John Grisham - Camino Island

Mercer nodded and said, “It was widely reported.”

“It was. The manuscripts, all five of them, were insured by our client, a large private company that insures art and treasures and rare assets. I doubt you’ve heard of it either.”

“I don’t follow insurance companies.”

“Lucky you. Anyway, we have been digging for six months, working closely with the FBI and its Rare Asset Recovery Unit. The pressure is on because in six months our client will be forced to write a check to Princeton for twenty-five million dollars. Princeton really doesn’t want the money; it wants the manuscripts, which, as you might guess, are priceless. We’ve had a few leads but nothing exciting until now. Luckily, there aren’t too many players in the murky world of stolen books and manuscripts, and we think we might have picked up the trail of a particular dealer.”

The waiter set a tall bottle of Pellegrino between them, with two glasses with ice and lemon.

When he left, Elaine continued, “It’s someone you may know.”

Mercer stared at her, offered half a grunt, shrugged, and said, “That would be a shock.”

“You have a long history with Camino Island. You spent summers there as a kid, with your grandmother, in her beach cottage.”

“How do you know this?”

“You’ve written about it.”

Mercer sighed and grabbed the bottle. She slowly filled both glasses as her mind spun away. “Let me guess. You’ve read everything I’ve written.”

“No, just everything you’ve published. It’s part of our preparation, and it’s been quite enjoyable.”

“Thanks. Sorry there hasn’t been more.”

“You’re young and talented and just getting started.”

“Let’s hear it. Let’s see if you’ve done your homework.”

“Gladly. Your first novel, October Rain, was published by Newcombe Press in 2008, when you were only twenty-four years old. Its sales were respectable — eight thousand copies in hardback, double that in paper, a few e-books — not exactly a bestseller, but the critics loved it.”

“The kiss of death.”

“It was nominated for the National Book Award and a finalist for PEN/Faulkner.”

“And won neither.”

“No, but few first novels get that much respect, especially from such a young writer. The Times chose it as one of its ten best books of the year. You followed it with a collection of stories, The Music of Waves, which the critics also praised, but, as you know, stories don’t sell that well.”

“Yes, I know.”

“After that you changed agents and publishers, and, well, the world is still waiting for the next novel. Meanwhile, you’ve published three stories in literary magazines, including one about guarding turtle eggs on the beach with your grandmother Tessa.”

“So you know about Tessa?”

“Look, Mercer, we know all there is to know, and our sources are public records. Yes, we’ve done a great deal of snooping, but we haven’t dug into your personal life beyond what is available to anyone else. With the Internet these days there’s not a lot of privacy.”

The salads arrived and Mercer picked up her knife and fork. She ate a few bites as Elaine sipped water and watched her. Finally, Mercer asked, “Are you going to eat?”

“Sure.”

“So what do you know about Tessa?”

“Your maternal grandmother. She and her husband built the beach cottage on Camino Island in 1980. They were from Memphis, where you were born, and spent their vacations there. He, your grandfather, died in 1985, and Tessa left Memphis and moved to the beach. As a little girl and as a teenager, you spent long summers with her there. Again, this is what you wrote.”

“It’s true.”

“Tessa died in a sailing accident in 2005. Her body was found on the beach two days after the storm. Neither her sailing companion nor his boat was ever found. This was all in the newspapers, primarily the Times-Union out of Jacksonville. According to the public records, Tessa’s will left everything, including the cottage, to her three children, one being your mother. It’s still in the family.”

“It is. I own one-half of one-third, and I haven’t seen the cottage since she died. I’d like to sell it but the family agrees on nothing.”

“Is it used at all?”

“Oh yes. My aunt spends the winter there.”

“Jane.”

“That’s her. And my sister vacations there in the summer. Just curious, what do you know about my sister?”

“Connie lives in Nashville with her husband and two teenage girls. She’s forty and works in the family business. Her husband owns a string of frozen yogurt shops and is doing quite well. Connie has a degree in psychology from SMU. Evidently, she met her husband there.”

“And my father?”

“Herbert Mann once owned the largest Ford dealership in the Memphis area. It looks like there was some money, enough to afford Connie’s private tuition at SMU, debt-free. The business went south for some reason, Herbert lost it, and for the past ten years he’s worked as a part-time scout for the Baltimore Orioles. He now lives in Texas.”

Mercer placed her knife and fork on the table and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but this is unsettling. I can’t help but feel as though I’m being stalked. What do you want?”

“Please, Mercer, our information was compiled by old-fashioned detective work. We have not seen anything that we were not supposed to see.”

“It’s creepy, okay? Professional spies digging through my past. What about the present? How much do you know about my employment situation?”

“Your position is being terminated.”

“So I need a job?”

“I suppose.”

“This is not public record. How do you know who’s being hired or fired at the University of North Carolina?”

“We have our sources.”

Mercer frowned and shoved her salad an inch or two away, as if she were finished. She folded her arms across her chest and scowled at Ms. Shelby. “I can’t help but feel, well, violated.”

“Please, Mercer, hear me out. It’s important that we have as much information as possible.”

“For what?”

“For the job we are proposing. If you say no, then we’ll simply go away and toss the file on you. We’ll never divulge any of our information.”

“What’s the job?”

Elaine took a small bite and chewed for a long time. After a sip of water, she said, “Back to the Fitzgerald manuscripts. We think they’re being hidden on Camino Island.”

“And who might be hiding them?”

“I need your assurance that what we discuss from this point on is extremely confidential. There’s a lot at stake here, and a loose word could cause irreparable damage, not just to our client, and not just to Princeton, but to the manuscripts themselves.”

“Who in hell might I tell about this?”

“Please, just give me your word.”

“Confidentiality requires trust. Why on earth should I trust you? Right now I find you and your company to be very suspicious.”

“I understand. But please hear the rest of the story.”

“Okay, I’m listening, but I’m not hungry anymore. You’d better talk fast.”

“Fair enough. You’ve been to the bookstore in downtown Santa Rosa, Bay Books. It’s owned by a man named Bruce Cable.”

Mercer shrugged and said, “I guess. I went there a few times with Tessa when I was a kid. Again, I haven’t been back to the island since she died and that was eleven years ago.”

“It’s a successful store, one of the best independents in the country. Cable is well known in the business and is quite the hustler. He’s connected and gets a lot of authors on their tours.”

“I was supposed to go there with October Rain, but that’s another story.”