THE STUDY OF SECRETS Read online

  “You didn’t tell your sister or mother?”

  “I did not,” she said, in a tone that put an end to that line of questioning.

  I swerved. “Is Ilse your only sibling?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes, usually so bright, seemed to dim. She surveyed the items on the island. “Let’s set up the rest of this later. The day’s getting away from us, and I am desperate to get back to work.”

  “How’s your book going?”

  “It’s a mystifying snarl of uncertain potential, as usual.”

  When Bibi left, I returned to the study. Unlike the other rooms in the house, which were tidy and sunny, the study was dark, with murky gray wallpaper, a black damask carpet, and heavy curtains on the arched windows made of material so thick that they only opened about a third of the way. The sunlight didn’t have much of a chance to penetrate the gloom.

  When I’d first gone into the room months ago, the task ahead of me was daunting. I’d had to deconstruct mountains of paper, arrange everything by topic, then whittle the material down even more into specific folders. The majority of items were from her professorial life and informative in their own way. Yet it was a thrill to come across papers relating to her novels, such as correspondence with her editor and publisher as well as manuscripts, notes, and galleys. Those discoveries were invaluable for developing my book focused on her fiction, which I hoped would eventually help promote her mysteries to a wider audience.

  Glad to have arrived at the end of the endeavor, I began slipping the folders, in alphabetical order, into the shiny new file cabinets that had been installed below the long row of windows. Previously, Bibi had used the built-in bookshelves on the opposite side to stack papers since there was a separate library, but now that they were empty, she planned to fill them with art pieces. She also intended to update the wallpaper and curtains, lighten up the color scheme. Before long, this study would be transformed.

  Hours later, after I’d filed the last folder, I stood and surveyed the room. It was clean. Sighing happily, I bent forward and reached toward the floor to stretch my back. As I bobbed gently, a glint of something caught my eye. I moved over and knelt down by the vintage mahogany desk by the back window. It was facing away from the view of the large lake surrounded by pines. If this was my office, the first thing I’d do would be to turn it around, give myself something to look at while I worked. But perhaps Bibi found it to be too much of a distraction.

  I peered underneath the desk, using the flashlight from my phone to cut through the shadows, and discovered a long silver key with an elaborately scrolled design on the top. It looked old both in style and patina. I crawled around the desk and saw a lock on the bottom drawer. Holding my breath, I inserted the key, which turned smoothly. The drawer rolled out noiselessly to reveal a thick stack of papers.

  I paused and tapped my finger on the chair. Should I peek? I didn’t want to intrude on anything private.

  Then again, Bibi hadn’t told me that anything was off limits, and she’d been very clear about the fact that the entire study needed to be organized.

  I reached down into the drawer and removed the stack. The first sheet was blank, but the second was typewritten.

  THE SECRETS OF EVERWELL

  By Isabella Dare

  I caught my breath. Was this an Athena Bolt mystery? The title structure followed that of the other three books, and she’d used the Dare form of her name.

  I knew it wasn’t the book she was working on right now—she had mentioned that her current practice was not to print anything out until the first full draft was completed. Otherwise, she said, the pages would “tempt her to fiddle with it too much.”

  In addition, these pages were typed, not printed. I ran my finger lightly over the title, feeling the almost imperceptible dents in the paper. Had this been written at the same time as the other books in the series? Was it unpublished?

  If so, this manuscript, my scholarly self whispered excitedly, could be a major find.

  I was turning carefully to the second page when my phone pinged with a text from Bibi. Do you need any help getting ready for tonight?

  A quick glance at my watch showed that it was only hours from the gathering, and I needed to run to the store for food. With a great deal of regret, I put the manuscript carefully back into the drawer and pocketed the key.

  It would have to wait.

  Chapter 2

  At eight thirty, after the guests had some time to eat, chat, and make themselves comfortable, book club was underway. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Bibi—between setting up the food and arranging flowers, there wasn’t a minute to spare. I had barely managed to take a quick shower, dress in a long black jacket over jeans, and braid my dark wavy hair before the first person arrived. But now we were all in the parlor, everyone had partaken of the refreshments, and it was showtime.

  Bibi invited our guests to take a seat. The Callahans had selected a sapphire palette for this room and filled it with sofas and chairs that had intricately carved wooden frames and rested on slender feet. The curves and scrolls reminded me of the key that was in my pocket. I couldn’t wait to ask about the manuscript after the women left. Once everyone had selected a spot, Bibi welcomed them. She’d traded her lumpy cardigan for a sleek silver duster and added a chunky necklace that shimmered in the lamplight. “We are in for a real treat. Dr. Maclean here wrote the first dissertation ever focused on the work of Isabella Dare. She has spent years turning that study into a book. The depth and breadth of research she has performed makes her—and I’m not exaggerating here—the world’s foremost authority on the subject.”

  “Oh,” I said, startled. “I wouldn’t say—”

  “Oh yes. She is,” Bibi said, then turned to me. “You are, Lila.”

  The guests applauded.

  I greeted the group. The Larks, as they referred to themselves, had become friends in elementary school and remained close into their sixties: Margot Van Brewer worked with the administration at Callahan College; Penelope Salton was one of Bibi’s former English department colleagues; and Gillian Shane had recently retired from her own literary agency. Having met Bibi’s friends at one time or another over the past few months, I was looking forward to hearing what they thought about the book.

  The four women spent a great deal of time together and had that sort of easy sparkle that long-term friendships can possess. They were all strong, smart women who genuinely cared about one another, and they knew how to have a good time. The occasional dinners in which they’d included me had been full of laughter. They had married their high-school boyfriends: Winston Van Brewer, Brody Salton, Hudson Shane, and Jamie Callahan. The latter two men were no longer alive, having been in a car accident years earlier; the group had not only supported each other through that terrible time but also continued to honor their friends with frequent allusions to fond memories.

  “Thank you for those kind words and for hosting us, Bibi.” I picked up my precious copy of The Case of the Wandering Spirit. Out of nowhere, I found myself having to blink back tears at the sight of multiple people holding the book I loved. Because it was an older, out-of-print book from a defunct press, it had taken effort to gather enough copies for all of us to read the novel at once. Thanks to the power of the internet, I’d been able to make that happen. But outside of my dissertation committee, this was the first discussion with a group of others who had read an Isabella Dare book. It was my secret goal to convince a university press to reprint the series, possibly in a scholarly edition that included contextual materials and essays in the back so that many others could read, teach, and enjoy the books. But this evening was a milestone in its own way. I could have wept with joy.

  Summoning my most professional demeanor, I cleared my throat. “Thank you all for coming. If you have a question or thought as we go along, please feel free to share. Shall we begin with initial impressions?”
br />   “Do you mean whether we liked it or not?” Gillian asked, with a nod that set her brown corkscrew curls bouncing. They were collected by a clasp at the back of her neck but sprang out in every direction. Although she was retired, she still dressed as if she were about to attend an important meeting at any minute, favoring tailored suits, scarves, and heels. She reached into the briefcase next to her chair and pulled out an expensive pen and leather-bound notepad.

  I tried again. “Perhaps a list of the issues it raised for you?”

  “Goodness, we don’t usually do that,” Margot said with a throaty laugh and shake of her impossibly red bob. Even if you didn’t know anything about her, you would have guessed that she was once a fashion model. Slim, chic, and seemingly flawless, Margot was perched on the sofa next to Bibi, her back as straight as a board. There was something feline about her features, perhaps a result of whatever plastic surgery magic had erased any hint of wrinkles. She turned her hazel eyes toward me. “Right away, we go around the room and say whether we loved or hated it.”

  “Yes, and it’s always one or the other, Lila. We never seem to feel in the middle about anything,” Penelope said, from a chair near the fireplace. Her large brown eyes, freckles, and often tentative manner had more than once brought to mind a fawn surprised in the woods. She brushed back her faded blonde shoulder-length hair and smiled. “I know there are other discussions to be had, but we do have our traditions.”

  “Let’s start there, then.”

  “You first, Lila?” Penelope asked faintly.

  “Sure. From the beginning, I knew The Case of the Wandering Spirit was extraordinary. It makes use of genre conventions in a way that both affirms and challenges them. Dare’s ability to create and sustain suspense while tending to the complexities of character is absolutely superb.”

  Bibi coughed.

  “Moreover, the author incorporates social critique in an engaging but not preachy manner, which is a difficult feat indeed. Tonight, I hope we’ll be able to dig into why the story works on so many levels.”

  “Good idea,” Margot said. “I’m game to go along with this format as long as we get to say if we liked the book. That’s my favorite part.”

  “Before we go any further, I’ll mention that there are other books in the Athena Bolt series: The Case of the Wandering Spirit, The Raven at the Door, and The Whisper in the Wall. All are fantastic.”

  “There are more books after this?” Penelope applauded. “I can’t wait to read them.”

  “They may be hard to find,” I said. “But they’re well worth the effort.”

  I didn’t mention that Bibi had a copy of each one on her library shelves; she could offer them if she had a mind to do so.

  One by one, they shared their thoughts about the book. Everyone except Bibi—no one appeared to notice that she hadn’t given an opinion—said they had loved it, and I wasn’t surprised. Whenever someone asked me to describe Isabella Dare’s writing, I said it was like Agatha Christie meets Shirley Jackson with a twist. When I brought that up and asked if it was a fair description, the group agreed. We talked about the many Gothic elements, the structure of the mystery, the subversive aspects, and Dare’s masterful creation of suspense.

  Margot fluttered an elegant hand. “What else do you know about Isabella Dare?”

  It was exceedingly difficult not to make eye contact with Bibi.

  I looked down at the book and tried to explain without lying. “The author biography you have on the back cover here, the one that says she ‘lived a quiet life in New York City’ is in fact about as much as can be said about her.” Hearing that tortured sentence emerge prompted me to keep talking in an effort to erase the memory of it as quickly as possible. “The first book came out in the late 1970s, but the press was long gone by the time I found her books, so I couldn’t ask them directly. I reached out to various agents and other publishers in an attempt to rummage up information, but that didn’t go anywhere, either. I also have performed internet searches at various intervals over the years and there’s nothing out there.”

  “But—” Margot began.

  “At all,” I said, firmly. “Nothing.”

  “So you don’t have direct information from the author in your own book, then?” Gillian looked up from her notetaking, confused. “Nothing authoritative?”

  My mind raced. Although it’s not necessary to interview an author for a critical study, I had indeed done so. And Gillian had raised an issue that I hadn’t yet considered: I’d incorporated the author interviews into the revised version of my book that I was planning to submit to a university press. There was no way I could keep the fact that I’d met with Isabella Dare a secret if I quoted them, but we’d never talked about how to handle it if people started asking questions about her current whereabouts.

  An even more chilling thought descended: if she didn’t agree to exist, so to speak, I wouldn’t be able to use her words as support for my claims in the first place.

  “Well...” I drew out the word as long as I could without knowing what I was going to say next.

  Bibi’s eyes met mine. After a long moment, she sighed, rose from the sofa, went to the fireplace, and faced the group. “Okay then. Buckle up, Larks. I will tell you something that cannot leave this room. Invoking the shroud of secrecy. No one hears what I’m about to tell you, including your husbands. Agreed?”

  Each woman silently patted her heart two times, which was something I’d observed them doing before whenever the Larks made a promise. Assured of their pledge, Bibi continued. “I am Isabella Dare.”

  The room went silent.

  Then Margot threw back her head and laughed. “Good one, Bibi.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “She is.”

  There were gasps, and the three women exchanged glances, as if checking for consensus on how to respond.

  Eventually, Margot rolled her eyes. “How about start at the beginning, please?”

  Bibi recounted everything she’d told me earlier about why she’d written the series under the Dare name. By the end, the Larks were staring at her, open-mouthed.

  Margot took a long drink, then set down her glass. “So your whole life, you kept that a secret from us, your best friends?”

  “I didn’t know how to tell you,” Bibi said. “But the books went out of print and I didn’t write any more novels. As time went on, it seemed less and less important. I’m sorry.”

  “We could have been working together this whole time!” Gillian exclaimed, tossing one end of her cheery yellow scarf over her shoulder. “I could have done so much for you.”

  Bibi blew her a kiss. “I appreciate that, dear friend.”

  “Sorry, I’m still processing. You wrote three mysteries?” Penelope asked, in a tone of disbelief.

  “Four,” I heard myself say.

  Bibi twisted her head toward me. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. It was nothing.” I hoped she would leave it at that.

  Instead, she repeated the question.

  The silence in the room pressed in until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Didn’t you write four mysteries?”

  Bibi blinked. “Why do you think that?”

  “I found a manuscript in the study.”

  She looked blank. “In the study? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What was the title?”

  I hesitated, but her focus was intense, and I couldn’t see a way out of it. “Ever-something.”

  Bibi gasped. “The Secrets of Everwell?”

  The reactions were even louder this time, and someone emitted a little scream. The color drained from Bibi’s face. When she started to sway, I jumped up and helped her back to the sofa, where her friends surrounded her, delegating tasks to each other. Soon she was propped up with pillows and people were fanning her.

  I went into the kitchen and ran
cool water over a towel.

  Gillian bustled in a moment later and put the kettle on. “Lila, what can you tell me about the manuscript?”

  “I didn’t read it. It was in a locked drawer in the study.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Locked?”

  “Yes. Oh! That reminds me...” I removed the silver key from my pocket and set it on the counter. “I need to return this to Bibi.”

  Gillian picked it up and examined the design. “Pretty key. Someone could wear this as a necklace.” She pulled out Bibi’s favorite cup and saucer, the one decorated with violets, from the cabinet and set the key down next to them. “I’ll give it to her. I’m bringing in this tea anyway.”

  “That’s kind of you, but—”

  “I insist.” She paused and slipped the key into her own pocket before adding, “No offense, honey, but maybe you should give Bibi a little space right now.”

  Perhaps she was right. Gillian knew her far better than I ever would; if she believed Bibi was upset with me, I should listen.

  And I didn’t blame Bibi one bit. I’d certainly made a mess of things.

  Margot floated in, asking if we needed any help. I gave her the damp towel for Bibi, and she floated out again.

  I placed a spoon and napkin on the small silver tray that Bibi used to carry her tea around the mansion. “Gillian, you don’t think anyone will say anything, do you? I feel awful for blurting out Bibi’s secret.”

  She came around the island and took both of my hands. “Word’s not going to get out. We’ve been close friends for decades—we’re practically sisters—and we keep each other’s secrets. Remember that she chose to tell us about herself because she trusts us. You didn’t betray any confidences. There’s not a safer place in the world where you could have mentioned the book. Don’t worry.”

  Hearing the shrill whistle of the kettle, Gillian dropped my hands and snatched it up. She poured steaming water into the cup, looking thoughtful. “The fourth one hasn’t been published yet, right?”