John Grisham - Camino Island

“What happened to it?”

“Talia said she burned it. She called one day out of her mind and said she had destroyed it for good and would never write another word. Two days later she overdosed in Savannah, where she was living at the time.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Twenty-seven years old and more talent than I’ve ever seen. A month or so after her funeral, I wrote to her mother and rather gently asked about what, if anything, Talia might have left behind. Never heard a word, and the novel has never been mentioned. I’m convinced she burned it, then killed herself.”

“How awful.”

“It was tragic.”

“You didn’t have a copy?”

“Oh no. She would bring the manuscript here for a few days and make me read it while she kept working. She was paranoid about someone stealing her masterpiece and guarded it closely. Poor girl was paranoid about a lot of things. In the end she was off her meds and hearing voices, and there was nothing I could do. Frankly, by then I was trying to avoid her.”

They pondered the tragedy for a minute or so, each sipping slowly. The sun was gone and the deck was dark. Neither had mentioned dinner, but Mercer was prepared to say no. They had spent enough time together for one day.

She said, “That’s a great story.”

“Which one? Dickens, Faulkner, Zelda, or Talia? There’s a lot of material there.”

“And you’re giving it to me?”

Bruce smiled and shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“And the Dickens and Faulkner stories are true, right?”

“Yes. But the best one is Hemingway and Zelda. It was Paris in the 1920s, the Lost Generation, all that colorful background and history. They certainly knew each other. F. Scott and Hemingway were pals and drinking buddies and the Americans all partied together. Hemingway was always on the prowl — he married four women — and had a kinky side. In the right hands, the story could be so salacious that even Myra would approve.”

“I could only hope.”

“You’re not too enthused.”

“I’m not sure about historical fiction. Is it history or make-believe? For some reason it seems dishonest to tamper with the lives of real people and make them do things they didn’t really do. Sure they’re dead, but does that give writers the license to fictionalize their lives? Especially their private matters?”

“Happens all the time, and it sells.”

“I guess, but I’m not sure it’s for me.”

“Do you read them? Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald?”

“Only if I have to. I try to avoid old dead white men.”

“Me too. I prefer to read the people I’ve met.” He drained his glass and set it on the table between them. He said, “I’d better go. Enjoyed the walk.”

“Thanks for the champagne,” she said. “I’ll show you out.”

“I can find the door,” he said, and as he walked behind her gently kissed her on the top of her head. “See you.”

“Good night.”

At eight the following morning, Mercer was sitting at the breakfast table, staring at the ocean, ignoring the laptop, daydreaming about something she couldn’t describe had she been asked, when she was startled by her cell phone. It was Noelle, calling from France, six hours ahead. She greeted Mercer with a hearty “Bonjour,” and apologized for disturbing her creative time, but she needed to check in before the day got away from her. She explained that a man named Jake would be at her store the next day and could meet with Mercer. Jake was her favorite restorer and painter and stopped by periodically. He would be repairing an armoire in the basement workroom, and it would be an excellent time for Mercer to discuss painting the writer’s table. The store would be closed and locked, but Jake had a key and so on. Mercer thanked her and they chatted for a few minutes about things in France.

As soon as she said good-bye, Mercer called Elaine Shelby, who was in Washington. Mercer had sent her a lengthy e-mail the night before with all the details of the day’s events and conversations, so Elaine was fully briefed. Suddenly it looked as though Mercer might get to see both basements on the same day.

She called Bruce at noon and said she would take his offer for the two books. She would be downtown the following day to see Jake, and she would pop in the bookstore to pick up the check. Plus, she really wanted to see that copy of The Catcher in the Rye .

“Perfect,” he said. “How about lunch?”

“Sure.”

Elaine and her team arrived after dark and too late for a meeting. At nine the following morning, Mercer walked the beach and stopped at the boardwalk leading to their condo. Elaine was sitting on the steps with a cup of coffee and sand between her toes. She shook hands firmly, as always, and said, “Nice work.”

“We’ll see,” Mercer said.

They walked to the condo, where two men were waiting, Graham and Rick. They were sitting at the kitchen table with their coffee and a large kit or box of some variety. In it, as Mercer was about to learn, were the toys of the trade. Mikes and bugs and transmitters and cameras so small she wondered how they could possibly capture any image. They began pulling out the various devices and discussing the pros and cons and possibilities of each.

At no time had Elaine asked Mercer whether she was willing to wear a hidden camera. It was just assumed that she would, and for a moment this irritated her. As Graham and Rick talked on, Mercer felt a knot in her stomach. She finally blurted, “Is this legal? You know, filming someone without their permission?”

“It’s not illegal,” Elaine answered with a confident smile. Don’t be ridiculous. “No more so than taking a photograph of someone in public. Permission is not required, nor is full disclosure.”

Rick, the older of the two, said, “You can’t record a telephone conversation without full disclosure, but the government has yet to pass a law prohibiting camera surveillance.”

“Anytime, anywhere, except for a private residence,” Graham added. “Just look at all the surveillance cameras watching buildings and sidewalks and parking lots. They don’t need permission to film anyone.”

Elaine, who was very much in charge and outranked the two men, said, “I like this scarf with a buckle ring. Let’s try it.” The scarf was a flowery mix of colors and appeared to be expensive. Mercer folded it into a tri-fold and put it around her neck. Rick handed her the buckle ring, a golden clasp with tiny fake jewels, and she slipped the ends of the scarf through it. With a tiny screwdriver, and moving in far too close, Rick examined the buckle ring as he tapped it with the screwdriver.

“We’ll put the camera right there and it will be virtually invisible,” he said.

“How big is the camera?” Mercer asked.

Graham held it up, a ridiculously tiny device smaller than a raisin. “That’s a camera?” she asked.

“High-def. We’ll show you. Hand me the buckle ring.” Mercer slid it down and gave it to Rick. He and Graham put on matching pairs of surgical magnifying glasses and hovered over their work.

Elaine asked, “Do you know where you’re going to lunch?”

“No, he didn’t say. I’m meeting Jake at Noelle’s store at eleven, then I’ll walk next door and see Bruce. Lunch will follow but I don’t know where. How am I supposed to use that thing?”

“You don’t do anything, just act normally. The camera will be activated remotely by Rick and Graham. They’ll be in a van near the store. There’s no audio, the camera is too small, so don’t worry about what is said. We have no idea what’s in either basement so try to scan everything. Look for doors, windows, more cameras.”