are on tall bookshelves downstairs, grouped by subject and alphabetized. Because a kitchenette and tiny bathroom are hidden in the back, I sometimes fantasize about abandoning the house altogether and moving in here.
I wrapped a few book orders and packed them in bubble envelopes to mail out, and then picked up some signed art catalogs I had bought from a gallery owner's estate. He had been friends with everyone, from Thomas Hart Benton and Georgia O'Keefe to John Marin and Jackson Pollock. Signed books and catalogs have a magic all their own. They have been physically touched by the artists and the sense of greatness still lingers around them.
Yet before I settled down to work, I went to the Newsday Web site to see if there had been any story about Lily. There was. A photograph showed her standing in front of a display case of small carved netsuke figurines at the Met; her arm was out, head tilted, as if she had whipped them up herself. The story again described how she died. But this time the reporting hinted at discrepancies in the scenario which the police would not disclose until the autopsy was complete. Discrepancies in the way she had died? Or whether she had done it herself?
Now I was intrigued. What actor had she been married to, anyway?
I made an espresso in the kitchenette, and then settled back down at the computer.
I typed actor and Carlyle into Google, and the usual thousands of references materialized. The one obvious choice was Robert Carlyle from Trainspotting. He was the right age. But as far as I could see, he had never left Scotland and London for very long, and his one ongoing marriage was to someone else. Next I tracked down the actors Francis Carlyle and Jack Carlyle, both of whom had died before Lily was born. A John Carlyle seemed more promising, though thirty years older than Lily. But he had died in 2002, and my sense from Margaret was that he was still alive.
Lily, I knew, had been born in 1964, and I seemed to remember that her birthday was sometime in the fall. If Carlyle was her married name, then she had been born Lily Weller. Possibly Lillian, but that name seemed too old-fashioned. Try Lily first.
Going back to the Google search, I typed in Lily Weller 1964, using quotation marks to screen out other information. Nothing. I removed the date and the quotation marks and found a Lily Weller born in July 1893 in Adams, Massachusetts, and one registered to vote in London in 1945. I had even less luck with Margaret Weller, though in the Mormon genealogical database I found a Margaret Joyce Weller born May 4, 1953. But she had died on December 14, 1979 in Nebraska.
Google also listed a number of the articles Lily had written on her specialty of Oriental art. But I did not think they would tell me anything and most were viewable only by paid subscription. I recognized that I was avoiding the most tedious part of my bookselling job; checking the number of pages of each book, deciding whether their condition could be called "Fine" or only "Good" or even "Fair," and listing their faults in detail. Then I had to skim them to write a quick synopsis of what they were about.
When the phone rang at 6:45 P.M. I looked over at the caller ID display, and then let the machine in the house pick up. This was a holiday, after all; no one would expect me to be home working.
At eight o'clock, I returned to the house to heat up a Lean Cuisine pizza and listen to my message.
"Delhi? This is Patsy. I want to know what you meant when you said that Colin had moved out. What do you mean, he moved out? Is he on sabbatical somewhere, or is this permanent? I looked for you, but you had already gone. Call me back!"
Cutting the pizza circle into four pieces, I thought about the different ways you can say the same words. You can express sympathy and concern. You can sound excited, hoping for the inside dirt. Or you can demand answers in a tone that suggests that the person you are calling has, once again, screwed
I wrapped a few book orders and packed them in bubble envelopes to mail out, and then picked up some signed art catalogs I had bought from a gallery owner's estate. He had been friends with everyone, from Thomas Hart Benton and Georgia O'Keefe to John Marin and Jackson Pollock. Signed books and catalogs have a magic all their own. They have been physically touched by the artists and the sense of greatness still lingers around them.
Yet before I settled down to work, I went to the Newsday Web site to see if there had been any story about Lily. There was. A photograph showed her standing in front of a display case of small carved netsuke figurines at the Met; her arm was out, head tilted, as if she had whipped them up herself. The story again described how she died. But this time the reporting hinted at discrepancies in the scenario which the police would not disclose until the autopsy was complete. Discrepancies in the way she had died? Or whether she had done it herself?
Now I was intrigued. What actor had she been married to, anyway?
I made an espresso in the kitchenette, and then settled back down at the computer.
I typed actor and Carlyle into Google, and the usual thousands of references materialized. The one obvious choice was Robert Carlyle from Trainspotting. He was the right age. But as far as I could see, he had never left Scotland and London for very long, and his one ongoing marriage was to someone else. Next I tracked down the actors Francis Carlyle and Jack Carlyle, both of whom had died before Lily was born. A John Carlyle seemed more promising, though thirty years older than Lily. But he had died in 2002, and my sense from Margaret was that he was still alive.
Lily, I knew, had been born in 1964, and I seemed to remember that her birthday was sometime in the fall. If Carlyle was her married name, then she had been born Lily Weller. Possibly Lillian, but that name seemed too old-fashioned. Try Lily first.
Going back to the Google search, I typed in Lily Weller 1964, using quotation marks to screen out other information. Nothing. I removed the date and the quotation marks and found a Lily Weller born in July 1893 in Adams, Massachusetts, and one registered to vote in London in 1945. I had even less luck with Margaret Weller, though in the Mormon genealogical database I found a Margaret Joyce Weller born May 4, 1953. But she had died on December 14, 1979 in Nebraska.
Google also listed a number of the articles Lily had written on her specialty of Oriental art. But I did not think they would tell me anything and most were viewable only by paid subscription. I recognized that I was avoiding the most tedious part of my bookselling job; checking the number of pages of each book, deciding whether their condition could be called "Fine" or only "Good" or even "Fair," and listing their faults in detail. Then I had to skim them to write a quick synopsis of what they were about.
When the phone rang at 6:45 P.M. I looked over at the caller ID display, and then let the machine in the house pick up. This was a holiday, after all; no one would expect me to be home working.
At eight o'clock, I returned to the house to heat up a Lean Cuisine pizza and listen to my message.
"Delhi? This is Patsy. I want to know what you meant when you said that Colin had moved out. What do you mean, he moved out? Is he on sabbatical somewhere, or is this permanent? I looked for you, but you had already gone. Call me back!"
Cutting the pizza circle into four pieces, I thought about the different ways you can say the same words. You can express sympathy and concern. You can sound excited, hoping for the inside dirt. Or you can demand answers in a tone that suggests that the person you are calling has, once again, screwed
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