Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

“Club drugs?” Bruce asked.

Nick said, “Roofies, GHB, Ecstasy, Special K, the usual date rape stuff.”

“Jumper says there’s a rumor that a witness saw her outside the bar with a stranger. Who knows? It’s hard to have confidence in the local boys in rural Kentucky.”

Nick said, “Well, we got the Florida State Police on the ball and they haven’t made it halfway to first base.”

“We had nothing to do with Brittany’s death,” Lindsey said defensively.

“You keep saying that,” Bruce said, still talking to the blinds. “Who are you trying to convince?”

“You know, Bruce, I’m a bit perplexed by your tone and attitude. We are in a gray area here and that’s often where we are forced to go. Need I remind you of where you were three years ago when our company first met you? The stolen manuscripts? You were so far out of bounds you weren’t even near a gray area.”

“What happened three years ago?” Nick asked.

“None of your business,” Bruce snapped.

“Just thought I’d ask.”

Bruce suddenly turned around and took a few steps toward Lindsey. He glared at her, pointed a finger, said, “Your company is fired as of now. Close the file and keep the change. Don’t lift another finger on behalf of me or the estate of Nelson Kerr. Send me a termination letter.”

“Come on, Bruce.”

“Let’s go, Nick.” Nick jumped to his feet and followed Bruce through the door. Lindsey Wheat kept her cool and took another sip of coffee.

4.

Nothing was said as they drove the seven minutes to their hotel. Nothing was said as they entered it and walked through the lobby and went straight to the bar. Both ordered coffee, though both really wanted a drink. Nick managed to keep quiet and knew that Bruce should speak first.

When the coffee arrived, both ignored it. Finally, Bruce rubbed his eyes and said, “You think I’m wrong?”

“No. There’s something about her I don’t like and I’m not sure she would ever tell the whole story.”

“We don’t need her anymore, Nick. That’s one reason I walked out. We know the name of the company, the name of their secret drug, and the informant has made contact with me. We never told Miss Lindsey about the secret messages. We debated that and thankfully we didn’t say anything. She’d probably screw it up or get someone else killed. Probably me. They almost got Mercer hurt three years ago.”

“Then why’d you hire them?”

“Because they’re good. They found the drug, Nick. Who else could have done that? The Florida State Police? The yokels in Kentucky? Not even the FBI, because they have to play by the rules.”

“Are you going to tell me the story?”

“I’ll tell you part of the story and if you ever breathe a word I’ll take away your employee discount.”

“It’s only twenty percent. At Barnes and Noble it’s forty.”

“I can’t do this over coffee. I need a drink.”

“Me too.”

Bruce walked to the bar and brought back two beers. He took a mighty gulp and smacked his lips. “You remember when the Fitzgerald manuscripts were stolen from Princeton, about four years ago?”

“Sure. Big story. Somebody paid a ransom and the thieves returned the manuscripts.”

“Something like that. The stolen loot was on Camino Island. It’s a long story.”

“For this, I have all the time in the world.”

5.

In the normal scheme of things, Camino Island came to life each year in the middle of March when students on spring break headed in droves to Florida. They took over the beach hotels and condos and summer rentals, and they drank and danced and frolicked on the beaches because they were nineteen years old and weary from the rigors of study. Daddy could afford it. Daddy was told it was simply part of the entire college experience. And Daddy himself had probably been drunk and sunburned for an entire week back in the day.

But the island was still wounded, so the parties went farther south. A few hotels had reopened but there was construction everywhere. The last thing the recovery needed was twenty-five thousand young idiots loose in the streets. Quietly, the island advertised that it was not yet open for business. Come back next year and we’ll be ready.

When Ole Miss turned them loose, Mercer and Thomas packed up the dog and their shorts and headed for the island. Larry had finished the repairs to the cottage and Mercer was eager for a week away from the classroom. She was also excited about her first book party since Leo had ruined her last one. For weeks, Bruce had insisted on throwing a “major author event” and wouldn’t take no for an answer. The paperback of Tessa had just been released and Mercer had signed on for another grueling summer tour to promote it. Bruce insisted that the first stop be at Bay Books and harangued the publisher into underwriting half of it.

The party began on Saturday afternoon with barbecue and a bluegrass band on the sidewalk and street in front of the store. The locals needed some fun, and the crowd was large and continued to grow. At 3:00 p.m., Mercer took her spot downstairs behind a table, with stacks of books all around her, and greeted her admirers.

She chatted them up, posed for dozens of photos and selfies, autographed the paperbacks and some hardbacks as well, held a couple of babies, signed the cast on a broken arm, answered questions from people who claimed they knew Tessa, did a quick interview with the island’s newspaper, and all in all had a delightful time being the popular author with a long line of fans snaking out the front door.

When Bruce wasn’t working the crowd and selecting other titles for certain preferred customers, he and Thomas and Bob Cobb sat outside on the balcony and sipped tequila. The music switched to reggae late in the afternoon and the air was filled with soothing music and plenty of laughter. Benny’s Oyster Truck arrived at five and a crew began shucking on the side street. Two kegs of beer materialized from somewhere and attracted the faithful.

It was springtime and the weather was perfect.

At six, Mercer moved upstairs where a hundred folding chairs had been arranged for her reading. Three years earlier during her brief sabbatical on the island she had attended several author talks in the same space, and at the moment she couldn’t help but remember the twinge of jealousy she had felt for those touring writers who were publishing, selling, and drawing crowds. Now, it was her turn at the podium.

Leigh and Myra were in the front row, as always, and they beamed at her like proud grandparents. Leigh appeared ready to cry. Next to her was Amy Slater, the vampire girl, present with her husband and all three kids. Andy Adam stood in a corner with a diet drink and smiled at Mercer. Jay Arklerood, the sour poet, was in the second row and looked out of place, as always. Mercer was certain that Bruce had threatened him to compel his attendance. His last book, a thin collection of incomprehensible free-verse poems, had sold only a thousand copies across the country. Bay Books was responsible for half of them. If Bruce wanted a favor, Jay couldn’t say no.

Back in the good old days, before Leo, the store hosted several author events each week. Some of the writers were popular with large followings that made for easy draws. But others were the rookies or mid-list authors wanting desperately to sell more, and for them Bruce guaranteed a crowd. He did so by calling, cajoling, charming, and strong-arming his friends and loyal customers. To him, a small turnout was a crushing defeat, one he simply couldn’t tolerate.

And he was determined to make Mercer Mann a success. He admired her as a writer and adored her as a person, and with her he dreamed of doing something he had never fully accomplished: to make her a literary star, one who could slay the critics while selling books. He, Bruce Cable, wanted to be responsible for her greatness. No one knew this, not even Noelle, though she knew he was quite fond of Mercer. She had the talent, but he wasn’t sure about the drive, the ambition.