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 look to see what he was doing, and found him hunched down in the tub, behind the shower curtain. He shied away as she bent down to pick him up, and growled. Then came loud, insistent banging on her door.
The events of the day, plus Donovan’s naked fear, made her wary. She peeked out the window to the sidewalk below, and could just make out Larry’s wife Wendy. She reluctantly made her way down to the foyer as the banging continued, and answered the door.
“I want to get that damned cat. I know he’s in there.” Wendy started to come in, but Charlotte held her ground.
“Yeah, he’s here, and he’s scared to death! What’s going on?”
“I’m taking him to the shelter. My daughter is allergic, I told you. I’m also tired of his cat hair all over the shop. He’s been sleeping on a stack of silk scarves and they’re ruined!” She held out her arm and showed Charlotte a fairly deep cat scratch. “On top of that, he’s mean. I’m fed up.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Why don’t I keep him here for a while? He’s good company for me.”
Wendy thought for all of five seconds. “I’ll be back with his food and box. And I’m going to block off that pet door.” She strode back to the store entrance.
“What was that all about?”
It was Diane, who had come down the sidewalk from the other direction.
“I’ve just become a cat owner. I think. C’mon in!”
As Diane came in, there was the sound of something heavy scraping on the floor coming from the other side of the door at the end of the foyer, then a sharper, snapping sound: Wendy was sliding in some kind of panel in the pet door. Then more scraping sounds. Charlotte felt herself being watched, which by now she took as some sort of telepathic communication from Shamus (and swore to herself she would never, never let on to anyone that this was the case, along with the fact that the cat smiled). She caught him peeking around the newel post.
Diane looked at her with a What? expression. Charlotte held up a finger. “Just give it a minute.”
Forty-five seconds later, there was banging on the front door again: Wendy had arrived with the litter box and food bowls.
“Larry’s got the vet info, you’ll have to get it from him later,” she said, setting the cat things down on the floor. “Thanks.” Then she abruptly left.
“Wow!” Diane exclaimed. “What a—”
Charlotte handed her the food bowls. “Wanna meet Shamus?” she asked, picking up the litter box and going up the stairs.
“Hey, sure! I love cats! In fact, I adore cats! Is this the black cat that’s always hanging around the store? He is so cool!”
By this time Shamus had figured out that Wendy wasn’t coming up after him, and he was sitting on top of the table next to the computer. Charlotte set his box down near the bathroom door and smiled happily as Diane cooed and fussed over him. A pet certainly helped the place feel like home, she thought. She filled his bowls with water and the kibble Wendy provided, and set them in the kitchen area. As she worked, Shamus jumped down from the table and trotted over, tail high in the air, and sat politely until she finished.
“That is a great cat!” said Diane. “How could anyone not like that cat? And he’s so friendly!”
Charlotte explained Wendy’s grievances.
Diane wasn’t having it. “Animals know when they’re not wanted, you know?”
“I think you’re, right,” Charlotte agreed. “But Larry really likes him, and I don’t know if he’ll want this to be a permanent arrangement.”
“He ought to get rid of his wife and keep the cat!” Diane flopped down on the sofa and surveyed the apartment. “The more I see this place, the more I like it. How about you? Do you like it here?”
“It’s definitely growing on me. I’ve been so busy dealing with the Olivia project, and tomorrow I have to go back to Lake Parkerton and sign off on the set up for the sale. But I’m glad that I’m here, that I’m not trying to work and sleep in the middle of all the upheaval. Want some tea? Or how about calvados?” she added, spotting Diane’s slight hesitation at the suggestion of tea.
“Calvados, for sure! How’s the project coming along, and how’s Helene holding up?” Diane kicked off her brown suede demi boots and tucked her legs up on the sofa. She was wearing a long, fuzzy brown cowl-neck tunic sweater over brown cable-knit tights, and her dark hair was set off by a wide, light brown knit headband. She looked like a big cuddly teddy bear with glasses.
Charlotte shared as much as she could, leaving out anything Barnes would have wanted her to keep to herself, which actually was most of the bits about Donovan, the Warren brothers, and Toley Banks’ operation.
“Finding that last notebook is giving us fits, though,” she said. “I want it more than ever, now that I have some idea of what Olivia was writing about.”
Diane, for once, was quiet, lost in thought and looking into her glass. “Does any of this have anything to do with Olivia and Wes Warren? You know, why they died?”
“Simon is wondering the same thing. My intuition tells me there may be a connection, but not necessarily a direct one. I don’t think that whoever is involved with their deaths is looking for the same thing I’m looking for.”
“Maybe it’s a red herring!” Diane’s expression was completely serious. “Maybe they want you to think they’re after one thing, when they’re after something else altogether.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I really doubt that. If there’s any red herrings at all, it’s the natural distractions of everyday life—the stresses, the confusion, limitations of imagination and stamina, things like that can leave one operating blind. Or I make my own red herrings by thinking there’s significance in certain objects in Olivia’s house, when there might not be any at all.”
“Oh, what’s the fun in that?” Diane teased, but halfheartedly.
Shamus had finished eating, and was sitting on the floor in front of them, washing his paws and face.
“Shamus,” said Diane, who then asked, “is that Seamus, like O’Dair, or Shamus, like a private eye?”
Charlotte was again struck by the sort of group-think that occurred among her friends: Simon had asked the same thing.
“Who knows?”
Twenty-Two
Friday, September 27th
Charlotte was surrounded by boxes and boxes of picture puzzles, and the pieces were mixed up between boxes. She was in a large room lit only by the glare of the sun coming through a single large window. Each box of puzzles was emptied and set up with the picture visible next to the pile of pieces that was in it. She went from pile to pile, with hundreds of pieces in each, turning every piece fa
ce up, and grouping them by color or some distinguishing feature. It took hours and she was sweating with fear that she would not finish in time, time was running out—and then a great wind started up, blowing away pieces from the piles, and she tried to grab them, but the wind got stronger—
She woke up. It was dark, save for the glow from streetlights that managed to find cracks in the closed blinds. Other elements of the dream were still with her, the aloneness, the sense of not really knowing what to do, but feeling responsible for doing it. She still wasn’t used to living here, the noises of the old building, the cars going by on the street, the vibration of a train going by somewhere, all the night sounds which would wake her, put her on alert because she hadn’t yet accepted them as normal.
Charlotte didn’t recall feeling quite this skittish when she and Ellis first moved to Lake Parkerton, but she was a decade younger then and still possessed a bit of youthful invincibility. These days, not so much. Her joints and muscles still ached from the move, and she still felt emotionally drained from all the changes. It also didn’t help that she was in the first circle around not one, but two murders, that she was worried about Helene, and had an unreciprocated attraction to Simon. And she still had to sell her stuff and her house. And to find that last notebook.
The time on the cell phone said 4:27. The last time she’d had problems with insomnia, Dr. Lauro said not to fight it but to embrace it—lay back and let the mind wander where it will, and even if