“It’ll be okay,” Bobby said.
“But they have to investigate you.”
“Of course.And they should.But there’s a roomful of people who saw Graeme attack you, and I wasn’t close enough to stop him any other way.”In a gentler voice, he said again, “It’ll be okay.I promise.”
I knew that wasn’t something anybody could promise.But it was still nice to hear it.And if anybodycouldpromise it, it would definitely be Bobby.
When we got home, it was too early to go to bed.(My preferred option in almost every scenario.) Instead, I showered to get rid of the flop sweat (Eau de Confession is not going to be a bestseller), and then I lay on the bed while Bobby cleaned up.I must have fallen asleep—so much for my theory about it being too early—because I stirred briefly when he climbed into bed next to me, and he kissed my shoulder, and then I slept again.
I woke, and it was still dark, and—a rare change—Bobby was still next to me.His breathing was slow and even, and he lay on his back, one hand resting on my arm.Like I might, in the middle of the night, get away somehow.Moonlight puddled on the floor where it passed between gaps in the curtains, and the room seemed unusually bright, so that even when I closed my eyes, I couldn’t fall back asleep.Familiar sounds wrapped themselves around me: the shift and settle of the old house.The wind in the hemlocks.The rhythm of the waves.
After a while, I slipped my arm out from under Bobby’s hand, found my glasses, and padded into the bathroom.I shut the door before turning on the light.I peed.In the mirror, I stared back at myself.
Why did you get your glasses?
I turned off the light and let myself out through the opposite door—the one that led into what was technically Bobby’s room.I made my way through the dark, into the thicker, velvet darkness of the hall, and the smell of furniture polish and floor wax and the slight mustiness of chilly days, before we turned on the heat.The ticking of one of the big, old clocks, and nothing else.Not even a mouse—but that was at Christmas, anyway.
Light came into Vivienne’s study from the sleeping porch, where the curtains hadn’t been closed after Graeme had broken into the house—gray, pale, hourless light.The sound of the waves crashing against the bluffs was louder here.I closed the door to the hall and turned on the lamps.
It was still a mess: papers everywhere, books on the floor, drawers ajar.I stood there for a while, arms wrapped around myself, considering it.I picked up a few pages and let them flutter back to the floor.
Before I could think about it too much, I grabbed the trash can from under Vivienne’s desk and went to work.I gave each piece of paper a cursory glance—anything that might have been related to a crime went into one pile.Around the world, I suspected, men and women were appealing—and would continue to appeal—their convictions; nothing helped an appeal, I suspected, like the revelation that the person who had put you in prison had manufactured evidence in some of her most famous cases.
Anything financial went into a separate pile.Someone would have to deal with Vivienne’s estate.She would have a lawyer.Or, eventually, the probate court would handle it.And they might need some of the information here.But tomorrow—er, later today—everything in those piles was going down to the cellar, and I never wanted to see it again.
Everything else seemed to be about writing, and that went into the trash can.Outlines and notes for books in the Matron of Murder series.Research material.Sketches of ideas.Synopses.Letters—yes, honest-to-God letters, because Vivienne had been writing for forty years—to and from editors and agents.
In spite of my determination to get this job done, I couldn’t help slowing as I worked my way through the papers.I’d grown up reading the Matron of Murder books.Vivienne had been—well, not an idol, but someone whose writing I’d enjoyed and respected.And I was, after all, a massive nerd; there was something fascinating about seeing the thought and planning that had gone into those books behind the scenes.Maybe I was doing a disservice to the world.Maybe I should have boxed up these papers as well and donated them to a college or a university or a library.The Vivienne Carver Collection.(Which also sounded like it could be a home décor line or, uh, intimate apparel for the mature woman.) But the thought was small, buzzing at the back of my head, and I kept going.
As papers went into the trash and I worked my way across the floor, older outlines and notes gave way to more recent projects.Many of these were unfinished, or preliminary sketches that even I could tell were, to put it politely, half-baked.Ideas for several new series—in one, Vivienne planned to follow the madcap adventures of a murderous nanny as she took her charges with her on a quest for revenge.Also, there was a bit of magic in there, and at least one scene of them flying over London, so it was kind of like the Quentin Tarantino version ofBedknobs and Broomsticks.Notmycup of tea, but listen, every book has its ideal reader somewhere.
Other papers suggested that Vivienne had been working, at her agent’s suggestion, on a follow-up to Matron of Murder.One of the beauties of the Matron of Murder series was that the protagonist, Genevieve Webster, had an endless supply of nieces and nephews (who could, as the occasion called for, either be murdered, suspected by the police of murder, or function as convenient excuses for Genevieve to be dragged off to London or New York City or wherever else she might stumble onto a murder or herself be suspected of murder—can you tell there was a formula?).Apparently, someone thought it was a great idea for Genevieve’s niece Amber to become thenextMatron of Murder, passing the torch to the rising generation, etc., etc.Oh, and she had a boyfriend who was a surfer.Or maybe a rapper.Or would it be too much if he were an astronaut?(Matron of Murder on the Moonwas basically a book that wrote itself.) At the bottom of one of these pages, in her unmistakable handwriting, Vivienne had written,If I have to write these books, I’m going to kill myself.
And then I came across the book that Vivienne had plagiarized from Pippi.I’d forgotten about it, if I was being honest.Forgotten about that whole bizarre situation.Forgotten that at some point in her life, Vivienne had been in such despair about her writing that she had tried writing a cozy (called, egad,Café Capers).
I sat there, pages loose in my hands, and forgot about the trash can.I’d forgotten how bad things had gotten for Vivienne at the end.Her stories blocked.Her creativity dried up.The thing she had loved most, the thing she had sacrificed everything for—her writing—slipping out of her hands no matter how tightly she tried to grasp it.I mean, my God, she’d been planning on stealing ideas fromme; that’s how you know she was desperate.
And I found myself thinking about the letter she had written to me.At the time, it had seemed like—I don’t know.A mixture of Vivienne being a know-it-all about writing (definitely in character) and, later, a clue about where to take the investigation, by looking at Simona’s publishers.But now, in that strange bubble of time and space that the middle of the night brings, I wondered if it wasn’t more.Not Vivienne’s letter to me.But, in a strange way, Vivienne’s letter to herself.Everyone must choose who they are going to be.And Vivienne had chosen the money over the writing.Maybe that wasn’t fair; shewasa good writer.She was a brilliant writer.And she had loved writing.But in little ways, she had chosen other things over writing again and again.Until, when she needed it, the writing was gone.
I set the manuscript aside.Pippi would want it.She could sell it to Pippi’s Privateers or Pippi’s Pioneers or Pippi’s Piranhas (jeez, there was a fitting name).
As I worked my way around the room, I crawled behind the desk to pick up the papers that had fallen there.Instead of full sheets, a pile of smaller pieces of paper lay on the floor: sticky notes, the pages from a day planner, a scrap torn from the corner of what appeared to be a takeout menu.One said,You only have today.And another said,Write what you love.And then there wasRemember why you do this, andWriting is its own reward, and then, on half a napkin, in blue ballpoint that had torn the paper, a single word:Write.
Two had clearly been handled more than the rest—they had wrinkles from careless foldings, and their edges had that soft, brushed look of paper that has been worn down.The first said,You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read.And the second said,A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.
I don’t know how long I sat there.I’m not sure how long Iwouldhave sat there if a soft tap at the door hadn’t pulled me back.
The door opened, and Indira stepped into the room carrying two mugs.The scent of chocolate—warm, creamy, sweet chocolate—bloomed.She was dressed in sensible sleep pants and a sleep shirt, with a rain jacket.Her hair was loose and pulled over one shoulder.Her face still slightly soft with sleep, she looked strangely vulnerable.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Indira said.“And I saw the light.”She tipped her head toward the window.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Not at all.I was already up.”But she stopped and waited and asked, “If I’m not intruding?”
I hesitated.Then I shook my head.
She came around the desk and sat on the floor next to me.The mug warmed my hands—I hadn’t realized, until now, that my fingers were cold—and the hot cocoa was perfect.Not as thick and rich as the hot chocolate Indira occasionally made, but the right balance of sweet and flavorful to be a good nightcap.(Was it a nightcap?A good back-to-bed beverage?What’s the term for that?)
