce is being generous. Right now I’m doing more dreaming than working.”

Mort blasted forth a cloud and said, “October Rain was a fine debut. Very impressive. Who published it? I can’t remember.”

With a forgiving smile Mercer said, “Well, Ripley turned it down.”

“Indeed we did, a foolish move, but then that’s publishing. You guess right on some books and wrong on others, all part of the business.”

“It was published by Newcombe, and we had our differences.”

He snorted his disapproval and said, “A bunch of clowns. Didn’t you leave them?”

“Yes. My current contract is with Viking, if I still have a contract. The last time my editor called she informed me I was three years past due.”

Mort roared with laughter and said, “Only three years! To be so lucky. I was yelling at Doug Tannenbaum last week because he was supposed to deliver eight years ago. Writers!”

Phoebe jumped in with “Do you talk about your work?”

Mercer smiled and shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Who’s your agent?” Mort demanded.

“Gilda Savitch.”

“Love that gal. I had lunch with her last month.”

So glad you approve, Mercer almost said, the rum doing a number. “She didn’t mention my name, did she?”

“I can’t remember. It was a long lunch.” Mort roared again and then gulped his drink. Phoebe asked about Noelle and this occupied them for a few minutes. Mercer noticed there was no activity in the kitchen, no sign of food being prepared. When Mort excused himself for a bathroom break, Bruce went back to the blender for more daiquiris. The girls chatted about the summer and vacations and such. Phoebe and Mort would leave tomorrow and head to the Keys for a month. Publishing was slow in July and thoroughly dormant in August, and, well, since he was the boss they could leave the city for six weeks.

As soon as Mort returned and settled into his chair with his fresh drink and cigar, the doorbell rang and Bruce disappeared. He returned with a large box of carryout and placed it on the table. “The best fish tacos on the island. Grilled grouper caught this morning.”

“You’re serving us take-out tacos?” Mort asked in disbelief. “I don’t believe this. I take you to the finest restaurants in New York and I get this.” As he protested he almost lunged at the tacos.

Bruce said, “The last time we had lunch in the city you took me to that dreadful deli around the corner from your office and my Reuben was so bad I almost puked. And, I picked up the bill.”

“You’re just a bookseller, Bruce,” Mort said, chomping a taco in half. “The writers get the fancy meals. Mercer, next time you’re in the city we’ll do a three-star.”

“A date,” she said, knowing it would never happen. At the rate he was draining his glass, he wouldn’t remember much by morning. Bruce was letting loose too, drinking far more aggressively than anything she had seen so far. Gone were the thoughtful sips of wine, the measured refills, the chatter about the vintage and producer, the complete self-control. Now, with his hair down and his shoes off, hell it was Friday night after a long week and he was breaking bad with a partner in crime.

Mercer was sipping her icy drink and trying to remember how many she’d had. With Bruce continually topping her glass, it was difficult to keep count. She was buzzed and needed to slow down. She ate a taco and looked around for a bottle of water, or maybe even some wine, but there was nothing else on the porch. Only a fresh pitcher of daiquiris, just sitting there waiting on them.

Bruce topped off their glasses and began telling a story about daiquiris, his favorite summer drink. In 1948, an American writer named A. E. Hotchner went to Cuba to track down Ernest Hemingway, who lived there in the late 1940s and early 1950s. The two became fast friends, and in 1966, a few years after Hemingway’s death, Hotchner published a famous book, Papa Hemingway.

Predictably, Mort interrupted with “I’ve met Hotchner, think he’s still alive. Must be pushing a hundred.”

Bruce replied, “Let’s assume you’ve met everybody, Mort.”

Anyway, as the story went, during Hotchner’s first visit, which was for some type of interview, Hemingway was reluctant. Hotchner pestered him and they finally met in a bar not far from Hemingway’s home. On the phone Hemingway said the place was famous for its daiquiris. Of course, Hemingway was late, so while Hotchner waited he ordered a daiquiri. It was delicious and strong, and since he was not much of a drinker, he took it slow. An hour passed. The bar was hot and sticky so he ordered another. When it was half-gone he realized he was seeing double. When Hemingway finally arrived he was treated like a celebrity. Evidently, he spent a lot of time there. They shook hands and found a table and Ernest ordered daiquiris. Hotchner toyed with his fresh one while Ernest practically drained his. Then he drained another. During his third, Ernest noticed that his new drinking buddy was not drinking, so he challenged his manhood and said that if he wished to hang out with the great Ernest Hemingway he’d better learn to drink like a man. Hotchner manned up, gave it a go, and the room was soon spinning. Later, as Hotchner tried gamely to hold up his head, Ernest lost interest in their conversation and, with a fresh daiquiri, began playing dominoes with the locals. At some point—Hotchner had lost all concept of time—Ernest stood and said it was time for dinner. Hotchner was to follow him. On the way out, Hotchner asked, “How many daiquiris did we drink?”

The bartender thought for a second and said in English, “Four for you, seven for Papa.”

“You had seven daiquiris?” Hotchner asked in disbelief.

Ernest laughed, as did the locals. “Seven is nothing, my friend. The record here is sixteen, held by me of course, and I walked home.”

Mercer was beginning to feel as though she was on number sixteen.

Mort said, “I remember reading Papa when I was in the mail room at Random.” Stuffed with tacos, he relit his cigar. “Do you have a first edition, Bruce?”

“I have two, one in fine condition, one not so fine. You don’t see many of them these days.”

“Any interesting purchases lately?” Phoebe asked.

Other than the Fitzgerald manuscripts stolen from Princeton, Mercer thought to herself, but would never be drunk enough to blurt it. Her eyelids were getting heavier.

“Not really,” Bruce said. “Picked up a copy of The Convict recently.”

Not to be outdone, Mort—and there was probably no one in the history of New York publishing who had either lived through as many drinking stories or heard them from reliable sources—charged in with a windy tale about a drunken brawl in his apartment at two in the morning when Norman Mailer couldn’t find any more rum and began throwing empty bottles at George Plimpton. It was hilarious to the point of being hard to believe, and Mort was a seasoned raconteur.

Mercer caught herself nodding off. The last sound she remembered was that of the blender revving up for another batch.

8.

She awoke in a strange bed in a round room, and for the first few seconds she was afraid to move because any movement would sharpen the pounding in her forehead. Her eyes were burning so she closed them. Her mouth and throat were parched. A gentle rolling in her stomach warned that things might get worse. Okay, a hangover; been here before and survived, could be a long day but, hey, what the hell? No one made her drink too much. Own it, girl. The old saying from college: “If you’re gonna be stupid you gotta be tough.”

She was lying in a cloud, a deep, soft feathery mattress with layers of fine linens all around her. No doubt Noelle’s touch. With her newfound cash, Mercer had invested in prettier lingerie, and at that awful moment she was relieved to be wearing it. She hoped Bruce had been impressed. She opened her eyes again, blinked a few times, managed to focus, and saw her shorts and blouse arranged neatly on a nearby chair, his way of saying that there had been an orderly undressing, not a rip-and-tear dash for the bed. Eyes closed again, she dug deeper into the covers.

After the fading sounds of the blender, nothing. So how long had she slept in her chair on the porch while the others swapped stories and kept drinking and winked at each other as they grinned at her? Had she been able to walk away, unsteady and perhaps with a bit of help, or was Bruce forced to lug her up to the third-floor tower? Had she actually blacked out, college style, or had she merely gone to sleep and been put to bed?

Her stomach rolled again. Surely she had not ruined their little porch party with some indescribable upchucking scene that neither Bruce nor the others would ever mention? The thought of such an awful episode made her even more nauseous. Another glance at her shorts and blouse. They appeared to be free from stains, no signs of a mess.

Then a consoling thought. Mort was forty years older and had made a career out of raising hell. He’d thrown more drunks and suffered through more hangovers than all of his authors combined, so nothing would bother him. He was probably amused by it. Who cared about Phoebe? Mercer would never see her again. Besides, living with Mort she’d seen it all. Bruce certainly had.

A light tap on the door and Bruce eased into the room. He was wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe and holding a tall bottle of water and two small glasses. “Well, good morning,” he said quietly and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Morning,” she said. “I really want some of that water.”

“I need it too,” he said, and filled the glasses. They drained them and he poured more.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Not too good. You?”

“A long night.”

“How’d I get up here?”

“You fell asleep on the porch, and I helped you to bed. Phoebe was not far behind, then Mort and I lit another cigar and kept drinking.”

“Did you beat Hemingway’s record?”

“No, but it feels like we got close.”

“Tell me, Bruce, did I make an ass of myself?”

“Not at all. You dozed off. You couldn’t drive, so I put you to bed.”

“Thanks. I don’t remember much.”

“There’s not much to remember. All of us got bombed.”

She drained her glass and he refilled it. She nodded at her shorts and blouse and asked, “Who took those off?”

“I did. A real treat.”

“Did you molest me?”

“No, but I thought about it.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“Always. Look, there’s a big claw-foot tub in the bathroom. Why don’t you take a long hot bath, keep drinking water, and I’ll go fix breakfast. I need some eggs and bacon and figure you probably do too. Make yourself at home. Mort and Phoebe are stirring and they’ll leave soon. When they’re gone, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed. A plan?”

She smiled and said, “Sounds nice. Thanks.”

He left and closed the door. She had two options. First, she could get dressed, ease downstairs, try to avoid Mort and Phoebe, tell Bruce she needed to leave, and hit the road. But moving quickly was not a good idea. She needed time, time to pull herself together, time to see if her stomach would settle down, time to relax and maybe even sleep it off. And, she wasn’t sure she should be driving. The thought of returning to her little suite at the B&B was not appealing either, and the idea of a long hot bath was irresistible at the moment.

The second option was to follow Bruce’s plan, one that would eventually land him in the bed with her. That, she had decided, had reached the point of being inevitable.

She poured another glass of water and eased out of bed. She stretched, took a deep breath, and already felt better. No threats of nausea. She walked to the bathroom, turned on the faucets, and found the bubble bath. A digital clock on the vanity gave the time as 8:20. In spite of her obvious physical problems, she had slept for almost ten hours.

Of course Bruce needed to check on her, to see how the bath was going. He walked in, still in his robe, and placed another bottle of sparkling water next to the tub. “How ya doing?” he asked.

“Much better,” she said. The bubbles hid most of her nakedness but not all of it. He took a long approving look and smiled. “Need anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’m busy in the kitchen. Take your time.” And he was gone.

9.

She soaked for an hour, then got out and dried off. She found a matching bathrobe hanging on the door and put it on. In a drawer she found a stack of new toothbrushes. She opened one, brushed her teeth, and felt much better. She picked up her lingerie and found her purse next to her shorts and blouse. She removed her iPad, propped up the pillows, got in the bed, made her nest, and returned to her cloud.

She was reading when she heard noises at the door. Bruce walked in with a breakfast tray, which he placed snugly at her side. “Bacon, scrambled eggs, muffins with jam, strong coffee, and, for good measure, a mimosa.”

“I’m not sure I need more booze at this point,” she said. The food looked and smelled delicious.

“The hair of the dog. It’s good for you.” He disappeared for a second and returned with a tray for himself. When he was situated next to her, their trays side by side, in matching bathrobes, he picked up his flute and said, “Cheers.” They took a sip and began eating.

“So this is the infamous Writer’s Room,” she said.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“The ruin of many a poor girl.”

“All of them quite willing.”

“So it’s true. You get the girls and Noelle gets the boys?”

“True. Who told you about it?”

“Since when do writers keep secrets?”

Bruce laughed and shoved a strip of bacon in his mouth. After two sips of her mimosa, the buzz was back as the remnants of last night’s rum mixed with the fresh champagne. Fortunately, the long bath had settled her stomach and the food was delicious. She nodded at a long curved wall with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and asked, “So what are those? More first editions?”

“A mix, nothing of any real value. Odds and ends.”

“It’s a beautiful room, obviously put together by Noelle.”

“Let’s forget about her for the time being. She’s probably having a late lunch with Jean-Luc.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Not in the least. Come on, Mercer, we’ve had this conversation.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, both ignoring the coffee but not the mimosas. Under the covers, he began gently rubbing her thigh.

She said, “I can’t remember the last time I had sex with a hangover.”

“Oh, I do it all the time. It’s the best cure, actually.”

“I guess you should know.”

He wiggled out of bed and set his tray on the floor. “Finish your drink,” he said, and she did. He lifted her tray and set it aside, then he took off his bathrobe and flung it across the end of the bed. He helped her out of hers, and as soon as they were wonderfully naked they burrowed deep under the covers.

10.

Elaine Shelby was working in her home office late Saturday morning when Graham called from Camino Island. “Touchdown,” he announced. “Looks like our girl spent the night in the big house.”

“Talk to me,” she said.

“She parked across the street around eight last night and her car’s still there. Another couple left this morning, don’t know their names. Mercer and Cable are inside. It’s raining hard here, the perfect morning to shack up. Go, girl.”

“It’s about time. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll be down Monday.”

Denny and Rooker were watching too. They had traced the North Carolina license plates on Mercer’s car and done the background. They knew her name, recent employment history, current lodging at the Lighthouse Inn, publishing résumé, and partial ownership of the beach cottage. They knew Noelle Bonnet was out of town and her store was closed. They knew as much as they could possibly know, except what, exactly, to do next.

11.

The storm lingered and became just another excuse to stay in bed. Mercer, who had not had sex in months, couldn’t get enough. Bruce, the seasoned professional, had a drive and stamina that she found amazing at times. After an hour—or was it two?—they finally collapsed and fell asleep. When she awoke, he was gone. She put on her bathrobe, went downstairs, and found him in the kitchen, decked out in the usual seersucker suit and dirty bucks, refreshed and clear-eyed as if ready for another day of rigorous bookselling. They kissed and his hands immediately went inside her bathrobe and grabbed her rear.

“Such a gorgeous body,” he said.

“You’re leaving me?”

They kissed again in a long, groping embrace. He pulled away slightly and said, “I need to check on the store. Retail’s a bitch, you know?”

“When are you coming back?”

“Soon. I’ll bring some lunch and we’ll eat on the porch.”

“I need to go,” she said halfheartedly.

“Go where? Back to the Lighthouse? Come on, Mercer, hang around here and I’ll be back before you know it. It’s raining buckets, the wind’s howling, I think we’re under a tornado watch. Hell, it’s dangerous out there. We’ll crawl into bed and read all afternoon.”

“I’m sure you’re thinking of nothing but reading.”

“Keep the bathrobe on and I’ll be back.”

They kissed again, groped again, and he finally managed to tear himself away. He pecked her on the cheek, said good-bye, and left. Mercer poured a cup of coffee and took it to the back porch, where she rocked in a swing and watched the rain. With some effort, she could almost think of herself as a whore, a bad woman being paid to use her body to further her deception, but her heart wasn’t in it. Bruce Cable was a hopeless philanderer who would sleep with anyone regardless of their motives. Now it was her. Next week it would be someone else. He cared nothing for loyalty and trust. Why should she? He asked for no commitment, expected none, gave none in return. For him it was all physical pleasure, and for her, at the moment, the same was true.

She shrugged off any hint of guilt and actually smiled at the thought of a vigorous weekend in his bed.

He wasn’t gone long. They lunched on salads and wine, and soon made their way back to the tower for another round of lovemaking. During a break, Bruce fetched a bottle of chardonnay and a thick novel. They decided to read on the back porch in wicker rockers and listen to the rain. He had his novel; she, her iPad.

“Can you really enjoy a book on that thing?” he asked.

“Sure. The words are the same. Have you ever tried one?”

“Amazon gave me one of theirs years ago. I just couldn’t focus. I could be biased.”

“No kidding. I wonder why?”

“What are you reading?”

“For Whom the Bell Tolls. I’m alternating between Hemingway and F. Scott, trying to read them all. I finished The Last Tycoon yesterday.”

“And?”

“It’s pretty remarkable, given where he was when he wrote it. In Hollywood, trying to make some money and failing physically and emotionally. And so young. Another tragedy.”

“That was his last one, the one he didn’t finish?”

“That’s what they say. Such a waste of talent.”

“Is this homework for the novel?”

“Perhaps. I’m still not sure. What are you reading?”

“It’s called My Favorite Tsunami, a first novel by a guy who can’t write very well.”

“What an awful title.”

“Yes, and it doesn’t get any better. I’m fifty pages in with six hundred to go and I’m struggling. There should be a rule in publishing that debut novels are limited to three hundred pages, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. Mine was only 280.”

“Yours was perfect.”

“Thanks. So will you finish that?”

“I doubt it. I’ll give any book a hundred pages, and if by then the writer can’t hold my attention I’ll put it away. There are too many good books I want to read to waste time with a bad one.”

“Same here, but my limit is fifty pages. I’ve never understood people who grind through a book they don’t really like, determined to finish it for some unknown reason. Tessa was like that. She would toss a book after the first chapter, then pick it up and grumble and growl for four hundred pages until the bitter end. Never understood that.”

“I don’t get it.” He took a sip of wine, gazed across the backyard, and picked up the novel. She waited until he had turned a page and asked, “Got any other rules?”

He smiled and laid down the novel. “Oh, Mercer, dear, I have my list. It’s called ‘Cable’s Top Ten Rules for Writing Fiction,’ a brilliant how-to guide put together by an expert who’s read over four thousand books.”

“Do you share this?”

“Occasionally. I’ll e-mail it over, but you really don’t need it.”

“Maybe I do. I need something. Give me a hint or two.”

“Okay, I hate prologues. I just finished a novel by a guy who’s touring and will stop by next week. He always starts every book with the typical prologue, something dramatic like a killer stalking a woman or a dead body, then will leave the reader hanging, go to chapter 1, which, of course, has nothing to do with the prologue, then to chapter 2, which, of course, has nothing to do with either chapter 1 or the prologue, then after about thirty pages slam the reader back to the action in the prologue, which by then has been forgotten.”

“I like this. Keep going.”

“Another rookie mistake is to introduce twenty characters in the first chapter. Five’s enough and won’t confuse your reader. Next, if you feel the need to go to the thesaurus, look for a word with three syllables or fewer. I have a nice vocabulary and nothing ticks me off more than a writer showing off with big words I’ve never seen before. Next, please, please use quotation marks with dialogue; otherwise it’s bewildering. Rule Number Five: Most writers say too much, so always look for things to cut, like throwaway sentences and unnecessary scenes. I could go on.”

“Please do. I should be taking notes.”

“No, you shouldn’t. You don’t need advice. You’re a beautiful writer, Mercer, you just need a story.”

“Thank you, Bruce. I need the encouragement.”

“I’m dead serious, and I’m not flattering you because we’re in the midst of a little weekend orgy.”

“Is that what it’s called? Thought it was a fling.”

They laughed and took a sip of wine. The rain had stopped and a heavy mist was rolling in. She asked, “Have you ever written?”

He shrugged and looked away. “I’ve tried, several times, but never finished. It’s not my thing. That’s why I respect writers, the good ones anyway. I welcome them all and I love to promote all books, but there’s a lot of crap on the market. And I’m frustrated with people like Andy Adam who have the talent but squander it with bad habits.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not yet. He’s locked away with no contact. He’ll probably call in a week or so. This is either his third or fourth rehab, and I think the odds are against him. Deep inside he really doesn’t want to quit.”

“It’s so sad.”

“You look sleepy.”

“Must be the wine.”

“Let’s take a nap.”

With some effort, they managed to climb into a hammock and wedge themselves into a tight cuddle. As it rocked gently, they grew still. “Any plans for tonight?” she asked.

“I was thinking more of the same.”

“That too, but I’m getting tired of this place.”

“Well, dinner is a must.”

“But you’re a married man, Bruce, and I’m just your weekend girl. What if someone sees us?”

“I don’t care, Mercer, and Noelle doesn’t care. Why should you?”

“I don’t know. It just seems weird having dinner at a nice place on a Saturday night with a married man.”

“Who said it was a nice place? It’s a dump, a crab shack down by the river, great food, and I assure you no one there buys books.”

She kissed him and laid her head on his chest.

12.

Sunday began in much the same fashion as Saturday, without the hangovers. Bruce served breakfast in bed, pancakes and sausage, and they spent two hours scanning the New York Times. As noon approached, Mercer needed a break. She was about to begin her farewell when Bruce said, “Look, I’m shorthanded at the store this afternoon and the place will be crawling. I need to go to work.”

“Good idea. Now that I know the rules for writing fiction, I need to jot down a few things.”

“Always happy to be of service,” he said with a smile and pecked her on the cheek. They carried the trays to the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher. Bruce disappeared into the master suite on the second floor, and Mercer returned to the tower, where she dressed quickly and left without another good-bye.

If she had accomplished anything over the weekend, it wasn’t obvious. The bedroom antics were certainly enjoyable, and she knew him much better than before, but she wasn’t there for sex and she wasn’t there to write his novel. She was being paid a lot of money to gather clues and perhaps solve a crime. In that regard, she felt as though she had indeed accomplished little.

In her suite, she changed into a bikini, admired herself in the mirror, and tried to remember all the marvelous things he’d said about her body. It was lean and tanned and she was rather proud she had finally used it. She put on a white cotton shirt, grabbed her sandals, and went for a long walk on the beach.

13.

Bruce called at seven Sunday evening, said he missed her terribly, couldn’t imagine getting through the night without her, and could she stop by the store for a drink when he closed?

Sure. What else did she have to do? The walls of her awful little suite were closing in and she had written fewer than a hundred words.

She entered the store a few minutes before nine. Bruce was checking out the last customer and appeared to be working alone. As the customer left, he quickly locked the door and turned off the lights. “Follow me,” he said, and he led her up the stairs and through the café, turning off lights as he went. He unlocked a door she had never noticed and they entered his apartment.

“My man cave,” he said as he turned on the lights. “I lived here for the first ten years I owned the store. Back then it covered the entire second floor, but then the café came along. Have a seat.” He waved at a bulky leather sofa that ran along an entire wall and was covered with pillows and quilts. Opposite the sofa, a large flat-screen TV was mounted on a squat table, and around it were, of course, shelves lined with books.

“Champagne?” he asked as he stepped behind a snack bar and opened the refrigerator.

“Of course.”

He removed a bottle, quickly popped the cork, filled two flutes, and said, “Cheers.”

They clinked glasses and he gulped most of his. “I really needed a drink,” he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.

“Evidently. You okay?”

“Rough day. One of my clerks called in sick so I worked the floor. It’s hard to find good help.” He drained his flute and refilled it. He removed his jacket, untied his bow tie, yanked out his shirttail, kicked off his dirty buckskins. They moved to the sofa and fell into it.

“How was your day?” he asked, gulping again.

“The usual. I walked on the beach, got some sun, tried to write, went back to the beach, tried to write some more, took a nap.”

“Ah, the writing life. I’m envious.”

“I did manage to ditch my prologue, add quotation marks to my dialogue, take out the big words, and I would have cut some more but there’s not enough to cut.”

Bruce laughed and took another drink. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

“And you’re such a con man, Bruce. You seduced me yesterday morning and . . .”

“Actually it was morning, noon, and night.”

“And here we go again. Have you always been such a ladies’ man?”

“Oh yes. Always. I told you, Mercer, I have a fatal weakness for women. When I see a pretty one, I have one thought. It’s been that way since college. When I got to Auburn and was suddenly surrounded by thousands of cute girls, I went wild.”

“That’s not healthy. Have you thought about therapy?”

“What? Who needs it? This is a game for me, and you have to admit I play it rather well.”

She nodded and took a sip, her third. His glass was empty so he refilled it again. “Easy, boy,” she said but he ignored her. When he was back on the sofa she asked, “Have you ever been in love?”

“I love Noelle. She loves me. We’re both very happy.”

“But love is about trust and commitment and sharing every aspect of your lives.”

“Oh, we’re into sharing big-time, believe me.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Don’t be such a sap, Mercer. We’re not talking about love; we’re talking about sex. Pure physical pleasure. You’re not about to get involved with a married man and I don’t do relationships. We’ll get it on whenever you want or we can stop right now. We’ll be friends with no strings attached.”

“Friends? How many female friends do you have?”

“None really. A few nice acquaintances, maybe. Look, if I had known you planned to analyze me I wouldn’t have called.”

“Why did you call?”

“I figured you were missing me.”

They managed to laugh. Suddenly Bruce set down his flute, took hers and placed it next to his, grabbed her hand, and said, “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise. Come on. It’s downstairs.”

Still barefoot, he led her out of the apartment, through the café, down to the first floor, and to the door to the basement. He unlocked it, flipped a light switch, and they eased down the wooden steps to the basement. He turned on another light and punched the code that unlocked the vault.

“This better be good,” she said, almost under her breath.

“You will not believe it.” He pulled open the thick metal door to the vault, stepped inside, and turned on another light. He walked to the safe, entered another pass code, and waited a second for the five hydraulic bolts to release. With a loud clicking sound, the door was free and he gently pulled it open. Mercer watched everything as closely as possible, knowing she would be expected to write down every detail for Elaine and the team. The inside of the vault and the interior of the safe appeared the same as the last time she saw them. Bruce tugged on one of the four lower drawers and slid it open. There were two identical wooden boxes; she would later estimate them to be fourteen inches square and made of what she guessed to be cedar. He removed one and stepped to the small table in the center of the vault. He gave her a smile, as if revealing a rare treasure.

The top of the box was attached by three small hinges, and he gently raised it. Inside was what appeared to be a cardboard box, gray in color. Carefully, he lifted it out and placed it on the table. “This is called an archival storage box, made of acid- and lignin-free board and used by most libraries and serious collectors. This came from Princeton.” He opened the box, and announced proudly, “The original manuscript of The Last Tycoon.”

Mercer’s jaw dropped as she stared in disbelief and eased closer. She tried to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Inside the box was a stack of faded letter-sized sheets of paper, perhaps four inches thick, obviously well aged and a relic from another time. There was no title page; indeed, it appeared as though Fitzgerald had simply plunged into chapter 1 with the thought of tidying things up later. His cursive was not pretty and hard to read, and he had begun making notes in the margins from the very beginning. Bruce touched the edges of the manuscript and went on, “When he died suddenly in 1940, the novel was far from finished, but he worked from an outline and left behind a considerable amount of notes and summaries. He had a close friend named Edmund Wilson, who was an editor and a critic, and Wilson cobbled the story together and the book was published a year later. Many critics consider it to be Fitzgerald’s finest work, which, as you said, is remarkable given his health.”

“You are kidding, right?” she managed to say.

“Kidding about what?”

“This manuscript. Is this the one that was stolen?”

“Oh yes, but not by me.”

“Okay. What’s it doing here?”

“It’s a very long story and I won’t bore you with the details, many of which I know nothing about. All five were stolen last fall from the Firestone Library at Princeton. There was a gang of thieves and they got spooked when the FBI grabbed two of them almost immediately. The others unloaded their loot and disappeared. The manuscripts quietly entered the black market. From there they were sold off separately. I don’t know where the other four are but I suspect they’ve left the country.”

“Why are you involved, Bruce?”

“It’s complicated, but I’m really not that involved. You want to touch the pages?”

“No. I don’t like being here. This makes me nervous.”

“Relax. I’m just hiding this for a friend.”

“Must be a helluva friend.”

“He is. We’ve been trading for a long time and I trust him implicitly. He’s in the process of brokering a deal with a collector in London.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“Not much. I’ll get a few bucks down the road.”

Mercer stepped away and moved to the other side of the table. “For a few bucks it seems like you’re assuming a rather significant risk. You’re in possession of major stolen property. That’s a felony that could get you sent away for a long time.”

“It’s a felony only if you get caught.”

“And now you’ve made me complicit in this scheme, Bruce. I’d like to leave now.”

“Come on, Mercer, you’re too uptight. No risk, no reward. And you’re not complicit in anything, because no one will ever know. How can anyone possibly prove you ever saw this manuscript?”

“I don’t know. Who else has seen this?”

“Only the two of us.”

“Noelle doesn’t know.”

“Of course not. She doesn’t care. She runs her business and I run mine.”

“And part of your business is trafficking in stolen books and manuscripts?”

“Occasionally.” He closed the archival storage box and placed it back in the wooden one. Carefully, he replaced it in the drawer and shoved it closed.

“I really want to go,” she said.

“Okay, okay. I didn’t think you’d freak out. You said you’ve just finished The Last Tycoon and I thought you’d be impressed.”

“Impressed? I might be overwhelmed, bewildered, scared to death, a lot of things right now, but I’m not impressed, Bruce. This is crazy stuff.”

He locked the safe, then the vault, and as they started up the stairs he flipped off the lights. On the ground floor, Mercer headed for the front door. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m leaving. Please unlock the door.”

Bruce grabbed her, turned her around, squeezed her tightly, and said, “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

She pulled back hard and said, “I want to go. I’m not staying in this store.”

“Come on, you’re overreacting, Mercer. Let’s go upstairs and finish the champagne.”

“No, Bruce, I’m not in the mood right now. I can’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already said that; now please unlock the door.”

He found a key and unlocked the dead bolt. She hurried through the door without another word and walked around the corner to her car.

14.

The plan had been built on assumptions and speculation and no small measure of hope, but now it had succeeded. They had the proof, the answer they so desperately needed, but could she deliver? Could she take the next crucial step and make the call that would send Bruce to prison for the next ten years? She thought about his downfall, his ruin and humiliation, and his horror of being caught red-handed, arrested, hauled into court, then taken away. What would happen to his beautiful and important bookstore? His home? His friends? His cherished collection of rare books? His money? Her betrayal would have enormous consequences and damage more than one person. Perhaps Cable deserved all that was coming, but not his employees, not his friends, not even Noelle.

At midnight, Mercer was still on the beach, wrapped in a shawl, toes dug into the sand, staring at the moonlit ocean and asking herself again why she ever said yes to Elaine Shelby. She knew the answer, but the money seemed much less important now. The destruction she was about to sow was far greater than the money behind it. The truth was she liked Bruce Cable, his beautiful smile and easy manner, his good looks, his unique wardrobe, his wit and intelligence, his admiration of writers, his skill as a lover, his presence around others, his friends, his reputation, his charisma that at times seemed magnetic. She was secretly thrilled to be so close to him, to be considered among his inner circle, and, yes, to be just another in his long line of women. Because of him, she’d had more fun in the past six weeks than in the last six years.

One option at the moment was to simply keep quiet and allow things to run their course. Elaine and her gang and perhaps the FBI would continue doing whatever they had to do. Mercer could go through the motions, feigning frustration at not being able to accomplish more. She’d made it down to the basement vault and delivered plenty of evidence. Hell, she’d even slept with the guy and might again. She had done her best so far and would continue to play along. Maybe Bruce would unload Tycoon just as he said, without a trace, into the murky vastness of the black market, and his vault would be clean when the Feds rolled in. Before long, her six months would be over and she would leave the island, and do so with fond memories. She might even return, for summer vacations at her cottage, or, better yet, on a book tour one day with a fine new novel. And then another.

Her agreement was not contingent on a successful operation. She was to be paid regardless. Her student loans were already history. Half the fee was in the bank. She felt certain the other half would arrive as promised.

For a long time that night she convinced herself to stay quiet, let the lazy summer days pass, don’t rock the boat. Fall would be there soon enough and she would be somewhere else.

Was there a moral right and wrong? She had agreed to take part in a plan with the ultimate goal of piercing Cable’s world and finding the manuscripts. This, she had finally done, though only because of an unbelievable blunder on his part. The operation, with Mercer in the center, had just succeeded. What right did she have to now question the legitimacy of the plan? Bruce had deliberately entered the conspiracy to get rid of the manuscripts, to sell them for profit and keep them away from their rightful owner. With Bruce Cable, there was no moral high ground. He had a reputation for dealing in stolen books and had admitted as much to her. He knew the risks and seemed to eagerly accept them. Sooner or later he would get caught, either for this crime or for a later one.

She began walking at the edge of the water, the tranquil waves pushing the sea foam quietly onto the sand. There were no clouds and the white sand could be seen for miles. On the horizon, the lights of a dozen shrimp boats glimmered on the flat sea. Before she realized it, she was at the North Pier, a long wooden walkway that jutted far into the water. Since her return to the island she had avoided the area because it was where Tessa had washed ashore. Why was her granddaughter there now?

She climbed the steps and followed the pier to its end, where she leaned on a railing and gazed at the horizon. What would Tessa do? Well, to begin with, Tessa would never find herself in such a predicament. She would never allow herself to be compromised. She would never be seduced by the money. With Tessa, right was right and wrong was wrong and there were no gray areas. Lying was a sin; your word was your word; a deal was a deal, regardless of the inconvenience.

Mercer anguished back and forth as the battle raged. She finally decided, at some awful hour of the morning, that the only way to stay quiet was to return the money and walk away. Even then, though, she would keep a secret that rightfully belonged to others, to the good guys. Tessa would be scornful if she backed out now.

She got in bed around 3:00 a.m., with no chance of sleeping.

At exactly five, she made the call.

15.

Elaine was awake, quietly sipping the first cup of coffee in the dark while her husband slept beside her. The plan called for another trip to Camino Island, her tenth or eleventh so far. She would take the same flight from Reagan National to Jacksonville, where either Rick or Graham would be waiting. They would meet in their safe house on the beach and assess things. There was excitement because their girl had spent the weekend with their target. Surely she had learned something. They would call her in for a late afternoon meeting and get the scoop.

At 5:01, however, all plans went out the window.

When Elaine’s phone vibrated and she saw who was calling, she eased out of bed and went to the kitchen. “It’s a bit early for you.”

Mercer said, “He’s not as smart as we thought. He has the manuscript for The Last Tycoon and he showed it to me last night. It’s in his vault, just as we thought.”

Elaine absorbed it and closed her eyes. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. Based on the copies you’ve shown me, I’m pretty certain.”

Elaine sat on a bar stool at the breakfast counter and said, “Tell me everything.”

16.

At six, Elaine called Lamar Bradshaw, the head of the FBI’s Rare Asset Recovery Unit, and woke him up. His plans for the day were also tossed. Two hours later they met in his office in the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue for a full briefing. As she expected, Bradshaw and his team were irritated that Elaine and her company had secretly put together such an elaborate scheme to spy on Bruce Cable, a suspect they had discussed only in passing a month earlier. Cable was on the FBI’s list, along with a dozen others, but only because of his reputation. Bradshaw had not taken him seriously. The FBI detested private, parallel investigations, but at the moment bickering in a turf battle would not be productive. Bradshaw was also forced to swallow his pride because Elaine Shelby had once again found the stolen goods. A quick truce was found, peace prevailed, and joint plans were made.

17.

Bruce Cable awoke at six in his apartment above the store. He drank coffee and read for an hour before going downstairs to his office in the First Editions Room. He turned on his desktop and began reviewing his inventory. The most unpleasant part of his job was deciding which books were not going to sell and must be returned to their publishers for credit. Each book returned was a failure on his part, but after twenty years he had almost grown accustomed to the process. For an hour he roamed the darkened store, pulling books from shelves and off tables, piling them into sad little stacks back in the stockroom.

At 8:45, as always, he returned to the apartment, quickly showered and changed into his daily seersucker, and at nine sharp turned on the lights and opened the front door. Two clerks arrived first and Bruce set them to work. Thirty minutes later, he went to the basement and unlocked the metal door leading to Noelle’s storage area. Jake was already there, tapping small nails into the back of an ancient chaise. Mercer’s writing table was finished and off to one side.

After the pleasantries, Bruce said, “Our friend Ms. Mann will not be buying the table after all. Noelle wants it shipped to an address in Fort Lauderdale. Knock off the legs and find a crate.”

“Sure,” Jake said. “Today?”

“Yes, it’s a rush job. Hop on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

18.

At 11:06, a chartered jet took off from Dulles International. On board were Elaine Shelby and two of her associates, and Lamar Bradshaw and four special agents. En route, Bradshaw spoke again to the U.S. Attorney in Florida, and Elaine called Mercer, who was holed up in a local library trying to write. She said she was finding it impossible to be creative at the bed-and-breakfast. Elaine thought it best if she stayed away from the bookstore for a couple of days, and Mercer assured her she had no plans to go near it. She had seen enough of Bruce for a while and needed a break.

At 11:20, an unmarked cargo van parked on Santa Rosa’s Main Street across from the bookstore. Inside were three field agents from the Jacksonville office. They aimed a video camera at the front door of Bay Books, and began filming every person who entered and left. Another van, with two more field agents, parked on Third Street and began surveillance. Their job was to film and monitor every shipment in and out of the store.

At 11:40, an agent dressed in shorts and sandals entered the front door and browsed for a few minutes. He did not see Cable. With cash, he bought an audio version of Lonesome Dove and left the store. In the first van, a technician opened the case, removed the eight CDs, and installed a tiny video camera and a battery.

At 12:15, Cable left with an unknown person and walked down the street to lunch. Five minutes later, another agent, a woman also in shorts and sandals, entered the store with the Lonesome Dove audio case. She bought coffee upstairs, killed some time, returned to the ground floor, and selected two paperbacks. When the clerk went to the rear, the agent deftly returned the Lonesome Dove case to the audio rack and took the one next to it, The Last Picture Show. She eventually paid for the paperbacks and the audio and asked the clerk about a good place for lunch. In the first van, the agents stared at a laptop. From the inside, they now had a perfect frontal view of everyone entering the store. They could only hope that no one would want to listen to Lonesome Dove anytime soon.

At 12:31, the chartered jet landed at the small airport on Camino Island, ten minutes from downtown Santa Rosa. Rick and Graham were there to meet Elaine and her two associates. Two SUVs picked up Bradshaw and his crew. Because it was Monday, hotel rooms were available, for a few days anyway, and several had been reserved at a hotel near the harbor, less than a five-minute walk from the bookstore. Bradshaw took the largest suite and set up his command post. Laptops were arranged on a table, and the video surveillance from the cameras ran nonstop.

After a quick lunch, Mercer arrived at the suite and a flurry of introductions followed. She was startled at the show of manpower, and felt ill with the thought that she had unleashed all these people on an unsuspecting Bruce Cable.

With Elaine in the background, she was interrogated by Bradshaw and another special agent named Vanno. She retold her story, leaving out nothing but the intimate details of her long weekend, a rather romantic little fling that now seemed like a nostalgic romp from long ago. Bradshaw walked her through a series of high-density photographs of the Fitzgerald manuscripts taken years earlier by Princeton. Elaine had the same set and Mercer had seen it all before. Yes, yes, in her opinion, what she had seen last night in the basement vault was the original Tycoon.

Yes, it could be a fake. Anything is possible, but she didn’t think so. Why would Bruce be so protective of a fake manuscript?

When Bradshaw repeated a question for the third time, and did so with a tone of suspicion, Mercer bristled and asked, “Aren’t we on the same team here?”

Vanno eased in with a soft “Of course we are, Mercer, we just need to get everything right.”

“I got it right, okay?”

After an hour of back-and-forth, Mercer was convinced that Elaine Shelby was smarter and much smoother than Bradshaw and Vanno. Elaine, though, had handed her off to the FBI, and there was no doubt they would run the show until the end. During a break, Bradshaw took a call from an Assistant U.S. Attorney in Jacksonville and things got tense. It seemed as though the federal magistrate there was insisting on a closed hearing with “the witness” present, as opposed to allowing “the witness” to testify by video. This upset Bradshaw and Vanno, but they got nowhere.

At 2:15, Mercer was loaded into a car with Rick behind the wheel and Graham riding shotgun and Elaine in the rear seat with her. They followed an SUV loaded with FBI agents off the island and in the direction of Jacksonville. On the bridge over the Camino River, Mercer broke the ice with an unpleasant “So, let’s have it. What’s going on?”

Rick and Graham stared straight ahead and said nothing. Elaine cleared her throat and said, “It’s all federal crap, your tax dollars at work. Federal Agent Bradshaw is pissed off at the U.S. Attorney for this district, he’s federal too, and everybody seems pissed off at the federal magistrate, who does the search warrants. They thought they had an understanding whereby you could stay on the island and give your statement by video. Bradshaw says they do it all the time, but for some reason this federal magistrate wants to hear you in person. So, we’re headed for court.”

“Court? You never said anything about going to court.”

“The federal court building. We’ll probably meet with the magistrate in private, back in his office or something. Don’t worry.”

“Easy for you to say. I have a question. If Cable is arrested, can he go to trial, even though he’s caught red-handed with the stolen manuscript?”

Elaine looked up front and said, “Graham, you’re the lawyer.”

Graham snorted as if it were a joke. “I have a law degree but never used it. But, no, a defendant cannot be forced to plead guilty. Therefore, anyone charged with a crime can insist on a trial. It won’t happen, though, not in this case.”

“And why not?”

“If Cable has the manuscript, they will put enormous pressure on him to squeal. Recovering all five is far more important than punishing the thieves and crooks. They’ll offer Cable all manner of sweet deals to spill his guts and lead them to the others. We have no idea how much he knows, but you can bet he’ll start singing to save his ass.”

“But if by chance he went on trial, there’s no way I would be called as a witness, right?”

All three were silent as Mercer waited. After a long, uncomfortable pause, she said, “Look, Elaine, you never mentioned anything about going to court, and you damned sure didn’t tell me I might have to testify against Cable. I won’t do it.”

Elaine tried to soothe her. “You won’t have to testify, Mercer, believe me. You’re doing a great job and we’re very proud of you.”

“Don’t patronize me, Elaine,” Mercer snapped, more harshly than she intended. No one spoke for a long time but the tension remained. They were on Interstate 95 going south and entering the sprawl of Jacksonville.

The U.S. Courthouse was a tall modern building with many levels and lots of glass. They were waved through a side entrance and parked in a small reserved lot. The FBI agents practically surrounded Mercer as if she needed protection. The elevator was crowded with her entourage. Minutes later they entered the offices of the U.S. Attorney, Middle District of Florida, and were directed to a conference room where the waiting began. Bradshaw and Vanno yanked out their cell phones and began muted conversations. Elaine was talking to Bethesda. Rick and Graham had important calls. Mercer sat alone at the massive table with no one to chat with.

After twenty minutes or so, an earnest young man in a dark suit—hell they all wore dark suits—entered with a purposeful air and introduced himself as Janeway, an Assistant U.S. Attorney of some variety. He explained to the crowd that the magistrate, a Judge Philby, was tied up in a life-or-death hearing, and, well, it might take some time. Janeway said he would like to cover Mercer’s testimony, if that was all right.

Mercer shrugged. Did she really have a choice?

Janeway left and returned with two other dark suits who offered their names. Mercer shook their hands. A real pleasure.

They whipped out legal pads and faced her across the table. Janeway began asking questions and it was immediately obvious he knew little about the case. Slowly, painfully, Mercer filled in the blanks.

19.

At 4:50, Mercer, Bradshaw, and Vanno followed Janeway to the chambers of Magistrate Judge Arthur Philby, who greeted them as if they were trespassing. He’d had a rough day and seemed irritable. Mercer sat at one end of another long table next to a court reporter who asked her to raise her right hand and swear to tell the truth. A video camera on a tripod was aimed at the witness. Judge Philby, minus his black robe, sat at the other end like a king on his throne.

For an hour, Janeway and Bradshaw asked her questions, and she told the same story for at least the third time that day. Bradshaw produced large photos of the basement, the vault, and the safe inside. Philby interrupted repeatedly with his own questions, and much of her testimony was repeated more than twice. But she kept her cool, and was often amused by the thought that Bruce Cable was far more likeable than these guys, the good ones.

When she was finished, they wrapped things up and thanked her for her time and efforts. Don’t mention it, she almost said, I’m being paid to be here. She was excused and hurriedly left the building with Elaine, Rick, and Graham. When the federal building was finally behind them, Mercer asked, “So what happens next?”

Elaine said, “They’re preparing the search warrant now. Your testimony was perfect and the judge is convinced.”

“So, when do they attack the bookstore?”

“Soon.”