“Where shall I start?” asked Alisa.
Macy directed her to the cabinet beneath the window. “Start on the left and move to the right.”
Alisa slipped on a pair of latex gloves before opening the first set of double doors.
“There’s a lot of stuff stored in here,” said Alisa. She had a little poke around. “Thankfully, it looks like it’s well organized.”
Macy knelt down next to her. “This might be his archive.”
“He’s written twenty-six books. This is probably only a fraction of his work. I hope the rest wasn’t in the house.”
“I know it sounds daunting but I’d like you to go through what’s here. We’re looking for any recent correspondence, journal entries etc. I’ll start on his desk.”
Macy pulled the chair back from the desk and got down on her hands and knees. She swept a flashlight across the bare wooden floor, but there was nothing more exciting than a paper clip. She checked the chair. It was an expensive model with multiple levers. A few long gray hairs were embedded in the fabric of the headrest and dust clung to a strip of sticky residue on one of the armrests. She swiveled the chair around and wheeled it into the light streaming through the window. There was a dark patch on the seat. She bent over and sniffed, recoiling at the smell of urine. Peter Granger was in his late fifties. That was a little young to be incontinent, but Macy guessed anything was possible. She studied the sticky residue on the arm of the chair. There was a sliver of what looked like packing tape. The chair looked new. It could have been from the packaging. She’d have Ryan take a closer look.
The desktop was bare aside from a stainless-steel lamp, wireless keyboard and twenty-four-inch screen. Macy switched on the lamp before stooping down so she was eye level with the polished metal surface. It appeared to be completely free of marks.
“Alisa, do we know if Peter has his office cleaned?”
“Someone would have come in today, but it was cancelled.”
Macy checked the trash can. It was empty.
“I wonder if Peter Granger always keeps his office this tidy. There’s not so much as a fingerprint on this desk.”
The central desk drawer contained three identical pens, a book of stamps, a small stack of Peter’s business cards, and other miscellaneous items, all arranged so they sat in their individual compartments. She found a roll of packing tape, envelopes, printer paper, and several blank notebooks in another drawer. The two file drawers were more chaotic. Macy flipped through the tabs, finding everything from contracts to correspondence with publishers to royalty statements. There was a letter dated three weeks earlier inside a file containing Granger’s rental agreement for the Bridger Cultural Center. A handful of tenants and some of their clients had threatened to make an official complaint against Peter Granger, saying he’d been verbally abusive on a number of occasions. Macy wrote down the names of the people who’d signed the letter, recognizing a couple of them from a list of tenants she’d seen on the center’s Web site. A second letter was from the center’s management, thanking Peter Granger for a generous donation that he’d made following the complaint. They’d sought to reassure him that he was a valued addition to Bolton’s cultural scene.
As Macy was setting a thick folder labeled WRITER’S WORKSHOP on the desk, a slim notebook fell onto the floor. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. The cover had a brown circular stain that could have been from the bottom of a coffee cup and the pages were stiff. Macy pried the notebook open. In places the ink bled across the pages, making it too blurry to read. On other pages the quality of the penmanship was as varied as the pen. Everything else in Peter’s desk was well organized so Macy assumed the notebook must have belonged to one of his students. Aside from rough sketches of everything from a dog to a bearded man there were bits of poetry, shopping lists, and fragmented lines of hastily written text that Macy had trouble reading. The corner of one of the pages was folded back. A circle had been drawn around the text with a highlighter. In the margins someone had written in a very clear hand—Read this one at the poetry slam! Macy skimmed through the short poem before putting the notebook to one side.
A class register listed all the writers who’d attended Granger’s Tuesday evening sessions since they’d started. He held approximately ten workshops a quarter, which extended into the summer months. Macy flipped through four years of lists, noting that at times the names varied more than others. Some attendees’ names stood out as they were enrolled in the group for two or three years. Other students had been crossed off the lists after one quarter, never to reappear. Pippa Lomax had lasted an entire year. Macy flipped through the file but could find no other mention of her name.
Macy was a little surprised that all of Peter’s students seemed to be female and wondered if that was significant. She glanced over to see how Alisa was getting on with the storage cabinets. Alisa was gingerly removing the files and placing them on the cabinet top as if they were holy relics. It was clear that she worshipped Peter Granger. Macy took the book Alisa had bought from her bag and flipped it open to a page that was marked with a receipt from the Country Bookshelf. The hard- cover doorstop had set the Montana Department of Justice back $22.
“Alisa,” said Macy. “In your opinion, is Peter Granger’s fan base male or female?”
“Definitely female. I don’t think guys get him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, for starters, the women he portrays are often the characters that drive the narrative. They’re never secondary to men. He’s also not afraid to make his male characters vulnerable. I guess it’s refreshing coming from a male writer of his caliber.”
“You seem to have a bit of a crush on him.”
“Only a mild one. I’m not that far gone.”
“Do you think he inspired that kind of reaction from a lot of women?”
“I’ve gone to a few of his author events here in Bolton. He has a huge number of female fans who hang on his every word.”
“I had no idea he had so much charisma.”
“A talk he did a few years back is posted online. It’s hard not to be impressed with how well he connects with the audience. I’ll send you the link.”
“That would be helpful.”
“Did you find something interesting in the desk?” asked Alisa.
“Class lists from his writing workshop. All his students appear to be female. Have you ever been to something like that?”
“No, but I once read an article in the local arts magazine. If you wanted to get in you had to know your shit. I can’t imagine he needed the money.”
“His P.A. hinted at money troubles.”
Alisa raised an eyebrow. “He’s a bestselling author.”
“Times are tough all over. His last three books didn’t do very well.”
“Might explain why he’s been so standoffish in the press.”
“Ryan said something about that. Care to elaborate?”
“He claimed he’d been misquoted too many times for him to trust the newspapers so he quit doing interviews.”
“What kinds of things did he supposedly say?”
Alisa shrugged. “Apparently, he could come off as a bit of an elitist. He was always refusing to do any interviews with publications he didn’t deem worthy.”
“Not exactly on a charm offensive then. Did this happen recently?”
“I think so, but I’d have to check to be sure. It would be such a shame if it’s really him in that house.”
“Every hour that passes without hearing from him makes it more likely.”
Alisa opened the next set of cabinets. “Detective Greeley, I’m still not sure I understand what I’m supposed to be looking for. This is mostly notes on manuscripts, early drafts, and folders containing research.”
“I’m not entirely sure either. I’m hoping we’ll know it when we see it.”
Alisa held up a sheaf of papers bound with thick green rubber bands. “These are the copyedited notes fr
om one of his bestsellers. I’m surprised he doesn’t have this locked up in a vault.” She flipped through the pages. “Do you have any idea how much this would be worth online? Take a look at these notes. He was so meticulous.”
Macy studied the manuscript Alisa was holding. The rubber band was the same color green she’d seen on Cornelia’s copy of Peter Granger’s most recent and yet unpublished novel. The sheaf of papers was a few inches thick. Macy went over to where Alisa was sitting on the floor for a closer look. She recognized Cornelia Hart’s handwriting immediately.
“This isn’t Peter Granger’s handwriting,” said Macy. “Cornelia Hart made these notations. Are there any more manuscripts in there?”
Alisa pulled out a few more edited manuscripts and placed them on the floor. Macy and Alisa checked them over a few times to be sure.
“It looks like Cornelia Hart has been editing his manuscripts for the past ten years,” said Alisa.
“Would you say that it’s a little unusual for an author’s personal assistant to give such detailed feedback on their work? Isn’t that the publisher’s job?” Macy took a moment to read through some of the notes. “This isn’t just fixing a few typos. It looks like she’s suggesting whole new plotlines.”
Alisa read through some of the notations on the manuscript she’d pulled out first. “I’ve read this novel a couple of times so I know it pretty well. It would be interesting to see how many of her suggestions made it to the final draft.”
“Have a look but don’t get too caught up in it. I don’t know what their working relationship was like. It might be that these suggestions actually evolved from conversations she was having with Peter. They may not all be her ideas.”
There was a light knock and the door swung open. A tall man with gaunt features stepped into the room. The glare from the overhead lights bounced off his bald head.
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I heard people talking and I thought it might be Peter. So much for wishful thinking.”
Macy pulled out her badge and introduced herself and Alisa. “How do you know Peter Granger?”
The man wasn’t intimidated by the fact that they were police officers. He closed the door behind him and studied the stacks of Peter’s edited manuscripts on the floor.
“I have an office two doors down. Peter and I are friends, or rather were friends. I keep hoping this is all a horrible mistake.”
Macy took up her pen. “We’re hoping to have some clarification later this afternoon. Could I have your name, please?”
He frowned. “Richard Nichols. As I said, I have an office down the hall.”
“Mrs. Holland mentioned your name when I spoke to her yesterday. I understand you’re a writer as well?” said Macy.
Richard pulled out a couple business cards and handed them to Alisa and Macy. Macy found herself looking down the barrel of a gun. The words LOCKED AND LOADED and AMAZON BEST-SELLING AUTHOR were emblazoned across the stark image. Macy flipped it over and studied the contact details. She’d never heard of Richard Nichols.
Alisa piped up. “Cool card. How many books have you written?”
“I’m working on my fourth. If you’re interested you can download an e-book. Ninety-nine cents a title at the moment. You should check it out.”
Macy tapped Richard’s business card on the table. She didn’t know anything about Richard or his relationship with Peter Granger, but it did strike her as callous that he was trying to make a sale while standing in the office of a man who may have been murdered. She’d read somewhere that authors were supposed to be more empathetic than the average person. She placed Richard’s business card on the desk, gun barrel up.
“I’m not familiar with your name,” said Macy.
“I’m self-published, strictly e-books.”
“How well did you know Peter?”
“I’d stop by and we’d talk shop sometimes. Quite a thing to have someone of his reputation a few doors away.”
Alisa’s fingers had been flying over the keys on her phone since he’d introduced himself. “From what I can tell from your Web site, Peter Granger’s novels are very different from yours. I’ve read many of his interviews. He was very negative about genre fiction, crime in particular,” said Alisa. “Did that cause any friction between the two of you?”
Richard stiffened. “I’ll admit we didn’t always see eye to eye, but during a particularly heated discussion he admitted his last three books were commercial disasters. A couple of weeks later he told me he’d decided to give self-publishing a try.”
“In a way that would make sense. He already has the name recognition,” said Alisa.
“That’s where we parted ways again. He would only use a pen name. I told him it wouldn’t work but he was insistent.”
“Why did you think it wouldn’t work?” asked Macy.
“He’d decided to write a crime novel.”
“That’s crazy,” said Alisa. “He wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t stoop to writing a crime novel? Is that what you were about to say?” asked Richard.
Macy cut in. “I’m trying to solve a real crime here so I really don’t care what sort of fiction we’re talking about. I just want to know what he was up to over the past few months.”
“To tell you the truth I think he was doing a great deal of soul searching. He knew I was right about using his real name but he still insisted on anonymity.”
“And what’s to say he couldn’t create a bestseller under a new name?” asked Macy. “He’s clearly a gifted writer.”
“Self-publishing is a crowded market so you’ve got to hustle for every sale. There’s a great deal of self-promotion on social media. Peter finds the commercial side of writing distasteful. With that attitude I really didn’t see how he’d manage but he wouldn’t listen. He insisted the story was all that mattered and he had a good one.”
“Did he elaborate?” asked Macy.
“No, but I imagine you’ll find something here in his papers. I know he’s been working on it.”
“Did you ever socialize outside these offices?”
Richard walked over to the framed pencil sketch and stared at it.
“Peter was a bit of a snob. If he was afraid to let the world know he was writing a crime novel he certainly wasn’t going to admit to knowing a crime writer,” he said.
“That must have hurt.”
“Not as much as you think. I’ve read a couple of Peter’s books. I was bored senseless. As far as I could tell his characters were all navel-gazing narcissists.”
“Did you ever tell him that?”
“That’s not the type of thing you say to Peter Granger’s face.”
“Did he ever criticize your work?”
Richard almost laughed. “Peter never read my books but that didn’t stop him from being critical. He dismissed anything that was mass-market as rubbish.”
“And yet he was trying his hand at a crime novel,” said Alisa. “He’d have been worried that the truth might come out.”
“He actually swore me to secrecy, which is crazy. If anyone leaked that he was the author he would have gotten loads of free publicity. For a man who was supposedly so worldly he was incredibly naive.”
“Can you tell me anything about Peter Granger’s work habits?” asked Macy. “Did you ever witness anything that caused you concern?”
“Aside from me and the writing workshop students, Peter had very few visitors.” He spread his arms. “This was his sanctuary. He had difficulty focusing on his work if there were any distractions, hence the almost bare white walls. When he was here he worked.”
“It reminds me of a monk’s cell,” said Macy.
“That’s exactly what Granger was going for,” said Alisa. “He wrote his first book in a cell he rented from monks in some northern Italian village. It was a silent order. All he had was a desk and a small window looking out over a lake. It was so cold he had to wear gloves.”
Richard smiled. “I’ve been to that same mo
nastery. They now have Wi-Fi, espresso makers in the rooms, and central heating, but thankfully the view hasn’t changed.”
“What about his students? Did you ever see them hanging around the office?” asked Macy.
“Yes, there were always a half-dozen young women waiting outside his door on Tuesday evenings.”
“Always women?”
Richard nodded. “Without exception. Given feminist bloggers have recently outed him as an overrated white male writer who’d had far too many privileges, he was surprisingly supportive of female authors.”
“Were there any students who may have been closer to him than others?”
“Perhaps. To tell you the truth they all looked the same in my eyes—young, keen, and a little too highly strung. I’m not sure I’d be able to pick any of them out if I saw them on the street.”
Macy handed Richard her business card. “I may contact you with further questions.”
Richard turned the card over in his hands. As he read Macy’s name he smiled. “Of course, Detective Greeley, anytime.”
* * *
Macy put the file she’d been reading to one side.
“I don’t know if this was a waste of time or not,” said Macy. “Granger’s laptop was probably destroyed in the fire. Without it we’re going to be in the dark until the tech guys track down his recent activity online.”
“I hope he was backing up his recent work on a remote server,” said Alisa. “It would be a shame if it was lost.”
“Cornelia Hart should know. I’ve given her details to the team in Helena. I’m sure they’ve been in touch.”
“The tech guys should also be able to access his e-mails.”
“Cornelia Hart hinted at money problems. If his last three books were flops he may have been getting desperate.”
“You think this could have been an insurance job?” asked Alisa.
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