Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

Annabelle Conroy sat in a rental car at the corner of Good Fellow Street. It had been many years since she’d been here, and yet the place hadn’t changed all that much. You could still smell the moldy stink of old money, though it was now mingled with the equally foul aroma of new currency. Annabelle, of course, had had neither, a fact that Jonathan DeHaven’s mother, Elizabeth, had been quick to pounce on. No money and no breeding was what she had probably told her son over and over until the saying was ingrained on his very impressionable brain, finally allowing his mother to bully him into an annulment. Annabelle had not contested it, because what would the point have been?

Still, Annabelle held no ill feelings toward her ex. He was a man-child in many ways, erudite, kind, generous and affectionate. Yet he possessed not even a sliver of a backbone and ran from confrontation like the proverbial kid with glasses did from the bully. He had been no match for his omnipotent and acid-tongued mother; yet how many sons were? After the marriage had ended, he wrote Annabelle loving, moving letters, showered her with gifts, told her that he was thinking of her all the time. And she never doubted that he was. Deception was not part of his nature; that had been quite a new concept for her. Opposites apparently did indeed attract.

And yet he had never once asked her to come back. Still, compared to the men she’d known in her life, all of them like her on the wrong side of the good and bad equation, he was the light of pure innocence. He held her hand and was quick to open doors for his “lady.” He talked to her about issues of importance in the world of normal people, a place as alien to her as a distant star. And yet Jonathan had made it less strange, less distant, in the brief time they’d spent together.

Annabelle had to admit she’d changed while with him. Jonathan DeHaven, though he would forever be firmly ensconced on the conservative side of life, had inched a little toward her, perhaps enjoying life in a way he never could’ve imagined before. He was a good man. And she was sorry he was dead.

She angrily swiped at a tear that fell far too easily down her cheek. The emotion was unusual and unwelcome. She did not cry anymore. She was not close enough to anyone to weep over death. Not even her mother’s. It was true she’d avenged Tammy Conroy, but the daughter had also made herself rich in the process. Would she have done one without the other? Annabelle couldn’t say for sure. Did it matter? Well, she had nearly 17 million reasons parked in a foreign bank account that said it didn’t.

She watched as a gray Nova rattled up to the curb in front of DeHaven’s house. Four men got out: the oddballs from the cemetery who’d said that Jonathan’s death had no official cause. Well, she’d said her good-byes to Jonathan and would now walk through the house, for once without the wretched eye of Mama DeHaven following every swing of her daughter-in-law’s irreverent hips. And then she would be on a plane out of here. Annabelle didn’t want to be on the same continent when Jerry Bagger discovered he was $40 million poorer and erupted on a greater scale than his fake volcano ever had.

The burn of the lava could easily reach D.C.

She slid out of the car and walked toward the house and a life that could have very well been hers if things had worked out differently.

They were all in the book vault after Annabelle had been given a brief tour of the main floor of the house. Caleb didn’t open the small safe behind the painting. He had no intention of letting anyone else see the Psalm Book. After she’d seen the collection, they went back upstairs, where Annabelle walked though the elegant rooms with probably more interest than she cared to show.

“So you’ve been here before?” Stone said.

She looked at him blankly. “I don’t remember saying whether I had or not.”

“Well, you knew Jonathan lived on Good Fellow Street. I just assumed.”

“People shouldn’t assume so much, they’d be better off.” She continued to look around. “The house hasn’t changed much,” she said, indirectly answering his question. “But at least he got rid of some of the uglier furniture. Probably after his mother died. I don’t think that would’ve been allowed until Elizabeth drew her last breath.”

“Where did you and Jonathan meet?” Caleb asked. She ignored this question. “He might’ve mentioned your name, but I don’t know what it is,” he persisted, drawing a warning look from Stone.

“Susan Farmer. We met out West.”

“Did you marry out there as well?” Stone interjected.

He was very impressed because she didn’t even flinch. But she didn’t answer him either.

Stone decided to play his ace. He pulled the photo out of his pocket. “We were told that Jonathan’s marriage had been annulled. Since you don’t like people making assumptions, I’m deducing from your tone about Elizabeth DeHaven that she was the instigator of that action. He kept this photo. The woman bears a remarkable likeness to you. My experience is that men don’t keep photos of women for just any reason. I think your case was special.”

He handed the photo over to her. This time he got a reaction. As Annabelle took the picture, her hand, rock-steady all these years, shook a bit, and her eyes opened a smidgen wider and appeared a little moist. She said wistfully, “Jonathan was a very handsome man. Tall, thick brown hair and eyes that just made you feel good about yourself.”

“And can I say you’re as lovely now as you were then,” Reuben added magnanimously, edging closer to her.

Annabelle didn’t seem to have heard Reuben. She did something she hadn’t done in a long time: She smiled, genuinely. “This was taken on the day of our wedding. It was my first, and only, marriage.”

“Where were you married?” Caleb asked.

“Vegas — where else?” she said, her gaze holding fast on the photo. “Jonathan was in town for a book convention. We hooked up, hit it off and were married. All in a week’s time. Pretty crazy, I know. At least that’s how his mother saw it.” She ran her finger along Jonathan’s frozen smile. “But we were happy. For a time anyway. We even lived here for a while with his parents after we were married, until we found a place to live.”

“Well, it is quite a large house,” Caleb said.

“Funny, it seemed far too small back then,” she remarked dryly.

“Were you out in Vegas for the book convention too?” Stone asked politely.

She handed the photo back, and Stone put it back in his jacket pocket. “Do you really need an answer to that question?”

“All right. Have you been in contact with Jonathan over the years?”

“And why would I need to tell you if I had?”

“And there’s no reason for you to,” Reuben piped in, scowling at Stone. “In fact, that’s getting a little personal.”

Stone was obviously put out by his smitten friend’s traitorous comment but said, “We’re doing our best to figure out what happened to Jonathan, and we need as much help as we can get.”

“His heart stopped beating and he died. Is it that unusual?”

Milton explained, “The medical examiner apparently couldn’t determine the cause of death. And Jonathan had just had a full cardio checkup at Johns Hopkins. He didn’t have a heart attack or anything else, apparently.”

“So you think someone killed him? Who could possibly have a problem with Jonathan? He was a librarian. ”

“It’s not like librarians don’t have enemies,” Caleb said defensively. “Indeed, I’ve been around some colleagues who can get pretty mean-spirited after they’ve had a few glasses of merlot.”