I’ll be living in northern Virginia. You have an office in northern Virginia. Odds are we would run into each other in a restaurant, at the theater one of these days. I didn’t want that.”
I imagined sitting inside the Kennedy Center and spotting Mark three rows ahead whispering into the ear of his beautiful young date. I was reminded of the old pain, a pain once so intense it was physical. He’d had no competition. He had been my entire emotional focus. At first a part of me had sensed it wasn’t mutual. Later, I was sure of it.
“This was my major reason,” he repeated, now the lawyer making his opening statement. “But there’s something else that really has nothing to do with us personally.”
I remained silent.
“A woman was murdered here in Richmond a couple of nights ago. Beryl Madison …”
The look of astonishment on my face briefly stopped him.
“Berger, the managing partner, told me about it when he called me at my hotel in D.C. I want to talk to you about it–”
“How does it concern you?”
I asked. “Did you know her?”
“Remotely. I met her once, in New York last winter. Our office there dabbles in entertainment law.
Beryl was having publishing problems, a contract dispute, and she retained Orndorff & Berger to set things straight. I happened to be in New York on the same day she was conferring with Sparacino, the lawyer who took her case. Sparacino ended up inviting me to join the two of them for lunch at the Algonquin.”
“If there’s any possibility this dispute you mentioned could be connected with her murder, you need to be talking to the police, not to me,” I said, getting angry.
“Kay,” he replied. “My firm doesn’t even know I’m talking to you, okay? When Berger called yesterday, it was about something else, all right? He happened to mention Beryl Madison’s murder in the course of the conversation, said for me to check the area papers, see what I could find out.”
“Right. Translated into see what you could find out from your ex–” I felt a flush creeping up my neck. Ex-what?
“It isn’t like that.”
He glanced away. “I was thinking about you, thinking of calling you up before Berger called, before I even knew about Beryl. For two damn nights I actually had my hand on the phone, had already gotten your number from Information. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And maybe I
never would have had Berger not told me what happened. Maybe Beryl gave me the excuse. I’ll concede that much. But it’s not the way you think …”
I didn’t listen. It dismayed me that I wanted to believe him so much. “If your firm has an interest in her murder, tell me what it is, exactly.”
He thought for a moment. “I’m not sure if we have an interest in her murder legitimately. Maybe it’s personal, a sense of horror. A shock for those of us who had any exposure to her while she was alive. I will also tell you that she was in the midst of a rather bitter dispute, was getting royally screwed because of a contract she signed eight years ago. It’s very complicated. Has to do with Gary Harper.”
“The novelist?” I said, baffled. “That Gary Harper?”
“As you probably know,” Mark said, “he doesn’t live far from here, in some eighteenth-century plantation called Cutler Grove. It’s on the James River, in Williams-burg.”
I was trying to remember what I had read about Harper, who produced one novel some twenty years ago that won a Pulitzer Prize. A legendary recluse, he lived with a sister. Or was it an aunt?
There had been much speculation about Harper’s private life. The more he refused interviews and eluded reporters, the more the speculation grew.
I lit a cigarette.
“I was hoping you’d quit,” he said.
“It would take the removal of my frontal lobe.”
“Here’s what little I know. Beryl had some sort of relationship with Harper when she was in her teens, early twenties. For a time, she actually lived in the house with him and his sister. Beryl was the aspiring writer, the talented daughter Harper never had. His protégé. It was through his connections she got her first novel published when she was only twenty-two, some sort of quasi-literary romance she published under the name Stratton. Harper even conceded to giving a comment for the book jacket, some quote about this exciting new writer he’d discovered. It raised a lot of eyebrows. Her novel was more a commercial book than literature, and no one had heard a word from Harper in years.”