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“What happens to any intellectual property my aunt might have had?”
He smiled. “Viola’s manuscript. I fear it is lost forever. I did go through her house personally to see if I could find it. From her description of your talks, I thought you might like it, but I couldn’t find it.”
“That’s because she gave it to me for safekeeping. It’s in a safety deposit box at the bank.”
“Good girl. Then it would be part of the ‘rest, residue and remainder’ of the estate. May I ask if you plan to do anything with it?”
Lori nodded. “I read it. It isn’t bad, and for the time she wrote it, it’s extraordinary. It’s a great whodunit in the style of Agatha Christie. I thought I’d revise and update it—flesh it out into something new and exciting—and then publish it as a co-write. I’d planned to do it this summer, during the school break.”
“What a lovely tribute to Viola. I think she would have loved that. Before you leave, I have one last thing to give you.” He reached into his desk. “It’s a note she left for you. She handed it to me in the sealed envelope. I have no idea what it says.”
She took the envelope. “Thank you. I think I’ll wait to read it until tonight. I’ll turn on my gas fireplace, pour a glass of prosecco, and toast my aunt’s life while I read her last letter to me.”
“You were expecting the letter, weren’t you?”
“Yes. She often wrote me letters, telling me things that she felt too deeply to express verbally. I cherish them. They, too, are in the safety deposit box.”
That night, curled up in her chair, she lifted her glass and opened the envelope.
My dearest Lori,
As you are reading this, know that I am at peace with my death and now reside in the Kingdom of Heaven.
I left this letter with Arthur to give to you after the reading of the will. I assume my children are outraged and stormed out of his office threatening to contest it. Don’t you worry about that. Arthur and I made sure my wishes would be carried out. I left money in a trust account with Arthur in case they try. They will not prevail.
They say most of those facing the end of their life don’t regret so much the things they did as the things they didn’t. I have to say, that is most definitely the case with me. My dearest wish is to save you from that. My hope is that you will take the money, which is substantial, take the sabbatical you are entitled to, and give life to your dreams—our dreams really.
Do what I didn’t have the courage to do. You have a God-given talent. Don’t let it go to waste. Tell your stories, live your dreams—for both of us.
I love you, my darling girl.
Viola
She’d made a promise to her aunt that night to follow their shared dream and used the sabbatical and her aunt’s bequest to establish herself as an author. She’d published her first book as a co-write with her deceased aunt. It had been a moderate success and had given her confidence in her ability to create mysteries people wanted to read. Her next book had become even more successful, as had every subsequent book.
When she was invited to speak at the author event in her new hometown of Bleak Ridge, she’d been thrilled. She was riding high on the popularity of her latest novel, her new friends who felt like she’d known them her whole life, and her newest work in progress.
It was as she was trying to write in the corner of the bistro next to the hotel that Antony Cobain, an extremely successful author, had verbally assaulted her, making scathing remarks about her books and eroding her confidence, leaving it smashed and scattered all around her.
Even Jessica’s assurance that he was a hack and wrote formulaic and predictable gritty crime novels had done little to restore her belief that she belonged here and had something worthwhile to say. So, she’d gone out for a walk. Cobain was probably tucked into his bed, blissfully unaware that he was a bully. Lori shook her head. Screw that, he was probably rollicking in bed with one or more book bunnies—those gorgeous girls who went from event to event, hoping for a night with a famous author. Lori always thought it was unfair that it was always women looking to snag some sex with a male author. Why couldn’t there be some hunky male equivalent for female authors?
Lori stopped and shook her hands, craned her neck, and did her best to shake off Cobain’s disdainful words. He wasn’t right. He wasn’t. She was good at what she did, and her popularity, sales, and readership all said she was moving in the right direction.So, screw you, Antony Cobain.
Spinning on her heel, Lori headed back to the hotel. Room service should still be available. She thought about being sophisticated and ordering a bottle of good wine along with maybe a charcuterie board. Screw that. She was going to order their blue cheeseburger, onion rings and a Diet Coke. Resolved that she was going to ace her individual talk and the panel discussion, she made her way along the harbor walk.
As she began to climb the stairway, she heard a muffled sound…what she thought might be a cry for help, if she was being fanciful. She turned toward where she thought the sound was coming from. The fog was playing havoc with direction, but she thought she saw some movement down on a moonlit pier that overlooked the tranquil bay. It appeared that someone—a man—was fighting for his life. Lori cried out, and the assailant looked towards her, gave a final, brutal jerk to his intended victim, tossing him aside and jumping into a small speed boat.
Lori pulled out her phone to call 9-1-1 and cursed herself for not checking the battery before leaving her room. There was none. Nothing. The phone was dead as the proverbial doornail. Trying to decide whether or not to try and render assistance was far more complicated than it should have been. If whoever was down there was still alive, she should absolutely try to help.
If, on the other hand, he was dead, being first on the scene might not be the best idea. After all, there didn’t appear to be any other witnesses, and cops could get really pissy if you disturbed anything. She’d learned that lesson at the event in Kennebunkport.
It made far more sense to simply run up the stairs and try and get help. But if he was still alive, rendering aid might be the difference between life and death. She was certified in CPR. Deciding it would be easier to live with her decision if she tried to help, she ran down to the pier, stumbling and twisting her ankle. Reaching the unmoving victim, she said a quick prayer that he was only unconscious and not dead. Her prayer was not answered when she shifted the man to his back and found evidence of no pulse.
It was only then that she recognized the identity of the victim. It was Antony Cobain and he’d been strangled with what appeared to be the ribbon of a vintage typewriter.
* * *
