An Uncollected Death Page 29

Norwich?”

  Simon, too? Charlotte recalled his taking pictures of the crime scene, his need to be able to counter what he called “bad cops.” Was that based on experience, and actually having committed a crime at some time in the past? She had no way of knowing. She chose to be honest. “Abrupt. Talented. Honest. Helene thinks the world of him, and he of her.”

  Barnes just nodded and smiled, then went on his way.

  Charlotte took a deep breath. Such unsettling times, and had been for a while. She grabbed her phone and began to call back Helene, as she’d promised to do. A hammering noise from the street caught her attention and she walked out on the driveway to see what it was. Another pickup truck full of signs sat in front of the Vanetti’s house two doors down, and a man was driving a stake into the front lawn. Then he attached a realtor’s sign to it, along with an additional “FORECLOSURE” sign at the top. Another one bites the dust.

  Thirteen

  Friday, September 20th

   

  Stanton Estate Liquidators arrived bright and early. Charlotte worked in her office to make herself available to the crew on this first day, as per Martin Stanton’s request, but she resolved to also stay out of their way and let them earn their thirty percent. There was enough for her to do that no one else could do, she thought, such as continuing the monotonous process of going through the remaining boxes of papers. Why did she save everything? Really, why? She wasn’t sure, other than a sense of “just in case.”

  The box she was working on at the moment included everything connected to her divorce from Jack, from the endless missives from her lawyer, between her lawyer and Jack’s lawyer, and every hostile note and letter from Jack regarding the division of property and child custody arrangements. Did he have a similar box to go through before his marriage to Mrs. Jack, or before selling the house and moving to Paris? Did he destroy anything, or was it moldering in a storage unit somewhere until he returned to the States? She hadn’t looked at any of this in years, and with the detachment that comes from time, she found much of it downright embarrassing. None of it was ever going to be relevant in the future, and she wouldn’t want Ellis to read any of it someday.

  But as glad as she was to have the chance to destroy it for Ellis’ sake, she felt a little sad as page after page (and photo after damning photo) went through the shredder, because reliving those days also made her remember being ten years younger, a young mother with so much of Ellis’ childhood still ahead. The past, however, could not be relived—or redone.

  Martin Stanton interrupted her reverie with a knock on the door frame.

  “How are you doing, Charlotte?”

  She smiled and gestured at the stacks of bags and boxes. “Bored, but just fine. Trying to bring myself into the twenty-first century and scan all these old files and papers.”

  He nodded. “My wife and daughter have taken that on at the office. I’m getting used to it.” He lifted his arm to show that he was using the tablet computer today instead of the clipboard. “They won’t let me backtrack.”

  He explained which rooms were being worked on and in what order, and reassured her that she was free to add or remove items at any time during the process leading up to the sale, but ideally to not change her mind about major items, as those were part of the publicity he was using to draw buyers.

  “Any chance you’ll change your mind about the big Hannah Verhagen?” he asked.

  Charlotte was about to insist that there wasn’t, but she was curious. “If I did let it go, how much do you think it would bring?”

  He named a figure that made her gasp.

  It was, on her new budget, enough to live on for a year, even after the thirty percent. Or to buy a second-hand car if she needed to. With more than enough left over to pay for a round-trip flight to Paris. It was more than the equity she had in the house, more valuable than anything else she owned. But it was hers, Hannah painted it for her, for this house, for her emancipation—.

  But these were different times. “How soon would you need to know?”

  “Ideally, this afternoon. Another email blast goes out tomorrow morning, plus some last-minute snail mail and posters. It would be a huge draw.” He looked at her with more sympathy than urgency. “I can understand not wanting to let go of something so wonderful, especially if she is a friend.”

  “I’ll let you know one way or another later today, then.” I know I should be grateful that I’ve got the option, she thought to herself, but the conflict between keeping something precious and getting much-needed money was in itself stressful, and she felt her stomach burning and the muscles in her shoulders tightening.

  Before he left, Martin introduced her to Josh, the young man he was leaving in charge. Josh had his left arm in a sling and had managed to nestle a tablet in it, so he could tap and type on it with his right hand. “Josh, here,” said Martin, with a wink, “tried to get a doctor’s excuse for the day off, but modern technology found a way to keep him on the job.”

   

  After another hour and half of sorting and shredding, Charlotte took a break to stretch her legs and make some lunch. The choices were narrowing. There was a loaf of whole-grain bread she had taken out of the freezer that morning to thaw, and she managed to pry off a couple of slices and toast them. She saw a single-serving can of deviled ham in the cabinet. It was Ellis’ favorite until some girls teased her for eating “cat food.” Charlotte opened it, spread it on the bread, and added Ellis’ other favorite, yellow mustard.

  The act of making the familiar combo brought back memories of other shared things, and brought a lump to Charlotte’s throat. All this recent busyness was a distraction from the pain of missing Ellis. It was just as well. She took the sandwich and a refill of coffee back to her office, dodging the setup crew coming and going from the basement.

  Normally, she would watch the news or browse the Internet while having lunch, but neither option was available. Olivia’s notebook was at the top of a stack of things that Charlotte set aside to take with when she moved, and she decided to risk the dark tone and give it another go.

  You call for him, and he will not come, you call for me and only part of me arrives. I go through the motions, wash your body as if I were washing the floor: wet, swab, polish dry, just another one of your soldier boys…. The pain seizes you and you blame me. They tell me that you don’t mean it, this is the dementia, but it is not, it is the same thing you have always said have always done….Now they can care for you and I walk away, they will wipe my spittle from your face, thinking it is yours….

  In the mirror I can see the black marks of your hand, finger stripes where you seize me and name me your pain. I no longer look like myself, I cannot move, I cannot write, I can barely bathe or eat or dress and yet there is nothing new about this except it is now made flesh….

  But what was truth, and what fiction? Olivia’s description of events was in a manner shared by other nouveau roman writers, completely subjective, repetitive, and bleak. It was not a kind of literature that Charlotte favored or even knew that much about. She thumbed through sections of the other notebooks, and each seemed to feel a little different in tone and perspective than the other. Large chunks were in French, as well, which Charlotte could translate literally, but knew that she wasn’t fluent enough to translate the sensibility. Perhaps she could get Helene’s help with those sections. But first she had to find the remaining four notebooks, and that meant figuring out what Olivia meant by Elle et lui.

  Of course, without an Internet connection, any research wasn’t going to happen from her office. Still feeling restless, she wandered around the house to see what was happening, half-expecting to feel somewhat violated, or at least embarrassed, by having all these strangers go through her things. Instead, it felt surreal to see something from the past going by in the hall, in someone’s arms, and to see banquet tables being set up in the living room with an assortment of her possessions on display like a collection of insects. It occurred to her th
at this was what would be happening if she had died, and thus it was a bit like being at one’s own funeral.

  She stood at the middle of the second floor balcony walkway, which overlooked the living room.  From here she had her favorite view of Hannah’s painting, hanging above the fireplace mantel in all its multicolor glory. She had two hours left before giving Martin Stanton her decision. Never in her wildest dreams did she expect her former classmate’s work to appreciate in value so much so quickly, nor that she would ever seriously consider letting it go. Hannah hadn’t been in touch for a couple of years now; phone calls and emails went unanswered, and her website only said that she was “on a working tour of the world,” painting where she landed, without a particular itinerary. Purchase queries were to be sent to her dealers in Chicago and Los Angeles. There was no way to let Hannah know about selling the painting until she resurfaced, whenever that would be.

  Charlotte had imagined the painting in the high-ceilinged studio apartment, where it could shimmer in the light from the bank of tall windows. Martin suggested taking digital photos of things she wanted to remember but wasn’t planning to keep, but she could not imagine a photo doing justice to her magnificent painting. Selling it could well mean the difference between seeing her