Finally he led Lowell to the garage. The man had done a good job organizing and preserving artifacts. Boxes were labeled and stacked by year. Guest Registers. Correspondence. Business Records. Receipts. Tax Returns. Mementos.
Lowell asked the obvious first question: Had anyone found a manuscript that a guest might have left behind years ago?
“No, no.” A grimace. “I would have remembered that. Great exhibit in the museum. Just think about it. But feel free to browse.” Wilkins nodded toward the hundred or so boxes, and then retired to the corner where he began to lovingly polish a pair of antique candlesticks.
Lowell started on the boxes for 1966 and 1967. He flipped open the lid and began rifling carefully through the papers.
He learned that Edward Goodwin had indeed been a frequent guest there throughout the entire time that the sequel would have been written. He’d taken the same room, 2B, and paid in advance for several weeks at a time.
Yet nothing suggested the existence of any manuscript he was working on or gave the names of people or places that might have helped in Lowell’s search. An hour later, his back aching, he was about to take a break when he glanced down at a carbon copy of a letter dated in the fall of ‘67.
The letter from the then owner of the inn was addressed to Lowell’s own father.
September 28, 1967
Robert Lowell, Esq.
751 Seventh Avenue
New York, NY
Dear Mr. Lowell,
I was given your name as the attorney representing the estate of the late Mr. Edward Goodwin by his publishing company. First, let me offer my condolences upon the loss of Mr. Goodwin. He was a regular and revered guest here and we all feel his loss most deeply. May I say too that Cedar Hills Road was one of my favorite books and I am honored to have a copy he — most graciously — inscribed to me and my family.
Now for the reason I’m writing: just after Mr. Goodwin passed, a large box arrived here, addressed to him. The return address was Statesville, Penn. As it was marked personal, we didn’t feel it proper to open the carton. I am forwarding it herewith, in hopes you will make certain his family receives it.
Very truly yours,
Hanley K.C. Beaumont, Proprietor,
The Hudson House Inn
Asheville, NC
The address was the same building on Seventh Avenue where Lowell’s present office was located. He read the letter again. Why does Statesville sound familiar? He thought for a moment; it seemed to have to do with the Jon Coe story. He pulled out his phone and placed a call to Samuel Coe, the prisoner’s brother. He explained what he’d found and asked about the name Statesville. Coe confirmed that it was both the name of the prison and the small suburb of Pittsburgh where the place was located. Perhaps it was where Goodwin had stayed during the months of interviewing Jon. Lowell thanked him and disconnected.
Keep going, Lowell prodded himself. What could be in the box? Notes from Jon Everett Coe for Goodwin’s true-crime story? Materials Goodwin had shipped to himself from Statesville? Or had the prison officials themselves sent something the author had left behind?
He called his assistant. After Frederick had explained what he’d found, Caitlin said, “I’ll take a look at Mr. Lowell’s archives.” Frederick was “Frederick,” to Caitlin. Robert was and would forever be “Mr. Lowell.”
Lowell waited for no more than three minutes when she came back on the line. “I think I’ve found something.”
“Go ahead.” Taking more deep breaths.
“In the fall of ’67 there are a half-dozen letters from your father to Stoddard Goodwin, reminding him he’d received a box of personal material from North Carolina and he wanted to forward it to him. He never responded and Mr. Lowell apparently gave up.”
Just like the son didn’t care about any of his father’s other personal effects.
Bad memories...
Lowell said quickly, “Which means the box might be in the file room downstairs.”
A pause. “You want me to go check?”
“Would you mind?”
“The basement,” she said.
“Would you mind?” he repeated.
The cellar was filthy, filled with dirt and dust far worse than the worst grit you’d find in the office proper.
“I’ll put on my miner’s hat.”
“You’re wonderful, my dear.”
They disconnected.
“A lead?” Wilkins asked.
“Possibly.”
Lowell spent the next hour continuing his search but found nothing else.
He thanked Wilkins, donated one hundred dollars to the museum fund, and drove to the hotel where Caitlin had booked a room for him, wondering where he might get a good Southern meal for dinner — with bourbon and without sweet tea.
As he proffered his credit card, the young clerk glanced at her records and told him he’d just received a fax. He took the envelope — the sender’s number was his own office — and ripped it open. The top sheet reported, in Caitlin’s handwriting:
Frederick,
Found the BOX. Pages and pages of notes about some crime, murder trial, witnesses, death penalty, etc. Oh, and at the bottom was something you might be interested in. A manuscript. 540 pages. I’m including the first page.
p. s. I will NEVER get the dirt out from under my nails without an expensive manicure.
Lowell read what followed:
Jesse Anderson turned 18 in May, the age of majority, the age when he was free to make his own decisions, the age when he would soon learn how his anger, not his heart, would become his principal guide.
The Anderson family had by then
This move alone might seem to be the reason to engender fury within the soul of the youngest Anderson son (though it would soon be