The Architecture of Snow

by David Morrell

  “Wait a second,” a marketer asked. “How old is he?”

  “In his early eighties,” I answered.

  “Maybe he can barely talk. Maybe he’d be useless on the Today show.”

  “That’s one of a lot of things you need to find out,” the CEO told me. “Track him down. Find out if he wrote this manuscript. Our parent company wants a twenty-percent increase in profits. We won’t do that by promoting authors who sell only fifty thousand hardbacks. We need a million seller. I’m meeting the Gladstone executives on Monday. They want to know what progress we’re making. It would be fabulous if I could tell them we have Wentworth.”

  I tried to telephone Wentworth’s agent to see if she had contact information. But it turned out that his agent had died twelve years earlier and that no arrangements were made for anyone else to represent Wentworth, who wasn’t expected to publish again. I called Vermont’s telephone directory assistance and learned that Wentworth didn’t have a listed phone number. The Author’s Guild couldn’t help, either.

  My CEO walked in. “What did he tell you? Does he admit he’s the author?”

  “I haven’t been able to ask him. I can’t find a way to contact him.”

  “This is too important. Go up to Vermont. Knock on his door. Keep knocking until he answers.”

  I checked Google Maps and located Tipton in the southern part of Vermont. A Google search revealed that few people lived there. It was hard to reach by plane or train, so the next morning, I rented a car and drove six hours north through Connecticut and Massachusetts.

  In mid-October, Vermont’s maple-tree-covered hills had glorious colors, although I was too preoccupied to give them full attention. With difficulty-because a crossroads wasn’t clearly marked-I reached Tipton (population 5,073) only after dark and checked into one of its few motels without getting a look at the town.

  At eight the next morning, I stepped from my room and breathed cool, clean air. Rustic buildings lined the main street, mostly white clapboards with high-pitched roofs. A church steeple towered above a square. Calm. Clean. Quiet. Ordered. The contrast with Manhattan was dramatic.

  Down the street, a sign read MEG’S PANTRY. As I passed an antique store, I had the palpable sense of former years. I imagined that, except for satellite dishes and SUVs, Tipton looked the same now as it had a hundred years earlier, perhaps even two hundred years earlier. A plaque confirmed my suspicion: JEREMIAH TIPTON CONSTRUCTED THIS BUILDING IN 1792.

  When I opened the door, the smell of coffee, pancakes, eggs, bacon, and hash browns overwhelmed me. A dozen ruddy-faced patrons looked up from their breakfasts. My pale cheeks made me self-conscious, as did my slacks and sports coat. Amid jeans and checkered wool shirts, I obviously wasn’t a local. Not that I sensed hostility. A town that earned its income from tourists tolerated strangers.

  As they resumed their murmured conversations, I sat at the counter. A gray-haired woman with spectacles came over, gave me a menu, and pulled a notepad from an apron.

  “What’s the special?” I asked.

  “Corned beef and eggs.”

  I didn’t have an appetite, but I knew I couldn’t establish rapport if my bill wasn’t high enough for the waitress to expect a good tip. “I’ll take it.”

  “Coffee?”

  “You bet. Regular. And orange juice.”

  When she brought the food, I said, “Town’s kind of quiet.”

  “Gets busy on the weekends. Especially now that the leaves are in color.”

  When she brought the check, I said, “I’m told there’s a writer who lives in the neighborhood. R. J. Wentworth.”

  Everyone looked at me.

  “Wentworth? I don’t think I ever heard of him,” the waitress said. “Mind you, I’m not a reader.”

  “You’d love his books.” The obvious response to a statement like that is, “Really? What are they about?” But all I received was a guarded look. “Keep the change,” I said.

  Subtlety not having worked, I went outside and noticed a little more activity on the street. Some of it wasn’t reassuring. A rumpled guy in ragged clothes came out of an alley. He had the vacant look of a druggy.

  Other movement caught my attention. A slender man wearing a cap and a windbreaker reached a bookstore across the street, unlocked its door, and went in. When I crossed to it, I saw that most of the volumes in the window had lush covers depicting covered bridges, autumn foliage, or snow-covered slopes, with titles related to Vermont’s history and beauty. But one volume, small and plain, was a history of Tipton. I tried the door and found it was locked.

  Through the window, I saw the slender man take off his windbreaker. His cap was already off, revealing thin hair. He turned toward the rattling doorknob and shook his head, motioning courteously for me to leave. When I pretended to be confused, he walked over and unlocked the door.

  “I’m not open yet. Can you come back in an hour?”

  “Sure. I want to buy that book in the window-the history of Tipton.”

  That caught his attention. “You’ve got excellent taste. Come in.”

  An overhead bell rang when he opened the door wider. The store was filled with pleasant mustiness. He tugged a pen from his shirt pocket.

  “I’ll autograph the book for you.”

  “You’re the author?”

  “Guilty.”

  I looked at the cover. Tales of Historic Tipton by Jonathan Wade. “I’m from New York. An editor for March amp; Sons. It’s always a pleasure to meet an author.”

  “You’re here to see the colors?”

  “A little pleasure with business.” I paid for the book.

  “Business?”

  “An author lives around here.”

  “Oh?”

  “R. J. Wentworth.”

  “Oh?”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “Couldn’t you just write him a letter?”

  “I don’t have his address.”

  “I see.” Wade pointed at the book in my hands. “And you thought perhaps the address is in there?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “You won’t find it. Still want to buy the book?”

  “Absolutely. I love history, and when I meet an author, I’m always curious to see how he writes.”

  “Not with the brilliance of R. J. Wentworth, I regret to say. We used to get people asking about him all the time. Thirty years ago, my father had a thriving business, selling Wentworth’s books to people who asked about him. In fact, without Wentworth, my father wouldn’t have made a living. Nor would anybody else in town, for that matter. Tipton would have dried up if not for the tourists Wentworth attracted.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “His fans got old, I guess, and people don’t read much these days.”

  “So a waitress across the street told me.”

  “This town owes him a lot, even if he didn’t mean to do us a favor. In these parts, if you’re not born here, you’re always an outsider. But after more than forty years of living here, he’s definitely one of us. You won’t find anybody who’ll tell you where he is. I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes if I violated his privacy.”

  “In the eyes?” I asked, feeling a chill. “You mean you’ve spoken with him?”

  “Despite Bob’s reputation for being a hermit, he isn’t anti-social.”

  “‘Bob’?” I asked in greater amazement. The familiarity sounded almost profane.

  “His first name is Robert, after all. He insists on being called Bob. He comes into town on occasion. Buys books. Eats at the Pantry. Gets a haircut. Watches a baseball game at the tavern down the street.”

  I continued to be astounded.

  “Not often and certainly never on a weekend during peak tourist season,” Wade continued. “He picks times when he knows he can move around without being bothered.”

  “Even at his age?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “But what’s he like?”


  “Polite. Considerate. He doesn’t make assumptions about himself. What I mostly notice is how clear his eyes are. You’ve read his work?”

  “Many times.”

  “Then you know how much he’s influenced by Transcendental writers like Emerson and Thoreau. Calm. Still. Reflective. It’s soothing to be around him.”

  “But you won’t help me meet him?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Could you at least phone him and try to arrange a meeting?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Okay, I understand.”

  “I’m not sure you do. I literally can’t. Bob doesn’t have a telephone. And I’m not about to knock on his door. Why do you need to talk to him?”

  I told Wade about the manuscript. “I think it’s his work, but it doesn’t have his name on it.” I added the detail that I hoped would made Wade cooperate. “It was addressed to his editor. But unfortunately, his editor died recently. They were friends. I wonder if he’s been told.”

  “I only have your word that you’re an editor.”

  “Here’s my business card.”

  “Twenty years ago, a man showed me a business card, claiming he worked in the White House. He said the President wanted to give Bob an award, but he turned out to be an assistant to a Hollywood producer who wanted the movie rights for The Sand Castle.”

  “What harm would it do to put a note in his mailbox?”

  “I’ve never intruded on him. I’m not about to start now.”

  Outside, a pickup truck rattled past. A few more locals appeared on the sidewalk. Another rumpled guy came out of an alley. A half-block to my right, a Jeep was parked outside an office marked TIPTON REALTY. I walked over and pretended to admire a display of properties for sale: farms, cabins, and historic-looking homes.

  When I stepped inside, the hardwood floor creaked. The smell of furniture polish reminded me of my grandmother’s house.

  At an antique desk, an attractive red-haired woman looked up from a computer screen. “May I help you?” Her voice was pleasant.

  “I was wondering if you had a map of the roads around here. My Vermont map doesn’t provide much detail.”

  “Looking for property?”

  “Don’t know yet. As you can probably tell, I’m not from around here. But the scenery’s so magnificent, I thought I might drive around and see if anything appeals to me.”

  “A weekend place to live?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re from New York, right?”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “I meet a lot of people passing through. I’m a good judge of accents. New York’s a little far to have a weekend place here.”

  “I’m not sure it would be just for weekends. I’m a book editor. But I’ve given some thought to writing a novel.”

  This attracted her interest.

  “I hear the location has inspired other writers,” I said. “Doesn’t John Irving live in Vermont?”

  “And David Mamet and Grace Paley.”

  “And R. J. Wentworth,” I said. “Doesn’t he live around here?”

  Her expression became guarded.

  “Great writer,” I said.

  Her tone was now curt. “You’ll find maps on that table.”

  * * *

  As I walked to my car, I thought that the CIA or the mafia ought to send their recruits for training in Tipton. The townspeople knew how to keep secrets. I chose north, driving along brilliantly wooded back roads. The fragrance of the falling leaves was powerful, reminding me of my boyhood on Long Island, of helping my father rake the yard. He burned the leaves in a pit behind our house. He always let me strike the match. He died from a heart attack when I was twelve.

  I turned up a dirt road, passed a cabin, reached a wall of trees, and went back to the main road. Farther along, I turned up another dirt road, passed two cabins, reached a stream that blocked the road, and again went back.

  My search wasn’t as aimless as it seemed. After all, I knew what I was looking for: a high fence that enclosed a couple of acres. The female student who’d been fortunate enough to get an interview with Wentworth years earlier described the property. The high gate was almost indistinguishable from the fence, she wrote. The mailbox was embedded in the fence and had a hatch on the opposite side so that Wentworth didn’t need to leave the compound to get his mail. A sign warned NO SOLICITORS. NO TRESPASSING.

  But nothing in the north sector matched that description. Of course, the student’s interview was two decades old. Wentworth might have changed things since then, in which case I was wasting my time. How far away from town would he have wanted to live? I arbitrarily decided that fifteen miles was too far and switched my search to the side roads in the west. More farms and cabins, more falling leaves and wood smoke. By the time I finished the western sector and headed south, the afternoon light was fading.

  My cell phone rang.

  “Have you found him yet?” my boss demanded.

  The reception was so poor, I could barely hear him. When I explained the problems I was having, he interrupted. “Just get it done. If Wentworth wrote this book, remind him his last contract with March amp; Sons gives us the option on it. There’s no way I’m going to let anybody else publish it. Do you have the agreement with you?”

  “In my jacket.”

  “Make sure you get him to sign it.”

  “He’ll want to talk to an agent.”

  “You told me his agent’s dead. Anyway, why does he need an agent? Within reason, we’ll give him whatever he wants. ” The transmission crackled. “This’ll go a long way toward proving you’re a necessary part of the team.” The crackle worsened. “Don’t disappoint. . Call. . soon. . find. .”

  With renewed motivation, I searched the southern sector, not giving up until dark. In town, I refilled the gas tank, ready for an early start the next morning. Then I walked along the shadowy main street, noticing FOR SALE signs on a lot of doors. The financial troubles gave me an idea.

  Tipton Realty had its lights on. I knocked.

  “Come in,” a woman’s voice said.

  As I entered, I couldn’t help noticing my haggard reflection on the door’s window.

  Again the hardwood floor creaked.

  “Busy day?” The same woman sat at the desk. She was about 35. Her lush red hair hung past her shoulders. Her bright, green eyes were hard to look away from.

  “I saw a lot of beautiful country.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “Find. .?”

  “Bob Wentworth. Everybody in town knows you’re looking for him.”

  I glanced down. “I guess I’d make a poor spy. No, I didn’t find him.” I held out my hand. “Tom Neal.”

  She shook it. “Becky Shafer.”

  “I can’t get used to people calling him ‘Bob.’ I gather you’ve met him.”

  “Not as much as other people in Tipton. I’m new.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I came here only twelve years ago.”

  I chuckled.

  “I drove into town with my artist boyfriend,” she explained. “We loved the quiet and the scenery. We decided to stay. The boyfriend’s long gone. But I’m still a newcomer.”

  “Sorry about the boyfriend.” I noticed she didn’t wear a wedding ring.

  “No need to be sorry. He turned out to be a creep.”

  “A lot of that going around.” I thought of my CEO.

  She gave me a look that made me think she applied the word to me.

  “I do have an important reason to see him,” I said.

  After I told her about the manuscript, she thought a moment. “But why would he use a pseudonym?”

  “That’s one of many things I’d like to ask him.” Thinking of the FOR SALE signs, I took my chance to propose my idea. “To hear the old timers tell it, things got crazy here with so many fans wanting to talk to him. You can imagine the effect a new book would create. The publicity. The pent-up d
emand. This town would attract a lot of fans again. It would be like the excitement of thirty years ago.”

  I let the temptation sink in.

  Becky didn’t respond for several moments. Her gaze hardened. “So all I need to do is show you where Bob lives, and in exchange, next year I’ll have more business than I can handle?”

  “When you put it that way, I guess that’s right.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t realize it was so late.” She pulled her car keys from her purse. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to go home.”

  The weathered old Tipton Tavern was presumably the place Wade told me about, where Wentworth sometimes watched a baseball game. There was indeed a baseball game on the televison, but I was the main interest, patrons setting down their drinks and looking at me. As much as I could tell from recalling the photograph on Wentworth’s books (a lean-faced, dark-haired man with soulful eyes), he wasn’t in the room.

  Heading back to the motel, I didn’t go far before I heard wary footsteps behind me. A cold breeze made me shiver as I glanced back toward the shadowy street. The footsteps ended. I resumed walking and again heard the footsteps. My Manhattan instincts took charge. Not quite running, I passed my car and reached the motel. My cold hands fumbled with the room key.

  In the night, glass broke outside my room. I phoned the front desk, but no one answered. In the morning, not having slept well, I went out to my car and found the driver’s window shattered. A rock lay on the seat. The radio was gone.

  The surprised desk clerk told me, “The town constable runs the barbershop.”

  “Yes, we’ve been having incidents lately.” The heavyset barber/constable trimmed an elderly man’s spindly hair. “A bicycle was stolen. A cabin was broken into.”

  I took a close look at the man in the chair and decided he wasn’t Wentworth.

  “Town’s changing. Outsiders are hanging around,” the barber continued.

  I recalled the two druggies I’d seen emerge from an alley the previous day. “What are you going to do about it?”