The House on Olive Street (5 page)

Slatterly, tall but thin and wiry, began to chuckle as though satisfied and amused. “Security? At a funeral? Rich.”

“Can I see some ID please?” Jeff asked.

“You a cop?”

“No. Private security.”

“Then I don’t have to show you any ID.”

Jeff slowly smiled. He seemed to flex slightly without really moving. “Yes, you do.”

Robert Slatterly produced his wallet and seemed to do so with arrogance. Driver’s license, credit cards, library card, a few dollars. Jeff examined the wallet and passed it to Sable. “Los Angeles?” Jeff asked.

“Kind of a long commute to Gabby’s class at Sac State, wouldn’t you say?” Sable asked. “Jeff, this guy’s some sort of interloper. He wasn’t a friend of Gabby’s. And he let himself into my office. Can I have him arrested for that?”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, take it easy,” Slatterly said hastily. “I’m sorry, okay? I had no business coming in here, but I was curious. I didn’t take anything. I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t even open a drawer. I just looked at the office.”

Jeff turned him around and began to pat him down. This seemed like overkill to Sable, who just wanted his ass thrown out, until Jeff came up with a very small camera. He handed it to Sable. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “A reporter.” And not one interested in a story about the passing of Gabrielle Seton Marshall, but interested in the inside of Sable’s house, and perhaps more. He probably worked for a tabloid of some kind. “Who do you work for?”

“I’m freelance.”

“Who were you going to sell pictures to?”

“The highest bidder,” he shrugged insolently.

“Wait a minute, that’s it. You called my publicist and asked for an interview with me. You told her you were with
People
…”

He smiled and shrugged. He wasn’t with
People.
It was a lie.

She was completely unprepared for something like this. She’d turned down a number of interviews, totally unimpressed with some she’d given, and had even had
a couple of journalists get real pissed off by her penchant for privacy. But she had never had anyone stealthily enter her house, her office.

“Jeff, can you get him out of here with as little commotion as possible?” She handed him back his wallet, but kept his camera. “Mr. Slatterly, my best friend just passed away. I think your behavior here today has been shameful and I won’t forget it. Please don’t ever come near me or my home again.”

That unfortunate incident put an edge on Sable’s hospitality, having validated those misconceptions about people in general that she harbored. They always wanted something. It wasn’t her that people wanted to be close to, but her success, her connections, her influence. Or they wanted to find something about her to dislike, to resent, to criticize. She had opened up a little during the introductions, let her authentic good nature show, but by the time her guests were leaving, she was closed off again.

“We’ll be seeing you in New York at the conference next month, right?” someone said upon leaving. She was to attend this writers’ conference to receive an award for her years of writing the most popular books women read and to deliver a banquet speech. She had labored long and hard with the decision, having been tempted to send her editor or publicist in her place. But pressure from the publisher and from her friends—all but Elly, actually—had induced her to accept the invitation personally. Now she was having second thoughts. She was scared to death of them. She didn’t want to overhear their snotty remarks; she knew she was called the Ice Queen. She thought maybe it was Barbara Ann who had let that slip. Although her books sold better than anyone’s, she couldn’t take two steps without hearing that they were
badly written. Bewildered by her good fortune, people were compelled to find all that was wrong with them.

“I hope so,” she said without warmth. “If there’s no schedule conflict.”

“W
hat do you mean,
schedule conflict?
” Barbara demanded. This was
just
what she expected—for Sable to bail out on her without a thought! Without remorse! “You made a commitment to that group and now you’ve got Elaine Hardy all worked up. She’s going to start making phone calls the minute she gets back to her hotel, panicked that her banquet speaker might be standing them up.”

“Who is she going to call?” Sable asked.

“Probably everyone on her conference committee, getting them to start looking for an alternate. There are eight hundred people scheduled for that conference. There might be a couple of hundred attending just because
you’re
going to be there.”

“Why?” Sable said. “What do they want?”

Barbara sighed and shook her head. “They don’t want as much as you think, Sable. They’d all feel a lot friendlier toward you if you’d get down off your high horse and admit you’re one of them. You just need to say a few words about how seriously you take your writing, or how hard it is, or how difficult it is to get published in the beginning…something that makes them nod their heads in
agreement. Why do you think you’re so much better than they are?”

“Are you so sure that’s what I think?” she asked.

“That’s what you make people
feel.
They can’t understand why you won’t socialize. Gather with other writers. You’re not shy, we all know that. You don’t lack confidence. You haven’t been burned by any of them—you’ve been
admired.
”

“Oh, please. They say awful things about me all the time.”

“You bring it on! You won’t take their calls! You won’t accept their invitations. You’re cold, Sable. You’ll clear your calendar for a dinner halfway around the world if the
right
people are going to be there, but you can’t be bothered to say a few words to the very people who
buy
your books!”

“I do all my socializing for business. I sell millions of books a year—I can’t start meeting with small groups of readers. I’d never get any work done!”

“Jesus. I’m at the end of my rope.”

“All right, all right,” Elly said. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

“Don’t you ever get annoyed by this, Elly? The way Sable refuses to participate?”

“Not everyone is attracted to these large guilds of writers, Barbara. I think there’s good reasons for either bent—the group person, the private person. But there’s something else I asked you to stay for. If you can put all your other squabbles aside for a while.”

“We aren’t squabbling, Elly,” Sable said. And she almost said, “Barbara’s safer in that group than I am—she doesn’t threaten them.” But she stayed silent on that matter.

It was just after eight. The caterers were finishing up
in the kitchen and loading the tables and chairs into their vans. The guests had all departed, as had Don Marshall, David and Sarah. Mike Vaughan and his sons left Barbara behind when Elly asked if she could stay to discuss the disposition of some of Gabby’s personal effects. Beth would drop her off later. Now they sat in Sable’s living room, the French doors open to allow Elly’s cigarette smoke to escape from the plush but sterile decor of that room. Elly had her coffee, Beth her diet soda, Sable her tea, and Barbara, a glass of wine.

“I have a letter,” Elly said, beginning to dig around in her enormous purse and withdrawing a long, slim envelope. The women went suddenly still, shocked by this. In the five days since Gabby’s death, no one had mentioned a will or a letter. “I’ll just read it.

“Hmmph,” Elly snorted. “I’ve no idea whatsoever what that means. Maybe she was drunk when she wrote this.” Elly read on,

“Fine,” Elly said. “If you can figure that out, more power to you.

There was a deep silence, some clinking of dishes in the background as the caterers packed up the last of their goods. Only Elly had had the opportunity to consider the impact of this request or to puzzle out the meanings behind Gabby’s special gifts. Sable was the first to comment.

“I guess you read us the letter because you’d like our help.”

“I think so. Not because I’m intimidated by the chore—I could do it. But because I might not recognize the value of certain things Gabby’s been saving. She wrote in so many veins, tried her hand at such a variety of things. There are manuscripts that can go to the Special Collections Library at the university—Berkeley. Original pieces that she was unable to sell or complete that we should read. Letters from fans and writers from
all over the world. She was a compulsive letter writer. Gabby was in touch with Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winners. Her letter collection alone is probably worth a fortune—the names are staggering.

“For myself, I’m thinking of doing a biography. Not because she was famous. Quite the opposite. Because she was both typical and extraordinary. It wouldn’t be a biography of Gabby Marshall, per se, but rather a study of an American writer. A woman writer.”

“Eleanor, that’s brilliant,” Beth said.

“Not a popular piece, Beth. A scholarly study. A retrospective. It could be quite dull. I don’t envision any earth-shattering or scandalous revelations.”

“It couldn’t be dull,” she said. “It would be wonderful. So apt. She was so special. Her accomplishments were highly individual. In a lot of ways she was the average—not so many awards, selling in the midlist range, teaching or speaking to make ends meet, just another woman writer, facing all the same challenges as any woman in the arts, supporting her family in the arts. But her acquaintances ranged from Chiam Potok to…to…me! I don’t think it’s understood how extraordinary is the life of
any
American woman writer.”

Eleanor stared at Beth for a long moment, mute, remembering that Beth had given an album of works to Gabby as a birthday gift a couple of years before. Included were the covers of old, out-of-print books and some of their reviews. The research into Gabby’s literary life had been thorough and intense in order for her to have done that. “Exactly so,” Elly finally said. “I need reminding sometimes. I almost forgot you took your postgraduate studies in library science.”

Beth’s gaze instantly dropped. Her shyness was such a burden.

“Of course, I haven’t decided yet,” Elly continued.

“Then you would want a lot of Gabby’s papers, while you decide,” Beth said, her gaze lifting immediately. As long as she was not the subject, she could participate fully.

“Yes,” Elly replied, clearing her throat. “Don gave me this letter. Gabby was more organized than she lets on. Don knew exactly where she kept her insurance papers, bank account information and regular monthly bills, the file on her house and her car, her will—for the kids, you know. Right off, that rattled David, that Don should do what he considers to be
his
job. This letter was with the will. I read it and explained it to Don and the kids. They were in the midst of a power struggle over who should play executor. Sarah and David thought it should be David, Don thought he should do the work and pass the worldly goods on to the kids. It was the first time in my memory Don didn’t have someone in mind to do it for him.

“In any case, he showed excellent judgment in offering the whole ordeal to David, who in his turn, showed excellent judgment in giving it back to Don.” Eleanor shook her head. “David might want the control, but he’s doing his residency and shouldn’t take it on. And Don may be an ass, but he’s fair. He loved her to the end.”

“He had a funny way of showing it,” Barbara said. “Gabby told me he was having affairs when they were practically newlyweds.”

“Don’s always been self-important. His relationship with his kids is a testimony to that. The minute either of them makes a decision he can’t personally endorse, he begins to harangue them and issue ultimatums. Gabby was the only person who knew how to deal with him. She always let him think everything he did for them was his
idea, even though she’d planted it. It was some Southern thing.

“In any case, I told them about her request and took a very brief look at her office. Three file cabinets, boxes in the garage that are labeled books, manuscripts, letters, et cetera, sixteen bookshelves… It had never seemed that many when I was there. Did it to you? Sixteen
sets
of shelves. Everywhere. She had a bookshelf in the bathroom, for God’s sake. Writers,” she said, shaking her head again. “All compulsive.

“I think Don and the kids are genuinely relieved that they don’t have to deal with Gabby’s office, her papers. And I’m more than willing. But I can’t do it now, I told them. I have to finish the semester. It’s not going to be a weekend job. That’s just as well. They’re too upset to deal with all the other things Gabby left behind. Just going through her dishes, clothes, furniture and odds and ends is something Sarah isn’t ready to face. And as I said, David needs to concentrate on work. I suggested a compromise and they leapt at it. I suggested they have someone get the perishable food out, give the place a thorough cleaning and close it up, as is. Don can hire a gardener to keep the yard manageable for later, when it’s either sold or one of the kids takes it. The kids aren’t desperate for money at the moment because Gabby had a life insurance policy. They’ll each get a tidy little check. In a couple of months, it will be easier for Sarah and David to go through their mother’s things. And after the semester, say, in June, I can begin on her office. If the house is left intact, water, phone and electric on, furniture in place, I’m thinking of moving in there as my summer sabbatical. To sift through the paper.”

“Moving in?” Sable asked, shocked.

Eleanor shrugged. “I can’t think of a more efficient
way to do it. Despite Gabby’s admission that this is a large task, my reason is more practical. Gabby would understand if I simply made piles and ran a fast glance through her accumulation, but I’m interested in what she has pigeonholed away. Some of her earlier work, I feel, was overlooked. She did some very courageous and vital writing in those years as a journalist abroad. She was one of the first to take on some of those subjects. As a woman, she was a pioneer. Besides, if I move in temporarily, I’ll be there to lend moral support to David and Sarah when they go through their mother’s things. And I’ll be in residence if any of you has time to stop by and help.”

“Won’t it be hard for you?” Barbara Ann asked. “Living in Gabby’s house, going through her things?”

Eleanor briefly closed her eyes. She’d lost her mother when she was twelve, her father when she was nineteen. She had a brief, catastrophic marriage in her twenties. She had one older sister with whom she was close, but they lived on opposite coasts and within opposite lives, Margaret being married for forty years, the mother of three and a grandmother. Elly had admitted to her alcoholism when she was forty-two after it had nearly ruined her career and left her academic reputation in tatters. She’d redeemed herself and been sober now sixteen years. It was not as easy a task as she let people think. But nothing, nothing, had been as difficult as losing Gabby. Eleanor’s life had been hard at best. None of these women could possibly know the loneliness of being a dowdy, overly serious, spinster academic. And now, it would be lonelier still.

“You have no idea,” she answered breathlessly. Then, stronger, “But, as I said, it’s practical. If I’m going to do the job, I’m going to do it right.”