Camino Island

by John Grisham

  and said, “Let’s go outside so we can smoke.” It was obvious that they had been smoking inside for years.

  They walked across a plank deck and settled around a pretty wrought-iron table next to a fountain where a pair of bronze frogs spewed water. Old sweet gum trees blanketed the courtyard with a thick layer of shade, and from somewhere a gentle breeze settled in. The door off the porch didn’t latch and the dogs came and went as they pleased.

  “This is lovely,” Mercer said as both hosts fired up cigarettes. Leigh’s was long and skinny. Myra’s was brown and potent.

  “Sorry about the smoke,” Myra said, “but we’re addicted, can’t stop. Once, long ago, we tried to quit, but those days are history. So much work, effort, misery, and finally we said to hell with it. Gotta die of something, you know.” She took a long pull from her cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, then washed it all down with a slug of homemade ale. “You want a drink? Come on, try it.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Leigh said.

  Mercer quickly sipped her wine and shook her head. “No thanks.”

  “This cottage, you say it’s been in the family?” Myra asked. “Been coming here for a long time?”

  “Yes, since I was a little girl. I spent the summers here with my grandmother Tessa.”

  “How sweet. I like that.” Another slurp of the ale. Myra’s head was peeled about an inch above her ears so that her gray hair flopped from side to side when she drank, smoked, and talked. She was completely gray and about Leigh’s age. Leigh, though, had long dark hair that was pulled back into a tight ponytail and showing no gray.

  Both seemed ready to pounce with questions, so Mercer took the offensive. “What brought you to Camino Island?”

  They looked at each other as if the story was long and complicated. Myra said, “We lived in the Fort Lauderdale area for many years and got tired of the traffic and crowds. The pace of life here is much slower. People are nicer. Real estate is cheaper. And you? Where’s home for you these days?”

  “I’ve been in Chapel Hill for the past three years, teaching. But now I’m sort of in transition.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Myra asked.

  “Means I’m basically homeless and unemployed and desperate to finish a book.”

  Leigh cackled and Myra guffawed as smoke streamed from their noses. “We’ve been there,” Myra said. “We met thirty years ago when neither one of us had two pennies to rub together. I was trying to write historical fiction and Leigh was trying to write that weird literary shit she’s still trying to write and nothing was selling. We were on welfare and food stamps and working for minimum wage, and, well, things were not looking too good. One day we were walking down a mall and saw a long line of people, all middle-aged women, waiting for something. Up ahead was a bookstore, one of those Walden bookshops used to be in every mall, and sitting at a table having a grand time was Roberta Doley, back then one of the bestselling romance gals in the business. I got in line—Leigh was too much of a snob—bought the book and we made each other read it. The story was about a pirate who roamed the Caribbean raiding ships and raising hell and running from the Brits, and it just so happened that everywhere he docked there was a gorgeous young virgin just waiting to be deflowered. Total crap. So we conjured up this story about a southern belle who couldn’t stay away from her slaves and got herself pregnant. We threw everything at it.”

  Leigh added, “Had to buy some dirty magazines, you know, for reference materials. A lot of that stuff we didn’t know about.”

  Myra laughed and continued. “We knocked it out in three months and I reluctantly sent it to my agent in New York. A week later she called and said some idiot was offering fifty grand as an advance. We published it under the name of Myra Leigh. Isn’t that clever? Within a year we had a pile of cash and never looked back.”

  “So you write together?” Mercer asked.

  “She writes it,” Leigh said quickly, as if to distance herself. “We work on the story together, which takes about ten minutes, then she grinds it out. Or we used to.”

  “Leigh’s too much of a snob to touch it. She’ll damned sure touch the money, though.”

  “Now, Myra,” Leigh said with a smile.

  Myra sucked in a lungful and blew a cloud over her shoulder. “Those were the days. We cranked out a hundred books under a dozen names and couldn’t write ’em fast enough. The dirtier the better. You should try one. Pure filth.”

  “I can’t wait,” Mercer said.

  “Please don’t,” Leigh said. “You’re much too smart for it. I love your writing.”

  Mercer was touched and quietly said, “Thank you.”

  “Then we slowed down,” Myra continued. “We got sued twice by this crazy bitch up north who claimed we had stolen her stuff. Wasn’t true. Our crap was much better than her crap, but our lawyers got nervous and made us settle out of court. That led to a big fight with our publisher, then our agent, and the whole thing sort of knocked us off our stride. Somehow we got the reputation as thieves, or at least I did. Leigh did a good job of hiding behind me and dodging all the mud. Her literary reputation is still intact, such as it is.”

  “Now, Myra.”

  “So you stopped writing?” Mercer asked.

  “Let’s say I slowed down considerably. There’s money in the bank and some of the books are still selling.”

  “I still write, every day,” Leigh said. “My life would be empty if I didn’t write.”

  “And it would be a helluva lot emptier if I didn’t sell,” Myra snarled.

  “Now, Myra.”

  The pack’s largest dog, a forty-pound long-haired mutt, squatted close to the patio and dropped a pile. Myra saw it happen, said nothing, then covered the area with a cloud of smoke when the dog was finished.

  Mercer changed the subject with “Are there other writers on the island?”

  Leigh nodded with a smile and Myra said, “Oh, far too many.” She chugged the fruit jar and smacked her lips.

  “There’s Jay,” Leigh said. “Jay Arklerood.”

  It was becoming apparent that Leigh’s job was to merely suggest so that Myra could then narrate. She said, “You would start with him, wouldn’t you? He’s another literary snob who can’t sell and hates everybody who can. He’s also a poet. Do you like poetry, Mercer dear?”

  Her tone left no doubt that she had little use for poetry. Mercer said, “Don’t read much of it.”

  “Well, don’t read his, if you could even find it.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t heard of him.”

  “No one has. He sells less than Leigh.”

  “Now, Myra.”

  “What about Andy Adam?” Mercer asked. “Doesn’t he live here?”

  “When he’s not in rehab,” Myra said. “He built a fine home down on the south end, then lost it in a divorce. He’s a mess but a really good writer. I adore his Captain Clyde series, some of the best crime fiction around. Even Leigh can stoop to enjoy it.”

  Leigh said, “A lovely man, when he’s sober, but a dreadful drunk. He still gets in fights.”

  Seamlessly taking the handoff, Myra jumped right back in with “Just last month he got in a fight at the saloon on Main Street. Some guy half his age beat the hell out of him and the police hauled him in. Bruce had to post his bond.”

  “Who’s Bruce?” Mercer asked quickly.

  Myra and Leigh sighed and took a sip, as if any discussion of Bruce might take hours. Leigh eventually said, “Bruce Cable, he owns the bookstore. You’ve never met him?”

  “Don’t think so. I can remember visiting the store a few times when I was a kid, but I can’t say that I met him.”

  Myra said, “When it comes to books and writers, everything revolves around the store. Thus, everything revolves around Bruce. He’s the Man.”

  “And this is a good thing?”

  “Oh, we adore Bruce. He has the greatest bookstore in the country and he loves writers. Years ago, before we moved here and back
when I was writing and publishing, he invited me to a book signing at his store. It’s a bit unusual for a serious bookstore to host a romance writer, but Bruce didn’t care. We had a helluva party, sold a bunch of books, got drunk on cheap champagne, and kept the store open until midnight. Hell, he even had a book signing for Leigh.”

  “Now, Myra.”

  “It’s true, and she sold fourteen books.”

  “Fifteen. My biggest signing ever.”

  “My record is five,” Mercer said. “And that was my first signing. Sold four at the next, then zero at the third. After that I called New York and canceled everything.”

  “Go, girl,” Myra said. “You quit?”

  “I did, and if I ever publish again I will not go on tour.”

  “Why didn’t you come here, to Bay Books?”

  “It was on the schedule, but I freaked out and pulled the plug.”

  “You should’ve started here. Bruce can always drum up a crowd. Hell, he calls us all the time, says there’s a writer coming in and we might really like his or her book. That means get our butts down to the store for the signing and buy the damned book! We never miss.”

  “And we have a lot of books, all signed by the authors and most unread,” Leigh added.

  “Have you been to the store?” Myra asked.

  “I stopped by on the way here. It’s lovely.”

  “It’s civilization, an oasis. Let’s meet there for lunch and I’ll introduce you to Bruce. You’ll like him and I can assure you he’ll fancy you. He loves all writers, but the young pretty females get special attention.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Oh yes. His wife is Noelle and she’s usually around. A real character.”

  “I like her,” Leigh said, almost defensively, as if most people felt otherwise.

  “What does she do?” Mercer asked as innocently as possible.

  “She sells French antiques, next door to the bookstore,” Myra said. “Who needs another drink?”

  Mercer and Leigh had hardly touched their drinks. Myra stomped away to refill her fruit jar. At least three dogs followed her. Leigh lit another cigarette and asked, “So tell me about your novel, your work in progress.”

  Mercer took a sip of warm Chablis and said, “I really can’t talk about it. It’s a little rule I have. I hate to hear writers talk about their work, don’t you?”

  “I suppose. I’d love to discuss my work but she won’t listen. It seems as though talking about your work would motivate you to actually write. Me, I’ve had writer’s block for the past eight years.” She chuckled and took a quick puff. “But then she’s not much help. I’m almost afraid to write because of her.”

  For a second Mercer felt sorry for her and was almost tempted to volunteer as her reader, but she quickly remembered her tortured prose. Myra stormed back with another quart, kicking at a dog as she sat down.

  She said, “And don’t forget the vampire girl. Amy what’s her name?”

  “Amy Slater,” Leigh said helpfully.

  “That’s her. Moved here about five years ago with her husband and some kids. Hit pay dirt with a series about vampires and ghosts and such junk, really awful stuff that sells like crazy. On my worst days, and believe me I’ve published some dreadful books that were supposed to be dreadful, I can outwrite her with one hand tied behind me.”

  “Now, Myra. Amy’s a lovely person.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Anybody else?” Mercer asked. So far every other writer had been trashed and Mercer was enjoying the carnage, which was not at all unusual when writers gathered over drinks and talked about each other.

  They thought for a second and worked their drinks. Myra said, “Got a bunch of the self-published crowd. They crank ’em out, post ’em online, call themselves writers. They print a few copies and hang around the bookstore, pestering Bruce to put ’em up front by the door and dropping in every other day to check on their royalties. A real pain in the ass. He’s got a table where he puts all the self-published stuff and he’s always wrangling with one or two of them over placement. With the Internet everybody is now a published author, you know?”

  “Oh, I know,” Mercer said. “When I was teaching, they would leave books and manuscripts on my front porch, usually with a long letter describing how wonderful their work was and how much they’d appreciate a blurb.”

  “So tell us about teaching,” Leigh said softly.

  “Oh, it’s much more fun to talk about writers.”

  “I got one,” Myra said. “Guy’s name is Bob but he uses the pen name of J. Andrew Cobb. We call him Bob Cobb. He spent six years in a federal pen for some type of bad corporate behavior and learned to write, sort of. He’s published four or five books about what he knows best—corporate espionage—and they’re fun to read. Not a bad writer.”

  “I thought he left,” Leigh said.

  “He keeps a condo down by the Ritz, and in the condo he’s always got some young girl he met on the beach. He’s pushing fifty, the girls are usually half that. He’s a charmer, though, and can tell great stories about prison. Careful when you’re on the beach. Bob Cobb is always on the prowl.”

  “I’ll write that down,” Mercer said with a smile.

  “Who else can we talk about?” Myra asked, chugging.

  “That’s enough for now,” Mercer said. “It will take some work to remember these.”

  “You’ll meet them soon enough. They’re in and out of the bookstore and Bruce is always having folks over for drinks and dinner.”

  Leigh smiled and set down her drink. “Let’s do it here, Myra. Let’s throw a dinner party and invite all of these wonderful people we’ve been trashing for the past hour. We haven’t hosted in some time and it’s always Bruce and Noelle. We need to officially welcome Mercer to the island. What do you say?”

  “Great idea. Lovely idea. I’ll get Dora to cater and we’ll get the house cleaned. How about it, Mercer?”

  Mercer shrugged and realized that it would be foolish to object. Leigh left to refresh her drink and fetch more wine. They spent the next hour talking about the party and haggling over the guest list. With the exception of Bruce Cable and Noelle Bonnet, every other potential invitee had baggage, and the more the better. It promised to be a memorable evening.

  It was dark when Mercer finally managed to get away. They practically demanded that she stay for dinner, but when Leigh let it slip that there was nothing in the fridge but leftovers, Mercer knew it was time to go. After three glasses of wine she was not ready to drive. She roamed downtown and drifted with the tourists along Main Street. She found a coffee shop still open and killed an hour at the bar with a latte and a glossy magazine promoting the island, primarily its real estate agents. Across the street the bookstore was busy, and she eventually walked over and stared at the handsome display window but did not go inside. She ventured down to the quiet harbor, where she sat on a bench and watched the sailboats rock gently on the water. Her ears were still ringing from the avalanche of gossip she had just absorbed, and she chuckled at the visual of Myra and Leigh getting drunk and blowing smoke and growing more excited about the dinner party.

  It was only her second night on the island, but she felt as though she was settling in. Drinks with Myra and Leigh would have that effect on any visitor. The hot weather and salty air helped ease the transition. And with no home to long for it was impossible to feel homesick. She had asked herself a hundred times what, exactly, she was doing there. The question was still around but it was slowly fading.

  3.

  High tide was at 3:21 a.m., and when it crested the loggerhead turtle slid onto the beach and paused in the sea foam to look around. She was three and a half feet long and weighed 350 pounds. She had been migrating at sea for over two years and was returning to a spot within fifty yards of where she had made her last nest. Slowly, she began to crawl, a slow, awkward, unnatural movement for her. As she labored along, pulling with her front flippers and pushing with
more power with her rear legs, she paused frequently to study the beach, to look for dry land and for danger, for a predator or any unusual movement. Seeing none, she inched ahead, leaving a distinctive trail in the sand, one that would soon be found by her allies. One hundred feet ashore, at the toe of a dune, she found her spot and began flinging away loose sand with her front flippers. Using her cupped rear flippers as shovels, she began forming the body pit, a round shallow burrow four inches deep. As she dug she rotated her body to even the indentation. For a creature of the water, it was tedious work and she paused often to rest. When the body pit was finished she began digging even deeper to construct the egg cavity, a teardrop-shaped chamber. She finished, rested some more, then slowly covered the egg cavity with the rear of her body and faced the dune. Three eggs dropped at the same time, each shell covered with mucus and too soft and flexible to break upon landing. More eggs followed, two and three at a time. While laying, she didn’t move, but appeared to be in a trance. At the same time she shed tears, excreting salt that had accumulated.

  Mercer saw the tracks from the sea and smiled. She carefully followed them until she saw the outline of the loggerhead near the dune. From experience, she knew that any noise or disturbance during nesting could cause the mother to abort and return to the water without covering her eggs. Mercer stopped and studied the