Джеффри Дивер - The Sequel

Stoddard was more blunt. “What’s this all about?” His role would require him to be both confused and irritated by the unexpected presence. He’d probably be prepping his indignation too.

The other man — the thief? — was burly. He rose and turned toward Lowell.

Was he about to be shot? Or beaten to death?

But Lowell’s anger possessed him and he ignored the large man. “Where is it?” he demanded, staring into Stoddard’s eyes.

“Where is what ?”

“I know the truth. I know what you did.”

“Frederick, what the hell do you mean? I’d appreciate it if you’d explain what this is all about.”

“Someone stole the sequel last night.”

“What?” Anna gasped. “Did you have a copy?”

“They stole that too. Broke into my office.”

“And what?” Stoddard asked. “You think we did it?”

The indignation arrived on cue.

Curiously, though, Stoddard didn’t seem to be acting guilty. Beth looked horrified. “Someone stole our manuscript? What do the police say?”

“I haven’t gone to them yet.”

“Why not?” she asked stridently.

Because I know the guilty parties, he thought.

Then qualified: I’m pretty sure I do.

Stoddard muttered, “And why do you think we stole it?”

“Because your father didn’t write it. It was dated after he died. And if he didn’t write the sequel, he probably didn’t write Cedar Hills , either.”

“My God,” Beth said.

Anna shook her head, frowning. “I can’t believe that. Impossible, Frederick.”

Lowell filled in the facts he’d learned in his investigation. “You’re the most logical suspects. Because if the sequel was published, word might get out that it was a fraud. All your royalties would dry up.”

“Royalties?” Stoddard asked. “Wouldn’t be the end of the world. The checks were getting smaller and smaller every year anyway.”

Lowell blinked, not understanding. “But... what would you do for money without the royalty income? You’d be destitute.”

“Destitute?” Beth said, an uncharacteristic laugh tumbling from her throat.

Stoddard was smiling too. “Frederick, you know how much money Cedar Hills has earned us over the years?”

“Yes,” Lowell said, “of course I do. Close to twenty million dollars.”

“And do you know how much we have in the bank and the stock market?”

Lowell’s response was to look around the shabby shack.

Stoddard said, “At least forty million, between us. Anna’s got a bit less than we do.”

His sister grimaced. “Some bad choices in the marriage department. But I guess I’m still worth eight figures or so.”

Stoddard said, “We’ve invested it. And very carefully.”

“But—” Another look at the shack.

Beth caught on. She said sourly, “I told you this was temporary. We sold our old house last month and bought this property — thirty acres — to build on. Anna’s going to put up a place on the land too.” Looking at her sister-in-law, she said, “Anna’s admitted she’s got some problems and we’re going to help her get over that. We thought it would be best for everybody if we all lived nearby.”

Anna smiled. “I know we haven’t always gotten along but, you know, in the end they’ve really come through for me.”

“Oh.” Lowell was blushing. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious.

“Ah, you were wondering why I asked about the next royalty check,” Stoddard continued. “I just didn’t want to sell any stock with the market down the other day. Timing was bad. But the Dow soared the next day and I sold quite a bit — mostly Facebook, by the way. Made plenty to pay the deposit for the construction and then some.” He nodded at the bulky man, who’d been standing silently. Stoddard introduced them. He was their builder, it seemed, who’d come to show them blueprints for the new houses.

Not a thief.

“I stand corrected,” Lowell said.

Then, filling the extremely awkward silence, he added, “But who stole the manuscript? Who doesn’t want it published?”

The Siblings, in unison, shrugged.

Then an idea occurred to Lowell: “Malone! Preston Malone.”

“Oh, the biographer,” Anna recalled.

“Yes! He saw the date on the front page of the manuscript I’d sent. He would have realized that it was written after your father died. And probably went back through his own notes. He’d have figured out the truth too and knew he had to make sure no one found out that Coe was the author. Your father’s the center of his universe. His only claim to fame is the biography — he’d be ruined if the truth came out.” He was seething again. “I’m going to call him now. See what he has to say for himself.”

As he was dialing, Lowell happened to glance at the mantelpiece and noticed a picture of Edward Goodwin with his wife, from the fifties it seemed. They were sitting at a café in Paris, presumably on the Left Bank. It was a Hemingway image if ever there was one.

Malone answered the phone. “Frederick! I’ve been waiting for your call.”

Lowell didn’t say anything. He was staring at the photograph.

Paris.

Oh.

“Hello, Frederick? This is your number on caller ID, right? Are you there?”

Instead of delivering the news about the manuscript’s disappearance, Lowell said to the biographer, “I have a question for you.”

“Surely.”

“Did Edward Goodwin spend much time in Europe?”

Stoddard and Beth regarded each other with curious gazes then turned back to Lowell. He didn’t meet their eyes.

Malone said, “Yes, yes, he was educated there, in France mostly. And he and his wife lived there and in Germany for nearly fifteen years.”

Lowell sighed. “And when he wrote dates did he write them month-day-year or day-month-year?”

“Oh, always the European style. Day-month-year.”

“So that title page of the sequel I faxed you, the date on it? It was February eighth of ’67. Not August second.”

“How could it have been dated August second? Edward died in June. But the manuscript?” the biographer said impatiently. “Did you read it? What’s the story about? What happens to Jesse? Did Jonas get back to Ohio before he died?”

“I’ll call you back,” Lowell repeated.

“But—”

Click.

Lowell sat down. “So, I suppose he was the author after all. There’s no other evidence to suggest he wasn’t.”

Anna was returning from her bedroom, holding several yellowing sheets of paper. She offered them to Lowell. “Frederick, you mentioned the upper case letters and the strike-throughs on the first page of the sequel? Look at these. They’re early drafts of some of Dad’s articles he wrote for the Chicago Tribune . He sent them to me when I was in school and he was encouraging me to be a writer. He told me, ‘Hemingway said there are no great writers; there are only great rewriters.’ He showed me his drafts so I could see how he revised.”

Lowell took them. The capitalization and crossed-out words were identical. And the typewriter typeface seemed the same as on the first page of Anderson’s Hope .

The dates of the draft were 1960 — years before Goodwin had even met Coe.

The manuscript was authentic.

Lowell sighed and offered in a weak voice: “I’m sorry. But somebody stole an important piece of literary history? Who? Why?”

Stoddard gave a sour laugh. “Jesus, Frederick, aren’t you missing something? I mean, with all respect to Dad, it’s only a book.”

Frederick Lowell didn’t represent any mystery and thriller writers, which he always regretted because he passionately loved crime novels — believing that the authors were not only among the best storytellers but were the most disciplined and least self-indulgent of writers, unlike many of those who penned “literature.” So it was with great pleasure that he was allowed to come along to the arrest of the perp who’d broken into his office the week before and stolen Anderson’s Hope .