obituary, then followed it with a slightly longer article about the investigation. Before Oester, no reporter had contacted Bruce.
“Was he working on a novel?” Oester asked.
“Don’t know about that,” Bruce replied. “But most writers are usually working on something.”
“I chatted with his ex-editor at Simon and Schuster, guy said Kerr was jumping ship, looking for a new house, and working on something big.”
“I believe he was still looking. To my knowledge, Nelson was not under contract when he died. He was also between agents.”
“How much do you know about his past, his old days as a lawyer?”
“How much do you know?”
Oester laughed again, nervously. “I tracked down a former colleague out there but the guy said it was ten years ago. Not much, really. I tried his ex-wife, a tough one.”
“Never met her.”
“Is it fair to call him a ‘bestselling author’? I mean, I know that gets thrown around all the time, but did he really sell that many books?”
“He did. All three of his novels hit the lists, the Times and Publishers Weekly. And each book did better than the last. I encouraged him to write more, but he enjoyed travel, sportfishing, life on the beach.”
“A hundred thousand copies each time out?”
“I’d guess. You can find his numbers online.”
“I’ve looked, and I’ve been told those numbers are not that accurate. Did you sell his books?”
“I did. Nelson had a following.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“I’m not saying anything that you might want to print. The state police are investigating, that’s all I can say.”
“Fair enough. Do you know his sister, Polly McCann?”
“I do.”
“Would you ask her to talk to me? She’s hung up twice.”
“No, sorry. Don’t know her that well.”
Oester jumped to his feet and headed for the door. “I’ll be back. Give me a call if you hear something.”
Don’t bet on it. “Sure.”
5.
The boredom ran on unabated as the days finally cooled. The week after his trip to D.C., Bruce welcomed Lindsey Wheat and Polly McCann to Bay Books. They met in his newly renovated office on the first floor, in his First Editions Room, the walls lined with hundreds of autographed books. It was a Saturday morning and for a change the store was busy as young mothers brought in their children for story time upstairs in the café. Normally, Bruce would have been up there among them, sipping cappuccino and flirting with the ladies, but he had important business at hand.
The day before, Polly had met with Wesley Butler at the crime lab and received yet another useless update. Little progress had been made. Indeed, so little that she could not remember anything new. Butler did hand over Nelson’s laptop, desktop, cell phone, and two leather briefcases. He admitted that their tech people had been unable to penetrate the encryption codes Nelson had used. Again, he did not have the presence of mind to ask Polly if she knew anything about her brother’s novel-in-progress. He gave every indication that he wasn’t sure what to do next and was generally not that concerned with solving the crime. And, he made a point of letting her know that he did not want Bruce Cable calling again and sticking his nose into the investigation.
Bruce took this news well. As far as he was concerned, the state police were not a factor and he had already wasted too much time with them.
Lindsey took the thumb drive from Polly, plugged it into her laptop, entered its encryption passcode, and sent its data to her technicians at the home office. She gave it to Bruce and asked him to print three hard copies of the manuscript for their evening’s reading. They were in agreement that it was time to read Nelson’s last masterpiece. The ten-page treatment written by Thomas and Mercer had been useful,