Authors: Ellen Pall
Slightly Abridged (28 page)
The Purloined Letter
It was one of those rare days in early March when nature seems to
have decided to skip the rest of winter, those springy, temperate days almost always followed by weeks of crushing cold, and Juliet and Suzy had decided to take a walk in Riverside Park.
have decided to skip the rest of winter, those springy, temperate days almost always followed by weeks of crushing cold, and Juliet and Suzy had decided to take a walk in Riverside Park.
Unusually, it had been more than a month since they had spoken at any length, so they had much to discuss. Suzy had just come back from four weeks in New Mexico, where she was helping to design the prototype for a new magazine called
Inner Space
. As for Juliet, she had managed to finish and hand in “A Christian Gentleman” early, due mainly to a spurt of industry up in Murray's hospital room in Gloversville.
Inner Space
. As for Juliet, she had managed to finish and hand in “A Christian Gentleman” early, due mainly to a spurt of industry up in Murray's hospital room in Gloversville.
Determined not to abandon him there, but almost out of her mind with boredom while he dozed and drowsed, she had written a record seven chapters in ten days. Now retitled “A Proper Gentleman,” the book's first chapter had already gone up on her Web site. Portia Klein, her editor, had declared its conflicted hero, Sir James, Angelica's strangest but also, perhaps, her best.
As for Landis, he could now walk without a crutch, but would be assigned to desk duty for at least a couple of months.
“And mentally? Emotionally?” Suzy asked somewhat anxiously, when Juliet had filled her in thus far. They were strolling
north along the promenade, where the bare branches of the trees made a crisp, dark latticework against the cloudless sky. Behind them, at the entrance to the park, a crew of Parks Department employees was, finally, feeding the pile of discarded Christmas trees into a woodchipper.
north along the promenade, where the bare branches of the trees made a crisp, dark latticework against the cloudless sky. Behind them, at the entrance to the park, a crew of Parks Department employees was, finally, feeding the pile of discarded Christmas trees into a woodchipper.
“He's okay.” She raised her voice above the noise of the machine. “He's fine, thank God.”
“Butâ?” Suzy had heard the doubt in her friend's intonation.
“But ⦠You know, I wonder if maybe the accident sort of pushed forward some of the 9/11 stuff he never dealt with. He was always suspiciously unfazed by that,” Juliet said. “Or maybe it's just inevitable, such a serious accident. Whatever it is, he's talking about maybe leaving the force, traveling, living abroad, I don't know what. It's like he saw his own mortalityâ”
The woodchipper suddenly stopped, leaving Juliet more or less yelling into the quiet. She dropped her voice.
“Like he saw that life is short,” she finished.
Suzy looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Abroad?” she repeated. “And you and heâ?”
As always when she least wished it to, blood rushed into Juliet's fair cheeks. She smiled ruefully. “I don't know. I think we maybe went too far too fast. I mean, not the sex. Though we probably would have been wiser to ⦠pace that better,” she said. “It was more my being there in the hospital with him, the intimacy of it. I met his parents,” she added, and felt her cheeks turning even a deeper red. “I think maybe it was all too much for him.”
Behind them, the drone of the woodchipper started again, distant enough now to be only a minor nuisance.
“He's pulling away from you?”
“Well, not in a rude way. Not even openly, really.” She wrinkled her nose. How nice it was to have Suzy back to talk to. She usually thought of their friendship as being one of those based in
large part on proximity; but with time, she saw now, it was deepening into something better. “I just get the feeling he thinks he's supposed to be grateful to me. As if I think he owes me one because I spent a couple of weeks with him in the hospital. Which I don't, quite the opposite. I dragged him up to Espyville. If it wasn't for me, there'd have been no accident. But Murrayâ”
large part on proximity; but with time, she saw now, it was deepening into something better. “I just get the feeling he thinks he's supposed to be grateful to me. As if I think he owes me one because I spent a couple of weeks with him in the hospital. Which I don't, quite the opposite. I dragged him up to Espyville. If it wasn't for me, there'd have been no accident. But Murrayâ”
“You've said all this to him?”
“Oh yes, of course. We've talked about it, or tried. But he still feels uncomfortable. Beholden. And too much closeness, too much beholdennessâif that's a nounâwell, those are not feelings a person like Murray Landis likes to feel he should feel. You know?”
Suzy nodded and sighed. They walked along in silence for a while. A Rottweiler let off his leash rocketed past them, chasing a tennis ball.
Finally, “I guess you need to make some space between you,” Suzy said.
“Guess so.”
After another silence, “You're a little relieved yourself, aren't you?” Suzy asked.
Juliet wanted to deny it, but shrugged. She probably was a little relieved.
“You wouldn'tâyou aren't seeing Dennis anymore, are you?”
Juliet laughed. “Hardly,” she said. “Jeff Skelton still believes he's sitting on the Wilson manuscript, you know. It doesn't make much objective sense, but I think our having shared this little adventure has permanently tainted any friendly feelings Dennis and I might have had for each other. Though I was able to do him a good turn. Ames found a first edition of Joyce's
Ulysses
among the books Ada left me. Dennis is going to sell it for me, and I'll donate the proceeds to Free Earth. They've decided to turn Ada's whole place into a nature preserve, if they can. They're trying to work out something with the state. So it's all ended up quite comfortably for little
Cindy Lang,” she added. “I mean, not that she wanted Tom dead; she probably didn't. But her land will border on a protected area, which is always good for its value.”
Ulysses
among the books Ada left me. Dennis is going to sell it for me, and I'll donate the proceeds to Free Earth. They've decided to turn Ada's whole place into a nature preserve, if they can. They're trying to work out something with the state. So it's all ended up quite comfortably for little
Cindy Lang,” she added. “I mean, not that she wanted Tom dead; she probably didn't. But her land will border on a protected area, which is always good for its value.”
“It's too bad that manuscript got lost,” Suzy said, after a longish silence. “It would have been nice for you to have.”
To Juliet's surprise, she found herself shuddering slightly at the idea. “I really wouldn't want it,” she said. “Too reminiscent of Ada's death, I guess. If it ever turns up, you can have it.” She smiled at Suzy. “Get you out of the bed-and-breakfast biz for a while.”
“And Wildernessland? What's happened with that, do you know?”
“It's going to be someplace near the Everglades.”
They had reached the pair of public gardens near Ninety-first Street. In one of them, a lone volunteer gardener was poking at the hard ground with a trowel. Without discussing it, the friends circled the farther garden and turned their steps back south.
Then, “How's Parker?” Juliet dared to ask.
Suzy shook her head. “Back with Diana, for keeps.”
“Oh, sorry. Are youâ?”
“Repining? No.” She shrugged. “The whole thing was mostly hope and sex, anyway.”
“Things mostly are.”
They walked on quietly, enjoying the mildness of the day and hardly talking until they were almost back at their own end of the promenade. Then Juliet remembered to say, “Oh, I heard from Matt McLaurin. Ada's poem about Frederick Asquith is going to be published in something called the
Red Rooster Quarterly.
I've never heard of it.”
Red Rooster Quarterly.
I've never heard of it.”
“Me neither. But how nice.”
“It is nice,” Juliet agreed.
They turned onto the path that climbs out of the park, passing the woodchipper again as they did so.
“It'll be part of an issue called âSex and Love and Sex, Sex,
Sex,'” Juliet added, raising her voice. “I think Ada would have liked that. Want to go somewhere and have a drink to celebrate?”
Sex,'” Juliet added, raising her voice. “I think Ada would have liked that. Want to go somewhere and have a drink to celebrate?”
“Sure. Just come in with me a sec, I need to get a warmer jacket.”
They crossed Riverside. Juliet trailed Suzy into her apartment and stood leaning idly beside the tall, mesquite-wood bookcase. The row of Angelica Kestrel-Haven paperbacks caught her eye and she gazed at them absently, wondering where Suzy would fit in the next. Then she saw it. The fourth book from the left was
Duke's Delight.
So was the ninth book from the right.
Duke's Delight.
So was the ninth book from the right.
An image flashed in her mind: Ada, surprised by Tom, still angry at Dennis, but most all, determined to safeguard the manuscript. Ada, coming out of the falling snow, purple purse and paperback book in her gloved hands. Ada walking into the foyer, prudently slipping the book onto Suzy's shelf before Tom was even fully in the door.
Juliet pulled one
Duke's Delight
off the shelf and fanned it open. Nothing. She grabbed the second, held it upside down, riffled the pages. A glassine envelope with a familiar rectangle showing through fluttered to the floor.
Duke's Delight
off the shelf and fanned it open. Nothing. She grabbed the second, held it upside down, riffled the pages. A glassine envelope with a familiar rectangle showing through fluttered to the floor.
Fire and Ice
Â
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Â
Â
âRobert Frost
Harriette Wilson and her memoirs are facts of history, and the only fiction I have knowingly added is the existence of Lord Quiddenham and his purchased pages.
I am deeply indebted to two scholars with regard to Harriette: Kenneth Bourne, author of
The Blackmailing of the Chancellor,
wrote one of the few truly scholarly books about Wilson, and years ago patiently answered many questions about her for me. The same is true of Françoise Albrecht, whose 1978 Ph.D. thesis, “Une Courtisane Au Début du XIXe Siècle: Harriette Wilson,” accorded Wilson's life a serious scrutiny that had been denied it until then.
The Blackmailing of the Chancellor,
wrote one of the few truly scholarly books about Wilson, and years ago patiently answered many questions about her for me. The same is true of Françoise Albrecht, whose 1978 Ph.D. thesis, “Une Courtisane Au Début du XIXe Siècle: Harriette Wilson,” accorded Wilson's life a serious scrutiny that had been denied it until then.
It takes a village to write a book. Among the many people who helped with this one are: Capt. Vincent DiDonato and Police Officer Joseph A. Agosto, both of the NYPD and both extraordinarily patient; James F. Morrison, Brenda Pedrick, and the very generous Mike Teetz, who educated me about Gloversville; and Tim Johns, Paulette Rose, Steve Weissman, David Morrison, and Christian von Faber-Castell, all of whom answered endless questions about rare manuscripts. Will Osborne set me straight about blizzards, Marian Bock inspired and cheer-led, and my wise friends Ann Banks and Irene Marcuse read the manuscript at a crucial moment. Thank you.
SLIGHTLY ABRIDGED. Copyright © 2003 by Ellen Pall. All rights reserved. . No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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eISBN 9781466827882
First eBook Edition : July 2012
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pall, Ellen, 1952â.
Slightly abridged : a nine muses mystery : Erato / Ellen Pall.â1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-28185-4
1. Women novelistsâFiction. 2. Aged womenâCrimes againstâFiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)âFiction. 4. ManuscriptsâFiction. I. Title.
PS3566.A463 S57 2003
813'.54âdc21
813'.54âdc21
2002031886
First Edition: April 2003
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