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Thursday, September 26th
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Charlotte!” said Helene, with a motherly sigh of exasperation. “If you needed a loan, you should have asked me, not pawn your lovely things!”
This time Charlotte was in the brown leather armchair in Helene’s sitting room, somewhat slouched down, hair hanging limply on either side of her face, and looking not unlike Tenniel’s famous illustration of a sulking Alice in Wonderland at the Mad Tea-Party. She started to explain herself, but Simon, who was leaning against the archway to the kitchen with his arms folded across his chest and looking like he was trying not to laugh, jumped in first.
“I can see why she didn’t, Helene. One doesn’t want to be a bother, especially if there are options, and especially when there’s actual cash money involved. Wouldn’t do to have it go sideways.”
“I just hope it hasn’t gone sideways at that shop,” Helene retorted. “Charlotte, dear heart, I don’t mean to sound like a scold, I’m just worried for your sake, and the Warren Brothers are such bad news, as we all know now. Please let me loan you the money so you can get your jewelry and silver back.”
“It’ll be a good cover story when we go and have a look around,” added Simon.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” said Charlotte, nodding in resignation. It would be good to get the things back, even if she ended up turning them over to Martin Stanton to sell. “I spent a lot of time looking at the ledgers and the videos, and I have some idea of what objects are missing from Olivia’s house.” She looked up at Simon. “I’m glad you’re going with me, though.”
“I was wondering,” added Helene, “if you should tell Detective Barnes what you’re about to do.”
“I’ll call him and tell him on the way there. I need to give him an update, anyway.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “I need to give you an update, as well, some things I figured out last night.”
Simon began to go into the kitchen. “I’ll put some coffee on, if that’s okay?”
“Thank you, Simon,” said Helene, who then turned to Charlotte. “What have you learned?”
Charlotte told her about the likelihood of a relationship between Olivia and Seamus O’Dair, and of Donovan being O’Dair’s son, supported by corresponding dates and the anecdotal references to O’Dair in Olivia’s notebooks.
“This is the great secret of the notebooks, why they were hidden in the first place. I strongly suspect that Olivia did not read Least Objects until nearly ten years after its publication, when she received the boxes of books from your parents. It triggered something in her, causing her to write again. But of course,” she concluded, “the story she had to tell had to remain a secret.”
Helene sat in silence as she absorbed this information. Finally she spoke. “Donnie does look just like O’Dair, doesn’t he?”
Simon came in with coffees. “I’m wondering if anyone else has noticed this. But there’s a lot of people who think all redheads look alike.”
“True. Anyway,” continued Charlotte, “I kept reading the notebooks. Olivia’s style is to replay certain key scenes, changing just a few words or details in each version in order to say something new about it. Some of the passages felt familiar, or some of the story did, especially about things that happened in France. Then it dawned on me, in one of those middle-of-the-night bursts of insight, why that was. They’re passages from Least Objects, except told from Margot’s—the main female character’s—point of view. And her point of view is very, very different than O’Dair’s.”
“Oh, my word,” whispered Helene.
“How do you mean, exactly?” Simon asked. “Is it a word-for-word sendup, or what?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No, the familiarity is in the story told. The words are Olivia’s own. There’s a copy of Least Objects online at Project Gutenberg, so I was able to compare, and not just rely on memory.” She took a sip of coffee before proceeding. “Now, Olivia has also written many passages in French, which I can translate just enough to know that they, too, follow the pattern of retelling with small changes in words or details. What strikes me most, though, is that the story feels real, like autobiography. In O’Dair’s version, Margot was caught in a lie about being part of the French Resistance, and was not only castigated, but outcast. A lot of horrible things happened to her as a consequence. Olivia writes about the story of her marriage and life here in Elm Grove as if it were the same sort of cold horror, as if she was Margot.”
“It sounds dreadful,” said Helene. “Perhaps we shouldn’t pursue this project, if my sister was delusional?”
Charlotte shook her head quickly. “No, no, no. Don’t get me wrong. We might know that she thinks she’s writing about her own actual life, but as a novel, it stands on its own. There’s craftsmanship there. It was deliberate, not delusional—she knew what was fact, she understood that she was being relentlessly subjective—but she knew it could hurt. She didn’t actually want to hurt anyone, even though this was the story she had inside her to tell.”
“Now I’m feeling sorry for her again,” said Helene. “So it is worth doing, then, this project? Is it worth transcribing and publishing?”
“No doubt in my mind,” Charlotte asserted. “In fact, now I want to find that last notebook more than ever, both to confirm the reason she resumed her writing, and to add the critical first passages and chapters.”
“That means keeping Donovan and Mitchell out of that house at all costs,” said Simon. “We can’t take the chance that they’ll do something to mess up finding that notebook.”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Helene. “I’m actually hoping that the detective catches up with Donovan. Maybe he’ll put a detail on the house?”
Simon smiled at Helene’s uncharacteristic phrasing. “Wouldn’t hurt. Then I’d feel better about you two working there when I’m in class.”
“Helene,” said Charlotte. “I need a favor. In the notebook that Olivia gave to me, which is the final volume, the entire middle part is in French. I believe it is the same sort of thing she’s written all along, except there’s a difference in tone, as if she realizes something she didn’t know before. I’d like you to translate those pages for me, if you think you can bear it.”
“Of course, Charlotte.” She finished her coffee and set the cup down with determination. “I guess I never really knew my sister, and this is one way I might be able to understand her better.”
There’s more to it than that, Charlotte thought to herself. I think it says that Olivia had another copy of Least Objects.
Simon offered to drive to the pawn shop, and at first Charlotte refused, thinking she wasn’t up for riding all the way out there on the back of a motorbike, but he gestured at a black Land Rover parked on the street behind her Jeep. “That’s yours?” she asked, not hiding her surprise.
He grinned. “The winters are long and cold here.”
Once they were on the road, Charlotte called Detective Barnes and left a message to say where they were going, why, and requesting a meeting for an update and some new theories. She barely ended the call when the phone rang with Barnes calling her back. She filled him in with many of the things she had shared with Simon and Helene.
“I think Olivia might have left some indication her final notebook of what Mitchell and Donovan are looking for, but I’m having Helene translate those passages in order to be accurate. The handwriting is also pretty bad in that one, so it might take some time.”
“Anything solid you can come up with is more than welcome, Charlotte,” said Barnes. “We’ve got a lead on Donovan Targman’s whereabouts, and should be able to bring him in later today. The only thing I worry about is they have keys and can just let themselves in, like Bosley Warren did. I’ll let you know the moment we have Mr. Targman in custody, and then I want you and Mrs. Dalmier to be on the alert for the other players in this drama.”
While Charlotte was talking with Barnes, she occasionally glanced at Simon, taking in the way he drove. He was clearly used to driving on the right-hand side, perhaps because he’d spent so much time in different countries, or perhaps he was just an ambidextrous driver. She didn’t think she could easily drive in the left-hand lane in England, herself, or at least not without a lot of practice.
“By the way,” she said to Simon, when she rang off with Barnes, “I saw the photos of my moving day. Thank you for those. They were great.”
He smiled. “You’re more than welcome, Charlotte. Do you miss your house yet?”
She shook her head. “Not really. It’s still a little bit like I’m on a vacation. But that could change in an instant. Tomorrow is the last time I will see my stuff, you know, before the sale. And the house is on the market, so that could go at any time, soon. Maybe that’s when I will finally feel dispossessed.”
Simon nodded as he listened. “I’ve done a bit of traveling light, myself. Obviously. Sometimes I have to remind myself that not everyone does, or even can. People do get attached to places, stuff, their homes, and they just pine for them.” He turned toward her for a moment, with that undefinable expression of his again. “I don’t think you’re one of them, though.”
“Is that good or bad?” she asked.
He didn’t answer immediately, his attention focused on maneuvering through a badly-designed interchange that would take them onto the highway leading to the pawn shop. Charlotte wondered at herself, for being attracted to a man who left her confused as to where she stood with him. If a friend was experiencing the same kind of attraction, Charlotte wouldn’t hesitate to advise stepping back and taking a closer look at her own motivations: was the attraction because the inscrutability was hard to crack, to tame? And if she succeeded, would the appeal dissipate, and the respect for the man be lost?
“Good,” he said, startling her back into the present. “Very good, I should think.”
Oh! Charlotte thought. Then, just to be contrary, she said, “I’m a nester, you know. I’m not happy unless I have a place I can call my own.”
“But it doesn’t have to be the same exact place, does it? I’d bet you could turn a tent into your nest if you were so inclined.” He glanced at her sideways, with a hint of a smile, then pulled into the dusty, pot-holed parking lot in front of Warren Brothers Pawn and Payday.
Charlotte’s palms were cold and clammy as they entered the shop. Now that she knew who Toley Banks was, and aware of what he could do, the prospect of facing him again made her stomach hurt, even with Simon there to back her up. She remembered Banks’ driver, Doc, and wondered if Simon could handle him in a match. Snap out of it! This wasn’t a crime show on television. If Toley Banks decided to pull a gun on them, there was nothing either she or Simon could do about it. No, she had a legitimate reason to be there, ticket in hand, the cash borrowed from Helene in her purse. Just stay cool.
Simon didn’t look the least bit worried as he walked around, taking in the variety of things for sale, with particular attention to a display of motorcycle helmets. Charlotte had given him a list of items she thought were missing from Olivia’s house, but they agreed that he shouldn’t be too obvious about looking for them in the shop.
Ilona was gabbing on the phone (did she ever stop?) as Charlotte approached the counter, but when the clerk caught sight of Simon, she hung up quickly, ignored Charlotte, and strutted over to the counter nearest the helmets. Her cleavage was on fine form for his viewing pleasure, and Charlotte’s annoyance increased as Simon smiled at Ilona the same way he did at Lola. She sighed, and continued to the counter, where she rang the metal bell for service.
She had put so much thought and energy into expecting to deal with Toley Banks, that when Mitchell came out from the back room and greeted her like an old friend, she didn’t know what to say.
“Charlotte!” he crooned, “what a surprise! You’re looking beautiful, as always.” He grasped Charlotte’s hand with both his own, and gave it a little squeeze. “What brings you all the way out here today?”
“Oh, um,” she stammered, then handed him the pawn ticket. “I’ve come to get my jewelry and silver back, if that’s okay.” Oh, stop being a wimp, she told herself. Of course it’s okay!
“Not a problem, not a problem. Just give me a moment, and I’ll track them down. You’re redeeming everything, then, the full amount?”
She nodded the affirmative, and he went into the back room. Or rooms. Charlotte had no idea how extensive the “back room” was, then imagined it had to be substantial if it held all the things that couldn’t be sold. She decided to browse through some shelves herself, in particular the collectibles, since Simon continued to flirt with Ilona.
She spotted a trio of Olivia’s Capodimonte flower baskets almost immediately, and two small McCoy vases, as well. One of the vases, she knew, was purchased for sixty dollars in the 1970’s, but here the sticker said only $45, which Charlotte found odd. The basket trio was marked at forty dollars. She didn’t know if this was a fair price or not, but suspected that it was lower than it ought to be. Nonetheless, a mental calculation of the estimated number of small collectibles in Olivia’s house, times, say, an averaged-out price of twenty dollars apiece (some were worth far more, others were nearly worthless), would be around thirty thousand dollars. They would likely bring more at an auction, where collectors would bid against one another. If Donovan was selling off things now, he was throwing money away.
Seeing Mitchell again, his insistent charm and too-knowing eyes, convinced her that Donovan was not selling things off willingly. She moved over to the bookshelves, where there were two framed newspaper articles hanging on the wall nearby: one was of Bosley Warren’s luck with Least Objects, and the other was Wesley Warren’s obituary.
“Isn’t it just the saddest thing?” Ilona had finally stopped trying to seduce Simon, and came up next to Charlotte.
“I imagine it’s been a shock. What will happen to the business?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I suppose it’ll go on, ‘cause you couldn’t buy the kind of attention Bos’ book got. It’s a shame, though, ‘cause Wes was the one who knew what the book was worth, and he thought he knew where to find another one, too.”
Ilona now had Charlotte’s full attention. “He knew where to find another one? You’re kidding!”
Ilona shook her magenta hair off her shoulder with an air of authority. “I’m not.” Her eyes followed Simon around the shop. Charlotte scrambled to think of another question before Ilona’s short attention span evaporated, but Mitchell came back out to the counter just then, with her jewelry and silver. She walked to the counter, and Ilona walked over to Simon. Of course. I might as well have come here on my own, she thought.
“Here you are, Charlotte.” He opened the bag with the jewelry and checked off the itemized list as he chatted. “How is your search for the notebooks coming along?”
Charlotte hesitated to answer. What should she tell him? The truth, that there was only one more to go? Perhaps that would reassure him that she was almost finished with the search, and he would be more patient about waiting until the place was turned over for the auction.
“Very well, actually. We’ve found nearly all of them, in spite of quite a few things having been moved around against Helene’s explicit wishes.”
Mitchell feigned surprise, not quite pulling it off. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’ve no interest in the notebooks apart from wishing you the best of luck in finding them.”
“Oh, I know you don’t care about the notebooks,” began Charlotte, and then suddenly stopping as she felt an arm move across her back, settling with a hand at her waist.
“What about the notebooks?” asked Simon. He left his arm around her, and she felt her brain go blank for a couple of seconds.
But only for a couple of seconds. Her thoughts raced from one misgiving to another: was he patronizing her by acting like her “protector,” was he doing this out of genuine concern, or was it purely subterfuge, because he knew something that she didn’t? There was only one thing she could do that would both cover the legitimate possibilities and her own sense of dignity: act as if the attention was both welcome and expected.
She tilted her head a little to look up at him adoringly. “Darling, this is Donovan’s friend, Mitchell. He was asking how our search for Olivia’s notebooks was coming along, because I know he’s in a bit of a rush to get in there, himself.”
She felt Simon’s hand press hard against her waist in warning. “Oh, yeah,” he put out his other hand and shook Mitchell’s. “Simon Norwich. So you’re the fellow who makes lasagna.” The inflection in his tone opened up a wide range of interpretations.
Mitchell, for once, looked as if he didn’t know what to say—which meant he wasn’t in control of the situation. “That’s right. Well, then,” he looked down at the jewelry to hide his irritated expression, and finished checking things off.
As Mitchell moved to the silverware, Simon, whose hand hadn’t left Charlotte’s waist, began talking to her about the jewelry that was in another display case, in particular a “pearl choker” that he thought would look lovely on her. She looked at him in alarm, but he pressed his hand hard again, so she played along. Ilona came back around the counter, her heels clacking loudly, and her face in a thorough pout. Charlotte put her own arm around Simon’s waist and pulled him a little closer.
“You spoil me,” she cooed.
“Anything for my favorite wench,” he murmured.
Wench? She bit back a retort, and made the most of the moment of cuddling, resting her head against his shoulder as Mitchell finished up the paper work.
He looked up at her. “That’s it, then. If you have the amount due?”
Charlotte and Simon let go of one another as she retrieved the money and gave it to Ilona, who ran it through the cash register.
Mitchell looked tense, as if forcing himself to be professional and cordial. “Nice seeing you again, Charlotte, and meeting you, Simon.” Then he turned and went into the back room.
Charlotte wished she could ask Ilona more questions, but the moment had passed, and the clerk’s obvious irritation made it highly unlikely she would be forthcoming with answers.
Simon continued their charade by taking Charlotte’s elbow and leading her over to the jewelry counter, pointing out a pearl choker that probably really would look good on her. But she was certain the “couple” act was coming to a close, and fought back the temptation to get snarky.
It didn’t help matters that as soon as they got back in the Land Rover, he burst out laughing.
“Well done, Charlotte! That’ll keep the smarmy git off balance.”
“You really think that bit of theater will stop him from moving stuff around Olivia’s house? That he’ll think my big bad boyfriend will make his life difficult if he gives me any problems?”
He sobered up. “That I don’t know, to be honest. It might even make things worse. But one thing I know about his kind, if they haven’t got all the angles worked out, it makes them nervous. And when they’re nervous, they make mistakes. Mistakes that might give away what the game really is.”
Charlotte had to give him credit for the attempt. “And here I thought I was actually going to get a pearl choker,” she joked.
He started the engine, then gave her a pat on the knee. “Anything your little heart desires, love.”
She clobbered his arm.
Simon had to get back to campus, so he dropped Charlotte off at Helene’s, where she gave as light-hearted an account of their adventure as she could.
Helene saw right through it. “Hmm. You sleep in the man’s bed, serve as his damsel in distress, and blush nearly every time you hear his name. You have it bad, Charlotte.”
“Well, it isn’t reciprocated, so please don’t tease or say anything to him, okay?” Charlotte’s stomach growled, partly because it was lunch time, and partly from being so nervous at first at the pawn shop.
“I’m sure I won’t have to,” said Helene. “He’s not stupid.”
“That makes it even worse. I know he likes women that look like Lola or that tramp at the pawn shop, lights up like a Christmas tree around them. And that isn’t, and will never be me, I’m afraid.”
“And thank goodness for it! He likes you a lot more than you think, my dear. He certainly respects you. I know that seems like cold comfort right now, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you are feeling a bit lonely at times. But he might not want to start something he wouldn’t be in a position to continue in a few months’ time.”
Charlotte looked up at Helene, and realized she could be right. Simon wasn’t a citizen, and probably only in the country as long as he could have a work visa. If the university didn’t give him another year’s contract, he would likely have to leave.
Her cell phone rang; it was Detective Barnes.
“We got Donovan Targman,” he said.
The first thing Helene did was call her lawyer, who in turn called another lawyer better suited to represent someone charged with burglary or criminal trespass—or even murder. Then Charlotte drove her to the city jail, where Donovan was being held.
“I will do what I can to get him out on bail, but I want to talk to him first. The detective said that could be arranged. I want to know, once and for all, if he is being coerced by Mitchell and that loan shark, and just what it is they think they’re looking for.” Helene looked and sounded determined—just short of imperious, Charlotte thought.
“That’s the the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it?” Charlotte came to a stoplight, and as she waited, she had a worrisome thought. “Do you think he’ll be charged for Olivia, you know—”
Helene’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Detective Barnes said he’s being questioned about it. This is awful.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way, and said little until Barnes met them in the waiting area and expedited their access. Barnes and Charlotte went into the observation room, and Helene went to talk to Donovan in the interview room.
Donovan was already there, seated at the table. He hung his head when he saw her, and spoke quietly. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Helene.”
“Oh, Donnie. Please tell me what this is all about.” Helene sat down at the table across from him, her back to the two-way mirror.
Charlotte was surprised by how similar the set up was to things she’d seen on television crime dramas, and it calmed some of her initial nervousness. Her heart not only went out to Helene, but to Donovan—as he looked up at his aunt, he looked twenty years older than he was, as if he was wearing every hardship, heartbreak, disappointment, humiliation, and loss of hope that he’d experienced in his life all at once. He seemed exhausted and afraid, a man at the end of his rope.
“Whatever you do,” he whispered, “do not break the contract with Warren Brothers.”
“What are you looking for?” Helene pleaded. “What is in that house that is worth all of this?”
“Mom told Wesley Warren that she had a first edition of Least Objects, but that it was more valuable than the one they sold.”
“That’s why he was there that night?”
Donovan nodded. “They own me, I’m trying to pay them off, but I can’t, not without Mom’s stuff. Too much interest.”
“What happened that night, Donnie? Can’t you tell me?”
He shook his head. “Just don’t break that contract. Don’t go there alone. Be careful, you and Charlotte both.” His eyes were glazed with fear. Then he wouldn’t answer any more of her questions.
The guard indicated that Helene’s time was up, and she sighed. “I’ve retained a lawyer for you, and we’ll take care of bail.”
He shook his head. “You shouldn’t do that.”
Helene rose to leave. “Well, I can’t leave things like this. Be careful, Donnie. And stay in touch.” She turned and the guard let her out.
They stopped at The Coffee Grove for a late lunch, and Helene used her cell phone to cancel her afternoon student.
“I can’t face teaching right now, my head is just too full of this tragic mess.” She took a bite of chicken pecan salad. “Besides, I’ve started translating those passages in the notebook that you mentioned, and I’d like to finish it. It’s a lot of pages, but it’s absorbing.”
Charlotte nodded. “I wouldn’t bother you with it, but something tells me it’s important to know what it says right now, and I don’t want to get it wrong or miss any nuance. Too much is at stake.”
“I wonder why Donovan wouldn’t tell me what happened that night.”
Charlotte had the salad, as well, and had to force herself not to eat too quickly, she was so hungry. “I think he probably didn’t want to upset you even more. He really is scared, I think. They must have something awful on him.”
Helene looked thoughtful. “Do you think he realizes that he gave away Olivia’s copy of Least Objects? He’s confirmed that Olivia had contacted Warren Brothers about the book, and Bosley Warren now knows that the book he sold was originally Olivia’s. Either the left hand isn’t talking to the right hand at Warren Brothers, or there’s reason for them to think that there is yet another first edition of that book.” She wiped her lips with her napkin. “But that is highly unlikely, isn’t it?”
“Extremely,” Charlotte agreed. “Yet it would explain their determination to find it—and to find it before we do.”
“But we aren’t looking for it,” Helene pointed out.
Charlotte gave her a sly smile. “Maybe we should be.”
She had no sooner reached the top of the stairs in her apartment when Shamus came dashing up the steps, bolting by her in a blur toward the bathroom. What on earth? She went to lo