Fifty-five

It was Esther who found the lever to pry open Addy’s tight lips.

“Didn’t you say that your granddaughter is a writer?” she asked. “And that she’s checking out our new Writer’s Block Lounge this very day?”

“That’s right, Esther.”

“Well, for her sake, you should share whatever you remember about that first group.” Esther glanced at me. “We want to make it a success, right, Boss?”

“Yes, we do,” I said. “And knowing what worked and what didn’t all those years ago will be a big help to us.”

Addy hemmed and hawed a moment, refilled her glass, and finally said, “To be honest, ladies, only the serious writers made an impression on me, and less than half were truly dedicated to the craft of writing. The rest struck me as, I’m sorry to say, dilettantes. They didn’t do the work required, though they enjoyed the idea of being a writer; of making a living or even a fortune on flights of creative fancy; of being admired, gaining prestige; or maybe simply finding an escape from the daily grind of conventional life.”

“Well, I understand the need to escape the confinement of the conventional,” Esther said. “Ray Bradbury once wrote that ‘you must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.’ ”

“Apropos, since some of those members were simply drunk,” Addy added flatly. “As far as the functioning of the group, there were no set rules. We took turns reading our work and everyone offered their suggestions, but mostly it was a social gathering. We traded opinions on books we read, on films we saw, and the news of the day. At most get-togethers, the coffee turned Irish the moment it was served. Someone even concocted a signature spiked coffee for the group. We had a name for it, but I can’t quite remember…It began with a K, I think.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Was the drink, by any chance, Kismet?”

“That’s it!” Addy blinked. “Goodness, Clare, how could you know?”

“Jensen Van Dyne mentioned it.”

Addy’s face blanched. Was it my reference to Mr. Scrib? Or the connection of the man with the Kismet drink?

In the throes of his breakdown at our shop, he had shouted a frantic and cryptic warning never to touch the stuff. I’d dismissed his ravings as part of his mental instability, but after seeing Addy’s reaction, I didn’t hesitate to press forward.

“Speaking of Jensen Van Dyne, would you share what you remember about him? Did you think he was a ‘serious’ writer, as you put it?”

Addy’s frozen expression melted a little. “Yes. Jensen was serious and quite dedicated to his work. Every writing group has their star, and Jensen was ours. He was a sweet, unassuming young man who was always quoting the great poets.”

Esther leaned forward. “Why was he a star?”

“Jensen’s first fiction was published in Wordsmyth, which was prestigious enough. But then his story was selected for its annual Best Short Stories anthology. We all admired Jensen’s talent, his success, too—some to the point of jealousy.”

“Jealousy? Who was jealous of him?”

Addy shook her head. “We were all a little jealous of each other—for various reasons. Human nature, dear.”

“More like the nature of high school,” Esther said. “If you’re evolving as a human being, you outgrow that kind of thing.”

“Exactly,” Addy shot back. “Maybe you ought to remember that for your new writers’ lounge. Ambitious people can be jealous. And the young are the most ambitious of all because they haven’t had time to accomplish much. Watch out for their jealousy. It can be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” I sat up a little straighter. “Addy, did you know that Mr. Van Dyne is in the hospital because someone attacked him in our alley?”

Addy looked taken aback. “My goodness, no, I didn’t, Clare. Is he all right?”

“We don’t know yet, but we’re trying to find out who attacked him.”

“That’s very distressing news. Please let me know if I can help in any way.”

“You can,” I said, “by answering more questions.”

“I don’t understand. How will that help you find his attacker?”

“I think it may have had something to do with the original Writer’s Block Lounge.”

“That’s quite a leap. I don’t see it.”

“Did you know that Mr. Van Dyne has an apartment in the same building, and on the same floor, as your nephew Ethan Humphrey?”

That also appeared to catch Addy by surprise. “That’s quite a coincidence, Clare. Are you certain?”

“We visited Jensen’s apartment ourselves,” Esther said. “I found the keys in the notebook he left at the Village Blend. He wrote in it every day, and I’m keeping it safe for him—until he gets out of the hospital.”

“A notebook?” Addy frowned. “How very interesting.”

I pushed again. “So, Addy, have you had any contact with Mr. Van Dyne recently?”

“No, Clare. I didn’t even know he was out of the…facility.”

“Then you knew about his condition?”

“That Jensen was institutionalized for a number of years? Yes, I knew. The poor man always had emotional issues. When I first met him, he was mourning an unrequited love.”

Esther leaned forward. “Was her name Juliet, by any chance?”

“Juliet?” Addy echoed, looking surprised again. “Where did you come up with that name?”

“In Mr. Scrib’s poetry. When we visited his apartment, we found notebooks filled with beautiful handwritten poems. Many of them were either about, or dedicated to, someone named Juliet.”

Addy waved a dismissive hand. “I can’t help you.”

“Are you sure?” Esther pressed. “What about the other women in the group? Were any of them named Juliet?”

“No,” Addy said. “And none of those frivolous girls would have made a lasting impression on him.”

“Well, this girl, whoever she was, must have had something going for her, if Mr. Scrib—I mean Jensen—loved her.”

Addy shook her head, focusing on her food. “Jensen is a romantic, Esther. He always was. If you want my opinion, Juliet is nothing more than a fantasy, like Dante’s Beatrice. A relic of courtly love delusions. A metaphor for Shakespeare, poetry, and the arts he loves so much…”

We were on a roll now, and I didn’t want to lose momentum. “Addy, I took some screenshots of pictures in Mr. Van Dyne’s photo album. Would you mind looking at them? They might jog your memory.”

Addy didn’t move a muscle, but I did.

Reaching for my phone, I hoped for the best.