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Monday, September 30th
It was Monday before Charlotte was able to talk to Donovan, who had been rushed from the basement of his mother’s house into emergency surgery. For a while she had wondered if there would be a third death connected to O’Dair’s book, but the surgeon assured her and Helene that the bleeding was stopped, and that Donovan’s prognosis was good, once he started healing and had a good long rest.
A uniformed officer stood watch at the door of the hospital room. Detective Barnes was inside, taking Donovan's statement, but he waved for Charlotte to come in. After the usual greetings and updates, she took the composition book out of her bag and handed it to Donovan.
“I found this in the old coal chute, along with your mother’s first notebook.”
Donovan said nothing for a few moments, just looked through it, nodding to himself.
“Yeah, I’d forgotten about this. Wrote it when I’d just turned thirteen. Dad saw it in my room and damned near killed me. I think he would have, too, if Mom hadn’t gotten home from the grocery store just then.”
“You put it in the chute, didn’t you?”
He nodded again. “Went out in the middle of the night and fished it out of the trash can before the garbage collectors came. Thought the chute was the one place he wouldn’t think to look.”
“But you found your mother’s notebook in there, didn’t you? And you read it.”
He just looked at her, and said nothing.
So much became clear to Charlotte. “You’ve known since then that O’Dair was your real father. You’ve known all along.”
Donovan bit his lower lip and nodded slowly, and looked back down at the composition book. “Yeah, it was a lot to take in, what she wrote, and I didn’t understand a lot of it, like the bits in French, and the parts where she went on and on about some book he wrote, but I knew it was her big secret, and I understood why she couldn’t tell my dad—Ronson, that is—about any of this. I was glad to find out he wasn’t my father, though, as you can imagine. I know she felt betrayed by everyone, and I felt bad for her, but I also felt a kind of unity with her, like it was Mom and me against both dads. But I was too embarrassed to ask her about it, you know? Even later, after he died.”
“So you knew she was once a writer?”
“I got that much, yeah, but I also got it was really important not to mention it. You wanted to lay low around Dad, not draw attention to anything he didn’t like or approve of. So I stopped writing, too. At least until I left home, and after that, life sort of got in the way. She wanted me to go to college so bad, but I was worried that if I did, and did well, he’d make her life miserable, you know? ‘Cause it would prove she was right?” He paused, and rubbed at a stain on the book’s cover. “Always worried about her, always felt helpless. I wanted to read and write, but it didn’t feel clean, you know? Mom was ashamed of her connection to it, and Dad thought it was sissy stuff—or subversive, in the case of this one.”
Barnes was taking this all in with great interest. “Were you aware of the existence of the rare books?”
“No, actually,” said Donovan. “That first one, that was from when I was a little kid. I just thought I was wrapping up an old book Mom didn’t want anymore, didn’t even pay attention to the title or the author, it was just a grown-up book with small print and no pictures, you know? Didn’t mean anything to me more than being the right size and shape. The French one, I had no idea about. I guess she bought that after Dad died. A few years ago she went on a book-buying spree, and I put up the shelves for her and put the books where she wanted them, and it made her happier than I’d ever seen her. She said they reminded her of a bookstore from her childhood. So I asked her about that, and she told me a lot about her Aunt Sasha and Aunt Henri—and that definitely was not a story she would have wanted Dad to know. I have a feeling she had a lot of stories like that.”
“We know that you were in your mother’s house several times after her death with Mitchell Bennett, and the person known as Doc, and that some things were removed and put up for sale in Warren Brothers Pawn shop,” said Barnes. “Can you tell me more about what was going on, and why?”
“Yeah, no problem, not now,” Donovan sighed. “Like I said before, I owed Toley Banks a lot of money, because the interest escalated faster than I could pay back the loan itself. It got to the point where they were threatening violence, so I agreed to do some work for them to help pay it down. When Bosley Warren sold that book, I had no idea he’d gotten it from me. It was in the news, and so was O’Dair, like a renewed-interest thing. Mitchell started making remarks about how much I looked like O’Dair, and I admit I might have given something away by getting irritated at him. Mitchell is like that, uncannily good at finding out people’s weak spots. Makes him useful to Toley Banks.”
A nurse came in to say that Mr. Targman needed his rest, and would they kindly leave? Donovan held up his hand. “Please, just five more minutes, I gotta finish this. Please?”
She looked at her watch and reluctantly agreed.
Donovan took a deep breath, and continued. “Where was I? Right, um, as luck would have it, my dear mother called the shop about another first edition of that book. The way I think it happened, Toley and Mitchell did some digging in the sales records and figured out Bos got the book from me, the guy who looked like O’Dair, so when my mother said something about yet another first edition, they were inclined to take her seriously. They were less convinced that I didn’t know anything about it, though.”
Donovan’s voice had begun to crack from dryness, and Charlotte handed him the cup of ice water from his tray. He sipped from the straw a couple of times, shifted his position to recline a bit more, then continued.
“It only got worse after that horrible night. What made it complicated was the terms of the will.” Donovan squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “I’m still mortified about the way I blew up, Charlotte. After I calmed down, when I came to terms with not being able to get shut of Toley Banks as quickly as I wanted, I was determined that Mom’s wishes would be carried out. I knew about the one notebook, and thought it was safe where it was at—I didn’t want to tell you about it, because then I’d have to start explaining what I knew and how I knew it, and I had to play dumb at all costs. It really was news to me, though, that there were so many more of those notebooks, but I figured if they were anything like that first one, it was important to find them. Your legal right to keep coming around kept Doc and Mitchell from trashing the place altogether. I let them have things here and there to keep Toley pacified—it paid the interest. It was weird, because legally I was stealing from Aunt Helene, but I rationalized that at least it wasn’t stealing the things that were most important to her or to my mother.”
He took another sip of water. “It was like a balancing act, keeping those guys under control as best I could, and giving you as much time as possible to find those notebooks—and maybe even that other first edition Mom thought she had. I know it was so little time, but obviously I couldn’t look for any of it myself because they were watching me like a hawk. Then when I found out Toley was willing to drown his half-brother, I knew it was just a matter of time before he’d do the same to me, or to you—anybody at all that got in the way of his getting his money. That’s why I said not to cancel that contract at all costs, so you’d have to leave before things got to that point.”
The nurse came in again, and this time she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Donovan was worn out from talking, but he managed a gaunt, dark-eyed smile. “Thanks, Charlotte. Things are going to be okay now. For us both.”
Barnes walked with Charlotte as they left the hospital. “We’re going to need you and Mrs. Dalmier to come down and give your statements, this morning if possible.”
“I’ll let her know. What will happen to Donovan, since he was involved in Wesley Warren’s death?”
“I’ve already spoken with his attorney and the D.A.’s office. The charges will be either dropped or greatly reduced in exchange for his detailed testimony of Toley Banks’ loan shark and enforcing activities. I’ll be happy with that.”
Charlotte thought she’d be happy with that, too.
Once again, they were at the police station for a round of questions to answer and statements to make, all proper procedure, which Barnes wanted to make certain was executed perfectly. There was no way, he said, that everything everyone went through was going to be for nothing all because of a technicality, and no one could blame him. Helene and Charlotte also had the satisfaction of knowing their statements would help Donovan, as well.
While waiting for their interviews, they were surprised to see Bosley Warren on his way out. Charlotte tensed up at the very sight of him, even more so when he spotted them and walked over, his huge bulk blocking their view of the rest of the waiting room.
“Miz Dalmier, Charlotte,” he nodded to them in greeting. “I wish to offer my deepest apologies on behalf of Warren Brothers Pawn and Payday and Estate Sales. None of the crimes that were committed on your persons and property was planned by us or done with our knowledge. That’s all I’m allowed to say, other than that I hope you bear me no ill will, and I’ll understand perfectly if you wish to terminate the estate auction contract drawn up by Mitchell Bennett.”
“Thank you, Mr. Warren,” said Helene, who was sitting up straight and exuded dignity. “I think it is best all around if the contract is voided. If necessary, I can have my attorney send you a letter to confirm it.”
Bosley nodded, resigned to the loss of business. “Whatever you think best, ma’am. I stand ready to provide any reassurances you and your attorney require. Again, my sincerest apologies, my condolences on the death of Mrs. Targman, and my deepest hope that Van Targman recovers quickly. Goodbye.”
“Well!” said Helene, after Bosley strode away. “That was easy enough, but I’ll make sure the lawyer really does check everything. Now I can call Martin Stanton, which will be such a relief after this circus.”
“Oh, right! Martin! My sale!” Charlotte cringed at the realization she had completely forgotten about her own estate sale over the weekend, she was so entranced by the contents of the last notebook, caught up in solving the mystery, and on an emotional rollercoaster since Friday’s ordeal. “I’m going to have to call him as soon as we get out of here.” She pointed to the sign that said “NO CELL PHONES OR OTHER ELECTRONIC DEVICES.”
“That’s one upside of all this,” said Helene. “You were too busy to fret about your sale. A good thing, I would think.”
“Oh, sure,” Charlotte grumbled. “Like breaking an arm to stop worrying about a hangnail.”
“I wonder how it went? If it all sold, or if there was anything left. Maybe you even have a buyer for the house!”
Charlotte shook her head. “Lola hasn’t said anything, so I doubt it. I think she was waiting for Stanton to clear out before scheduling viewings. It was pretty full in there, the way they had everything pulled out and in the open.”
Then they were called in to give their statements.
Charlotte met Martin Stanton at the Lake Parkerton house, where the crew was doing a thorough cleaning job, after consolidating all the unsold items in the garage. There was, to her great surprise, very little, much of it things she would have been tempted to throw out. She looked around for her big painting, but of course it wasn’t there, nor was any of the other art. Some of the older pieces of her wardrobe were left, and the more beat up of her pots and pans and dishes. The kitchen cart she wanted to take was gone, as well.
“Hey, Charlotte,” Martin called out from the door to the kitchen. “Not much left, eh?”
“No, there’s not! I don’t see anything I want to take back, although I should probably look more carefully.”
“Come on in, and I’ll show you the figures.”
It was a little strange to be invited in to one’s own house, and yet it wasn’t. She realized that she was already settling into the little apartment, and into life in Elm Grove, and it hadn’t even been a week.
Martin had the itemized lists and their selling prices spread out. Some things went for high prices, some things were all but given away. She noted the sterling silver flatware did indeed go for nearly three times the amount she’d received for it at the pawn shop. Then she spotted the sales figure for the big painting—Martin’s estimate was very close, even slightly low. The trip to Paris to see Ellis was on. But where did it go?
“Who bought the big painting?” she asked.
Martin showed her another list. “Bennington Eastman, the art brokers. They’ve been buying up Hannah Verhagens left and right.”
“Oh.” She was disappointed. It would have been nice to know where it went, but brokers tended to be confidential about that information. Yet “Blossoming” was painted for her, and she would never really lose the sense that it was hers.
“Here you are, ready to deposit.” Martin handed her the check.
It seemed like such a lotta, lotta money, but she restrained herself from too much giddiness. If the house was sold for less than the mortgage, she’d have to make up the difference with some of this check.
“Wow!” Then she suddenly had a question. “I’m supposed to give you 30% of this, right?”
Martin laughed. “No, no Charlotte, that’s your net. We’ve already taken the thirty percent out, see?” He showed her the total on the sales sheet. Yes, there it was: her check was, indeed, 70% of the total sales.
“You are good,” she said.
“We’re the best,” he said.
Charlotte deposited the check immediately upon returning to Elm Grove, happy to have such a substantial return on her shopping investments and giving up things she liked and loved, but sad, too, knowing that she would never enjoy those things again. There wasn’t even anything left worth bringing home. Her house itself was now empty, ready for Lola to stage for prospective buyers. It was done. All that remained was selling the house, and to sell it as quickly as possible.
She pulled into the parking space Larry had set aside for her in the delivery area behind The Good Stuff, locked up the Jeep, and made her way around the building to her front door. As she passed the shop windows, she thought of Shamus, realizing how happy she was to have him around all the time, and wondered if Larry missed him yet, or if things were bad between him and his wife.
The lock on the front door opened quickly, now that she knew the exact way to wiggle the key. Shamus was waiting for her in the foyer, and as she started to bend down to pick him up, she saw what looked like a dead mouse nearby. Oh no. She couldn’t abide mice. Then she spotted its cross-stitched eyes. Shamus flopped down and rubbed his head on it, then flipped over on his back. It was a toy mouse filled with catnip. The price tag was still on it. Crazy cat.
She started up the stairs, and the cat ran ahead of her, with his toy mouse in his teeth.
The afternoon sun was doing its thing again, warming up the walls and bouncing light around to form a sort of aura around the bed, the sofa, the rug, the big table, and the big painting—
The Hannah Verhagen still life was on the table, and propped against the wall. It looked magnificent in the high-ceilinged room, and in bold, joyous scale with the windows.
Shamus jumped up on the table, sniffing at the edges of the painting, then batted a note card sitting on the lid of the computer.
Charlotte caught it before it fluttered to the floor.
All it said was:
“With all my love and deepest gratitude,
Helene.”
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Acknowledgements
WRITING A NOVEL REQUIRES a nearly sociopathic degree of focus, yet it can’t happen without the help of the world outside the writer’s head. I feel so fortunate to have an enthusiastic Reader Team whose feedback, input, editing and proofreading kept me going from the first third of the book all the way to the end and beyond. The first one out the gate has always been Karin Kirulis, backed up by her husband John, with fine-tooth comb proofreading and copy editing—and bonus fellowship, meals, and wine. Tamara Brown and Linda Minard caught typos and loose ends, and along with Marilyn Phillippi took Charlotte and her friends into their imaginations, which was invaluable for developing the characters and inspiring future story lines. Additional thanks to Linda Price, Ian Johnson, LaDonna Pride, and Alice Sasak, and to the many others since for final-draft and advance reader copy feedback and encouragement.
A special thanks to my son, Nick Maxwell, who showed me how I could write seriously again at a time I thought I didn’t have any more options, and for bringing Amy and Ellie into our lives. Thanks also to my mother for showing me how to make up stories and poems when I was very small, taking me to the library in town every week during the summers, and teaching me to type really fast—I think it did some good.
Most of all, thanks to my husband, Steve Johnson, who actually had to live with Meg-as-novelist, then provide encouragement, feedback, editing, technical help, layout, cover design, and tea—all on demand. Yet there’s so much more to this story than meets the eye; my gratitude runs very deep.