by John Grisham
leathered and beaten by too much time in the sun. He was short and wiry, and he wore what appeared to be the same straw hat she remembered as a child. There was something shady in his past, Mercer couldn’t recall it at the moment, and he had fled to Florida from somewhere far up north, maybe Canada. He was a freelance gardener and handyman, and he and Tessa had always bickered over how to care for the flowers.
“You should have come back before now,” he said.
“I suppose. You want a beer?”
“No. Stopped drinking a few years back. Wife made me quit.”
“Get another wife.”
“I’ve tried that too.”
He’d had several wives, as Mercer remembered things, and he was a terrible flirt, according to Tessa. She moved to a rocker and said, “Sit down. Let’s talk.”
“Okay, I guess.” His sneakers were stained green and his ankles were caked with grass clippings. “Some water would be nice.”
Mercer smiled and fetched the drinks. When she returned she twisted off the top of a beer bottle and said, “So what have you been up to?”
“The same, always the same. And you?”
“I’ve been teaching and writing.”
“I read your book. Liked it. I used to look at your picture on the back and say ‘Wow, I know her. Known her for a long time.’ Tessa would’ve been so proud, you know?”
“Indeed she would have. So what’s the gossip on the island?”
He laughed and said, “You’ve been gone forever and now you want the gossip.”
“What happened to the Bancrofts next door?” she asked, nodding over her shoulder.
“He died a couple of years ago. Cancer. She’s still hangin’ on but they put her away. Her kids sold the house. New owners didn’t like me; I didn’t like them.” She remembered his bluntness and efficiency with words.
“And the Hendersons across the street?”
“Dead.”
“She and I swapped letters for a few years after Tessa died, then we sort of lost interest. Things haven’t changed much around here.”
“The island doesn’t change. Some new homes here and there. All the beach lots have been built up, some fancy condos down by the Ritz. Tourism is up and I guess that’s good. Jane says you’re gonna be here for a few months.”
“That’s the plan. We’ll see. I’m between jobs and I need to finish a book.”
“You always loved books, didn’t you? I remember stacks of them all over the house, even when you were a little girl.”
“Tessa took me to the library twice a week. When I was in the fifth grade we had a summer reading contest at school. I read ninety-eight that summer and won the trophy. Michael Quon came in second with fifty-three. I really wanted to get to one hundred.”
“Tessa always said you were too competitive. Checkers, chess, Monopoly. You always had to win.”
“I guess. Seems kind of silly now.”
Larry took a drink of water and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. Gazing at the ocean, he said, “I really miss the old gal, you know. We bickered nonstop over the flower beds and the fertilizer, but she would do anything for her friends.”
Mercer nodded but said nothing. After a long silence, he said, “Sorry to bring it up. I know it’s still tough.”
“Can I ask you something, Larry? I’ve never talked to anyone about what happened to Tessa. Later, long after the funeral, I read the newspaper stories and all that, but is there something I don’t know? Is there more to the story?”
“No one knows.” He nodded at the ocean. “She and Porter were out there, three or four miles, probably within view of land, and the storm came out of nowhere. One of those late summer afternoon jobs, but a pretty nasty one.”
“Where were you?”
“At home, puttering. Before you could turn around the sky was black and the wind was screaming. The rain was thick and blowing sideways. Knocked down a bunch of trees. Power was out. They said Porter got off a Mayday but I guess it was too late.”
“I was on that boat a dozen times, but sailing was not my thing. I always thought it was too hot and too boring.”
“Porter was a good sailor, and as you know, he was crazy about Tessa. Nothing romantic. Hell, he was twenty years younger.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Larry. They were awfully friendly, and as I got older I became suspicious. I found a pair of his old deck shoes in her closet one time. I was snooping around, like a kid will do. I didn’t say anything, but just listened harder. I got the impression Porter spent a lot of time around here when I was gone.”
He was shaking his head. “No. Don’t you think I’d know it?”
“I suppose.”
“I’m here three times a week and I keep an eye on the place. Some dude hanging around? I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Okay. But she really liked Porter.”
“Everybody did. A good guy. Never found him, never found the boat.”
“And they searched?”
“Oh yes, biggest search I ever saw. Every boat on the island was out there, including me. Coast Guard, helicopters. A jogger found Tessa up at the North Pier at sunrise. As I remember, it was two or three days later.”
“She was a good swimmer but we never used life jackets.”
“It wouldn’t matter in that storm. So, no, we’ll never know what happened. I’m sorry.”
“I asked.”
“I’d better go. Anything I can do for you?” He stood slowly and stretched his arms. “You have my phone number.”
Mercer stood too and gave him a light hug. “Thanks, Larry. It’s good to see you.”
“Welcome back.”
“Thanks.”
9.
Late in the day, Mercer kicked off her sandals and headed for the beach. The boardwalk began at the deck and rose and fell with the dunes, which were off-limits and protected by laws. She ambled along, as always looking for the gopher tortoises. They were endangered, and Tessa had been a fanatic about protecting their habitat. They lived off the sea oats and cordgrass that covered the dunes. By the time she was eight years old, Mercer could identify all the vegetation—the sandburs, beach stars, yuccas, and Spanish bayonets. Tessa had taught her about these plants and expected her to remember from summer to summer. Eleven years later, she still remembered.
Mercer closed the narrow boardwalk gate behind her, walked to the edge of the water, and headed south. She passed a few beachcombers, all of whom nodded and smiled. Most of them had dogs on leashes. Ahead, a woman walked directly toward her. With her perfectly starched khaki shorts and chambray shirt, and cotton sweater draped over her shoulders, she looked like a model straight out of a J.Crew catalog. The face was soon familiar. Elaine Shelby smiled and said hello. They shook hands and walked together, stepping barefoot in the sea foam.
“So how’s the cottage?” Elaine asked.
“It’s in good shape. Aunt Jane runs a pretty tight ship.”
“Did she ask a lot of questions?”
“Not really. She was happy that I wanted to stay here.”
“And you’re clear until early July?”
“Around July 4. Connie and her family will have it for two weeks then, so I won’t be around.”
“We’ll get you a room nearby. Any other rentals for the cottage?”
“No, not until November.”
“You’ll be done by then, one way or the other.”
“If you say so.”
“Two initial ideas,” Elaine said, quickly getting down to business. It appeared to be an innocent walk on the beach, but it was actually an important meeting. A golden retriever on a leash wanted to say hello. They rubbed his head and exchanged the usual pleasantries with his owner. Walking again, Elaine said, “First, I’d stay away from the bookstore. It’s important that Cable comes to you, not the other way around.”
“And how do I arrange that?”
“There’s a lady on the island, Myra Beckwith, a writer you might have
heard of.”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. She’s written a pile of books, really raunchy romance novels, and she uses a dozen pen names. She once sold well in that genre but she’s slowed down with age. She lives with her partner in one of the old homes downtown. She’s a big woman, six feet tall and broad, a real bruiser. When you meet her you won’t believe she’s ever had sex with anybody, but she has an impressive imagination. A real character, very eccentric and loud and colorful, and she’s sort of the Queen Bee of the literary crowd. Of course, she and Cable are old friends. Drop her a note, make the introduction, tell her what you’re doing here, the usual routine. Say you’d like to stop by for a drink and say hello. Cable will know about it within twenty-four hours.”
“Who’s her partner?”
“Leigh Trane, another writer you might have heard of.”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. She aspires to write literary fiction, really impenetrable stuff that the stores can’t give away. Her last book sold three hundred copies and that was eight years ago. They’re an odd couple in every sense of the word, but they’ll probably be a hoot to hang out with. Once they know you, Cable will not be far behind.”
“Simple enough.”
“The second idea is a little riskier but I’m certain it will work. There’s a young writer named Serena Roach.”
“Bingo. Someone I’ve heard of. Never met her but we have the same publisher.”
“Right. Her latest novel came out a few days ago.”
“I saw a review. Sounds dreadful.”
“That’s not important. What’s interesting is that she’s touring and she’ll be here Wednesday of next week. I have her e-mail. Drop her a note, give her the spiel, and say you’d like to have coffee and so on. She’s about your age, single, and it could be fun. Her signing will be the perfect reason for you to visit the store.”
“And since she’s young and single we can expect Cable to be on his best behavior.”
“With you in town for a spell, and with Ms. Roach on tour, there’s a chance Cable and Noelle might host a dinner after the signing. By the way, Noelle is in town these days.”
“I’m not going to ask how you know this.”
“Quite simple. We went antiques shopping this afternoon.”
“You said this might be risky.”
“Well, over drinks it might come out that you and Serena have never met until now. A convenient coincidence, maybe. Maybe not.”
“I don’t think so,” Mercer said. “Since we have the same publisher, it seems believable that I would stop by and say hello.”
“Good. There will be a box delivered to your cottage in the morning at ten. It’s a pile of books, all four of Noelle’s and the three by Serena.”
“Homework?”
“You love to read, right?”
“That’s part of my job.”
“I’ll also throw in some of Myra’s garbage just for fun. Total trash but quite addictive. I could find only one of Leigh Trane’s books and it will be in the collection. I’m sure she’s out of print and with good reason. Not sure I’d bother. I couldn’t finish chapter 1.”
“Can’t wait. How long are you here?”
“I leave tomorrow.” They walked in silence, still at the water’s edge. Two kids on paddleboards splashed nearby. Elaine said, “When we were having dinner in Chapel Hill you had questions about the operation. I can’t say much, but we are quietly offering a reward for information. A couple of months ago, we found a woman who lives in the Boston area. She was once married to a book collector who deals in the rare stuff and is known to handle books with shady backgrounds. Evidently, the divorce was fairly recent and she’s carrying some baggage. She told us that her ex-husband knows a lot about the Fitzgerald manuscripts. She thinks he bought them from the thieves and quickly flipped them out of fear. She thinks he got a million bucks but we haven’t been able to trace the money, nor has she. If it happened, it was probably an offshore deal with hidden accounts and such. We’re still digging.”
“Have you talked to the ex-husband?”
“Not yet.”
“And he flipped them to Bruce Cable?”
“She gave us his name. She worked in the business with her ex until things went sour, so she knows something about the trade.”
“Why would he bring them here?”
“Why not? This is home and he feels secure. As of now, we are assuming the manuscripts are here, but that’s a rather significant assumption. We could easily be wrong. As I’ve said, Cable is very smart and clever and knows what he’s doing. He’s probably too savvy to keep them in a place that would be incriminating. If there’s a vault under the bookstore, I doubt he would store them there. But who knows? We’re just guessing and will continue to do so until we have better information.”
“But what kind of information?”
“We need a set of eyes inside the store, specifically inside his First Editions Room. Once you get to know him and start hanging around the store, buying books, showing up at author events, and so on, you will gradually develop a curiosity about his rare stuff. You’ll have some old books that Tessa left behind and these will be your entrée. How much are they worth? Does he want to buy them? We have no idea where these conversations might go, but at least we’ll have someone on the inside, someone he does not suspect. At some point, you’ll hear something. Who knows what, when, and where. The Fitzgerald heist might be dinner conversation. As I said, he drinks a lot and alcohol causes loose lips. Things slip out.”
“It’s hard to believe he’d let that slip.”
“True, but the slip might come from someone else. What’s crucial now is to have eyes and ears on the inside.”
They stopped at the South Pier and turned around and headed north. Elaine said, “Follow me,” and they walked to a boardwalk. She opened the gate and they climbed the steps to a small landing. She pointed to a two-story triplex at the far end and said, “The one on the right belongs to us, for now anyway. That’s where I’m staying. In a couple of days someone else will be there. I’ll text you their number.”
“Will I be watched?”
“No. You’re on your own, but you’ll always have a friend just in case. And I’d like an e-mail every night, regardless of what’s going on. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“I’m leaving now.” She held out her right hand and Mercer shook it. “Good luck, Mercer, and try to think of this as a vacation at the beach. Once you get to know Cable and Noelle, you might actually enjoy them and have some fun.”
Mercer shrugged and said, “We’ll see.”
10.
The Dumbarton Gallery was a block off Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. It was a small gallery on the ground floor of an old redbrick town house, one in need of a good paint job and perhaps a new roof. Despite the heavy foot traffic only a block away, the gallery was usually deserted, its walls practically bare. It specialized in minimalist modern stuff that, evidently, wasn’t too popular, at least not in Georgetown. Its owner didn’t really care. His name was Joel Ribikoff, fifty-two years old and a convicted felon, busted twice for dealing in stolen valuables.
His art gallery on the first floor was a front, a ruse designed to convince anyone who might be watching, and after two convictions and eight years in the slammer Joel believed that someone was always watching, that he had gone straight and was now just another struggling gallery owner in Washington. He played the game, had some shows, knew a few artists and even fewer clients, and halfheartedly maintained a website, again for the benefit of watchful eyes.
He lived on the third floor of the town house. On the second he had his office where he tended to his serious business, that of brokering deals for stolen paintings, prints, photographs, books, manuscripts, maps, sculpture, and even forged letters allegedly written by famous dead people. Even with the horrors of two convictions and life in prison, Joel Ribikoff simply could not stick to the rules. For him, livi
ng in the underworld was far more exciting, and profitable, than minding a small gallery and pushing art few people wanted. He loved the thrill of connecting thieves to their victims, or thieves to intermediaries, and structuring deals that involved multiple layers and parties with the valuables moving in the dark as money was wired to offshore accounts. He rarely took possession of the loot, but preferred to be the savvy middleman who kept his hands clean.
