Джеффри Дивер - The Sequel

The will provided that several libraries and literacy foundations would receive modest bequests and that the rest be divided equally between Goodwin’s son, Stoddard, and daughter, Anna. The problem was less the large, lump sum windfall they received at the time of their father’s death but the promise of regular income for the rest of their lives — or at least for so long as Cedar Hills remained in print. The offspring, in their twenties when their father passed, had immediately quit their jobs. And from that moment on they began to coast through life. Stoddard had tried his hand at a number of small businesses, which had not so much failed as petered out when he — or his wife, Beth — grew tired of them. He golfed and tennised a lot. Anna had tried to follow in her father’s footsteps and had written several novels, only one of which was published; it received indifferent notices. She gave up and, unlike her brother, found nothing as productive as sports to fill her time. Husbands and drinking became her pastimes.

Apart from cutting the checks, Lowell didn’t have much to do with the son and daughter, whom he referred to, with a hint of tacit disdain, as the Siblings. Legally they had no control over the disposition of Cedar Hills ; Goodwin had the foresight to establish the trust that made substantive decisions about the novel. But the inconvenience of the law didn’t stop the Siblings from meddling, Stoddard and Beth at least. They would frequently call, offering suggestions about advertising and merchandizing (as if an action figure based on Jonas Anderson, the patriarch at the center of Cedar Hills , would be snapped up by Mattel). They were suspicious about the flow of income and insisted on detailed financial statements, which Lowell — meticulous by training and nature — readily provided.

As for Anna, Lowell had received only a dozen calls from her in the past five years and none about business. Mostly she rang him up late at night, drunk and sentimental, and asked for details of her father’s life, which he was unable to provide, never having met the man himself.

But several hours after receiving the letter from the lawyer in Connecticut, Lowell was on Metro North, speeding to White Plains to see the Siblings.

He was met at the station by Stoddard, now in his sixties. Trim, tall, and fit, strikingly resembling his father, the man greeted Lowell with a weak handshake and averted eyes. “So, look at that park,” he said, pointing at a green near the station. “They were close to finishing it but never did. There’s a huge battle in city hall. Do you know how many people sit on the board of supervisors?” As they climbed into an old, musty Cadillac and sped off, the man went on and on about the matter.

Lowell paid no attention. He’d learned by now that Stoddard believed that if you preemptively rambled enough, people would forget to deliver bad news. He hadn’t told the Siblings about the letter mentioning the sequel, just that he wanted to see them about an important matter. He was worried that forewarning would give them time to think up dozens of questions, as well as schemes about how to maximize the income they’d be receiving from the new book.

It seemed that a wise detective would play cards close to his chest.

WWSSD... What would Sam Spade do? That was Frederick Lowell’s new mantra.

They drove for ten minutes on the highway before Stoddard turned off and began threading along increasingly smaller surface roads. Finally they left pavement altogether. This was curious. It was not the way to his and Beth’s house (and Anna, he knew, had recently lost her residence to her third husband in a messy divorce).

Soon all he could see was Westchester County wilderness. Thick trees mostly. A marsh or two.

Lowell’s curiosity at their route turned to shock when he saw their destination: a small, battered bungalow sitting in a scabby square of dirt and weeds. A carport about to collapse. A chicken wire fence.

“Home sweet home.”

Their previous house had been an opulent McMansion. The plot of land was small but the home itself had sprawled over six thousand square feet. That was in addition to a vacation house in Florida and ski lodge in Vail.

And now they lived here ?

Inside the dim place, mustier than the Caddy, he greeted Beth, who was a stocky woman with short hair, and Anna, leaner, dressed in baggy shirt and skirt like a hippie — or a homeless lady. Her graying hair was long and dull.

Beth looked at Lowell suspiciously. Then equally so at her husband. She’d expressed resentment over the years that Stoddard’s share of the royalties went to him exclusively, not the two of them — one of the many issues they sniped and countersniped about. Lowell couldn’t understand such a relationship. He had been married for forty-two wonderful years to a woman he’d met at a literary conference. They’d wed eight months after meeting and been constant companions until a faulty artery had separated them forever. He knew theirs had been a high standard for a marriage — friendship, humor, intellectual parity at the prow — but Stoddard and his wife didn’t even bother to conceal their seeming mutual disdain.

Anna greeted him with a distant smile. Her travel mug was filled with liquor, Lowell could smell. The hour was just past one p.m.

Looking around, Lowell observed too that one of the bedrooms seemed to be hers. He could only imagine the tension that this living arrangement created.

The house was quiet and sparsely decorated. A few books, more magazines, and a huge flat-screen, high-def TV. A few family pictures of Goodwin, his wife, and the children dotted the walls. Neither of the Siblings had children of their own. Maybe having a literary legend of a father — and a tormented one — had been a deterrent.

Beth must have noted Lowell’s eyes sweeping the house. “It’s only temporary,” she said defensively, with a glance at her husband.

Lowell couldn’t help wondering how they’d blown through millions and millions of dollars. As of a few years ago, the last time he’d visited, they’d been doing fine. Since the regular royalty income was not insubstantial, Lowell assumed they were in debt. Stoddard’s bad business ventures, probably; Anna’s choice of men.

He sat down on a saggy couch; no one offered him a beverage. He looked them over and said, “Apparently there is a sequel.”

There was no need to be more specific. The center of their lives was Cedar Hills Road ; it hung over every conversation and gathering. The title never needed to be mentioned. In fact, it never was, as if uttering those four syllables would be like a demonic incantation that would destroy the good fortune the book had brought.

“My God, you found it?” Stoddard asked, eyes wide.

“So Dad had it in him after all.” Anna seemed pleased. She celebrated by lifting her mug and taking a long sip.

Beth looked at her distastefully, then turned to Lowell and asked, “Now. Frederick, what’s the offer?”

“I don’t have the manuscript yet. Just a hint that it did at one point exist.” He explained about the letter he’d received from the lawyer in Connecticut.

“Well, sue him,” Stoddard snapped.

“What?” Lowell asked, blinking.

“We’ll sue the prick, force him to tell us more.”

Lowell explained, “I don’t know what you’d actually sue for . He doesn’t have to tell us any more. He contacted me as a courtesy. Besides, he told me there was nothing else and I believe him.”

“No, no, he’s holding out. Mark my words, he’ll let us stew and then hit us up for a finder’s fee.”

Anna rolled her eyes.

Lowell said, “Well, I think the more productive approach is for me to try to track down the manuscript. I found two clues and I’m hoping you might be able to help me with them.”