An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

conversation with Helene as soon as she could.

  “Okay, then,” she said, turning away from them in as much dismissal as she could muster. “Time to get on with it.”

  Mitchell and Donovan left shortly afterward, and Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief that they were gone, but remained thoroughly annoyed.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that Helene had students for most of the day, Charlotte would have walked straight to her condo and ask what was going on. It had been a long time since she was in the position of not being able to control her own work schedule. Her work with the magazines was always laid out months in advance, and there was plenty of support staff to provide research and proofreading on the rare occasions when a feature was scrapped at the last moment and needed replacing. Here she was tackling a project whose dimensions were unknown beyond the fact that there were nine or ten notebooks, and those notebooks were deliberately hidden in a house where it would be difficult even to find things that weren’t hidden, there was so much clutter. And on top of it all, she had a time-sensitive personal crisis that demanded her focus and attention. It just wasn’t fair!

  She looked at her watch. Helene had asked Charlotte to come by for tea when she was done teaching for the day, but that was three hours from now. Charlotte closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and envisioned the stress and tension leaving her body as she exhaled. No matter what Helene’s reasons were for locking in a deadline, the fact remained that the notebooks had to be found as quickly as possible. Without the distraction of Donovan and Mitchell, Charlotte could now focus on Olivia’s clue in the fourth notebook: In my new red robe at the Café de la Régence.

  As Helene explained, each clue or location was itself part of the next clue. The daffodils of the picture puzzle signified Narcissus, the mirror signified Through the Looking Glass (and not Alice in Wonderland). The chess board, therefore, signified something about the next clue, but Charlotte was drawing a blank. She cursed her lack of Internet access. It would have made things so much easier. There was the nearby public library, of course, or The Coffee Grove, which was a few blocks further.

  Olivia, however, did not need the Internet to weave her clues, and Charlotte wondered how future generations were going to manage if they couldn’t retain what they read on their own, or couldn’t be bothered to read and study in the first place because the great search engines were the ultimate cross-list of information of every kind. They did the thinking and remembering for you, or it certainly seemed like it.

  Café de la Régence suggested something French, something with food and drink—it was starting to come back to her now, the bits and pieces of her reading and education. The Café was the most famous coffeehouse in Paris for well over a hundred years. Writers, philosophers, artists, politicians, and scientists gathered at coffeehouses to discuss ideas and issues—and play billiards, cards, and chess.

  Charlotte had a general recollection of famous writers and philosophers of the time, but it was a wide time span. The “new red robe” tugged at her, but she couldn’t remember what it referred to, or who. But here she was, in Olivia’s house, and maybe it was time to simply look for, well, a new red robe, and not sweat the details?

  It took well over two hours of digging through closets and drawers in the bedroom, before she found a bright red flannel robe, the tags still attached, in a box of clothes in Olivia’s closet. The box was at the bottom of a stack of other boxes and bags of clothing, and looked as if it hadn’t been moved in decades. Charlotte went into a sneezing fit from the dust and the old woolen things she had moved aside. When it settled down, she lifted the robe and saw that it was folded around another notebook, a thick one this time. She carefully extracted it, returned the robe and other things to the box, the box to the closet, and the other bags and boxes on top of it.

  Charlotte had a great sense of satisfaction from having found another notebook on her own, without help from Helene, Simon, or the Internet. Of course, it took quite a bit longer, and quite a bit of physical work, as well, but she found it, didn’t she? Now it was time to see what the clue was for the sixth notebook: Elle et lui.

  Ohforgodsake, she thought. Sweating the details might be unavoidable.

   

  Charlotte could hear someone performing the Chopin Nocturne in F# minor as she went up the steps, her arms full of the six notebooks that had been found thus far. She checked her watch, and knew she wasn’t early. Perhaps it was Helene herself playing? But, no, Helene was standing behind the performer, a woman in her thirties who was wearing a well-cut gray suit that said lawyer. Helene glanced up and acknowledged Charlotte with a slight nod, and Charlotte quietly continued to the kitchen. The music was sweet and sad, and Charlotte recalled the days of taking Ellis to her lessons, when they would sit in awe while listening to the more advanced students.

  Then the pianist came to the dramatic Molto più lento, and her performance fell apart. Charlotte heard Helene giving suggestions and wrapping things up, then saying goodbye. She came into the kitchen and sighed.

  “That was Janet Thompkins, who works in my lawyer’s firm. She brought over some papers and then asked for some pointers. The firm has a public relations thing going on to show how their attorneys and staff are not just suits, but people with other accomplishments and interests. I think she would have made a fairly good performer at one time, but she went into law school and has never really practiced much since. Too bad. Or maybe not,” Helene shrugged. “Maybe she’s better off as a lawyer.”

  “It’s nice that she can still play at all, then.”

  Helene nodded in assent. “I know, I know, I am being a snob. So, how are things going today? It looks like you’ve made progress,” she nodded at the stack of notebooks on the table, and began to fill the electric kettle with water.

  “Yes, one more, but probably more from luck than understanding the clue.” She showed the clues in the fifth and sixth book to Helene, who laughed when she saw them.

  “Olivia is referencing the philosopher Denis Diderot, and perhaps you haven’t—”

  “Oh, I remember it now!” wailed Charlotte. “Rameau’s Nephew, right?”

  “Yes! Olivia and I were steeped in French philosophers as schoolgirls, and Diderot was a favorite of us both. The Café was one of his hangouts. The robe was the subject of one of his essays, how buying one new thing made all one’s other things look shabby, so you end up buying more new things to go with it and then go into debt.”

  “Sounds like modern life. But what about Elle et lui?”

  “Well, we know that Rameau’s Nephew is written as a dialogue between the narrator and another man, which in French is moi et lui, of course. But ‘she and he,’ I’m not so certain. The way these clues work, however, I would guess that it refers to another dialogue, this time between a man and a woman.”

  “That could be a lot of things, yet nothing in particular comes to mind for me, either. I’ll see what I can find online, but I don’t know when that will be. I have to stay at home tomorrow for Stanton’s first day, be there to answer questions and such, and I don’t have an Internet connection anymore.”

  Charlotte’s earlier annoyance at her friend had softened. She thought of ways to word her questions about Helene’s contract with Warren Brothers, buying time by getting out the tea cups, saucers, and lemon slices. Helene got the porcelain tea pot out of the cupboard and looked over her assortment of teas.

  “Russian Caravan?” she said, looking over her shoulder at Charlotte with a smile that didn’t quite hide the worry in her eyes.

  Charlotte knew then that Helene was perfectly aware of the problems she’d created. Her stash of Russian Caravan tea was imported at great expense and seldom brought out. She didn’t wait for Charlotte to reply but carefully made the pot of tea and set out, as well, a plate of small squares of pound cake and a dish of sour cherry preserves. Then she joined Charlotte at the table.

  “I assume that you know by now what I’ve gone and done without talking with you firs
t, and I’m so sorry.”

  By this point Charlotte was more curious than annoyed; Helene’s fundamental nature was neither impulsive nor thoughtless. “Apology accepted, Helene, no worries. I’m sure there’s a good reason for setting things up like this.”

  Helene shrugged as if doubtful. “I really don’t know, Charlotte.”

  “Tell me what happened this morning, and then I’ll fill you in about this afternoon.”

  “Donovan called last night and said he’d thought more on what I said about a sale after finding the notebooks, and wanted to come by this morning with a friend who could help us. I agreed, thinking that any help we can get to move things along would be good for everyone concerned. So he came by with this fellow, Mitchell, who was very charming and persuasive and the next thing I know I’m signing a contract. I did hesitate, but, Charlotte, there was something in Donovan’s eyes, almost a pleading look, if you know what I mean?”

  “You know Mitchell works for Warren Brothers, right?”

  Helene nodded. “Oh, yes, that was quite evident, right on the contract form. It’s for an estate auction, but they’re having it at their auction barn, not at the house, because the house is so small, there’s not enough parking, and there’s so much stuff, so many collectibles, that they think