Miss Me When I'm Gone

chapter 15



I started mining Gretchen’s Word files from Gregor on the following day—Sunday. In all of the files, there were only a couple under the name Accidentally on Purpose.

“Damn it, Gretchen!” I said. “How could you leave me hanging like that?”

I tried for files named My Favorite Lies—the other title given to me by Gretchen’s agent—but found none.

Then I searched all of Gretchen’s Word documents for Keith and didn’t find anything besides what I’d already read. I also tried Paternity and DNA and still no new files came up.

I glanced over at her crate of notebooks. If Gretchen had gotten a test done, surely she would have written about it. Maybe not typed it in—but written about it, at least. What to do next? Flip through all of her notebooks, scanning for the name “Keith”?

I didn’t feel like doing that just now, but maybe soon.

Giving up on that subject temporarily, I tried her Recent documents, just to see what was there. I opened the most recently saved file, which was named Library Talk 3.



Thanks for the great introduction, Ruth, and thanks for having me. It’s great to still have opportunities to talk about Tammyland. Now, I wanted to start with a piece about Tammy Wynette. But before I do, I’d like to talk a little bit about her. People always ask me how a person my age, who never heard any country music growing up, who went to a granola-crunchy liberal-arts college, could possibly become such a big fan of hers. And I always answer . . .



I clicked the file closed. I didn’t think Gretchen would want me reading this. There was something embarrassing about it—how self-conscious it was. After all her success and surely about a hundred readings, she was still nervous before a little library book talk.

The next file was called Emerson 1985. It contained only these lines:



YOU TURNED OUT PRETTY SMART.

SMARTER THAN I THOUGHT YOU WOULD.



And then, underneath that:



Dr. Henry Platt—Pediatrician at Emerson Pediatric Group—Died 1984

Replaced by Dr. Katherine Wright—1986

I paused there for a moment, finding the file’s brevity and incongruous contents unsettling. Then I closed it and opened the third-most-recent document, which was called Tracy Draft Letter:



Dear Tracy,



I apologize for my late response on this.

I am sorry to have to tell you that I am far from finishing My Favorite Lies, in no small part because I am having a personal family crisis. I am not in a position to rush to the finish line at the moment. I hope we can work something out—like postponing my pub date.



Respectfully,

Gretchen

Personal family crisis? Was it true? Or just Gretchen trying to buy herself more time? Based on her most recent Word documents, it felt like not a great deal of actual writing was going on. The addition of personal to family crisis smacked a little of desperation. I checked the date on the document. About a week before Gretchen died. I wondered if she’d actually brought herself to e-mail this.

I switched to her e-mail account and signed in easily as Gregor had instructed me.

I searched the account for Tracy. The most recent message was from Tracy:



Dear Gretchen,



I really need to know the status of My Favorite Lies. Bonnie’s talking cancellation of contract if we don’t give her something. I’m sure we can work this out, but we need communication from you.

I don’t want to alarm you, but I do need to hear from you. Call me when you get this. I will be up till eleven at least—you can call me anytime you get in.

I hope everything is all right.



All best,

Tracy

That was about two and a half weeks before Gretchen’s death. As far as I could tell, Gretchen had not replied.

I returned to her recent e-mails and glanced through them, starting with the day she died. There wasn’t much that day besides junk mail and a last-minute confirmation with the librarian, who promised to provide wine and cheese. I wondered how much wine Gretchen had had after her talk—on top of her likely prereading drink. I sighed and looked at the previous few days’ e-mails. A friendly e-mail from an old coworker, asking Gretchen what was new. Something from a book club in Florida. A couple of days before that:



Hey Gretchen,



Are you coming up to Emerson again this weekend? The spring carnival is happening Fri-Sun. Interested in coming along with me? Some real townie culture there that I thought you’d like to soak up for your book!



Cheers,

Kevin

Of course, I didn’t know who Kevin was, but obviously he was some guy she’d met during her research trips to Emerson. I wondered how old he was, and if he had any connection to her research. And I was always wary of people who signed their e-mails with “Cheers.” I scanned Gretchen’s recent e-mails for more correspondences with him.

Two weeks earlier he’d written: Really great to see you again. Let me know the next time you’re in town—would love to talk to you again.

I didn’t see anything else recent. When I did a search of all of her e-mails, I found only one more—a much more formal one, from about six weeks earlier:



Dear Ms. Waters,



I’d be happy to speak with you. Tuesdays and Thursdays after six work best for me, but if it must be on a weekend, let me know and maybe we can work something out.



Kevin Conley



His note was a response to a similarly formal one from Gretchen, stating that she was researching Shelly Brewer’s murder and requesting an interview with him. I scribbled down Kevin Conley as a possible contact.

Looking again at her more recent e-mails, I saw that Gretchen had also been in touch with Jeremy about a week before her fall.

I’m glad you called me, Jeremy had written. Thanks for letting me know. I don’t know how I feel about it, but I’m glad you let me know. I’m glad to hear you’re making headway with your book.

There’s still a lot of time to work something out, Gretchen had replied. We’ll talk again.

How odd, I thought, that Gretchen was ignoring her agent’s e-mails but meanwhile giving Jeremy the impression that her book was going well. Maybe it was just pride—wanting her ex to think her life was going swimmingly. Or maybe she was telling him something about the book others didn’t know—Gregor had certainly suspected as much.

I wrote a quick e-mail to Jeremy, explaining to him a little about the situation—how I’d recently gotten Gretchen’s manuscripts and files from Mrs. Waters and Gregor—and saying I’d like to chat with him soon, as we’d discussed.

Then I went back to Gretchen’s e-mail account and searched for Judy and Diane. It seemed they were experts on Keith and Bruce and the paternity question, so I figured they ought to be useful. Gretchen had had some e-mail communication with Judy. Most recently, Judy had written to Gretchen:



Hi Gretchen, When are you coming to Emerson next? Would love to see you again, have you for dinner if you’re not too busy! Been missing you! Diane tells me she saw you at Subway. I didn’t even know you were here last weekend. I hope you are well and making great progress on your book. Judy



Before that, Judy and Gretchen’s communication had been brief and conversational, usually regarding Gretchen’s comings and goings in Emerson, invitations to meet for coffee or have meals at Judy’s.

I copied Judy’s e-mail address into my own laptop and wrote her a message, introducing myself as Gretchen’s friend, explaining that I’d been asked to get Gretchen’s manuscripts in order and would like to chat with her about Gretchen’s recent “research.” (I didn’t know what else to call it.) I gave her my cell number and asked her to call me if she was willing to talk. Then I did the same for Kevin Conley.

Sam knocked on the door as I was finishing up the message. His basketball game was apparently over.

“What’s up, Madhat?” he asked. I hadn’t heard this nickname in weeks, maybe months. There was a lightness to his step, a little smile on his lips. His team must’ve won.

“Oh . . . just trying to figure out what was going on with Gretchen. Just like yesterday.”

“Anything new?”

I tossed the notebook onto the floor.

“Not really,” I said. “Although she was apparently chatting it up with Jeremy lately.”

“Jeremy? Really? That’s weird.”

“Kind of, yeah. I’m gonna write to him and get the scoop on that.”

“Well, tell him I said hi. Um, anyway. I was thinking. You want to go shopping?”

“For what?”

“You mentioned a couple of weeks ago a baby registry, or something?”

“Oh. I forgot about that.” “A couple of weeks ago” meant “before Gretchen died.”

“Your mother just sent me an e-mail. She and some of your friends are cooking up some shower plans. I don’t think I’m telling anything I’m not supposed to by saying that. I think they think I’m a bad guy for not making you do it sooner. Probably we should go now. Or tonight.”

I glanced at Gretchen’s notebooks, and then back at Sam. I didn’t want to pull myself away from Gretchen for Babies “R” Us. It’s not that I didn’t want my son to have a Björn or a swing or a hemp layette set. Maybe it was presumptuous of me to think so, but I was pretty certain he’d be okay without them.

“Well, right now I’m kind of busy,” I said, staring at Gretchen’s open e-mail account.

“Please, Jamie.”

I looked up at him, startled by the pleading in his voice.

“Last time we went to Babies ‘R’ Us, I couldn’t get my head to stop spinning. I left feeling like I’d just ridden a pink-and-baby-blue Gravitron for an hour or two.”

“Gravitron?”

“You know . . . that amusement-park ride that spins you around and you stick to the wall?”

“Yeah. And the floor drops out?”

“Yeah. That’s the one.”

“Maybe that’s how new parenthood is supposed to feel,” Sam said. “Like the floor’s dropping out.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, closing my laptop. “Not really being a new parent yet. But that’s very poetic.”

“Yup.” Sam rubbed his eyes. “Your mom is about ready to come here and drag you out to the mall herself. She’s forty-eight hours away from that, I swear to you.”

I sat up and shrugged, not quite ready to pull myself off the bed.

“It’ll be fun. We’ll run around the store with that little magic wand, scan a diaper pail, a high chair. Whatever looks good. Then bring back anything we change our minds about. No pressure.”

I stood up. “Okay. Just give me a second to find something to wear.”