Ghost writer, p.30
Ghost Writer, page 30
Nellie cried harder. “Listen to me. How heartless. Thinking about the house!” She wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara up to her forehead and past her temples. “What about you? Are you okay? You seem okay. But I know Clyde was like . . . like a father to you.”
Jonathan winced at that phrase. Why did everyone keep saying that? If only they had known what his father had been like. Besides, Clyde had been his nightmare, not a father, for a month now. “I’ve had some time to process it after I left his house. I took a slow drive here to the office.”
Nellie nodded and propped her head up with her hands on her forehead, covering up her face, which wasn’t that nice to look at right now anyway. But after a few seconds, she looked up at him. “Shoot me for asking this at this moment, but is the last book finished?”
“I’m still investigating,” Jonathan said. “I need more time to figure out what’s going on.” Nellie shook her head and cried some more. “Nellie, listen, we can find a ghostwriter to finish the rest of it . . . if it’s not finished.” The sobs continued. “I’m sure it is, though.”
“I know,” she said between sobs, “but it’s such a risk. I mean, releasing a new book from a dead bestselling author in a whole new genre? It could ruin everything we’ve built Clyde to be.”
“Or it could work for us. It could work really well for us.” And I need this, he said silently.
Nellie looked up. “I’ll be very interested in hearing the proposal.” Nellie buzzed Mark in and the door opened immediately. “Mark, when is the funeral?”
“Friday at ten A.M.”
Nellie looked at Jonathan. “I had Mark and Tina work on the memorial arrangements and contact Publishers Weekly. We all know Clyde doesn’t have any family left.” She wiped her eyes again. “He had mentioned to me before that he didn’t have anyone who would even be able to plan a funeral for him. Family-wise. But his pastor’s taking care of it.”
She leaned back in her chair and let out a frustrated breath. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? He’s got a million-reader following and hardly anyone to plan his funeral.” The tears started running again, and Mark shifted uncomfortably. “Mark, let’s order yellow roses for the funeral, too, okay? I think that’s perfect, since Little Woman of the West had a big yellow rose on the front. Don’t you?” She looked at Jonathan.
“Sure. Sounds wonderful.”
“I’ll take care of everything, Nellie. Don’t worry,” Mark said and left the office.
Jonathan waited for him to shut the door. “Nel, I need some time off.” He always used “Nel” when he needed it to be very personal. “I’m going north to spend some time with my aunt.”
Nellie grabbed for another tissue and threw the box to the ground when she came up empty-handed. She buzzed Mark again. “Mark. Bring me another box.” Jonathan was amazed he would know what that meant. Then she turned back to him and said, “Of course. I know this is so hard for you. Take all the time you need.” Her eyebrows rose as she poked at her falling French twist. “Are you really okay? No offense, but you were a little . . . off . . . before this happened. Now . . .” Her voice trailed off into more sobs.
“Really. I’m fine.”
Mark entered with another box of Kleenex. “Anything else, Nellie?”
“No. Thank you. Wait. Order me a Reuben from Sammy’s. Extra—”
“—kraut. I know.” Mark quietly shut the door again.
“You’ve got him trained well,” Jonathan said with a small smile.
Nellie laughed through her tears. “He’s insecure and a kiss-up. I love him to death.” She opened the day-planner on her desk. “Let’s move our editorial meeting to Monday. Is that okay?”
“Fine.”
Nellie buzzed out again. “Mark? Mark!”
A softer voice came over the speaker. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
A short pause was followed by, “He went to get you a sandwich.”
Nellie lowered her head and said, “Send him in when he gets back.” She hit the button again with unneeded force.
“Maybe you should take some time off as well,” Jonathan suggested in his softest, most reassuring voice, the one he used when Kathy was in hysterics over something that might be worth thinking twice about.
Nellie threw down her pencil. “What a Thanksgiving, hmm? Yeah, maybe I will. I hate Thanksgiving.” She met Jonathan’s questioning look with, “What? You want me to bow my head and thank whomever that Lester ran off with a blonde half his age and half my weight?” Jonathan laughed a little, and Nellie relaxed. “Don’t forget Monday. We can’t delay it any more than that.”
“All right. I’ll see you then.”
Before Jonathan left, Nellie said, “Jonathan?” He turned around. “Are you still going to be presenting that manuscript from Zippy?” Her fingers found their way into her French twist, which was now not in a twist at all.
“Yes.” He wasn’t sure where the confidence came from, probably from the fact that he had nothing to lose now, but it was enough for Nellie to give him that reassuring smile he had missed for so long. He just hoped that was not the last time he would see it.
------
Winter had hit New York, and a soft blanket of snow showed itself near Newburgh. The children were buckled in their seat belts, trying to find creative ways to stay belted in—an unbendable family rule—and still be able to move as much as possible.
Jonathan and Kathy talked quietly in the front seat, discussing Clyde’s death, what the funeral might be like, and Jonathan’s ideas for how to save the manuscript. There were moments of silence, too, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that had plagued their marriage for the last year. It was a silence of comfort and familiarity, underlined with occasional knowing glances when the girls would all giggle at once or a landmark would catch their eye.
In those quiet times, within his own personal thoughts, he thanked a God he wasn’t sure was listening that he had his family together and that they were all okay. Over and over in his mind he replayed how close he had come to throwing his marriage away. He even allowed himself to think about what it might have been like without his three girls. It made his stomach hurt, but it was that sort of torture that he decided would keep him on the straight and narrow. Never again would he dance so close to temptation.
In the longer moments of silence, though he didn’t want to entertain these particular thoughts, he couldn’t stop thinking about why Clyde would do such a thing to him. Why would he have tormented him with that manuscript? Had he felt he had hit a dead end by just talking to him? There was so much about all of it that was still a mystery, it made his head hurt. And his heart, too. A man that he had once considered a father had betrayed him in a way that could well be unforgivable. Jonathan hadn’t decided yet. Perhaps what he needed most was an understanding of his motivation. Clyde had loved him so much through the years. How could it all end like this?
“Think we’ll have a white Christmas this year?” Kathy asked, breaking through his dark thoughts and making him concentrate hard on the road in front of him. The snow was heavier now.
He glanced over at her and smiled. “I hope so. It’s been a long time since we haven’t.”
“I hate it when we don’t.” She turned the heater in the van up a notch and looked back to check on the children, who were now all asleep in awkward positions that their bodies would pay for later.
Jonathan tilted his rearview mirror down a little so he could see the girls, too. “They seem as if they’re handling Clyde’s death pretty well.”
Kathy shrugged. “I guess. Meg took it the hardest. I think she’s trying to be strong for you.” Kathy glanced over at him. “She knows this is hitting you hard.”
Jonathan kept his eyes on the road. “Not so hard.”
Kathy held her hands in front of the vents. “Jonathan, he was like a fath—”
“Don’t say it.” Jonathan’s stern voice stirred the children in the back. “I don’t want to hear that phrase again.”
Kathy kept her voice down but said, “It’s true.”
Large snowflakes started falling as they crossed into Kingston and melted instantly, the moisture disappearing with the movement of the wipers Jonathan had switched on. Sophie had woken up in the back and now sat quietly, gazing out at the snow with the wonder of a child. Kathy adjusted the heater again.
“I don’t want to talk about Clyde,” Jonathan continued. “I just don’t.”
Kathy paused, looking as though she wanted to say something more but patted him on the leg instead. “So have you figured out how close he was to finishing his book?”
“I think he was fairly close. He may have finished it, for all I know. You know what his office looks like. The rest of the book could be buried in a pile three feet high.”
He slowed down to fifty-five miles an hour as the snow fell harder. The wonders of winter fell lightly onto the tops of the trees, and the gray skies seemed thick enough to stay for months.
“Turn your lights on,” Kathy ordered, always a cautious backseat driver. Over the years Jonathan had learned to let it go and do as he was told.
“I just can’t figure it out.” Jonathan gripped the steering wheel as they passed a jackknifed truck in the ditch. “I can’t figure out why Clyde would do that to me.”
Kathy was picking balls off her sweater. She didn’t seem to have any answers, either, and the rest of the drive was a quiet escape into white tranquility.
As soon as they turned into Eleanor and Earl’s drive, Eleanor came running out of the house, wrapped in her wool coat, waving and carrying on like the very best aunts do. The girls had awoken twenty minutes outside Saratoga Springs and had fought and laughed the rest of the way. As soon as they saw Eleanor, their squeals were followed by the clicks of seat belts being undone.
“Put your coats on!” Kathy announced loudly, followed by Jonathan saying, “And be careful. It might be slick!”
Before Jonathan could turn off the car, the girls were out and running toward Eleanor, Sophie having trouble making it through the snow. Within seconds all three of them were in the arms of Eleanor, quite a feat for such a small woman. Kathy approached and Jonathan popped the back door to unload the suitcases.
“Jonathan!” Eleanor called. “Get in here! We can get the bags later! I’ve got hot chocolate and pumpkin bread waiting for everyone!” The girls laughed and cheered and made their way inside. Kathy turned around, waiting for Jonathan.
“I’ll be right in,” Jonathan called, barely making out their figures through the dense snow that had suddenly begun to fall. “Tell Earl to stay inside! He doesn’t need to be out in this or carrying bags!”
Kathy ushered Eleanor inside, and Jonathan stood looking at the pile of suitcases in the back, wondering which ones absolutely needed to go in. But before he knew it, he was weeping, the tears on his cheeks barely noticeable to him because of the wet snow that clung to his skin. It was so hard for him to believe he would never see Clyde alive again. Even as the tears rolled, though, Jonathan wouldn’t acknowledge his feelings. He brushed them away, along with the snow, and was glad it was cold outside, so his red cheeks and nose wouldn’t seem out of place. He grabbed two suitcases and trudged up to the house through the snow.
------
The house had the aroma of a perfect Thanksgiving. The rich smell of sweet potato pie put everyone in a good mood, and all the girls were in the kitchen cutting up celery, onion, and other vegetables for the big feast the next day.
Jonathan had spent an hour or so with Earl, sitting by the fire and discussing books. Earl always loved to talk about the latest books he’d read and then pick Jonathan’s brain about why he did or didn’t think it should’ve made the bestseller list. Being a military man, Earl, as lovable as he was, tended to think he was an expert on everything. Jonathan always let him do the talking, agreed with him, and enjoyed the occasional brandy and Punch cigar that was offered.
After Eleanor had made her famous roast beef sandwiches for dinner that evening and had let the girls each taste the dessert of their choice before going to bed, Jonathan managed to find himself alone in the living room. The fire roared and crackled as if fighting to stay alive against the harsh winter weather that whistled through the chute. In the kitchen, he could hear Kathy telling Eleanor they would have to leave Thanksgiving afternoon to be home in time for Clyde’s funeral. Earl had retired for the evening promptly at eight P.M. but had left the bottle of brandy out “just in case.”
A large throw covered Jonathan’s feet, and he sank into the plush leather recliner that was the perfect distance from the fire. He kept only the small reading lamp on next to him and pulled out Clyde’s manuscript, hoping to get as much read as possible this evening. He found his place. The plot was moving fast in this story, and he couldn’t wait to see if there was indeed an innocent man, and if the DA would figure out who it was.
I spent the rest of the day wandering the streets of the city. I grabbed a couple of hot dogs and prayed they wouldn’t make my heartburn worse. As upset as I was about the prospect of losing my job, I was more concerned with the assessment Dr. Burrelson had made of the situation. I couldn’t get the fact that there might be an innocent man on death row off my mind. Sure, I had been burned once. The man I thought was innocent had just been a lure for us all along. But what Dr. Burrelson had said made sense to me. That was the way Donomar worked. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to figure out which of the two prisoners was innocent. With DNA evidence and more sophisticated crime labs, these types of cases could be more easily solved.
Esther had agreed to meet me for dinner, and I arrived at a restaurant by the name of Julio’s twenty minutes early, since I had nothing else to do. The maître d’ offered me a tie and confirmed the reservation that I assumed Esther had made after we hung up earlier in the day. I was seated at a corner table out of the way, but where I had a good view of the restaurant.
I drank an iced tea, and then she appeared in the doorway and was shown to our table. I stood as her chair was pulled out for her.
“Well, Keaton, aren’t you going to need something a little stronger than iced tea?” She took off her coat. “Nice tie.”
“I’m not used to restaurants like this,” I said, tucking in my tie. “I hope you’ll order for both of us. And pay.”
She laughed. “Well, since you are probably unemployed, I guess it’s the only decent thing to do.” The waiter approached the table, and Esther ordered some dish that sounded foreign and a strong drink for herself. She then pulled out a folder from the large bag she had set on the floor next to us.
“I’ve been looking over these cases all afternoon.” Her expression suddenly went sour. “There’s Governor Wallace. Let’s see if he says ‘hello.’ ”
I looked up as the governor passed a few feet from our table, glanced over at Esther, and moved on with no acknowledgment. “He hates my guts and I feel like a better person for it.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, since it was true there were very few people who liked Esther and whom she liked, so I thought I’d better turn to business. “Did you find anything that would indicate either of these men are innocent?”
“Both proclaim innocence. That’s about it.” She sighed and moved the folder to the side as the waiter brought her drink. “Lincoln Smith claims he’s being framed by some drug acquaintance. His story hasn’t changed in ten years. His girlfriend’s blood was found in the trunk of his car, and his car was found abandoned, with no tags, fifteen miles outside of town. His alibis don’t add up. We prosecuted him on forensic evidence and the fact that he told his best friend he was going to kill her for sleeping with a guy by the name of Sandy.”
“Sandy’s a guy?”
She smiled. “I guess so.”
“What about the other guy. James something?”
“Joseph James. Owned a custom furniture shop. When the police arrived they found a young college girl by the name of Christy Krennel dead next to a coffee table. James was standing over her with her blood on him.”
“What was their connection? Lovers?”
“James says he doesn’t know her. But he has no other alibi. The guy’s apparently sort of a loner. Friends say he’s quiet but wouldn’t hurt a mouse. No one could believe he would do it. Those are always the diabolical ones, eh?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Both men have been on death row for ten years.”
“What about prison records? Troublemakers?”
“Well, Lincoln Smith has been put in solitary three times. He’s as mean as they come, but the warden says he got that way after coming to prison. He also says that in the last six months, he’s been different. Acting . . . ‘better,’ ” she said as she glanced down at her notes.
“Well, mean people aren’t all murderers, after all,” I said as an afterthought, and then unintentionally glanced at her. “What about the other guy?”
Esther paused and then looked up at me. “Model prisoner. Absolutely nothing in his record. Was in no trouble before this came up.” She had a strange look on her face as a frown crossed over her brow.
“What, Esther?”
She blinked a couple of times and then said, “The warden says he’s the man everyone wants to see.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Before they’re executed. He’s like their chaplain or something.”
“He’s a preacher?”
“No. He makes furniture, like I said. But in prison, he’s got a reputation of . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t get it.” She drew in a stiff breath. “Michael Underwood requested he be a witness at his execution last year, and James was the last person he saw before they took him to be executed.”
