“Hmmm,” Declan said. “Well there’s no gettin’ around the fact that somebody knew—or made a lucky guess—that she had it. They found out where she lived—easy enough to do; nowadays you can Google anybody—and they waited till she left and went in. My money’s on this lad Van Vleck.”
“And someone really rich is behind it,” I said. “You’re sure about that.”
“Oh, yeah. Dead sure. Guys like Van Vleck don’t work for the love of it.”
“Well,” I said, a little nervously, “Finny’s son Tad’s got reams of dough. And he’s getting kind of suspicious. So is Sylvia’s boss, Amanda. But at this point they’re just confused. They have a hunch there’s some kind of valuable book floating around but they don’t really know what it is. Or where.”
“How’d they get to talking?” Declan asked. “Assuming they are.”
I nodded. “Amanda got a call from a woman named Paola Moretti. At least we think it was Paola Moretti who called. Amanda didn’t identify the person by name, but it has to have been her.”
“How did she know about it, this Moretti dame?” Declan asked.
“She’s at the Met, the medieval part of it, The Cloisters.”
“I’m familiar with The Cloisters, Anz—”
“Sorry.” I sometimes forget that he went to Northeastern, and lived in a dorm near the Museum of Fine Arts. I forget how he loved walking over there and drifting through the galleries on Monday nights, when admission was free.
“Paola was one of the curators that Sylvia and Finny wrote to, just before Finny died. By the time she wrote back, Finny had passed away, and Tad, being the executor, got the letter. He told her that the whole book collection had gone to the Athenaeum, and that if she wanted more information, she’d have to be in touch with Amanda.”
Declan nodded and finished off his beer. I pointed to the empty bottle. Another? He shook his head.
“Amanda went through the list of all the books in the Winslow Collection and didn’t find anything like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I said, “Sylvia didn’t log it in. She’d promised Finny that’d she’d keep trying to authenticate it, or at least trace the provenance. She knew he wouldn’t have wanted the book at the Athenaeum.”
Dec shot me a puzzled glance. “No? It’s a library.”
I shrugged. “I guess he had something nobler in mind. Like giving it back to the people it was taken from.”
“Right,” said Dec. “And this Amanda called—what’s his name? Thad?”
“Tad. Who’s a jerk. He’s only gotten interested because he smells money.”
We sat for a couple of moments without speaking. Declan glanced at his watch, and I guessed he might be wondering whether he’d get home in time to see Nell and Delia before they fell asleep. Just then, as though sibling rivalry had registered in his dreams, Henry appeared sleepily in the kitchen doorway.
“Hi, Daddy,” he said, half awake. He padded over and crawled into Declan’s lap.
“Hey, pal,” Declan said, smoothing down a cowlick in Henry’s sandy brown hair. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard you,” Henry said.
“Sorry about that.”
I was touched by the lovely ordinariness of this moment, the kind of intimate scene that happened almost never in our lives. But I wasn’t going to let myself go all mushy.
“Daddy,” Henry said, barely able to keep his eyes open. “Can you come to the wedding of Q and U?”
Declan shot me a glance that said, Huh?
I smiled and nodded, which I knew Declan would take to mean, I’ll tell you later.
“Sure, buddy,” Declan answered quietly. With any luck, Henry would fall right back to sleep and Dec could carry him back to bed.
“Everybody’s a letter,” Henry mumbled.
“Yeah?” Declan said softly.
“I’m h,” said Henry. “I have to make a costume.”
Costume? I thought. Shit.
Chapter Fourteen
I WAS GLAD I had chosen the Cicero pamphlets to work on first. I get a certain satisfaction out of doing really simple jobs perfectly: folding towels and sheets so that their corners are exact, straightening up the linen closet so it looks like a page out of Martha Stewart Living. Don’t get me wrong, though: these are small, serene pockets of order in a vast sea of comfortable chaos. I like that our home feels lived-in.
The Essays I could rebind simply and almost perfectly. There was nothing remotely complicated about the job. Modest and quiet among the flashier and more exciting titles, they were the literary equivalents of well-worn linen dish towels, ironed into tidy rectangles and tied with a grosgrain ribbon.
Bookbinders sharing a bindery sometimes converse throughout the day, but Chandler didn’t encourage chitchat, and that was putting it mildly. Every so often he’d look up from his drafting table, only to discover to his renewed discontent that I was still sitting there, working away on my stool at the tall central table. Today, Sylvia was spending as much time in her office as she was downstairs with the two of us, so if it hadn’t been for the companionship of WBUR, Boston University’s public radio station, I would have had a long and silent morning. I wouldn’t have dared to turn on the radio myself, but Chandler had it on when I arrived.
As I cut, glued, and sewed, Tom Ashbrook interviewed a handful of doctors, some military and some civilian, about the medical and emotional care of returning soldiers. Veterans called in to the program, telling heartbreaking tales of their thwarted efforts to reenter the flow of normal life: to get treatment, claim benefits, find a job. On Point was followed by news at noon: embassy bombings, flood relief efforts following Typhoon Fengshen, and a doping scandal involving cyclists in the Tour de France. This afternoon, Fresh Air was going to be rebroadcasting an old interview Terry Gross had done with the film director Anthony Minghella, whose recent death had stunned and saddened the film community. I hoped to be able to listen to that, but I wasn’t in control of the dial.
Sylvia popped her head in at about twelve thirty to see if I wanted anything out in the world: she was going to DeLuca’s to pick up a sandwich. I had packed my lunch this morning when I packed Henry’s, and while I wasn’t overly excited about PB&J on whole wheat, a peach YoBaby, and a Granny Smith apple, I couldn’t let myself get into the habit of spending eight or ten dollars a day on lunch.
I followed Sylvia into the hall. “Can I use your office?” I whispered. “I’m going to try to reach Monsignor Dolan.”
“Sure,” she said. “Just dial nine, then the number.”
This morning, before she’d brought me downstairs to the bindery, we’d spent close to an hour talking in her office. I’d brought her up to date on Declan’s progress.
“So he’s not going to the police?” she’d asked me anxiously. “I mean, he’s not going to file an official report?”
“Not yet. He hasn’t spoken to anyone but this guy Scully, and as long as he’s making progress, he won’t.”
Sylvia glanced out the window and nodded, trying to take everything in.
“He wanted me to ask you something, though.”
She looked over.
I knew that the questions I was about to put to her would bring Sylvia up short, but if she balked, I was just going to have to remind her that Declan was doing us the favor. He didn’t have to be helping us, at some real risk to himself professionally, but he was.
“What’s Sam’s background?” I asked.
Her features arranged themselves into a puzzled frown. “He doesn’t think Sam’s involved, does he? Because there’s no way. Not in a million years.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I said, trying to make light of the subject. I shared her opinion, but I’d learned to leave the detecting to Dec. “He’s just trying to get a feel for everybody. We’re throwing all these names at him and he’s still trying to figure out who’s who.”
This seemed to satisfy her.
“Is he married?�
� I asked. That wouldn’t tell me much, but I had to start somewhere.
“He was, but he got divorced a while ago.”
“Any kids?”
“One son, Ben. He’s twenty-two, twenty-three.”
“Is he in school?”
Sylvia shook her head. She smiled vaguely but didn’t offer any more information.
“What does he do?” I asked.
She seemed to hesitate. “Um, I’m not actually sure what he’s doing right now. I think he—has a job.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped, then let out a sigh and closed her eyes.
There was something she wasn’t telling me. I waited for her to go on. The silence grew heavier and more awkward as the seconds ticked by, but I wasn’t going to let her off the hook.
“Okay, he’s had a few problems,” she finally said, diplomatically.
“What kind of problems?” I asked.
“He’s a great kid,” she insisted. “Last time Sam told me about him, he was doing really well.”
She seemed reluctant to divulge any further details, and while I had to admire her loyalty, I found myself getting impatient. Loyalty to Finny had gotten her into this situation, and now I was in it with her. And so was Declan. If she wanted to find her missing manuscript, she was going to have to be just a little less loyal.
“Sylvia,” I started in. The tone of my voice must have tipped her off to my growing irritation because she opened right up.
“All right, all right. Ben got into drugs,” she responded. “They sent him away to boarding school while they were going through the divorce. They thought it would be easier on him not to be around while the settlement was being worked out, but, well, he fell in with kind of a fast crowd and he got hooked on coke.”
“Just coke?” I asked. “Or other things.”
She shrugged. “I don’t really know. All I know is that he’s been in and out of rehab for five or six years. Sam’s been through hell with him. He even got Ben a job here, but it didn’t work out. He only lasted a couple of weeks.”
“What did he do here?”
“Oh, nothing too taxing. Worked in the mail room, did some painting, errands, odd jobs. Then one day he just didn’t show up. He was back on the streets. Sam didn’t hear from him for almost a month.”
“How sad,” I said.
She nodded. “And Sam’s such a sweetheart. If there’s anybody who doesn’t deserve it—”
“No parent deserves it,” I said.
I didn’t want to ask the next question, but if I didn’t, I’d only have to come back and ask it later, after I reported back to Dec.
“Does Sam have a key to your apartment?”
“No,” she said.
“You never left a key with him? Or left your keys at his place long enough for—”
“Someone to make a copy?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I can’t think of when I would have.”
This felt a little spongy to me, like maybe she wasn’t telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But I couldn’t be sure. Dec would have to take it from here.
“Is he from a wealthy family?” Given what I suspected he made professionally, not to mention the cost of residential rehab programs, he wouldn’t have much extra cash floating around unless he’d inherited it or gotten a big chunk some other way.
“Who? Sam? No.”
“Well, you mentioned boarding school.”
“Sam’s father taught in the English department at St. Paul’s. In fact, I think he was the head of the department. There’s a room named after him in the school library. That’s where they sent Ben.”
“So they probably didn’t have to pay too much, given the grandfather.”
“Probably not,” Sylvia said.
“What about his ex-wife?” I asked. I suspected it was rare for men to get rich in a divorce settlement, but I supposed it could happen.
“She moved to Vermont,” Sylvia answered. “She lives in a commune.”
I didn’t know there were communes anymore. I thought they fell out of fashion around the time granola became available at every Store 24.
“She fell in love with a guy,” Sylvia continued.
Ah, I thought, the beginning, or the end, of many a good story.
Monsignor Dolan was “unavailable.”
“May I ask who’s calling?” said his secretary in a terse, impatient tone.
“Anza O’Malley,” I replied.
After a minute, I heard an annoyed little grunt. My name alone had not answered her question, but it would be all Monsignor Dolan would need to hear. Besides, what was I supposed to add? Any mention of ghosts would immediately brand me as a nutcase. I could see Miss Katy Gibbs crumpling up the little pink While You Were Out slip and tossing it into the wastebasket as soon as she hung up. Should I say I was an old friend? That could raise an eyebrow or two, which, given the assistant’s prissy attitude, might be kind of fun. Or I could say I was someone from his past.
“May I inquire what this is in reference to?” she went on coolly. Inquire. That said it all.
“Oh, he’ll know,” I answered cheerfully, then started to feel a little mean. The poor woman probably just needed her lunch.
“We worked together a few years ago,” I said, “on the acquisition of the—where the Holy Family Center is now. That land.”
“Yes?” she said, waiting for me to go on.
“And I’d like to speak to him as soon as possible. Is he in the office?”
“He’s in meetings all day,” she answered briskly. She’d been dying to say it since the beginning of the conversation. “In fact,” she went on, “all week.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” I pressed. “I just have a quick question.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “The monsignor has a very full schedule. But if you’ll give me your contact information, we’ll have someone get back to you.”
I’d expected this, but it still annoyed me. “All right,” I said. “The name is Anza O’Malley.”
“I got that,” she snapped, as though I’d insulted her secretarial skills.
I took a deep breath. What was this woman’s problem? I gave her my cell phone number.
“Eight three five four?” she asked.
“Nine four,” I corrected her. “Eight three nine four.”
“Eight three nine four.”
“Right,” I said. “Thanks very much.”
“You’re wel—” She’d disconnected the call.
I hung up the receiver, and seconds later, the monks appeared before me.
“You were eavesdropping!” I said. The young monk glanced nervously at his superior, and I thought I detected the hint of a smile from the abbot. That would have been a first.
“My blessing upon you,” said the old ghost grandly.
It wasn’t exactly, Sorry I was so rude and obnoxious, but I supposed we were on the right path. Given that the abbot was thinking in Irish, though, the blessing was actually more like May the Blessed Virgin Mary, Holy Mother of God Almighty, sanctify the road beneath your feet and lead you to the seat nearest the fire.
“Thank you,” I said. “Now. Can we please start over?”
The abbot gave me a quizzical stare. He had so much hair! Eyebrows that curled up and around, a furry beard that seemed to start just under his hazel eyes, and I won’t even get into the spiky tendrils jutting out of his nose and ears.
“No more crashing around,” I said sternly. “No more breaking things. And most important, no more scaring Sylvia! I know you’re upset, and I don’t blame you, but all that does is make things worse.”
The abbot nodded almost imperceptibly.
“I’m trying to help, here,” I continued.
“For which we are most grateful,” said the young monk, glancing anxiously at his abbot, who remained impassive. The Irish was something like Your
bounty is as the plenty of the fish of the sea, but I got the general idea.
“Why don’t we sit down,” I suggested, trying to gauge just how friendly things were going to get. I had my answer when I saw the abbot pull himself up to a sterner and more erect posture. The young monk sucked in a deep breath, obviously fearing the worst.
“All right,” I said. “I get it. You don’t want to deal with me. That’s fine. I hope I’ll hear back from a friend of mine soon, and then maybe—”
“Who is he?” the abbot demanded.
“The person you called,” the young monk explained.
“He’s a monsignor,” I said proudly. “Monsignor Francis Xavier Dolan of the Diocese of Cleveland. We’re old friends.”
The abbot looked suspicious. He probably found it hard to believe that any legitimate member of the Church’s Royal Family would have much to do with the likes of me. Apart from forgiving my sins, that is, of which I’m sure he assumed I had many.
Well, I do. Who doesn’t?
Like the answer to a heavenly petition I hadn’t yet had time to compose, my cell phone rang.
So there, I thought, letting it ring a second time for effect. Ha!
“Anza!” came the voice of my old pal, the now-monsignor. “What a nice surprise!”
I activated the speakerphone and tried, but not too hard, to wipe the smug expression off my face.
“Father Fran,” I said warmly. People call him Monsignor Dolan now, but to me he’ll always be Father Fran. I’d tried to call him Monsignor once, just after he got the promotion, but he swatted that away like a pesky fly.
“How are you, dear?” he asked. “And how’s the young man? What is he now, three? Four?”
“Five,” I said. “We’re great. Really great. Anyway, I know you’re busy.”
“Not for you, my dear,” he said. “I’m never too busy for you. What’s on your mind?”
The Book of Illumination Page 13