by J. Paul Drew
“Or murder, usually.”
“The stupid bitch lost the manuscript!”
“What about Rebecca?”
“Poor Rebecca, who never did anything to anybody. Lovely, pretty, likable, popular, rich little Rebecca whose life was charmed. I didn’t have a damned thing against Rebecca.”
I remembered what I’d thought the night I heard the news report: Why destroy her face?
“But once I started shooting I couldn’t stop.”
I didn’t like the way the conversation was going. If earlier she’d been crying tears of remorse about Rick, she seemed to have put such wimpy emotions behind her. She was talking about killing as if she liked it.
“Goddammit, why couldn’t I have had even a little bit of what she had?”
“You know, Jenny,” said Sardis, “Paul’s an author too.”
“A journalist. They get paid regular salaries.”
“He only freelances for the Chronicle. For pennies. His real job is writing books. He knows what you’ve been through.”
“And Sardis is an artist,” I said. “That’s a tough life, too. We know what it’s like. Really.”
Jenny didn’t answer, and I can’t imagine what she’d have said if she had. We must have been a pathetic sight, two potential murder victims trying to save each other’s lives by convincing our captor we weren’t worth envying.
“How,” she said at last, “did you get the manuscript back from Kittrell?”
“The same way you got it from me.”
“But… authors don’t commit burglary.”
I shrugged.
“Wait a minute— did you take it from Beverly?”
“Of course not. Why would I have gone back to the scene of the crime?”
“You already had it, though. How the hell did you get it?”
“From a news source.”
“A news source! That thing’s worth a million dollars.”
“He’s a very principled burglar. Wanted it returned to the rightful owner.”
“The rightful owner’s dead. What were you going to do with it?”
“Edwin Lemon’s dead. As it happens, he stole it from a man named Clarence Jones. Who happens to be even poorer than you.”
Jenny didn’t say another word the rest of the way to Rockridge. I don’t think she could stand the idea of someone being more deprived than she was.
“Where’s the manuscript?”
Not “nice place” or anything. Just “Where’s the manuscript?”
“Under the cat.” Spot was on the table again, asleep on what would seem the most uncomfortable thing in the house. Jenny had the gun between two of Sardis’s ribs. The two of them walked like Siamese twins into the dining room, me a few steps ahead like a Moslem husband. I removed Spot, revealing Temby’s title.
“Platinum? What in God’s name are you trying to pull?” I thought it ironic that if Platinum really were in the box (and were still unpublished) it would be worth at least as much as Huck— maybe more. I said: “Be patient,” and took the lid off.
Jenny let out her breath in relief, but she was still suspicious. “What’s it doing in that box?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Tell it. And put the page back— the one you brought to the bookstore.”
I laid the page on top of the pile. “After I took the manuscript from Kittrell, Temby took it from me, but I got it back. That’s the short version.”
“You stole it from her?”
“She gave it back.” Though I tried not to, I sneaked a glance at Sardis and saw that she was smirking. I thought it was nice the gun in her ribs hadn’t hurt her sense of humor.
Disappointment flitted briefly on Jenny’s face, as she saw a possible market go down the drain.
“Listen to me. I’m not going to kill you unless I have to. There’s no reason to now. There was no point shooting Rick. I’d have been arrested almost immediately. My only chance was to try to kill him and make it look like an accident. After I knocked him off the ladder, I hit him with the gun a few times, but the store was open and I was afraid someone might come in. Usually we don’t have many customers that early, but I panicked and didn’t do the job right. I’m horribly afraid he’s going to live. Do you know what that means? As soon as he regains consciousness, he’s going to name his attacker.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sardis. “Why did you want to kill Rick?”
“Because of the newspaper story, you stupid bitch. He was going to read it and put two and two together. He knew I heard Rebecca Thaxton’s story when she came in the shop. Eventually, he was going to put that together with Beverly’s death. Now, listen to me— I’m trying to save your lives, do you understand?” Her voice was very shrill. More softly, she said, “My only chance is to get out of the country fast. It doesn’t matter that you can identify me, because Rick can too. So what I need now is time. All you have to do is cooperate, all right?” We both nodded. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but it didn’t matter— she was certainly going to kill us if we didn’t. “Paul, do you have an extension cord?”
“Several. In a drawer in the kitchen.”
“Let’s go get them.”
We did the diffident twin wives routine again, into the kitchen and back. Jenny said: “Sardis. Tie Paul to that chair. Use square knots, like you learned in Girl Scouts.”
Sardis’s first attempt was transparently halfhearted. Jenny made her do the job over, but Sardis wasn’t strong enough to get the wire tight enough to bite into my wrists and ankles. I still had a little slack. As she was putting on the finishing touches, Jenny bent down and raised her gun.
“Look out!” I called, but not fast enough. Jenny slugged her, then slugged her again. Sardis moaned and closed her eyes. Jenny put the gun on the table, and pulled Sardis’s body up into another of the dining-room chairs. Working quickly— hands shaking— she started to tie Sardis with the two remaining extension cords. Sardis’s head lolled and her mouth opened. Why the hell had she come to Debay’s store that morning anyway?
But I knew why; she was worried about me. I’d gotten her into this and, whatever Jenny said, we had no assurance she wasn’t going to shoot us once she had us trussed like pigs. In frustration, I hit my chair against the table. The jolt knocked over a glass of red wine— Sardis’s unfinished glass from the night before. A purple splat hit the manuscript.
Horrified, Jenny retrieved her gun with one hand, reached for the wine glass with the other. With one quick stroke, Sardis knocked the gun out of her hand, sending it flying toward the kitchen. Then she was out of the chair, both hands around Jenny’s waist, trying to get her down. I didn’t know if she’d really been out, or had been acting, but she’d gotten two nasty blows on the head and her strength probably wouldn’t last long.
She fell over backward, pulling Jenny down on top of her. On the floor, near the two writhing bodies, I saw the knife and fork Spot had knocked off the night before, along with the matches. I’d forgotten them when Sardis came in. Could I somehow use the fork as a weapon? I had a better idea. With my head, I knocked the manuscript box onto the floor, the momentum taking me with it. I was lying on my right side— and hurting from neck to knees. Sardis and Jenny were rolling back toward the living room. I maneuvered myself to the matches, picked them up, dropped them, found them again. I opened the book, pulled one out, and tried to strike it. Damn! Forgot to turn the book over. My hands were shaking so much I dropped it again.
Jenny was on top of Sardis, but Sardis had a hank of her hair in each hand, pulling hard. Their fighting grunts sounded oddly masculine. I closed my eyes to concentrate better on the task at hand. I got the book, struck a match, and threw it at the box. It went out before it landed. I twisted a little closer and struck another match. I did it again, and again, and kept on doing it. Finally one landed inside the box, where it could catch the dry pages at the bottom of the pile. Mark Twain’s manuscript crackled and whooshed into flames.
Jenny tore herself from Sardis and ran for the fire. Simultaneously, Spot, cowering in a corner, was startled by the whoosh into a mad, aimless race on a collision course with Jenny. She tried to swerve, but he was moving too fast. She tripped and fell hard, her hair only inches from the flames. Sardis, kneeling for leverage, pushed the ugly, heavy coffee table on top of her and streaked into the dining room. Jenny started to wriggle out from under the table, and Spot, still under her, fought for his life, clawing at her belly and caterwauling.
Sardis whisked last night’s half-empty wine bottle from the table and brought it down with a nasty thunk on Jenny’s head. A purple geyser exploded from the open end, sending Rorschach splashes all over the walls. Jenny collapsed, a black bullet speeding finally out from under her towards safety under the bed. Sardis looked around wildly.
“By the kitchen door,” I shouted, but already she’d seen the gun and gone to retrieve it. Jenny still lay in a mangled heap.
“For God’s sake,” I shouted, “put out the fire.”
But there was no need. It was starting to die down of its own accord, having consumed every scrap of the manuscript. Wet pages and all. The floor would be scorched, but it wasn’t going to catch.
Jenny made no move to get up. She lay under the table and sobbed till the police came.
CHAPTER 22
I cooked for Sardis and pampered her for a few days while the headache went away— petted her, as Huck would say. She said she hadn’t been knocked out at all, just play-acting and waiting for an opportunity. As for Rick Debay, he had been hit repeatedly, but he spent only a few days in the hospital. Bludgeoning obviously wasn’t Jenny’s strong point.
Jenny had acted fast when the story ran— sent her children to their grandparents and made reservations on a flight to Mexico for that afternoon. If Sardis and I hadn’t turned up, she’d probably have gotten away. Her arrest rocked the literary world. Joey Bernstein and several magazines offered big bucks for my personal account of the adventure, but I didn’t have the heart for it. Also, I was feeling fat after Booker paid up— to make amends for getting mad at me, he even threw in an extra thousand dollars.
Sardis and I resolved our difficulties regarding Pamela Temby as well. Or maybe they resolved themselves as a result of our becoming comrades in arms. She’d waked up feeling depressed and mad at herself, and had taken her tea into the living room to brood. She’d seen me leave for my walk, seen Blick arrive, seen me return and spot him, seen him leave, seen me return and leave, and, in a flash of intuition, had guessed where I was going. She was terrified, and, thinking I was going to be killed, forgot about the fight. She threw on some clothes and drove to Debay’s, intending to call the cops if she saw me in there alone with him. But seeing nothing, she came in, walking into my confrontation with Jenny. And things worked out, in a curious way.
I’m still mad about letting Pamela Temby push my buttons, though. I think that’s what made it easy for Sardis to forgive me. There’s nothing like a little remorse to soften the other guy up. All that petting I did while I was nursing her back to health probably didn’t hurt, either. I was with her day and night for a while there, going out only for groceries and one other errand— to get a key to my apartment made for her. Solemnly, she presented me with one to her apartment. Or semi-solemnly, anyway. She said, “With or without this key, I thee bed.” I couldn’t tell if it was a commitment or some kind of joke.
A few days after Jenny’s arrest, when I felt I could handle it, I called Veerelle Lemon and told her I was sorry about her son.
She said, “I’ve known for a long time he was dead.” Her voice said she’d never really accepted it.
“Mrs. Lemon, do you know a man named Clarence Jones?”
“Clarence? Known him since he was born. His mama kept that family together through some of the worst times you ever saw. His daddy worked over at the college a while, but I don’t b’leeve he drew a sober breath the last thirty years of his life.”
“What kind of man is Clarence?”
“Decent boy. Real decent. Never got too much education, so he kind of has trouble staying in work, but it’s not because he doesn’t try hard. Nice wife and two kids. Churchgoing family too.”
“Do you know if his great-grandfather ever worked for Mark Twain?”
“I never heard that one.”
“If Clarence said it, would you be inclined to believe it?”
“I’ve never known him to lie.”
“Did he know your son Edwin?”
“Oh, my Lord, I think I see what you’re gettin’ at— Edwin took the manuscript from him! That’s how he got it in the first place.”
“Well, he might have, but I don’t know if we’ll ever be sure. Did he know Edwin?”
“Why yes, his family knew my family.”
“Do you know anyone who might have known Clarence’s great-grandfather?”
“You could ask the pastor over at Clarence’s church. He’d probably know. And I’m sure he’ll vouch for Clarence as well. But can I ask you something? Why are you askin’? I thought that manuscript burned up.”
“Well, I was hired to find the rightful owner and I’m still working on it. That’s all.”
I rounded up a few old-timers who remembered Clarence’s great-grandfather’s tales about Mr. Mark Twain and then I tried to check his employment through Linda McCormick, but she couldn’t find any record of it. Everyone I talked to in Tupelo vouched for Clarence’s good character, so I decided to go with oral tradition.
I phoned Russell Kittrell. “This is Paul Mcdonald.”
“A.k.a. Joe Harper. I saw you getting interviewed on the news.”
“Good. Then you know I’m a reporter.”
“Only too well.”
“I need to talk to you.”
He sighed. “I guess you better come over.”
An invitation to the inner sanctum— his estimation of me must have risen. It was pleasant sitting in that room with the Renoir, sipping Kittrell’s excellent wine and committing blackmail. “You know I could be very dangerous to you.”
“Are you going to be?”
“I’ve already done a little homework. I know which bank you ‘own,’ as I think you put it. The story’d make a very nice follow-up to this whole Huck Finn thing. You’re a prominent man— I could see it on page one.”
“Somehow I get the idea you aren’t quite committed to it.”
“I think there might be mitigating circumstances. On the face of it, one would think only a criminal or a sociopath would do what you did. But we’ve all done things we regret; maybe you’re basically a decent person who doesn’t deserve to be ruined for one mistake. I was hoping you’d let me in on another side of your character.”
“Actually, I have a very generous side. I often like to give grants to struggling artists, musicians”— he waved a hand expansively— “even authors.”
“Large grants?”
“Oh, fairly large.”
“I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of $750,000.”
His aristocratic eyebrows shot up. “Were you now?”
“It’s less than you would have paid for the manuscript— that is, if you’d been an honest man— and seems quite a bargain when you consider it allows you to keep your reputation, the remainder of your fortune, and your bank free of a nasty investigation.”
“It’s only your word against mine, you know.”
“Nonsense. ‘Sarah Williams’ at that point was Jenny Swensen. She might be in jail but she can still talk. She’d be only too happy to tell the world how you stiffed her. It would make you look small, Kittrell. Petty and mean. The very things I’m asking you to prove you’re not.”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“Done.” I handed him a piece of paper. “Send a cashier’s check for that amount to Clarence Jones at this address. Have it there in a week or the story runs.”
“Wait a minute. Who the hell is Clarence Jones?”
“A very d
eserving person, actually. He’s a Mark Twain scholar who’s conducted a number of interviews with people who knew Clemens intimately. On your tax return you could just say he’s the sole grantee of the Russell Kittrell Foundation for Oral History.”
“Surely you’re not serious.”
“I’d send that check Express Mail if I were you. If it’s not there a week from today, you’re front-page news.”
Next I made a call to Tupelo. “Hello, Clarence? Paul Mcdonald. I guess you heard about the manuscript burning up and everything.”
“Hey, Paul! I saw you on TV— tol’ all my friends, ‘I know that guy’.”
“Well, listen, I’m sorry I couldn’t save the book for you, but there’s some insurance money coming to you.”
“Insurance? You mean that thing was insured?”
“In a manner of speaking. You ought to be getting a check within the week.”
“Hoo boy, insurance money! You know, I still haven’t found a job. Say, how much is it, anyway?”
“Well, I think it’ll tide you over awhile.”
“Oh, come on, how much?”
“Remember I said the manuscript might be worth more than a hundred thousand dollars? Well, I think the insurance will come to at least that.”
“No!”
“I’m pretty sure of it.”
“A hundred thousand dollars! Sara Sue— hey, Sara Sue, you hear that?”
He forgot I was on the line, but I heard from him again three days later. “Paul? Is that you? This is Clarence here.”
“Oh, hi, Clarence. Did your check come?”
“It shore did. I couldn’t b’leeve it. Why didn’t you tell me it was gon’ be so much money?”
“I wanted you to be surprised.”
“Well, I shore was. Two hundred and fifty big ones! Who’da ever thought Clarence and Sara Sue Jones were gon’ be so rich?”
“How much did you say?”
“You know how much. You knew all the time. Two hundred and fifty smackeroonies! Woooooeeeeee!”
“Congratulations, Clarence. Don’t spend it all in one place.”