“All girls,” Bruce said.
“Yes, I rarely read books written by men.”
“Interesting, and smart, since about 70 percent of all novels are purchased by women.”
“And all three sell, right?” Noelle asked.
“Oh yes,” Bruce said. “They write great books that sell well.”
“Bingo,” said Mercer. “That’s the plan.”
Bruce looked at Myra and said, “Well, there you have it. A successful intervention.”
“Not so fast. What about murder mysteries?” Myra asked.
“Not really,” Mercer replied. “My brain doesn’t work like that. I’m not devious enough to drop off clues and pick them up later.”
“Suspense? Thrillers?”
“Not really. I can’t do intricate plots.”
“Spies, espionage?”
“I’m too much of a girl.”
“Horror?”
“Are you kidding? After dark I’m afraid of my shadow.”
“Romance?”
“Don’t know the subject matter.”
“Porn?”
“I’m still a virgin.”
Bruce added, “Porn doesn’t sell anymore. You can get all you want for free online.”
Myra exhaled dramatically and said, “Those were the days. Twenty years ago Leigh and I could make the pages sizzle. Science fiction? Fantasy?”
“Never touch the stuff.”
“Westerns?”
“I’m afraid of horses.”
“Political intrigue?”
“I’m afraid of politicians.”
“Well, that does it. Looks like you’re destined to write historical fiction about screwed-up families. Now get to work. We expect some progress from this point on.”
“I’ll start first thing in the morning,” Mercer said. “And thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Myra said. “And since we’re on the subject of interventions, has anyone seen Andy Adam? Reason I ask is that I bumped into his ex at the grocery store a few days ago and she seemed to think he’s not doing too well.”
“Let’s just say he’s not sober these days,” Bruce said.
“Anything we can do to help?”
“Nothing I can think of. Right now Andy is just a drunk, and until he decides to sober up he’ll be nothing more than a drunk. His publisher will probably turn down his latest, and that will mean more trouble. I’m worried about him.”
Mercer was watching Bruce’s wineglass. Several times Elaine had said he drank too much, but Mercer had not seen this. At Myra and Leigh’s dinner party, and now again tonight, he sipped his wine, was slow to refill, and was in perfect control.
With Andy out of the way, Myra led them through a recap of their other friends’ lives. Bob Cobb was on a sailboat down around Aruba. Jay Arklerood was in Canada spending some time isolated in a friend’s cabin. Amy Slater was busy with the kids, one of whom was playing T-ball. Bruce grew noticeably quiet. He was careful to absorb the gossip but not repeat any of it.
Noelle seemed excited to be leaving the Florida heat for a month. Provence was warm too, but not as humid, she explained. After dinner, she again asked Mercer to join her there, maybe not for a month, for perhaps a week or so. Mercer thanked her but said she needed to work on the novel. That, plus money was tight and she was saving for the writer’s table.
“It’s yours, dear,” Noelle said. “I’m saving it for you.”
Myra and Leigh left at nine and walked home. Mercer helped Bruce and Noelle in the kitchen and managed to say good-bye before ten. When she left, Bruce was sipping coffee in the den, his nose stuck in a book.
8.
Two days later, Mercer ventured downtown and had lunch at a small café with a shaded courtyard. Afterward, she strolled along Main Street and noticed that Noelle’s shop was closed. A handwritten sign on the door explained that the owner was in France shopping for antiques. The writer’s table was on full display in the front window, in an otherwise empty room. She went next door, said hello to Bruce, and walked upstairs to the café, where she ordered a latte and took it outside to the balcony overhanging Third Street. As expected, he soon joined her.
“What brings you downtown?” he asked.
“Boredom. Another unproductive day at the typewriter.”
“I thought Myra had cured your writer’s block.”
“Wish it could be that simple. Do you have a few minutes, to talk?”
Bruce smiled and said of course. He glanced around and noticed a couple at a nearby table, too close for a serious conversation. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said. She followed him down to his First Editions Room and he closed the door behind them. “This must be serious,” he said with a warm smile.
“It’s somewhat delicate,” she said. She told him the story of Tessa’s old books, the ones she had “borrowed” from the Memphis Public Library in 1985. She had rehearsed the tale a dozen times and seemed genuinely perplexed about what to do. She was not surprised that he enjoyed the story and was interested in the books. In his opinion, there was no need to contact the library in Memphis. Sure, it would love to have the books back, but their losses had been written off decades ago. Besides, the library would have no appreciation for their real values. “They would probably just put them back on the shelves for the next person to steal,” he said. “Believe me, nothing good would happen to the books. They should be protected.”
“But they’re not really mine to sell, right?”
He smiled and shrugged as if this was a technicality of little consequence. “What’s the old saying? Possession is nine-tenths of the law. You’ve had the books for over ten years. I’d say they belong to you.”
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right for some reason.”
“Are the books in good shape?”
“They seem to be. I’m no expert. I’ve taken good care of them. In fact, I’ve rarely touched them.”
“Can I see them?”
“I don’t know. This is just the first step. If I show you the books, then we would be getting closer to a transaction.”
“At least let me see them.”
“I don’t know. Do you have the titles in your collection?”
“Yes. I have all of James Lee Burke’s books and all of Cormac’s.”
Mercer glanced at the shelves as if looking for them. “Not here,” he said. “They’re with the rare books downstairs. Salt air and humidity are brutal on books, so I keep the valuable ones in a vault where the temperature is controlled. Would you like to see them?”
“Maybe later,” Mercer managed to say casually. In fact, she was wonderfully indifferent. “Any idea what these two might be worth, you know, just ballpark figures?”
“Sure,” he said quickly, as if anticipating the question. He swung around to a desktop computer, hit a few keys, and studied the screen. “I bought the first copy of The Convict in 1998 for twenty-five hundred bucks, so it’s probably more than doubled in value. It all depends on the condition, which of course I won’t know until I actually take a look. I bought another copy in 2003 for thirty-five hundred.” He continued scrolling. Mercer couldn’t see the screen but it appeared to be loaded with an extensive collection. “I have one copy of Blood Meridian, bought it from a dealer pal in San Francisco about ten years ago. Nine to be exact, paid, let’s see, two thousand for it but it had a slight chip on the jacket and some aging. Not in great shape.”
Well, just buy a forged jacket, Mercer thought, now that she knew so much about the business. Instead, she managed to seem pleasantly surprised. “Are you serious? They’re that valuable?”
“Don’t doubt me, Mercer, this is my favorite part of the business. I make more money trading rare books than selling new ones. Sorry if that sounds like bragging, but I love this stuff. If you’d like to sell the books I’ll be happy to help.”