An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

having a crush-from-afar on one of the younger teachers. Then there was the missive from Jack, also basically giving the okay to sell Ellis’ baby grand, but worded in such a way as to imply Charlotte was a worm for not being able to keep it. She shrugged it off, and wrote a quick email to Stanton to list the piano.

  Sitting alone in a coffee shop just before sunset made her feel more alone than ever. Best get that email to Ellis written and get out of here, she thought, and opened a “compose” window, in which she quickly wrote an update, including the news about Olivia, the transcription and editing project, and the apartment. Charlotte paused a moment just before she finished writing, thinking that in a week’s time she would be living here in Elm Grove again.

  “Hello, Charlotte.” Jimmy broke her reverie, and sat down in the chair across from her with his own cup of tea.

  “Hi, Jimmy.” She smiled at his smile, and the world seemed a little less of a deserted island.

  “Surprised to see you here this time of day. Back in school or something?”

  “Oh, no. My Internet’s been shut off at home. I don’t know if it’s their fault or mine, but I’ll be moving back here next week, anyway, and….”

  It was a pleasant conversation, as Jimmy had a way of conversing about things that mattered, and even personal things, with a kind and understanding touch. Charlotte found herself telling him about the recent events in her own life, and her enthusiasm for regaining freedom by simplifying her life as much as possible.

  Jimmy smiled. “Got a couple of minutes? I want to show you something.” He waved to the barista. “Kelsey, keep an eye on Charlotte’s stuff, we’ll be right back.” Kelsey nodded, and Charlotte followed Jimmy into his office, then through a door to stairs that led up to a loft-style apartment.

  The apartment seemed to take up the entire second floor of the building. So this was where Jimmy lived, thought Charlotte. The Harvey Street side had windows similar to her future studio apartment, only they were larger and more numerous, and continued around across the west-facing Ramble Street side, which let in the last of the reddish light of the setting sun. Wall panels suspended from the ceiling beams separated the various sections into rooms. The furnishings were simple and few, and, Charlotte could see, expensive.

  “Wow. It’s beautiful. And peaceful.”

  “Thank you. My first apartment was small, a studio like the one you’re moving to, and my coffee shop was small, as well—I know you’ll remember it—and both places were furnished with second-hand things and castoffs that I’d fixed up. Then the next place was a little bigger and a little nicer, and so on, until now I have this. But it’s still simple, still peaceful, and still within my means.”

  “I’m glad you showed me this. Gives me more confidence to see how it worked for someone else.”

  They went back downstairs to the shop. Jimmy went to help Kelsey with sandwich orders, and Charlotte added a couple lines about his apartment to the email to Ellis, and sent it. Then she checked the online version of the local paper to see if there was anything about Bosley Warren’s brother. It said more or less the same thing that was on the television report, and there was no update or any indication that the police knew what happened, other than Wesley Warren drove his car into the pond. The embedded video showed the car being pulled out of the water. There was a side story about Warren Brothers’ Pawn and Payday, how Bosley and Wesley started out as a hobby shop, and then expanded to include a pawn shop and related services. There was, of course, reference to Bosley Warren’s jackpot rare book sale. Wesley was survived by his brother and a former wife, but no children.

  As Charlotte was packing up to leave, Jimmy came back over with a paper bag that he held out to her.

  “For you. A submarine sandwich. You can run it under the broiler at home, really brings out the flavors, I think.” He handed her a card, as well.  “And here’s the guest password for my own Internet account. Even if we’re closed, you can park outside and log on. Might come in handy until you get settled in.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks Jimmy!” Charlotte was overcome by his generosity. “I really appreciate this.”

  Jimmy opened his arms and Charlotte found herself embraced in a big hug. “Hang in there, girl. Everything’ll turn out just fine.”

   

   

  Eleven

  Thursday, September 19th

   

  Charlotte pulled up to Olivia’s house and took a deep breath before getting out and walking up to the front door. The last time she came here alone she had discovered Olivia on the floor, knocked unconscious.  But it was time to take the situation in hand and set aside her trepidations, to focus on the task in front of her, which was to find the rest of the notebooks. The heebie-jeebies fought hard with her common sense, however; thus, when she was about to unlock the door and found it already unlocked, they were front and ready to make her seriously consider running away and screaming at the top of her lungs.

  But Charlotte remained rational and calm, at least on the surface, and pushed the door open with the back of her knuckles, so as not to smudge any new fingerprints.

  Her emotions flipped from frightened to intrigued in a matter of seconds, mostly due to the fragrance of Italian cooking and the sound of someone washing dishes in the kitchen while listening to classical music on a radio. Was it Donovan? She turned to look up and down the street, but didn’t see his car. Helene? No, Helene had her own kitchen just down the block, that wouldn’t make any sense. Simon? Same thing, just down the block. She rapped sharply on the door to get the cook’s attention.

  “Hello? Who’s here?” she called out. She wasn’t aware that anyone else was supposed to be there this morning (Helene had a club meeting, Simon was teaching at the university), so she was cautious, but what could be less nefarious than lasagna (and the distinctive scent of baked cheese and pasta sauce suggested something like lasagna)?

  She could make out a moving shadow through the doorway to the kitchen on the other side of the dining room, and then suddenly a young man in a full-length apron over tee shirt and jeans appeared, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He held up his right hand in greeting and his smile shone bright even at that distance.

  “Hello!” he called out. “You must be Charlotte!” He strode forward to meet her, and the closer he came the more strikingly handsome he looked, handsome in a boyish way with twinkling blue eyes and close-cropped light brown hair. By the time he was close enough to proffer his hand and say, “I’m Mitchell, a friend of Donovan’s,” Charlotte realized he was older than he first appeared, probably in his late thirties. He was fit and muscular, yet lithe. He was her height, almost exactly, and she found herself almost stammering as she looked directly into his eyes. Eyes, in fact, that made her feel that they liked what they saw, and she even began to blush.

  “Oh! I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here, but pleased to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand.

  “Van ran to the store for some wine, he’ll be back in a minute. Want to have lunch with us? It’s just lasagna, but there’s plenty.”

  The change in the ambiance that came with the scent and activity of cooking was startling, thought Charlotte. “Well, it certainly smells like a very good lasagna. I don’t want to intrude, however, and should probably just get on with my work.”

  “At least have a glass of wine when he gets here,” said Mitchell. “’Van feels terrible about everything that’s happened. I thought that a bit of cooking in here would get rid of that creepiness, you know?” He grinned at her as if she was part of his conspiracy.

  Charlotte couldn’t help but smile back. The mood in the place had certainly improved, and it would make the work less stressful. “I like it, and I think you’re right. I was so nervous about coming here again.”

  “Wait ‘til the wine gets here, it’ll be even better!” A timer dinged, and he turned to go back to the kitchen. “Gotta take it out of the oven now.”

  Well! Thought Charlotte. This is unexpected. Nonetheles
s, she looked carefully around the room—after all, she only had Mitchell’s word for it that he was a friend of Donovan’s, and Donovan himself had great motivation for removing his mother’s valuables and cashing them in. The only thing that appeared to be “missing” was the rug, and for that she was glad. The window in the middle of the bookshelves was open again, even though the day was on the cool side. The stultifying fragrance of the potpourri was almost gone, replaced by fresh air and pasta. No headaches this time.

  “Coffee, Charlotte?” Mitchell called out.

  “Only if you have some made,” she called back, and walked toward the kitchen.

  “How do you take it?”

  “Black, thanks.”

  As she entered the kitchen she could see that the back door was open, and the porch door leading to the yard was also open, letting in more light and air. The rug, she noted, was still draped over a couple of sawhorses, and from that distance she couldn’t see any evidence of the bloodstain.

  Mitchell handed her a mug of coffee (that smelled better than anything she’d had for a while outside of The Coffee Grove), and looked out at the rug, as well.

  “I got most of it out, but you can still tell there is a stain on the back. At least it’s a red rug.”

  “What did you use?” she asked.

  “A salt paste, mostly, then a bit of dish soap and water, and finally