Michael Gruber - The Book of Air and Shadows

“You’re an academic too, I gather?”

“No, I work for the ministry of education in Toronto. This is more of a sideline, and to help him out.”

“But he’s deceased.”

“Yes. I thought I could finish up the work and arrange for a posthumous publication. I think he would have liked that.”

“You were close, then?”

“Yes.”

“Although separated by oceans?”

“Yes.” Then, somewhat impatiently, with a little wrinkle forming across her fine high forehead, “My uncle Andrew was a very important part of my life, Mr. Mishkin. My father left my mom when I was four, leaving us in a very precarious financial position. He was something of a wild boy and not at all interested in fatherhood. He’s dead now, as is my mother. Uncle Andrew, meanwhile, paid for my education, had me over to England during practically every summer vacation starting at age eight and…oh, God, why am I telling you all this? I guess I haven’t quite recovered from the shock of what happened to him. I’m sorry. I hadn’t intended to spill my guts like that.”

“It’s quite all right,” I said. “Losing a close relative through violence can be a devastating thing.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Yes,” I said, but in a tone that did not encourage further queries. Changing the subject, I asked, “How long have you been in the city?”

“Toronto?”

“No, here. I’m sorry-when New Yorkers say ‘the city’ they always mean the island of Manhattan.”

She smiled at this, our first shared smile. “Since Monday. Two days.”

“In a hotel, are you?”

“Yes, the Marquis on Eighth Avenue. I was expecting to stay in Uncle Andrew’s place, but there are legal complications. It’s still a crime scene and they won’t release any of his things, although Professor Haas very kindly let me look through his office and take some personal items.”

“You’re comfortable there?” Making conversation here, God knows what I was thinking, I suppose I just wanted to keep her talking, prolong the moment. Ridiculous, as I say, but in the interests of an honest tale…

She replied, “Well, to be frank, it’s fairly grotty. It’s supposed to be cheap, but cheap in New York is more than I can afford, especially with Canadian dollars.”

“You’ve seen the police?”

“Yes. Yesterday. I thought I would have to identify the body like they do on TV, but that had already been done. They asked me some questions, really, pretty awful questions.”

“This is their theory that he was killed as part of some gay sexual ritual?”

“Yes, but my God!-and I told them this-Uncle Andrew wasn’t like that at all. He made no secret of his, um, romantic orientation, but he was devoted to Ollie. He’s a don at Oxford. They were like an old married couple when they were together.” Her tone abruptly changed and she asked, “Do you think we can conclude our business today?”

“Our business being…?”

“Uncle Andrew’s manuscript.”

Oh, that! I asked her what she knew about it.

“Oh, he didn’t tell me much, only that it was a Jacobean manuscript. He paid several thousand dollars for it, but he thought it might be a lot more valuable if some things checked out.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Again she produced that adorable wrinkle. “And frankly I can’t see that it’s any business of yours. It’s my property.”

“Actually, Ms. Kellogg,” I said, somewhat prissily, “it’s the property of the estate. In order for you to claim it, you have to demonstrate both that you are who you say you are, and that you are the sole legal heiress of Andrew Bulstrode. In order for that to happen, you must produce a will and have it probated in surrogate’s court for the County of New York. Only then will the executor of the will have the authority to instruct me to hand over the estate’s property to you.”

“Oh, gosh! Will that take long?”

“It could. If the will is faulty or contested, it could take weeks, months, even years to settle. As in Dickens.”

At this she gave a despairing cry, bit her lip, and brought her hands to her face. The clerk at the desk looked over at us disapprovingly.

“I can’t wait that long,” she wailed. “I could only get these few days off. I have to be back in Toronto on Monday and I can’t afford to stay in a hotel. And…” Here she stopped and dropped her eyes, as we do when we are about to reveal something it’s best not to reveal. Interesting, that; I thought it might be part of why she was reluctant to come to my office. I decided to push on that door.

“And…?”

“Nothing.” A poor liar, I thought, observing the delicate flushing below the jawline.

“Well, not nothing, I think. You ask me to meet you in a secluded place, you keep looking up at the door, as if you expect someone to barge in, and now you seem to be concealing something. Add to that the fact that your uncle died in mysterious, even frightening circumstances, and you strike me as a woman with something of a problem. A woman who, if I may be so bold, needs…”

“A lawyer? Are you volunteering yourself?” Suspiciously.

“Not at all. You need an estate lawyer who can help you get through probate. I am not that kind of lawyer, but my firm has some good ones. I was thinking of volunteering myself as your friend.”

“You think I need a friend?”

“You tell me. I’m guessing that you were approached about this manuscript and that this approach was of a disturbing nature.”

She nodded vigorously, causing her braids to wiggle. Delightful!

“Yes. I got a call just after the police called me and told me Uncle Andrew had died. It was a man with a deep voice and an accent.”

“An English accent?”

“No, like Slavic or Middle Eastern. I sort of yelled at him because I was so upset, I’d just found out that Uncle Andrew had died and here was this vulture circling. I hung up and he called right back and his tone was…I mean it sounds stupid to say ‘threatening’ but that’s what it felt like. He offered me fifty thousand Canadian for the documents, and I told him I’d think about it. He wasn’t happy with that answer, and he said something like, I forget his exact words, something like it would be better for you in every possible way to agree to these terms. It was like that line from The Godfather , an offer you can’t refuse, and it was so unreal, I almost giggled. Then, after I got to the Marquis, I got called again, same voice. How did they know I was there? No one at home knew where I was staying.”

“No significant other?” Concealing the hopefulness.

“No. And my office has my mobile. Anyway, when I left the hotel this morning there was a car, one of those big SUVs, black, with smoked windows, parked down the block from the hotel and there was a man, a big man, with a bullet head and sunglasses, leaning against it. And I looked back after I passed him and he was looking at me with this really horrible smile and then he got into the car, and I took the bus here, and when I got to the library the car was there again.”

“That’s worrisome,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” she said after a long pause. Her voice was a trifle shaky.

“Look,” I said, “let’s say that the police are wrong about your uncle’s death, as you suggest, and that he was murdered. Murdered for this, um, document. Melodramatic, yes, but such things must happen occasionally. So assume for a moment that this item is extraordinarily valuable for some reason, way more valuable than fifty grand Canadian, and that criminals have somehow learned about it and are trying to obtain it by fair means or foul. Does that make sense?”