Twenty-eight

Despite her misgivings, Esther’s raven bouffant and zaftig hips followed me to the entrance of the building. The front door was below street level, so we descended a short flight of stone stairs before entering the narrow vestibule.

Polished brass mailboxes lined one wall, and I counted them up. “Looks like this brownstone’s been divided into six apartments.”

Esther nodded. “If Mr. Scrib’s scribblings can be believed, he lives in apartment 3B.”

“Okay,” I said softly. “Let’s try to get in.”

The interior security door was locked, of course. Esther inserted one of the two keys she’d found. It didn’t fit.

“Try the other,” I whispered.

The second one slipped right into the lock. When she turned it, I heard a click. “We’re in!” she cried.

I shushed her. “We’re only halfway there. Come on…”

Muted gold wallpaper dominated the little lobby. We saw a door to a stairway and a small, wood-paneled elevator standing open. We stepped inside.

The elevator was slow, but nonstop. We found the third floor as quiet and seemingly deserted as the rest of the building. There were two apartments on this floor, A and B.

Apartment B was our destination, but there were no markings on the front door, just a peephole, a doorbell, and a brass nameplate with no name listed.

“I think we better try the doorbell,” I whispered.

We heard the muted ringing, a sound that easily reached us in the silent hallway. I rang two more times with no response.

“There’s nobody home, Boss.”

“Okay, Esther, you’re on.”

Her hand was shaky as she slipped the second key into the lock. She took a deep breath and turned the knob. The door opened.

“It worked,” she whispered. “Now we’re really in.”

No snarling dog or hungry cat greeted us. The apartment was as soundless as the hall. The air felt stale and smelled odd. It was an unpleasant odor, and one I couldn’t identify.

I half expected to find a hoarder’s nest inside with old newspapers scattered about and gibberish-filled notebooks piled to the ceiling. Instead, we entered a cozy luxury apartment with a living room that was clutter-free, almost Spartan.

A French Provincial sofa sat next to an end table that held a stack of books and a brass lamp. The polished hardwood floor shone dully in what little sunlight filtered through a tall, dark-curtained window. There were no cabinets, and the off-white walls were naked except for a series of framed nature prints.

As I opened the curtain for more light, Esther pointed to one of them. “Didn’t I just see that bird art hanging in our second-floor lounge?”

“Good eye, Esther. That’s one of Lynn Bogue Hunt’s pieces. He was a New York artist and, according to Madame, a customer of the Village Blend back when he was creating illustrations for Field and Stream. That’s just a print, like ours. The original would be extremely valuable.”

I continued scanning the room and saw no television, no computer—not even a telephone. I ducked into the adjoining room, a small kitchen, and came back.

“I don’t see or hear any sign of a dog or cat,” I said. “Or monkey behaving badly for that matter, which means Nancy will be disappointed.”

Esther groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“I don’t even see a fish tank or birdcage,” I said. “We’ll need to check the bedroom, too.”

“I’ll do it.” She turned to go but stopped when I reminded her—

“We’re not just looking for a pet named Wacker to save.”

“I know,” she said, “but I feel weird about snooping through Mr. Scrib’s stuff.”

“I understand, but we’re trying to help him. Look for anything that might indicate a family member, maybe a sibling or a child, someone whose name we can pass on to Detective Russell.”

“Do you think that’s who’s paying for him to live at this address? A wealthy relative?”

“Good question. Maybe we can find a rental agreement. The name on it might give us a clue.”

“Hey, what if Mr. Scrib is secretly rich? Lots of really rich people have spent time in psychiatric facilities.”

“That’s true.”

“Or maybe he’s a famous author. Lots of them go crazy, too.”

“Also true. But I don’t recognize the name Jensen Van Dyne as being a famous author, do you?”

“Van Dyne doesn’t ring any literary bells, but there are plenty of authors who hit bestseller lists whose names I wouldn’t recognize. Maybe years ago he was a one-hit wonder. He could have banked big royalties and made some good investments. We should search online. Give me a second—”

Esther pulled out her phone and resumed her thumb dancing, but the only published work she found under Van Dyne’s name was an obscure short story published in Wordsmyth magazine around the time of the original Writer’s Block Lounge. After that, there was (in Esther’s words) “nothing, nada, zip!”

Unwilling to abandon her theory, Esther tapped her chin. “Maybe he wrote under a pseudonym?”

“That’s possible. While I look for next-of-kin info, see what clues you can find.”

“What sort of clues? Give me a clue.”

“An author is likely to keep his own works where he lives, right? If you find a collection of books in this apartment by the same author, it could be his pen name.”

“Unless the author is Stephen King.”

“Right. I doubt he’s James Patterson, either.”

“Speaking of Patterson, Mr. Scrib could be the ghostwriter for a bigger writer. Maybe we’ll find an old contract. Should we look in his desk?”

I followed her pointing finger to the mahogany antique dominating a small nook adjacent to the main room. Next to the desk was a tall bookshelf packed with books.

“You check that bookshelf,” I told her. “I’ll check the desk. There might be a clue to his relatives in here, too.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

Mr. Scrib’s desk had not been gently used. No blotter covered the top, and the wooden surface was scratched and stained with ink. A coffee mug filled with pencils and pens sat on top, next to a sharpener and a huge dictionary, but that was it.

The side drawers were unlocked, and there was nothing in them but more pencils and pens, and lots of blank notebooks. In the top drawer, however, just under the desk surface I hit pay dirt.

Inside was a business letter from a New York publisher with a recent date. Right beneath it sat papers that looked like a legal document with a revealing header—

Author: Jensen Van Dyne

Project: Untitled True Crime