me.
I got a cheese sandwich with bacon from Dave when I got back to the DQ and then went up with my gym bag and changed into clean clothes. There was no message on the machine. Too early. Fine.
I had Conrad Lonsberg to face. I grabbed the soggy box of manuscript and the bag of shredded story, and the cover pages of the three manuscripts Adele had destroyed, put the cover pages in a brown paper envelope, and drove a few blocks over to the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency. Fred, the older guy, was there alone opening the door.
“Done,” he said.
“Trading up,” I answered. “I need something that’ll get me to Vanaloosa, Georgia, just outside of Macon, and back without a problem.”
“Fly,” he suggested.
“I don’t fly,” I said. “I think I told you that.”
“Must have been Al you told. Okay,” he said. “We’ll see what we’ve got for the trip up south. I understand they have a restaurant in Macon, best fried chicken in the country. Can’t remember the name.”
“Maybe I’ll look for it,” I said.
I checked my watch. I was about half an hour from facing Conrad Lonsberg.
The ride to Casey Key in the black ‘96 Ford Taurus was fast. You would think the tourists would be out on weekends along with the full-time working residents of the Gulf Coast, but they didn’t seem to be, not this morning. The sky was slightly overcast but the weatherman on Channel 40 had promised there would be no significant rain. He had the Doppler to prove it, but not the confidence. Doppler and radar had been wrong too often in Florida.
If he were one hundred percent certain it would rain, he would give the rain chance at thirty percent. If he were one hundred percent sure it wouldn’t rain, he’d give the rain chance at thirty percent. If you were looking out your window and it was raining, he would say there was a fifty percent chance of rain.
It was cloudy. There was distant rumbling in the sky. No rain. Not yet. Maybe not at all.
I pulled up next to Lonsberg’s gate, got out of the car, brown paper envelope under my arm, and pushed the button.
“Who?” came the electric crackling voice of Conrad Lonsberg over the speaker.
“Fonesca,” I said, looking up at the camera.
“Wait,” he answered.
I waited. The sky was growing darker. I heard his footsteps and the panting of Jefferson on the other side of the gate after about two minutes and then the gate opened. Lonsberg was wearing a pair of taupe chinos today with a short-sleeved gray knit pullover.
Jefferson was wearing a look of eager suspicion.
Lonsberg nodded me in. Jefferson stalked toward me as Lonsberg closed and locked the heavy gate. Jefferson was close, looking up at me and making a sound in his throat I didn’t like.
“I think he’s considering tearing off my arm,” I said, looking down at the dog.
“Jefferson’s mostly show,” said Lonsberg flatly. “He knows how to bark like fury, growl like a bear, and show his teeth like a cheap textbook drawing of a saber-toothed tiger.”
“Admirable.”
“It’s his job. He won’t hurt you.”
We stood looking at each other for a few seconds. Then he said, “You have news.”
“I have news.”
“What kind?”
“Bad,” I said.
“Let’s walk on the beach.”
He turned his back on me and headed toward the water. I caught up with him and Jefferson trotted slightly and uncomfortably behind me.
’Tell it all. Tell it carefully but tell it quickly,” Lonsberg said.
“Adele’s destroyed three of the manuscripts. Burned one. Shredded one. Soaked the third in water till it can’t be read. She made sure to leave the cover pages of each one behind.”
I pulled them out. We were standing on the sand now, the Gulf water washing in, waves a few feet high, wind light to moderate as the TV weatherman said. I handed the envelope to Lonsberg, who opened it and pulled out the three single sheets.
“Meet the Charming Devil, Come Into My Parlor, Whispering Love,” he read from each sheet. “Not my best work. Not my worst. Come Into My Parlor is no loss. Meet the Charming Devil… I can’t even remember it. Whispering Love, not a bad novel, not a good one. I was going through
… through some problems when I wrote it. I wonder if she read them before she destroyed them?”
“I don’t know.”
“She tell you what she wants?” he asked as he motioned for Jefferson to run down the beach. Jefferson ran north along the beach. He seemed to have something in mind.
“No,” I said. “She said something about making you pay page by page. Said she would do it a little at a time and let me know.”
He nodded in understanding.
“So what are you doing?” he asked, looking down the beach at Jefferson who seemed to be trying to catch some gulls and having no luck.
“Waiting, trying to talk to her when she calls,” I said. “She wants to be caught. She wants to hurt you, taunt you, and be caught.”
“If you’re lucky, you’ll catch her and salvage some of my work before it’s all gone,” he said without emotion.
Jefferson was loping back toward us down the beach, something flopping in his mouth.
“Luck would be fine,” I said, “but I’m not counting on it. I know Adele. She’s smart, but she’s angry. And she’s traveling with a kid named Merrymen. You know him?”
“Merrymen,” Lonsberg repeated, leaning down to pick up the dead fish Jefferson had dropped at his feet. The fish had been dead at least two or three days. Crabs had gotten to it and it gave off the distinctive smell of death.
Lonsberg patted Jefferson on the head. The dog’s eyes closed in ecstasy. Lonsberg pointed south on the beach and Jefferson took off.
“Merrymen,” he repeated. “Young, lanky, decent-looking, quiet, didn’t seem bright enough for Adele. Met him twice when he picked her up. The first time he gave me an are-you-a-dirty-old-man look. The second time he just kept his head down, nodded, and got away as quickly as Adele was willing to leave. Jefferson took a definite liking to the kid. Jefferson’s not easy to please.”
Down the beach the big dog decided to plunge into the water where an incoming wave took him in the face. He weathered it and swam out in search of some treasure for Lonsberg.
“What else?” Lonsberg asked, looking at the dead fish.
“Bernard Corsello,” I said. “Mickey Merrymen’s grandfather. Someone shot him.”
“So, what have I to do with Hecuba or Hecuba to me that I should weep so for her?” he asked.
“Shakespeare,” I said. “Hamlet, I think.”
“I apologize,” said Lonsberg. “I was trying to keep you in place. I don’t know what place, but…”
“I read a lot,” I said. “I read and watch old movies. I like the way Shakespeare sounds.”
“My favorite is Titus Andronicus” said Lonsberg. “Murder, mutilation, racism, hubris, mistakes, lies, rape, cannibalism, madness, and a sense of humor. “None of which are really part of what I write. Which is your favorite?”
“Macbeth,” I said. “Nice and straightforward. But I’m more a Stephen King man myself.”
“Underrated,” Lonsberg said. “Overpaid.”
“Bernard Corsello,” I repeated as Jefferson bounded out of the water with a new treasure in his mouth. “Adele and Mickey Merrymen steal your manuscripts. They go to Mickey’s grandfather to hide while Adele destroys your manuscripts. Someone comes looking for them, tracks them to Corsello’s, kills the old man, doesn’t find Adele, Mickey, or the manuscripts.”
“You think I killed this Corsello?” Lonsberg asked with a smile as Jefferson ran up and dropped a large shell at
