An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

sleep didn’t return, the relaxation would still help her body recover and her mind process all the changes. So Charlotte adjusted the duvet, fluffed the pillows, and lay back down, looking at the ceiling, and gradually realized her mind’s eye was still seeing her house at Lake Parkerton, every room, every item, as if it was still the way it was, and she was still there.

  She saw her bedroom closet, felt the fabric of the clothes, the texture of sweaters, shoes, scarves. Memories of when she acquired each piece, where she wore them, why she bought them or why she stopped wearing them. Fleeting moments of guilt, of wishing she now had the money she had spent on them, and the time back, as well, that she had spent on shopping trips. Charlotte’s mind moved through the house, to Ellis’ room, remembering the teenage mess of clothes and schoolwork, of friends visiting. There was the first winter there, when Ellis had a bad case of flu and Charlotte stayed up all night in a rocking chair next to her bed, worried about pneumonia, relieved when her little girl pulled through. The hours and hours of listening to Ellis practice, of sitting quietly in an armchair in the corner while she had lessons with Helene, and the walks around the lake to Helene’s house and back.

  Ellis was the common thread through most of her memories, of shopping trips and day trips, of camping with the families of her friends, of worrying while watching her learn to sail, even on the placid waters of the lake. Was that only two summers ago? And was it only earlier this year that she played so well at the state competition? Charlotte had hung a series of photos along the wall above the dresser, and did not need to have the light on to know which one was which: pictures of Ellis, from her toddler days playing in the sand at Lake Michigan until her last state competition, in the midst of performing the lyrical solo cadenza from the Haydn Piano Concerto in D Major. It was not the most difficult of the works performed at the competition, but it was the perfect showcase for Ellis’ light touch, technical precision, and youthful exuberance. The expression on her face in that moment was almost as if she was singing the melodic line. Charlotte would never forget that night, when she knew in her bones that her daughter was going to enter a level, a world, which would take her far, far away. And it did, ever so quickly.

  A sudden crack of lightning and loud thunder startled Shamus, who jumped off the bed and ran, she assumed, to hide in the bathtub. It was now 6:11, and the wind and rain pelted against the windows. Sleep wasn’t going to happen.

  She put some coffee on to brew, opened the blinds, sat on the sofa, and from there she considered the apartment in the weird light of the stormy sky. She noted that the kilim rug looked so much nicer here than it did at the house. Here, it seemed larger, more significant. The slightly worn areas were as beautiful as the rest. It was the rug. Over in her closet, there was the pair of black jeans, the pair of blue jeans, the black skirt, the white shirt, and the gray sweater, whereas in her former closet they were each one of several, and the several amid many more. In the kitchen area, there were one set of white dishes, one set of glasses, one set of flatware, small sets, just enough, having left behind the bone china set for twelve, and various sets for holidays, picnics, and such. Same with everything else.

  It had only been a few days, but with each day of seeing only the things she loved most or most needed, other options never seemed to enter into consideration. An almost sacred relationship was emerging with the few things that she kept. In turn she found herself noticing excess wherever she went. How did this all start? Why did I buy so many things over the years, and why did it seem like such a good idea at the time?

  The shop downstairs was exactly the sort of place she used to go to, delighting in the shapes, the colors, the newness, and buying things to feel a part of them. The irony of living in reduced circumstances in the apartment above it was not lost on her. But this recent act of choosing to live with a few essential things made her feel more like she belonged to herself, that she was more clearly Charlotte, a Charlotte with a distinct point of view.

  She moved from the sofa to the kilim, and did some stretching exercises, leaning forward slowly to touch the toes on each outstretched leg, then laid flat on her back, palms down on the rug, absorbing the bumps of the weave, the tiny fibers that escaped the twist of the threads, a spot that was worn thinner than the rest. From the floor the ceiling seemed like the sky, even the tall windows seemed to stretch up forever, the whole space simultaneously calming and stimulating, an atelier of being alive, of intent.

  There was the word of the hour: intent. Charlotte got up and poured coffee into the big red mug, then took it over to lean against the back of the sofa and watch the rain. When she first met Olivia, the elderly woman’s intent seemed clear: to find all the notebooks, then turn them into something publishable. The past two weeks, however, revealed that there were actually layers of intent—not only to keep the notebooks hidden until such time as was suitable to reveal them, but also what was intended by the notebooks in the first place. Olivia may have been rash, but she was not stupid. Any chance at a brilliant writing career was not going to happen, that ship had sailed decades before. But she had a story she intended to tell, the other side of Least Objects.

  Likewise, she would not have contacted Warren Brothers without intent. She had long since acquired valuables that she would periodically sell off when she needed extra cash, like the loan for Donovan, and a trip to Yellowstone Park and the Grand Canyon. Later, during Ronson’s illness, this method paid for extra things for his care. It was a long-established pattern. If she sold something, it meant she had a specific intent for the money—and the most obvious reason immediately before her death was to pay for Charlotte’s help and any other expenses related to publishing her work.

  Olivia was as certain that she had a first edition of Least Objects as she was that she had “nine or ten” notebooks stashed away in various locations in the house. The question now, in Charlotte’s mind, was whether that first edition was the same one Donovan had given away—or if there was, incredibly, a second one. Since the parties looking for the second book were aware of the provenance of the first book, it increased the likelihood that there was, indeed, a second book. That book, however, was not on the shelves, in the boxes of books in the basement, propping up the bed, mixed in with cookbooks, or in any other place in Olivia’s house where books were found or likely to be.

  This meant that Olivia either: a) did not have a second book, b) hid the book somewhere, in the manner of her notebooks, or c) the book was not Least Objects, or did not look like Least Objects. Charlotte thought about how the other copy of the book did not look like a book, wrapped as it was in brown paper and painted to look like a building. Maybe there was another “building” made out of a wrapped book? But wouldn’t Donovan have already thought of that and looked in what was left of his model train accessories? What else could a book be made to look like, without damaging it?

  It could be made to look like some other book, just by changing the book jacket. Charlotte sighed. That would mean removing every similar-sized jacketed book in Olivia’s shelves and boxes, and uncovering it, or opening it to the title page—at least half the books in her collection would require checking, unless the missing tome turned up. Then she remembered the notebook hidden inside the large, broken copy of the Poussin book. Hidden that way, Least Objects would fit in an unabridged dictionary, for instance, or in Olivia’s copy of the Riverside Shakespeare, increasing the number of books to look through.

  Shamus jumped up onto the back of the sofa, and rubbed his head against her arm.

  “Hey there, kitty cat,” she said, giving him the long strokes from head to tail that he seemed to love. “I could use the help of a real shamus right about now. Are you any good at finding books?”

  He sat and looked up at her with a sleepy, contented cat-smile, but didn’t commit one way or the other.

   

  Simon joined her at Olivia’s house, to help out for an hour or so before heading to class.

  “It’s a reasonable theory,�
� he said, when she explained what she was trying to do. “But it might end up taking more time than we have.”

  Charlotte nodded, then grasped the shelf to balance herself. She had retrieved the step stool from the kitchen, and was standing on it to reach the top shelves. “That’s what I’m afraid of. But I’m also hoping that if I spend more time here, I might figure out where the last notebook is, too. Sort of by osmosis.”

  “What was that clue again?”

  “Snakes and Ladders.”

  “Right. The one you thought ought to be Chutes?” He began to tease her. “Is that what you called it, Chutes and Ladders?”

  “Yes, that’s what ‘we Americans’ call the game,” she retorted with mock patience.

  “Nonetheless, the clue is Snakes.” He stood back and began to scan all the shelves. “Have you seen a book about snakes, or reptiles, or serpents, or—”

  “Adam and Eve?” she interrupted. “Here’s a book on the history of religions.” She looked it over, but it wasn’t hiding either the notebook or Least Objects. “I don’t think the notebook is going to be on these shelves. The older notebooks were written before Olivia had these shelves put up. We