An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

went out to her dear friend. She couldn’t recall ever seeing Helene so distraught, even when her husband died. But the circumstances were of course so different. He had been ill for a long time, whereas Olivia was still going strong and had been assaulted.

  The police arrived, to ask their questions and make their reports. It was going to be a long morning.

   

  Tea was the only thing that would help, strong and black. Making tea was as soothing as drinking it, Charlotte thought as she sliced lemons and placed cups and spoons and a plate of cinnamon palmier cookies on a tray. The morning had indeed been long and stretched into mid-afternoon, full of questions from the police, and getting Olivia situated in the hospital, where she remained unconscious and under observation. Charlotte leaned against the countertop as she waited for the electric kettle to boil, enjoying the serenity and simplicity of Helene’s kitchen. It could not have been more different than Olivia’s: the surfaces were nearly bare, there were no boxes on the floor, the cooking things were contained within cabinets and drawers, and the space was suffused with natural light. Charlotte recalled that the kitchen in Helene’s former house at Lake Parkerton, while much grander in scale and rich with granite, mahogany, and high-end appliances, had been equally serene.

  Here in the white and birch galley kitchen, Helene still had her striking Belle Époque poster of Loie Fuller in swirls of reds, oranges, and yellows against a black background. And on the bistro-style table there was the same clear green-tinted longneck bud vase with a white orchid that had always graced her breakfast bar at Lake Parkerton. The simple white plates and tea pot were the same. And the zen-like simplicity and airiness—they were the same. Completely different house and location, completely different scale, and yet nothing, really, was lost.

  Charlotte brought the tea tray into the sitting area, which, like the kitchen, overlooked the courtyard garden through a series of French doors. The doors led out to a small veranda, making the room seem part of the garden.

  Helene was propped up sideways on a white slipcovered sofa, her legs stretched out and covered with a soft throw. She was exhausted, but still too shook up to nap, and Charlotte wanted to be sure she was going to be okay. Simon had taken off his jacket and was slouched in the dark brown leather club chair. He, too, looked exhausted.

  From what she could gather of their conversation, Simon had just returned from a week in Japan, and the jet lag was catching up with him. He eyed the tea tray but didn’t look happy. Charlotte wondered what was wrong.

  “A problem?” she asked.

  He hesitated, but Helene looked over and smiled, which only emphasized the dark circles under her eyes. “Would you be a dear and bring a little milk? Simon always takes his tea with milk and sugar instead of lemon.”

  Charlotte resisted the temptation to tell him to get it himself, since Helene actually made the request. “No problem.” Simon has jet lag, Helene is old and worried, and my nerves are shot, she thought. The sooner we all have our tea, the better.

  As she returned with the milk and sugar, she heard Helene talking about Ellis.

  “Charlotte is Ellis Anthony’s mother.”

  Simon’s face lit up, making him look friendly for the first time that day. “Ellie’s mom? That girl is talented!”

  “You know Ellis?” Charlotte felt the pang of the joint-custody parent at the reminder of just how much of her child’s life was a mystery to her. And it was only going to get more so. Ellis had never mentioned this tall man with the abrupt manner. And she let him call her “Ellie?” As she listened to Helene’s account of how Simon had met Ellis when he stopped by on an errand for Helene, Charlotte took in his black boots, the broken-in jeans stretching up long legs, the black long-sleeved tee with the sleeves shoved up to the elbows, the broad shoulders, the slightly craggy face, blue-green eyes and shaggy, grey-streaked dark blond hair that had only receded a small amount.

  “So you’re from England, I assume?”

  “London.” He poured milk into his cup, topped it with tea, then stirred in a spoonful of sugar. “But I go all over. Got a stint with the university here for a bit, thought I’d get to know this part of the States.”

  “Simon’s a photographer, Charlotte,” said Helene. She took her own cup of tea, and squeezed in a bit of fresh lemon. “He’s been in all kinds of publications and galleries and he’s written quite a few books. He was a guest lecturer at Corton last year and they asked him to continue for another. I’m lucky to have him as a neighbor. He lives in the upstairs unit next door.” Helene beamed at Simon. Charlotte kept a neutral expression; if she didn’t know better, she would have thought Helene had a crush on him.

  “Well, I’d like to see your work some time,” she said. A photographer. Perhaps that would explain his almost compulsive picture-taking at Olivia’s house?

  Helene pointed to the shelf under the large coffee table. “You have, actually. There’s his big book, right there.” Charlotte drew it out, and was stunned. He was Simon Norwich? She’d admired this book during many of Ellis’ lessons and visits with Helene, and said so. She opened the cover and read Simon’s inscription: “For Helene—your example of the beauty of the essential is with me wherever I go. Warmest regards, Simon.”

  “So you’re that guy,” Charlotte smiled. “Given all the places you’ve gone to and photographed, I’m surprised you’d want another year here in the boring Midwest.”

  “Oh, it’s not bad, you know. It’s comfortable, and makes a nice base of operations. Cheaper than home, too, and know the language and all. Or enough of it,” he laughed, and Charlotte thought his baritone was in scale with his physique. “Sometimes—sometimes it’s good to just do some art for art’s sake and not have to worry about basic survival and money, weather, shelter, military coups, epidemics,” he made a wide gesture with his hands that encompassed all the world’s many ills. “The older I get, the more I appreciate home comforts.”

  Helene sighed. “Is anyplace really safe? Poor Olivia.”

  They returned to the present problem. Charlotte replaced the book under the table and poured more tea for everyone.

  Simon helped himself to another palmier, holding the dessert plate close to his chin to catch any crumbs of pastry.

  “Poor dead guy is the other possibility,” he mumbled, then swallowed and licked his lips.

  Helene shook her head in exasperation. “I told her that baseball bat was ridiculous! Who did she think she was going to scare? She’s had it by the front door for years.”

  Charlotte tried to imagine the scenario, and came to a realization.

  “It had to have been someone she knew and let in, even invited. That was no break-in. Why would she take a bat to someone she let in herself?”

  “Or maybe he found the key under the mat and thought she wasn’t there?” said Simon. He turned to Helene. “Maybe she was getting an appraisal and was insulted by the offer?”

  “Not impossible,” said Helene. “I think she’s had appraisals before, and she was interested in talking to the fellow who has been in the news for the past week, the one who found the Seamus O’Dair book. It’s not unlikely that she had something along those lines and thought she could get a good price.”

  “That still blows my mind,” said Charlotte, shaking her head. “Least Objects isn’t on your typical high school or even college sophomore reading list, and, well, I’m sure I’m being a real snob here, but if Bosley Warren is anything like how he looks on TV or that billboard he has up, he would have Cliff-noted his way through every English lit class. Would he have even known it was a rare book? But of course it might just be an act.”

  Simon was shaking his head. “He wouldn’t have had to know anything about literature if he kept up with the trade news. Not long ago someone donated a Samuel Beckett novel to a charity fundraiser in England, and it brought something like 12,000 pounds—made headlines. If you follow auction reports, which I’m sure Warren Brothers would do, it’s a matter of keeping an eye out for what
’s hot.” He seemed to smile to himself as he looked straight at Charlotte. “It’s a university town, so it’s not impossible someone had a first edition of it.”

  Charlotte found herself drawn in to share in his speculation. “Maybe they knew Olivia from appraising her pottery vases, then remembered seeing a lot of old books in the house, too?”

  The three of them sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the possibilities.

  “Whatever it was,” said Simon, “it went pear-shaped.”

  Well, Charlotte thought, there’s a phrase you don’t hear every day on this side of “the pond.” She spoke to Helene.

  “I think you said Olivia has a son?”

  “Yes,” said Helene, nodding. “Donovan. I haven’t seen him in years. He would be a few years older than you, about fifty-five, fifty-six, I think. Olivia didn’t talk much about Donnie. There was a rift many years ago and they just kept their distance. She could get hold of him, I think, and every so often he’d check in with her, especially after Ronson died. As you saw yourself, she isn’t easy to get along with. But she seemed to be mellowing these past two years. She really seemed to want to connect again, at least with me.” Helene let out a deep, regretful sigh.

  Charlotte looked around the room, the uncluttered elegance of a few loved things brought together with good comfortable