An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

houses at the time, Beauregard Books, and let’s see now—yes, the same one that published Least Objects in English. Small world, isn’t it, Ms. Anthony?”

  “Smaller than you know, Mr. Madiveros.”

   

  There was no time to act on this new information, however, as she had to deal with what she came to do, to go over the entire house and confirm, room by room, that the items in it were to be sold. She also had her own list of things to retrieve, if at all possible, to take back to the apartment. She had also brought along the sterling silver flatware she had redeemed at the pawn shop, along with most of the jewelry, and showed them to Martin, explaining why they were not available earlier.

  “I’m glad you brought these, Charlotte. On the average, you’ll get three times as much money selling them here as you would get from a pawnbroker. Josh,” he called to his assistant. “Call Lindy and have her bring a jewelry display case from the office. Add the flatware to the other silver and crystal.”

  Charlotte moved on and found various things she could use: a small rattan wall cabinet for the bathroom, a plant stand that she could use as a table by the bathtub, several candles and holders, a rubber-backed runner for the foyer, a pair of tapestry-covered throw pillows that would look great with the Chesterfield sofa, and a basket that looked the right size for Shamus, along with an old squishy red pillow that would work for a cushion.

  As she thought about how she was using the space, taking meals and snacks on the sofa or on the bed, she took an old painted tray. Then she seriously considered a kitchen cart with a butcher block top. It had shelves, hooks, a drawer, a towel bar, and a small wine rack. “Hey Josh,” she called out when she spotted him walking by, “is this cart listed?”

  He looked his tablet, scrolling to the right page. “Afraid so, Mrs. Anthony.”

  Bummer. Maybe it wouldn’t sell.

  The upstairs hallway was full of garment racks the crew had brought in to make her clothes easier to get at. The amount would have filled her favorite boutique twice over. Would they bring anything? There were quite a few high-quality labels among them, good things of wool, leather, and silk, and several evening gowns, including a couple that hadn’t even been worn, but which she’d bought impulsively. There was one rack, in fact, of items with their tags still on, and she shook her head at her own stupidity. Thousands of dollars’ worth of unworn, brand-new clothes, many of which she’d forgotten buying. Funny how things looked more desirable when they weren’t crammed together in a closet.

  She selected a few items from the rack of still-new things, a simple charcoal gray knit skirt with a matching cardigan jacket that she could wear as a suit or mix and match with other pieces, a black wool and cashmere wrap, and a white linen sleeveless tunic with pintuck pleats, and a mid-calf halter-neck summer dress in an abstract floral of purple, rust, black, and beige, bought on her last spree with Ellis. Hanging around Helene was having a noticeable effect. She took the clothes into the bathroom to try on, promising herself to keep them only if they fit perfectly. They did. She also found a pair of waterproof shoes that were like new, and actually quite comfortable. Walking in the rain that morning had made her wish she’d had them on hand. Now she did. She would be walking nearly everywhere, now, rain or shine.

  As she made her way through the rooms, and back down the stairs, other things appealed to her, but she had what she really needed, plus a few new (literally) clothes, and, after all, she still needed the money she could get from them. Then she sat down on the sectional, to look at Hannah’s painting for the last time. Who would buy it? Where would it go from here? Would she ever know?

  Passages from Olivia’s notebooks came to mind:

   

  I brought you back to life, my mentor, my muse, my mother, my goddess, I took on your pain and the fear of the gunshot that you felt within the suffocating cloth sack over your blonde locks cut to look like a boy’s. You embodied everything good and true, the true queen of the hour, and you were doing what I should have done, what I wanted to do, but I was trapped. Now I am free, and I’ve chosen to resurrect you, to embody you, to let you live once again, a hero cut down far too soon in life.

   

  In another world, another country, another time they would have seen me for what I am, they would have seen what I did for what it was, the ultimate sacrifice I could make for you, Anastasia, to lose myself and become you. I wore your clothes, I lived your stories, I wrote your words, I kept your work alive—and they called me a liar, the crabbed souls who would deny my honoring you, and even them, spitting on my ripped open soul.

   

  Her cell phone rang. Helene was calling, and she sounded excited.

  “Charlotte, I’ve finally finished those passages in the notebook. You were right that they shifted in tone, and much of it was about looking at things a second time, and of looking at oneself a second time, to consider what others might see. She hopes that what she has written will recapture a part of the story that has been lost. A way to triumph over time and death.”

  “I’ve got news, too, Helene—I think I know a little more about what caused Olivia to stop writing, and then to resume writing. I’m also pretty sure there really is a second copy of Least Objects. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

   

  Two more rooms to cover with the Stanton crew, a thousand or more items to check off, to let go, to consign to the ages, or at least to other owners. The mass of her possessions were laid out like a blanket of objects, screening the floor and the rooms, a smokescreen of objects that told about her life but didn’t actually tell anything other than a small part of the truth of her life—

  A smokescreen of possessions, she thought. Our possessions can tell a lot about us, but they can also hide a lot about us, and misguide those who would know us better. In her own case, what it hid was the real reason for coming to Lake Parkerton, to connect Ellis with Helene. What it revealed was the extent to which she was willing to fit in, was willing to make it happen financially and socially—the right sort of writing job, the right sort of activities, the right sort of possessions, clothes, furnishings, etc. The art collection was probably what revealed her most truthfully. The rest was baggage.

  It was similar with Olivia’s possessions. None of them revealed her true passion, only their role as a sort of coping mechanism. And a coping mechanism is not the truth itself, but only a sign that the truth is unworkable. In both my house and Olivia’s house, thought Charlotte, the objects are spread like the ruins of ancient history. One might hold a magnifying glass over them, try to decipher their meanings, to look for some sort of Rosetta Stone that would help one translate their meaning, but only to learn that it is all one very large red herring. The stuff had absolutely nothing to do with the story within the story, and the sheer mass of it provided endless hours of traveling down the wrong road. Charlotte now realized, however, that in Olivia’s case, it was done with conscious intent.

  The last space to check off was the garage, which was almost wholly filled with things she would not need as an Elm Grove apartment dweller, or as a middle-aged person who could no longer finance skiing trips in Colorado or snorkeling in the Caribbean. She looked through the piles on the tables, anyway, and came across something familiar, a square assemblage of odd bits of wood, metal and brackets and hinges. She remembered. Ellis made it when she was four or five years old, imitating herself and Jack as they worked on a remodeling project. It had been on the wall above the window in the garage, and covered up by pool toys and skis until it was forgotten. It was clearly by a child’s hand yet it was a charming, whimsical composition—a triumph over time. Charlotte untangled it from the pile, and took it home.

   

  Twenty-Three

  Saturday, September 28th

   

  When Charlotte arrived at Helene’s condo, she found Detective Barnes enjoying tea and cake in the sitting room; Helene invited her to get another cup.

  “The detective wa
s wondering if we have seen Donovan since his release, but I said I haven’t, and I assumed you haven’t either,” Helene explained.

  “No, I haven’t. Things have been quiet, as far as I know.”

  Barnes nodded. “Not surprised. Mr. Targman is probably afraid for his life right now, and laying low.”

  “It’s that bad? Life-threatening?”

  “Could be. When I told him that Wesley Warren was still alive when his car went into the pond, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy look so surprised—and scared at the same time. Now, the simplest thing would be to think he’s panicking because he’s guilty. But Wesley Warren was a big guy, and if he was a big dead weight guy, Targman would have had to have help loading him up in the car. That, to me, puts a fourth person on the scene—and somebody with a cooler head than he possesses.”

  “Mitchell,” said Charlotte, both from instinct and from logic.

  “Mitchell.” Barnes took a big gulp of tea and set the cup down on the table. “Or someone similar in the Toley Banks organization.”

  “I don’t think they’ll hurt Donovan, though,” said Charlotte, “not if they want anything at all in that house. Right now everything belongs to Helene, but they’ll be able to sift through all the stuff when it’s moved to the auction barn.”

  “So can Mrs. Dalmier,” Barnes