Never, in a million years,” Aviva said as the three women spilled out the front door of Audrey’s apartment building and onto the street. “I mean, I knew she was unstable, but . . .”
“You sure you’re okay?” Norah said, trying to convince herself that she was only concerned about Aviva. But in fact, she had been quite certain Audrey’s anger was directed at all of them.
“I didn’t even know she owned a gun.”
“My dear,” Dorothy Parker said, “people like that always own guns.”
“This woman was my friend.”
Norah stiffened her hand to see if it was still trembling. She took a long, slow breath to calm herself and to connect with the notion that Audrey had wanted only to frighten them. She coughed several times and regained her strength.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Norah said, “I don’t think she actually would have shot you.”
“It doesn’t.”
Norah saw several yellow cabs waiting at the light and stepped off the curb to hail one. “You’ll feel better when you get to your office,” she said, waving toward the traffic.
“Better still,” Dorothy Parker said, “let’s get her a drink.”
“I could use one,” Aviva said, “but I have to get back to work.”
A taxi stopped and Norah opened the door for Aviva.
“Work will be there when you return,” Mrs. Parker said. “I can promise you that.”
Norah held on to the cab door. “I think we’ve taken up enough of her time.”
“In or out,” said the driver.
Aviva scratched her cheek, indecisive, and then let out a breath. “Thanks anyway,” she said to the driver. She shut the door and pointed across the street. “Hamilton’s. They make an old-fashioned you could die for.”
“That has me written all over it,” said Mrs. Parker.
A short while later, they were seated at a dark booth with wooden bench seats. Dorothy Parker made quick work of her gin and tonic and was on her second while Norah and Aviva still nursed their first drinks.
“I can’t believe she did that to me,” Aviva said.
“I must admit,” said Dorothy Parker, “there are people I’ve wanted to kill over the years, but I’ve never had the gumption to pull a gun. I wouldn’t have guessed she had it in her.”
Norah stared. “You’re not actually defending her, are you?”
“Defending? No. But it’s hard not to feel a touch of grudging respect.”
“I feel like she stuck a knife in my back,” Aviva said.
“An odd metaphor for a gun in your face,” Mrs. Parker said.
Aviva looked at her. “I’m talking about the betrayal. She lied to me for more than twenty-five years. And I was always so good to her. I would have done anything for Audrey.”
“She’s very damaged,” Norah said.
“It’s pronounced deranged,” said Mrs. Parker.
Aviva sipped her drink. “I introduced them, you know—Audrey and Ted. I was living downtown and Audrey was friends with my roommate. We got very close. She was always high-strung, but smart and perceptive. Challenging, even.”
“And Pete was your boss?” Norah asked.
Aviva smiled. “An office romance. And Ted was a rising star. He was always kind of boorish, but he was so brilliant we all decided it was part of his charm. So I introduced him to my friend. I thought they made such a great match—you should have seen them together. He doted on her. And she was happier than I ever thought she could be. I felt like some kind of genius for bringing them together. Then when he cheated on her—God, I was furious. How could he do that to someone so fragile? He had to know it would break her. I wanted to wring his neck. And then the plagiarism thing happened and I thought it was just another casualty of his sloppy drinking. But now—”
“Are you inclined to forgive him?” Mrs. Parker asked.
“I don’t know,” Aviva said, and sighed. “It’s complicated. I’ve been furious with him for so long.”
“But he didn’t deserve to have his career destroyed.”
Aviva looked down. “That was unfair to him, unfair to all of us. He was so brilliant. God knows how many more books he could have written. His impact might have been substantial.” She stopped to sip her drink. “Despite everything, I’m a huge fan of his work. I’ve never wavered on that. In my opinion, Ted Shriver has a place among America’s greatest novelists.”
“I read Dobson’s Night at thirteen,” said Norah. “Even then, I understood that he was a genius.”
“All this time I thought he sabotaged his own career, and that enraged me as much as the cheating—that he would deprive us of the books that might have come next. I never dreamed Audrey was capable of such artifice.”
“Hell hath no fury,” Mrs. Parker said.
“I understand fury,” Aviva said. “But she lied to me for so long. In fact . . .” She closed her eyes. “That vague memory is getting sharper. I think I tried to suppress it all these years.”
Norah leaned forward. “Were you involved in the publication of Settlers Ridge?”
Aviva nodded. “I was Pete’s assistant then. Nothing was electronic in those days, of course, and I was responsible for logging in the manuscripts. Somehow I got the wrong copy of that one. No wait, it was Audrey who told me I got the wrong manuscript. That’s it—that’s what happened!” She sat up straighter, closing her eyes to picture it. “I remember now. Audrey called and said that Ted had accidentally sent the wrong version and would I please throw it out, because she was going to send the final manuscript over by messenger.” She opened her eyes. “That must have been when she planted the paragraphs.”
“She played you, my dear,” said Mrs. Parker.
“I never imagined—” Aviva said.
“I wish we could compare the two manuscripts,” Norah said. “That would give us proof.”
Aviva looked absently at her bracelet watch. “Maybe we can,” she mumbled.
“What?”
She stared straight at Norah. “I saved a lot of manuscripts back then—especially if I thought the author might have historical significance one day. It wasn’t even for the value. I just had this romantic notion that I was a part of literary history and had a . . . duty.”
“Wait,” Norah said. “You saved both of those manuscripts?”
“I don’t know,” Aviva said. “I might have.”
“My dear,” Dorothy Parker said, “you could turn out to be the hero of this tale.”
“Do you know where they would be?” Norah asked.
“We have a house in Connecticut. I put all those things in the attic. I haven’t looked at any of it for years. It’s so dark and dusty I never go up there. I can’t even remember what we ditched and what we kept.”
“When can you check?” Norah said.
“Pete and I are supposed to go there next month.”
“We might not have that much time,” Norah said.
“I don’t think I can get up there any sooner,” said Aviva. “I’m presenting an award tonight, and tomorrow I have a meeting I just can’t postpone. Then I’m off to London for a week.”
“We’ll go,” said Mrs. Parker.
Aviva looked at her. “What?”
“Norah and I. We can leave immediately.”
“You want me to give you the keys to my house?”
“Why not?”
Aviva pursed her lips.
“Do we look like criminals?” Dorothy Parker said.
Norah’s right knee shook in excitement. She imagined shining a flashlight into a dusty attic and coming across the treasure of a lifetime. She put a hand on Aviva’s arm. “Please,” she said. “I promise we won’t touch a thing except for those manuscripts in the attic. You can trust us. I . . . I’ve been a fan of Ted Shriver’s almost all my life. I wouldn’t do anything to—”
“Okay, okay,” said Aviva. “What the hell.”
“You’ll give us your house key?” Norah asked. She was excited.
“Sure.”
“And directions?”
“Of course.”
Norah paused and swallowed. “Just one more thing,” she said, and looked into Aviva’s face, hoping to convey how trustworthy she was.
Norah hunched her shoulders apologetically. “We don’t have a car.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I live in Brooklyn. I take the subway.”
Aviva shook her head, and Norah wondered if she had pushed too hard. But the woman opened her purse, put cash on the table and stood. “Let’s go,” she said.
“Where to?” Norah asked.
“I need to show you where my BMW is parked.”