It didn't take long. Within seconds she had her answer. She had to admit that she hadn't heard of any of the nominees. No, wait, Basil Rathbone-he was English, wasn't he? He played someone famous. Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes, she was pretty sure that was it. And Walter Brennan-he was in some show on Nick at Night; he played a farmer or something like that. And she also had to admit that William Miller wasn't among them. She tried looking at the nominees for 1939, then 1940, and then going back earlier, year by year, until 1930. She decided to stop searching then. Bill might have gotten the year wrong, at his age, but she doubted he'd miss the entire decade.
She wondered how much further she should pursue this. Decided-out of duty and curiosity-she had to keep going. After several false starts, she got to the site for IMDB.com-Internet movie data-base-and looked up the career of William Miller. It took her over an hour of staring at the screen and reading and scrutinizing photos and double-checking, then triple-checking, on other movie Web sites before she began to accept what she was seeing.
By the time she was done, she had a splitting headache and a steady wave of nausea flowing in the pit of her stomach. She practically fled the library, gasping in warm, fresh air once she made it to the sidewalk outside. Leaning up against a lamppost for support, she flicked open her cell phone, called Harlan's number at the Journal, told him she wasn't feeling well, wouldn't be coming in for the rest of the afternoon. He told her to go to the doctor, started to ask if there was anything he could do, but she just clicked the phone off and hugged the lamppost until she had the strength to walk.
When she got home, Susanna paced nervously around her living room, picking at her cuticles and tapping the fingers of her right hand against the knuckles of her left. Finally, she looked at the notes she'd jotted down from the conversation with Fred, the manager of the Home, saw the phone number she was looking for, picked up the phone and dialed it. After the fourth ring, she heard a man's voice on the answering machine, giving a bland outgoing message. After the tone, she took a deep breath-it was suddenly hard to talk-and then she said, "Hi… uh…Edward Marion? This is Susanna Morgan. I was a friend of your uncle's…uh… great-uncle's… and, um…well, I wrote his obit for our local paper and I'm very confused about a few things…I need to…well…know a few more things about Bill…I know this doesn't make any sense and I'm probably wrong…I've got to be wrong… but I really do need to talk to you." She left her phone number on the tape and then said, "Please call me." Then she hung up, took three aspirins, and, even though it was three o'clock in the afternoon, got into bed and pulled the covers up over her head. Edward Marion called back around six o'clock that evening. Susanna was still in bed, although she hadn't slept a wink, and the sudden noise of the phone made her shudder. When she answered it, her voice sounded thick to her, as if she'd been sedated.
"Ms. Morgan?"
"Yes."
#8220;This is Ed Marion. Bill Miller's nephew."
"Great-nephew."
"What?"
"You're his great-nephew."
"Yes. That's right."
There was an awkward pause. Now that she had to convey her news to another person, now that she had to say it out loud, Susanna didn't know how to begin.
"Listen," she said. "I'm very sorry about your loss."
"Thank you."
"I was pretty close to Bill, I used to-"
"I know. He talked about you all the time."
"I wrote his obituary for our local paper and I used a lot of information that your uncle had told me, you know, over the years."
"Great-uncle."
"What?"
"He was my great-uncle."
"Oh. Right."
"Ms. Morgan, I'm afraid Bill was a bit of a…how should I say this… fantasist."
"You mean he made things up?"
"I mean I think he probably believed them when he said them. And the more he said them, the more he believed them, if you know what I mean. I'm sorry if he told you things that weren't true. I hope it wasn't anything important. Or embarrassing."
"The thing is, Mr. Marion…"
"Call me Ed. Please."
"The thing is, Ed…Somebody called, some movie nut, and he was pretty angry-we don't get too many angry calls at the Journal- and he said that things I'd put in the obit weren't true. So I did some research."
"You did?"
"Yes."
"What kind of research?"
"I went on the Internet and checked out the things Bill told me about his career."
"You researched my uncle?"
"Yes. And it turns out, this guy, this movie nut, he was right. Well, not about everything. Some of the things Bill told me were true. Only they weren't really true. This is going to sound kind of crazy…"
"Ms. Morgan, may I make a suggestion?"
"Sure."
"Let me meet you for lunch tomorrow. I was going to call you anyway because my uncle left you something in his will."
"He did?"
"Yes. He was very fond of you. I've been wanting to meet you, so this is a good excuse. I can discuss the will with you-I think you'll be very pleased with what I've got to say-and you can tell me whatever it is you need to tell me."
"Well, yes, it might be better to do this in person. But, listen, I have to tell you, this is pretty disturbing."
"I can't imagine anything too disturbing about my uncle. He was such a sweet old guy. But let's talk about it at lunch."
"It's an awfully long drive for you, isn't it?"
"Three hours. And I don't mind. From what I've heard about you, it'll be well worth it."
She told him where to go, that she'd meet him at Sunset restaurant at twelve-thirty. He said he was looking forward to it. She didn't say anything.
She'd have more than enough to say over lunch, she decided. Susanna didn't fall asleep until one o'clock in the morning, which was incredibly late for her, two hours past her normal bedtime. And then she woke up one hour later. Two-oh-five to be exact, according to her new Bose clock radio.
At first she thought she'd awakened because she was hungry. She was so shaken by the experiences of the day she hadn't been able to eat dinner. She had heated up some soup, toyed with it with her spoon, then poured it right down the drain. She'd tried reading, couldn't concentrate. Tried watching TV, couldn't even do that. At nine-thirty she gave up and got into bed, tossing and turning until one. Now she was awake again, her stomach growling.
And then she realized that she wasn't awake because she was hungry.
She was awake because there was a noise at her front door.
A noise like someone fiddling with a lock.
And then there was a noise like someone turning a doorknob. And opening a door.
And coming inside.
There was somebody in her house.
All of a sudden, Susanna was having trouble swallowing. She felt her throat constricting at the same time a rush of bile shot up from her stomach, choking her. She closed her eyes and ordered herself to be calm. Willed herself to keep her eyes closed an extra second until her throat relaxed. She took a deep breath, it helped to clear her head, but right in the middle of that was when she heard the creak of a floorboard in her living room and Susanna jumped out of bed, flailing at the covers, stumbling for just a moment as her foot was still wrapped in the sheet, and she lunged for the door to her bedroom, threw her shoulder against it, and slammed it shut and locked it.
She stood still, one hand on the door, in total silence except for her own heavy, rhythmic breathing. After a few seconds, she began to feel silly. Maybe she'd been dreaming. Maybe everything that had happened that day was just ganging up on her to make her edgy and paranoid and-
And there was a scratching noise on the other side of the door.
There was no mistaking this one.
He was picking the lock.
She was in her nightgown and bare feet and she was pretty much frozen with terror, and her heart was pounding so loud she thought she might actually be having a heart attack and six inches away someone was picking the lock to her bedroom door.