Gilford said, “What?”
“I’m not putting this well. But let’s say you had something of your grandmother’s. Like a mirror. Do you think that mirror possesses some of her soul?”
Gilford drank from his can of Bud Light. “Where might you be going with this, Paul?”
“What if I told you that I’ve come into possession of something, something that has a particularly dark history, and that individuals who used this item, somehow, in a way that I can’t begin to imagine, are trying to communicate with me?”
“I guess I’d say, what the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a long story how it all came to be, but I think I have the typewriter.”
Gilford squinted. “The what?”
“The typewriter. The one Kenneth . . . the one he made Catherine and Jill write their apologies on.”
Gilford studied him. “You don’t say.”
Paul nodded.
“That’d be quite something.”
“Yeah,” Paul said.
“And what makes you think this typewriter you’ve got is that very typewriter?”
Paul licked his lips, which had gone very dry. “Well, to begin with, it’s the same kind. And Kenneth’s typewriter was never found by the police. So it’s at least possible that this is the same one.” He paused. “I’ve been finding messages in it. Words on sheets of paper that I’ve left rolled in. Asking why Kenneth did it.”
Gilford leaned forward. “And who’s doing the asking?”
“Catherine and Jill.”
“Well,” Gilford said. “That’s nothing short of amazing.”
Paul waited to see whether he had more to add. When it appeared he did not, Paul asked, “You have any thoughts or questions?”
He nodded very slowly. “I do.”
Paul edged forward in his seat. “Okay.”
“All you have to do is look around here and you can tell I’m not doing so well. I’m not like one of those nutcases you see on an episode of Hoarders who seems oblivious to their surroundings. I know this is a pigsty. I am aware that I’m living in a hellhole. The thing is, I don’t give a flying fuck. I haven’t given a shit about anything since that son of a bitch took Catherine away from me. I know the clock is running out on me before I drink myself to death one night or leave something on the stove and burn this place down or maybe one night I just take out that gun I’ve got in the bedroom dresser and blow my brains out, which is something I give some thought to every single fucking day. It would certainly spare me the humiliation of being that crazy person you see wandering the street pushing a shopping cart full of everything they own.”
Gilford Lamb paused to take a breath, then continued. “But never, not once in these last eight months, have I had a notion as ridiculous as the one you just came up with. As bad as things have been for me, I’ve never lost touch with reality. But that, my friend, sounds like what’s happened with you, and you have my sympathy. I know you’ve been through a lot, too. What I’d suggest, before it’s too late, is that you get help, that you find someone to talk to about this, because I’m guessing you got hit harder in the head than you realize.”
“I am talking to someone about this,” Paul said.
“A neurologist, I hope.”
“Him, too.”
Gilford nodded slowly. “Well, that’s a good thing, no doubt about it. It’s been a pure delight having you drop by, Paul, even though I still don’t understand quite why you did. If, the next time you’re driving by, you get the urge to visit me again, I hope you won’t be offended if I ask you now to just keep on going.”
Thirty-Three
Paul was lucky to catch Angelique Rogers when he did.
Paul hadn’t needed to look up an address for the West Haven political science professor. A launch for a book she had written about women in the Civil War had been held at her place a couple of years ago, and Paul and Charlotte had attended. A local bookseller was hawking copies, and Paul had bought one. Paul had embraced the idea of a book that examined the role of women during that period in the country’s history, but the academic writing style had made it a tough slog. He hadn’t been able to make it through the first chapter. The book had sat, ever since, on his study shelf, unread, and while he’d told Angelique he’d thoroughly enjoyed it, he lived in fear she would ask him which chapter was his favorite.
She lived on Park Boulevard in Stratford in a sprawling ranch house with flagstone-style siding. On the other side of Park was a narrow strip of land, and then Long Island Sound. It was a stunning view, Long Island itself nothing more than a sliver of land on the horizon.
There was a green SUV in the driveway, tailgate open. The cargo area was half-filled with luggage and bags. As Paul turned into the drive, Angelique came out of the house dragging a small, wheeled suitcase. Her eyes widened with surprise as she spotted him getting out of his Subaru.
“Paul,” she said. “Oh, my.”
There was still a trace of her French accent. She had told Paul her history once, about moving to America from Paris when she was only ten. Her parents had both been offered teaching positions at Cornell University. When she spoke, it was evident she was not from around here, but several decades removed from France had made it difficult to pinpoint her origins. She was a petite woman with gray-blond hair that hung in wisps over her eyes.
He waited for her around the back of the car and reached for the case when she got there.
“Let me,” he said.
He grabbed the case and tucked it into the back.
“Thank you,” she said, “although don’t be offended if Charles rearranges it. He packs the trunk like it’s a game of Tetris.”
Charles, Paul recalled, was not the name of her former husband. Angelique caught his blank expression and smiled. “My new boyfriend. We’ve rented a place in Maine for the next three weeks.”
“Sounds fantastic,” Paul said.
“You look well,” she said.
He wasn’t so sure about that, but he accepted the compliment with a shrug. “Forgive me for showing up unannounced.”
She smiled. “No one comes along here by accident. I’m a bit off the beaten path.”
He nodded. “No, it’s not an accident.”
Paul told her, as briefly as he could, about his project but this time leaving out anything to do with the typewriter.
“So you’re trying to figure out what makes Kenneth tick,” she said.
“In a nutshell. You told the newspaper you were surprised.”
“Who wasn’t surprised? He is an enigma, our Kenneth. He cast his spell over me for a while. I never thought I’d be the kind to—”
A tanned, trim, silver-haired man in shorts came striding out of the house. “What happened to you?” he called out to Angelique. “There’s still the food to—”
He stopped when he saw that she was talking to someone. “Oh, sorry.”
Angelique introduced Charles and Paul to each other. While she mentioned Paul was a colleague, she did not get into what had happened to him.
“I bought this car from Charles,” Angelique said.
He smiled. “She came into the dealership, and I thought, I don’t care if I sell this woman a car, but I definitely want her phone number.”
“Love, just start filling the cooler with the stuff on the right side of the fridge,” she said.
If Charles understood he was being dismissed, he offered no clue. “Sure. Nice to meet you, Paul.”
Paul nodded. As Charles went back into the house, Angelique said, “If there’s something you want to ask, now’s your chance.”
“Tell me about him.”
She cast an eye out over the sound. “Like I said, an enigma. He was a charmer. Did you know he wrote poetry?”
“I’d heard,” he said.
“I’d sometimes find, in my interoffice mail, or under my door, a short poem he’d typed up. Little love poems.” She grinned. “Quite terrible, actually.” She gave Paul a knowing smile. “I would imagine an English professor would be better at that sort of thing, but Kenneth, well, there’s not a lot of romance attached to math and physics. But he tried.”