All the Beautiful Lies(39)

“Ackerson’s Rare Books.” It was a female voice.

“Is Ron available?”

“Let me check. Can I ask who’s calling?”

Harry gave his name, knowing that Ron, phobic sometimes about talking on the telephone, would take the call.

A half minute passed before Ron’s voice said, “Jesus, Harry, I can’t fucking believe it.”

“I know,” Harry said, suddenly happy to hear Ron’s voice. He was a prickly presence, but a constant one. Harry had known him his whole life.

“I left a message for Alice, but I haven’t heard back. You in Maine now? Of course you are. What are they saying? He just slipped and fell and died, just like that?”

“Actually, no. Now they’re saying that maybe he was hit first. That’s what killed him.”

“Like someone killed him? Jesus H. Christ. How do they know all this? Maine CSI, I guess, right? They know who did it?”

Harry told him they didn’t, and that the police had been by to ask him if he knew anyone who might have had a grudge against his father.

“You told them no, I hope. I like to say that your father had few friends but no enemies. I would have said that at the funeral if I’d, if I’d . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. I understand. It was a long way to come.”

“Yeah. Older I get, anything farther than ten blocks seems a long way to go.” Ron was no older than sixty years old, Harry thought, but let it go.

They talked some more. About Alice, and about what might happen to the store up in Maine, then Harry said, “I’ve got a strange question, Ron. Do you know someone named Grace? I don’t know her last name but she knew my dad, and she said she met him down in New York at your—”

“Irish girl with pretty eyes? Her last name’s McGowan. You know the apartment on Third that Jim Mills sold to me for a thousand dollars in 1978? She’s renting that from me.”

“Still?”

“Far as I know. She’s paid up on rent. She’s a nice girl, helped us clear books from the basement when Sandy hit. She did know your dad ’cause he was down here then, as well.”

“Were they close?”

“Were they close? Who? Your father and Grace? I didn’t particularly think so, but it’s not like I was paying attention. Why? Does she say they were?”

“No, no. It’s just that she came to the funeral.”

“No shit. That is a little strange.”

“You think they were having an affair?”

The line was silent for half a second, and Harry could almost hear Ron’s shrug. “Uh, I would say no, but what do I know? Your father and I didn’t talk about that stuff.”

“But do you think it’s a possibility?”

“Harry, I don’t know. Your father seemed like a happy man, but he did come down to New York a lot. She’s a pretty girl, Grace, but she’s no Alice, I’d say.”

Harry wondered for a moment if Ron had ever met Alice, then remembered the time that she’d come down to New York to visit.

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said.

“You need money, Harry?”

“No, no, I’m fine. But I might need some help dealing with this store.”

“Call me anytime, okay? Let me give you my home number, too.”

After writing it down—not surprised that Ron didn’t have a cell phone—Harry asked if Ron knew how to spell Grace’s last name. He wrote that down as well.

After ending the call, he Googled “Grace McGowan.” There were quite a few, but none that seemed to match the person he was looking for. There were still people—even young people—who didn’t have online profiles. He was one of them. Alice was another. His father didn’t have much of one, but he had been profiled years earlier in a New York Times article about selling books in the age of the Internet. He looked him up now, reread the article, and studied the accompanying picture of his father, looking distinguished and handsome in front of a cluttered shelf of books. Like a young Ted Hughes, all strong chin and thick hair. He killed the screen, not wanting to look anymore, but he kept thinking of his father.

Would he have had an affair with a much younger woman in New York? Maybe Harry was biased, but he would have said no if his mother had never died. But maybe his relationship with Alice had soured, or maybe Grace had thrown herself at his father, and he’d simply been unable to resist.

And if he had had an affair, what if Alice had found out about it? How would she react? Would she have followed him on his afternoon walk, waited for him to reach a secluded spot, and hit him with something? It seemed ridiculous, but someone had killed him. Why not Alice? Or for that matter, why not Grace McGowan? Maybe his father had broken off the affair, and she’d followed him to Maine to get her revenge? Harry wondered if there might be some answers to these questions in the house. If Alice had suspected Bill of cheating, she might have hired a private detective to follow him in New York. And if so, there might be some record of it.

Grey Lady was a big house. Before Bill bought it, it had been a bed-and-breakfast, started by a couple that got lonely when their six children all left home. On the second floor alone there were five bedrooms and three bathrooms. The first floor had been renovated at some point so that the modernized kitchen flowed into the dining room, and French doors led into the large front living room with its bay windows. At the back of the house was a wide sunroom, clearly an addition, with views of the barn and down toward the marsh. The two other major rooms on the first floor were Bill’s office and Alice’s office. Bill’s looked more like a storage area than a functioning room; the walls were lined with bookshelves, all filled, and stacks of books covered the floor, creating a strange cityscape in miniature. Bill had left a narrow path through the books that led to the only furniture in the room, a large oak desk, and a faded leather swivel chair that Bill had owned since college. The other office was all Alice, a sunny corner room dominated by a craft table with a sewing machine and stacks of fabric. But there was also a desk in the room, ridiculously neat compared to Bill’s, and that was where Harry decided to look first.