An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

found the last one in the basement.”

  “Could be an allegory.” Simon went back to searching through right-sized books. “You know, good versus evil.”

  “Could be absolutely anything. The only thing consistent about Olivia is that everything she did, she did intentionally.”

   

  It had been three days since Charlotte was last in her Lake Parkerton house, and she went through the rooms feeling exposed, spread-eagle, like a specimen for dissection, on seeing every item she owned laid out to be sold.

  She felt as if she was walking in slow motion, out of time, almost disassociated. She was there to make sure there was nothing more she wanted to hold back from the sale, but the initial impact of seeing everything—literally everything—in the house laid out on tables, counters, and floors, seemed to shut down her thought processes.

  “Just take your time, Charlotte.” Martin Stanton came up next to her. “It hits a lot of folks like that.”

  She barely nodded, and continued in a blur. After a few minutes, a sort of rhythm set in, and the meaning of the things she was looking at finally made its way through her brain. Every so often something would trigger a memory, a flashback, and she would be stopped in her tracks.

  It wasn’t the most valuable or obvious things that would do it. There was, for instance, a bit of lace left over from trimming a pillow for Ellis’ first “big girl” bed, which took Charlotte back to the early summer day in the back yard of their house near the university, sitting on a glider on the little brick patio she and Jack had laid themselves, and Ellis romping on the fresh-mown grass with Lady, their Golden Retriever. Charlotte was hand-sewing the lace around a pretty pink pillow and noting the contrast between what Ellis wanted for her room and the grubby, grass-stained tyke running with the dog and playing in the sandbox. An ordinary day a dozen years in the past, yet like yesterday upon touching a bit of leftover lace.

  If someone were to ask how she felt about divesting herself of nearly all her possessions, she still would not know how to answer. At times it felt like self-amputation, or how she imagined it would feel. At other times it felt as straightforward as throwing out the trash or making a donation to charity. Mostly she felt in a daze, because it was all happening so quickly.

  Martin was learning against the rail of the deck, with his back to the lake, and sipping from a travel mug of coffee. Charlotte poured a cup for herself from the crew’s coffeemaker in the kitchen and joined him. He made light chit chat, recounting some lighter incidents of past estate sales, nothing too silly, just gentle talking that Charlotte found soothing and interesting enough to take her mind off of her moment of sadness. She was grateful that it was this kind and unpretentious man she was talking to, and not the aggressive and phony Bosley Warren.

  “What happens during the sale itself? I mean, what kind of people will come, are they dealers or homeowners or what?”

  “In general, it’s about fifty-fifty. Even individual buyers might turn around and sell what they’ve acquired to a dealer or another individual. You don’t have a lot of antiques, so you’re probably less likely to have dealers, but I could be wrong. If there’s a current demand trend for, say, contemporary kilim rugs, or mid-century furniture, your collection might draw dealers with interior design businesses. Since you’re selling the Hannah Verhagen painting, I know for a fact that there are going to be both dealers and collectors, along with decorators and higher-end homeowners. Quite possibly a few of your neighbors.”

  “When dealers buy things, does the stuff end up in their shops?”

  “In their shops, yes,” Martin nodded, “but sometimes they have a specific client in mind and they’ll just hold it back until they connect with the client, or the client commissions them to purchase specific items.”

  Charlotte wished she could have been there over the weekend to observe the process, but there was no doubt a good reason for owners to stay out of the way during the sale.

  “So,” said Martin. “How are you doing at the new place?”

  “Quite well, actually. Better than I expected. I love not having to take care of a large space with a lot of stuff in it, and I love being able to walk to just about every place I need to go.” She took another sip of coffee. “I’ve got a cat, too, by default.” She told him about Shamus.

  “I take it you’ve seen Helene, then? How is she doing? I heard about her sister. What a horrible thing for her.”

  They talked about Helene and Olivia, and Charlotte told Martin about the notebook project. “We came across Olivia’s first collection of poems, which was published in France.”

  Martin was impressed. “Some of those small-press first editions are real collector’s items, particularly if the author is well-known. Helene’s sister isn’t that well known, but maybe some other things they published were by writers who later became big names. Now those would be worth hundreds, maybe even thousands.”

  Charlotte was intrigued. She tried to recollect if there were any other books published by Sibylline Press in the box in the basement, and seemed to recall seeing several with the imprint’s gowned woman holding an open book on which rested a crystal ball. “There might be other books in there, I’d have to look.”

  “If you want, I can connect you to Aldo Madiveros, our rare book guy in Hyde Park—”

  “Yes!” Charlotte exclaimed. She suddenly had an idea, and a rare book expert would be most likely to help. “I’d like to talk to him as soon as possible, it’s in connection to some things related to the project.”

  Martin seemed pleasantly surprised. “I can do that right now.” He got his smart phone out and made the call. Charlotte wondered if Martin had the same sort of calling-in-favors network that Diane and Lola had. After a few moments of small talk and explaining about Charlotte, he handed the phone over to her. “All yours.”

  Aldo Madiveros had the voice of half a million cigarettes, but he was talkative, and, after Charlotte apologized for bothering him, he assured her that he loved talking shop more than anything.

  She began by explaining the nature of her call, referred to Bosley Warren and the auction sale of Least Objects, and then Madiveros interrupted her with enthusiasm.

  “I know all about that book! I verified it for the auction house!”

  “Well, then, you really are the person I want to talk to, Mr. Madiveros.” She went on to explain about discovering that the book had belonged to Olivia, and then who Olivia was.

  To her surprise, Madiveros said that “Olivia Bernadin” rang a bell. “She was one of the nouveau roman crowd, if I recollect. Let me see now,” he paused, and Charlotte could hear the tapping of a keyboard, then the rustle of papers. “Got it, a list of her published works, a spot of bio, not much. Presumed dead for decades.”

  “Um, I’m afraid she was alive and well until a couple of weeks ago.”

  “No!” he exclaimed. “You are kidding me, Ms. Anthony! Well, how about that. I’d love to know more, to fill in my files here.”

  “I’ll be happy to do so, Mr. Madiveros. I’m working on a manuscript she left behind, and I might find out more in the course of the project.”

  “This is so exciting!” he exclaimed again. “It’s like having another piece of the puzzle around Seamus O’Dair’s years in Paris, and all his associates.”

  “Actually,” said Charlotte, now ready to launch her main question, “I’m calling to ask you about O’Dair’s book, Least Objects. What would make a copy of it even more valuable than the one that sold a few weeks ago?”

  “Ahh,” Madiveros pondered for a moment. “Well, several things, the most obvious would be if it were O’Dair’s own copy, or one with his autograph in it, although I don’t think he ever autographed any of his books, made quite a point of it, actually.” Madiveros coughed, and Charlotte could hear him taking a drink of some kind. “Then there would be the first French edition, of course, but there were so few of those printed that only a handful are known of, most of them in and around Paris.”
<
br />   “So it was printed in France before it was printed here?” she asked.

  “Oh yes. O’Dair wrote the original version in French, you know, and it’s barely more than a novella. Une Mort non Perçus. Published by, let’s see now,” he paused, and Charlotte again heard the tapping of keys and the rustle of papers. “Sibylline Press. In fact, it was the final publication by that press, just a short run of one hundred. That was the book that made his international reputation. The American publisher had him write a new version in English, and that’s the one most of us know. He either wrote in English, or wrote in French, never translated from one or the other.”

  “When did Sibylline Press shut down, or when was it sold?”

  “Let’s see now,” and once again he paused as he looked it up. “Established by Anastasia Bernadin and Henriette Munier in 1930, then sold in 1952 to Beauregard Lamont. Insignificant publication history after it was sold until Une Mort non Perçus, and shut down for good in 1959.”

  The name Beauregard Lamont rang a bell. Wasn’t that the wealthy American for whom Olivia’s and Helene’s father worked? Perhaps Olivia appealed to him to buy the bookstore, so that Henriette could continue running it, and she, Olivia, could continue editing their publications?

  “Makes sense, you know,” said Madiveros. “Lamont held a majority share in one of the biggest publishing