The Lost Manuscript of Martin Taylor Harrison

The Austin-Stoner Files

Book One

The Lost Manuscript

of Martin Taylor Harrison

Stephen Bly

Copyright 1995 by Stephen Bly

Copyright 2013 by Janet Chester Bly

Smashwords Edition

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Cover illustration: Ed Tadiello

Cover design: Cindy Kiple

Dedication

For Janni-Rae

Chapter One

Lynda Dawn Austin refused to glance at her reflection gliding along the window of the 5th Avenue boutique. She ignored the wind-blown brunette hair, the faded Autumn Rose blush on her lips, and the crow’s-feet at the corners of her Vuarnet CatEye sunglasses. Her Summer Fling perfume had long ago lost its potency.

But she didn't care. It was Friday afternoon.

After a long week ... a long month ... a long year.

She held the brass and glass door labeled 222 Madison Avenue open for Kelly Princeton and Nina DeJong. Their heels tapped across the black marble floor as they entered the elevator.

Lynda glanced at her watch. One o’clock. She’d have to take work home this weekend—again. Even before the dark wood-paneled elevator doors slid open, Lynda heard shouting.

I’m not leaving here until I talk to an editor. Do you understand? a man screamed. Don’t you realize what I have in my hands?

The three women stepped into the lobby of Atlantic-Hampton Publishing Company. Spunky Sasser stood on her receptionist’s chair waving one of her five-inch, black patent-leather stiletto heels at a red-faced man whose long, stringy, light brown hair hung down from a bald spot.

I’ve got the letter right here. Just read it. Ten thousand dollars on the receipt of final manuscript. Here it is.

Spunky, Lynda called. What’s the problem?

I’ll tell you what, the man shouted. They’re trying to stiff me.

Spunky, call building security, Kelly yelled. Mister, you’ve got sixty seconds to get out of this office.

You threatening me? I’m not leavin’. I’ve got the authentic manuscript here.

Sassy, where’s Mr. Gossman? Lynda called.

He went home.

Already? How about Stan?

He said he was too busy to come out.

I’m not leaving, ya hear me? the man shrieked.

How about Frank? Lynda asked.

He’s not answering his phone this week, remember? He told me he’d yank out my fingernails if I buzzed him again.

Lynda moved closer. Mister, what’s your name?

Fondue.

What?

Felix Fondue.

Right, and I’m Sarah Soufflé, Kelly broke in. Did you get security, Spunky?

They’ll be here soon. They’re tied up on 19 again.

Mr. Fondue, Lynda said, I’m an editor here. You leave the manuscript, and I’ll study it. You can come back for it in about four weeks.

Oh, no, you’re not ripping me off. I’m not leaving until I get the money.

That’s not the way the system works, Fondue, Kelly said.

Nina tugged at Lynda’s arm.

What is it?

Come here, Nina whispered.

What do you want?

Do you need to borrow my .38?

Lynda slicked her hands through her hair. Your what?

I’ve got a .38 special in my purse. You’re welcome to use it.

In your purse?

Daddy said if I’d carry it, he wouldn’t worry so much.

Well, it may not worry him, but it sure worries me. Please don’t pull that thing out of your purse—ever. Lynda turned to the pacing man. Maybe you’d like to try another publishing house because we don’t give advances until we’ve seen and accepted the manuscript.

What do you think I am—some hick from the country?

Lynda shot a warning glance at Kelly, on the verge of a retort. Mr. Fondue, tell me about your manuscript. Why do you think it’s so important?

"No think about it. I have in my possession none other than the authentic, genuine, complete, lost manuscript of Martin Taylor Harrison, With the Wind in My Face."

Kelly sighed. We should have known. Get out of here, buddy.

You don’t believe me? he wheezed.

Lynda cut in. Mr. Fondue, we receive dozens of phony Martin Taylor Harrison manuscripts every year. Each one claims to be the famous missing third novel. And it’s Friday. We’re tired and finished for the week. So, take your manuscript and go home and we won’t call the cops on you.

His face hardened. Hayakawa couldn’t throw me out of San Francisco State. The sheriff couldn’t throw me out of Mendocino. The BLM couldn’t throw me out of the canyons. And I’m not leaving this building until I get my money.

Hey, here’s security, Kelly said. Tony, you and Percy usher this guy to the street.

"You’re not tossing me out." Fondue ran behind the receptionist’s counter.

Spunky jumped off her chair and rushed toward the lobby, a high heel in each hand, her waist-long black hair flying.

The guards chased after the man. Where’d you get those? Tony spouted. Don’t do that, man. You’re in big trouble now.

What did he do? Lynda called.

Handcuffed himself to Ms. Sasser’s desk.

Get the police, Kelly called to Percy. This is getting too weird, even for Manhattan.

Fondue stared at Lynda with pleading eyes. If you don’t believe this letter’s authentic, check with G.L. Ramsey. He’ll know. Does he still work here?

A cold chill hit Lynda in the back of her head and shot down her back. Who did you say?

G.L. Ramsey. That’s the name on the letter.

She darted forward. Let me see that.

We don’t have any Ramseys here, Kelly said.

Don’t let him ruin my phones, Spunky called from the far side of the room.

Nina stepped to Lynda’s side. "Wasn’t G.L. Ramsey editor for Martin Taylor Harrison? My English lit. prof. said that if it hadn’t been for Ramsey, Alone at the Edge of the Universe and When the Last Rock Crumbled would never have turned out to be classics."

Lynda straightened the collar of her blouse as her hand shook and she stared at the yellowed letter. It’s dated July 12, 1930.

1930? Nina looked over her shoulder. That’s the year Harrison disappeared.

Yeah, and it’s also the year G.L. Ramsey quit the business and moved to a tin-roofed conch house on Driftwood Road in Key Largo.

Nina frowned at Lynda. How do you know so much about Ramsey?

It’s a long story.

Lynda grew up in the Keys, Kelly interjected.

Only until the third grade. After that, just vacations. I have to admit the signature sure looks authentic. Where did you get this cover letter?

Fondue was busy rifling through a drawer in Spunky Sasser’s desk. From the old man, just like the manuscript. I’m not claiming I wrote that book. It’s not my style.

Spunky jumped up and down in her stocking feet. Stay out of my desk.

I’m hungry. You got anything to eat in here?

Stay out of the drawers, Lynda said. What do you mean, you got this from the old man? What old man?

Harrison. Old man Harrison. He went by Harry most the time.

You claiming Harrison’s still alive and you know him? Lynda probed.

Kelly scoffed. He’s been spotted more times than Elvis.

Fondue’s eyes closed. He died last June, but, shoot, it was too hot to hike out of the canyons until the weather changed last week. I got here as quick as I could. So here I am, just like he instructed.

He gave you instructions? Lynda eased closer to the man.

Look at the last page. It’s a note from Harrison himself. He gave it to me for a Christmas present last year. Wanted me to have half the royalties, and the rest to go to his relatives.

He doesn’t have any relatives. You should have made up a better story. Or done your homework, Kelly remarked.

No kiddin’? That means it all goes to me, I guess. He said there might not be anyone left alive.

He didn’t ever have any relatives, Lynda insisted. "They died before he wrote a thing. That’s why the title Alone at the Edge of the Universe. I don’t know where you got this letter or this manuscript, but I’ll look at it this weekend to try to verify. I’ll get back to you on Monday."

Lynda, this is nuts, Kelly pressed.

I’m not leavin’ it here without the money, Fondue insisted.

I’ll give you a receipt. You’ve got these security guards for witnesses. Your manuscript will be here on Monday, I can guarantee.

No money?

Not until we decide to accept the manuscript. That’s the way it’s done with everyone. Those are the rules of the publishing business. Either that or the police will come and cut those handcuffs and take you to jail. What’s it going to be?

I really need some money. Fondue’s voice softened. I, eh, spent everything just to get here from Arizona.

Now it comes out. He’s a bum or a deadbeat, Kelly said.

Lynda stared at the letter again. Kelly, I’m telling you, this cover letter and signature are authentic. We’ve got to check it out. Where’s Gossman when you need him?

On the golf course? Spunky offered.

How much do we have in petty cash?

Spunky slipped on her high heels. One hundred dollars, but I don’t think Mr. Gossman would allow me to use that much for anything but a real emergency.

Mr. Gossman’s not here, and this is an emergency. Lynda turned to Fondue. I can give you the hundred bucks. That’s not much for surviving in this city, but maybe you can find a cheap place for the weekend and something to eat. That’s all I can do. Have we got a deal?

You got an extra room at your place? I could stay with you and keep my eye on the manuscript.

Lynda froze in place. No, you are not staying with me. You’re on your own. Are you agreed? Or do I turn you over to the NYPD?

Fondue paused a long moment before he offered, Let me see the receipt and cash.

Lynda wrote a receipt on a piece of white typing paper and took five twenty-dollar bills out of the gray metal box in Spunky’s middle desk drawer. Where’s the key to the handcuffs?

They don’t lock. Not since I chained myself to a tree and they busted them with a splitting mall. Fondue popped the cuffs off his wrists and scooped up the receipt and bills. What time do you open on Monday?

I’ll be here by 8:30 a.m.

Okay. Felix Fondue shuffled toward the elevator with the security guards on each side. As the door opened, he turned back, Where’s the Dakota House?

Upper west side. On 72nd across from Central Park.

Thanks.

Fondue and the guards disappeared into the elevator. A collective sigh of relief whooshed out.

Dakota House? Nina asked.

Either he’s going to spend the weekend with Lauren Bacall, or he’s paying homage to John Lennon, Kelly said.

Probably wants to toss some flowers on Strawberry Field, Spunky suggested. I did that once. It was awesome. Those guys in the orange robes and shaved heads sang some kind of chant. It was almost like a religious experience. Know what I mean?

Lynda frowned at the short, olive-skinned receptionist.

Spunky shrugged. I guess you don’t. Man, I’m glad to get that creep out of here. Did you smell him? He hadn’t had a bath for weeks.

Spunky, are you going to be all right?

Hey, I was in no danger. One more step and I would have spiked him.

Kelly punched the security code, and the three women entered the inner offices of Atlantic-Hampton Publishing.

Lynda stuck her head into Silverman’s office. Thanks for coming to the rescue, Stanley.

Egad, I’m an editor. The assistants handle the walk-in traffic.

I’m an editor, too. Or hadn’t you heard?

Close the door on your way out. If this Margaret Poston mystery is late to the printers, it won’t be my fault. With all this confusion, it’s almost impossible to work.

Kelly tugged Lynda at her office door. Are you really going to take that thing home and read it?

Yes, I am.

I thought you and James were going to a wedding at Bridgeport.

Oh! You’re right. His cousin’s getting married again. Oh well, it can’t take all that long to read.

You know it’s a phony, Kelly insisted. There’s no way Harrison could have been alive all these years. Last June? That would make Harrison in his nineties.

I’m telling you, that cover letter is real. He had to get it somewhere. By Monday morning I’ll have lots of questions for Mr. Felix Fondue.

Can you believe that name?

No, but he’s not the only one in this city with a phony name.

How can you be so sure the cover letter is authentic? Kelly pressed.

I told you, the signature.

You think that’s Ramsey’s signature?

I know it is.

How can you be so certain?

I knew G.L. Ramsey pretty well.

You really knew him?

Her.

Her? As in female?

Grace Loving Ramsey.

Ramsey was a woman? I thought ... I didn’t know there were any women editors until the war.

Now you do.

Are you sure about that?

Yeah, I’m sure. She was my grandmother.

Lynda left Kelly with her mouth open.



The city turned to the neon rainbow of early evening by the time Lynda Austin hiked from the subway to the entrance of her apartment building. The concrete sidewalk pounded hard and gritty. The stale aroma of exhaust fumes hung in the air.

A uniformed man met her at the door. Evenin’, Miss Lynda.

Howard, how have you been?

Worried sick all day, that’s what. Colleen didn’t come home last night.

Colleen’s about twenty, isn’t she?

Yes, ma’am. On July 14. But her mama and daddy still worry about her. I pray to God that she’s safe.

I’ll pray for her, too, Howard.

Thank you, Miss Lynda. I surely appreciate it. You need some help with those bundles? You been shopping, or bringing home work?

I’m afraid it’s all work, but I can carry them.

Well, now, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so—if you keep working every weekend, how in the world are you ever going to have time to find a husband? The genial guard broke into a wide smile full of gleaming white teeth. Now I know a young attorney up on the ninth floor who used to be a minor league ballplayer. Maybe I could ...

Lynda chuckled. Thanks for looking after me.

An attractive young woman who doesn’t have a mama ... I figure you might miss the naggin’. If I get to be a pest, you say, ‘shut your mouth!’ And thanks for carin’ about Colleen. Most folks in this building can’t remember my name, let alone my kids.

She patted his arm. Everybody’s busy.

No one’s busier than you, Miss Lynda. No, ma’am, no one’s busier.

She reached the sixth-floor three-bedroom apartment and punched the doorbell. She hoped roommate Janie McCallister was still home so she wouldn’t have to set down her bags and hunt for a key.

The door swung open. A tall blonde in a black slip and bare feet greeted her with a smile. Hi, girl, how’s New York’s finest editor?

Tired. It’s been a long, weird day. How about you? When’s your flight?

Leaving La Guardia at 8:20. I’m out the door as soon as I pull on my uniform.

You going to Frankfurt?

Amsterdam, then Frankfurt. Layover three days and then do the return. I think I’ll be back next Friday. You want me to call?

No, that’s not necessary. Lynda dropped her bundles on the leather armchair, pulled off her shoes, and padded to her bedroom. I didn’t get any groceries. Do we have anything in the fridge?

I brought home a broccoli and walnut pasta salad. You can finish it up, Janie announced from the other room.

Changed into her old dark blue University of Michigan sweats, Lynda rummaged through the kitchen. Janie buzzed into the room, pecked her on the cheek, and scooted for the front door. Adios, kiddo. Be good, you hear? You want me to bring you something?

The same thing as always would be nice.

You already own every perfume known to man.

I bet you can find me something new. Let them mix up a European special.

You’ve got to be the most scented single girl in New York. I’ll see you Friday.

Lynda opened the living room curtains and glanced over the lights of the city. She stared at the street below and waited until Howard helped Janie into a yellow cab.

Lord, be with Janie. Bring her home safely. She’s like family to me. And Colleen ... help Howard and Millie not to worry so much about her. And please keep Colleen from making so many dumb decisions.

She plopped into the overstuffed green leather chair and took another bite of salad from the plate. She set it down and picked up the large, brown envelope labeled ’With the Wind in My Face,’ Martin Taylor Harrison—maybe.



The salad remained unfinished at 11:38 p.m. Lynda stood and stretched, entered the bathroom to wash her face and picked up a box of tissues. She shuffled back into the living room, turned out the lights, and picked up the salad.

With city glow illuminating the room, she stepped to the window intending to draw the curtains. Instead, she peered at the visual noise of New York as her thoughts tumbled. The manuscript was phenomenal, in fact, stunning. Caught by surprise, she wanted to back away from it. Instead, she held on to the end. She couldn’t stop, like the sensation of running downhill.

Maybe it was the real thing. Wouldn’t that be crazy? Her grandma would know. She wished she was still around. She wished she could see her now. How sad she never knew her granddaughter became an editor for Atlantic-Hampton.

Lynda must talk to Fondue. His story seemed too improbable to be true. However, this manuscript was too incredible not to be authentic.

She gazed out the window again, then closed the curtains and stole into her bedroom. Slipping out of sweats, she tugged on a long, burgundy silk nightgown and parked in front of the bathroom sink.

"There you are, Lynda Dawn Austin. Thirty years old, five foot ten, dark brown hair, big green eyes, light skin slightly freckled, smeared eye shadow, long neck, small bust, physically run down, and emotionally drained. Just another week, kid.

Kelly’s right. I need a vacation. I should go to Largo. Maybe in a couple weeks when I get the O’Brian novel done and ... and this new one. Good grief, what if this is a Martin Taylor Harrison? That could keep me tied up for a long time.

She washed and creamed her face, brushed her teeth, and tugged on fluffy bunny slippers. Then she scooted back to the dark living room. Fumbling to find the light switch by the sofa, she plopped down and reached for the heavy stack of manuscript paper.

Another glance at the third chapter.

It will knock their socks off. No one ever guessed he’d handle it that way. Talk about a turnaround.

Then she kept rereading the other chapters.



A persistent ringing and pounding sound caused Lynda Austin to roll over on the couch and crash to the floor.

What time is it? Nine? It can’t be. She ran to the front door. Who is it?

It’s me—James.

Jimmy? Oh no!

Open up, dear. I feel like a jerk standing out here banging on the door. The neighbors are staring.

Wait! Just a minute ... Lynda ran to the bedroom and crashed into a magazine stand. New Yorkers and National Geographics slid across the polished hardwood floor.

What’s going on in there? Lynda?

Be right there! She grabbed a thick, fluffy burgundy bathrobe and pulled it over her gown as she ran back for the door. Her shoes scattered near the couch.

Lynda, open up immediately, James shouted.

Throwing the deadbolt, she swung open the white-paneled door.

What’s going on? You look like you just got up. We’ve got to leave in ten minutes. Man, I can’t believe this.

I ... you know ... worked late. And then I think I overslept.

What happened to this room? And you ... you look awful.

Eh, well, you look nice, Jimmy. She forced a smile at the guy with the short-cropped black hair and piercing eyes. Of course, you always look nice in a tux.

Good grief, did you stay up all night partying? How can you do this to me? You knew how important this wedding is. Do you have a hangover?

You know I don’t drink.

Are you going to make it to Kristie’s wedding or not? I thought last weekend at the concert when you spent the second half in the lobby talking to that Italian author was bad enough. But this? Don’t you ever think about us? No one cares that much about work.

Oh, Jimmy, you’ve got to forgive me. I just, eh ... look, I can’t make it.

This is incredible. We’ve been planning this for weeks. Mom was going to introduce you to everyone. Last night she called me, all excited about having you come along. How am I going to explain this to her?

I’m really sorry. Apologize to your dear mother. And tell Kristie I’ll be at her next wedding—I promise.

That’s not funny.

I’m tired, Jimmy, really tired. I stayed up all night with a possible Martin Taylor Harrison.

With whom?

With a man-u-script. Remember? I’m an editor.

Oh, sure, you worked all night dressed like that?

Lynda glanced down. Her bathrobe had slipped open revealing the thin lace bodice of her silk gown, turned inside out. She pulled the bathrobe tight under her chin. Yes, I was dressed like this. Something came up at work yesterday afternoon, and it tied me up all night. I didn’t know I would be on the verge of an incredible literary discovery. I’m sorry, Jimmy. What else can I say?

Flush-faced and stiff-collared, he searched around the room. Why didn’t you open the door sooner? I don’t get it. Is Janie here?

She flew to Europe last night.

No one’s here?

What are you getting at?

Do you have a guy here with you? If there's someone else, now’s the time to say so.

What did you say?

I said, have you had some man in your bedroom?

Her open right palm caught the side of his face with a resounding slap. He staggered back.

Don’t you ever accuse me of sleeping around, James St. John. Look. That bed is still made. I haven’t even been in there, let alone anyone else. The only thing I slept with was that manuscript scattered all over the floor. Now get out of here.

Look, Lynda, I didn’t really mean ... I was hurt. I just can’t believe you’d put your work before us.

Get out.

I know you’re tired and upset, but I think you owe me.

Get out, Jimmy, before I call Howard to throw you out.

This isn’t real. It’s a bad dream, right? James threw his hands in the air and stomped to the door. Cynthia was right about you. This is exactly what she warned me. You’re just stringing me along.

Lynda slammed the door behind him and threw the deadbolt. She slumped to the floor and leaned against the wall. Tears slid down her cheeks.

I’m no good at this. I’ve been making boys mad at me ever since I was six. I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t be whatever it is they want me to be.

James never got mad at anyone, and he was screaming at her. It’s like she brought out the worst in every man.

Cynthia! He’s never let go of her.

What did he do, call her after every date?

She spent the next half-hour dazed in the shower, allowing the water to mix with tears. When the spray turned cold, she wrapped herself in the fluffy bathrobe, pulled back the hunter-green quilted bedspread and slid between the beige sheets.



The clock by her bed showed 3:36 p.m. when she blinked her eyes open. She spent the rest of the afternoon and evening trying to contact L. George Gossman, editorial director for Atlantic-Hampton.

She reached him Sunday after church and explained the situation. They agreed to a Monday morning conference. She spent the rest of the afternoon jogging through Central Park, trying to figure out what to do next with James.

It’s over.

How could he say those things? It’s like he doesn’t know me at all after three years.

What’s wrong with me, Lord? Why can’t I attract a guy who understands me?

When she got back to the condo, she plugged in an exercise video but spent an hour on her back in front of the TV, staring at the living room ceiling.



Lynda stepped out of the elevator Monday morning and spied Spunky Sasser wearing a tight red leather wrap-around dress and earrings that glittered like disco ballroom light fixtures.

He’s here,