Palace Council by Stephen L. Carter

imagination of his own.
    And so she had opened the envelope, and pulled out a sheaf of colored papers, all of them blank, and found, in the middle, a short letter. She frowned, and, as an inveterate snoop, guessed the answer. The colored pages were to keep anybody from reading the letter by holding the envelope up to the light. The letter itself began, oddly,
“Dear Author,”
as if to a writer or a magazine.

    All interrogations were negative. All sources have been unproductive. The testament is likely on your side of the water. Kindly inform our mutual friend that the debt is paid. We can offer no further assistance.

    The letter was unsigned.
    Maybe it was business after all, Aurie reflected, slathering glue over the flap, and hoping nobody would think to check for fingerprints.
    When she was done, she crawled into bed and lay awake, waiting for morning. She tossed and turned, wondering. Her husband was receiving secret unsigned notes from people who could perform
interrogations
and had
sources
and used words like
unproductive,
people who helped the
Author
because of a
debt
owed to a
mutual friend.
He had dragged his new bride around Europe in search of a
testament
that was probably back in the States.
    A testament.
    The sort of thing people left behind when they died.
    Now, after her husband’s return, Aurie understood a little more.
Phil left a mess behind,
Kevin told her, exhaustion making him indiscreet. But a mess evidently was not all Castle had left. He had also left some kind of testament. Maybe the note referred to his will, the disposition of his estate, but her husband’s frantic search suggested otherwise. No. Aurelia was sure that the testament was something else, nothing to do with money or property. And whatever the testament might be, Kevin Garland was desperate to find it.

CHAPTER 5
    Again the Cross of Saint Peter
    (I)
    T HE THIRD EVENT that cemented Eddie’s purpose occurred early in 1956, not long before the publication of the novel that would make him famous. The novel, entitled
Field’s Unified Theory,
was the story of a Negro physicist who spent his angry, disdainful life searching for the Holy Grail that defied even the great Einstein: the so-called unified field theory that would discover the common physical effect behind gravity and electromagnetism; and if in hindsight the inspiration for the story seems plain, it was less so at the time, at least to the public. Advance copies had leaked out. There was already talk of a National Book Award. Eddie’s Harlem friends made gentle fun. They repeated drearily familiar jokes. How is a Negro writer like a giraffe? The bigger he gets, the more people laugh at him. What’s the difference between a Negro writer and a Negro janitor? The janitor can live on his income. Nevertheless, they were proud of him, as was his mother, and perhaps even his father, although Eddie had only his mother’s word for it.
    His father had gone south again, and was busy organizing more boycotts.
    Eddie hardly cared. Now New York’s white as well as black salons were open to him. He had become what he had longed to be, the man on the rise. His celebrity did not quite balance the loss of Aurelia, who had become, to his confused dismay, rapidly and radiantly pregnant. One cloudy May afternoon, they happened to run into each other outside the offices of the
Sentinel
on Seventh Avenue. They shared a distant, friendly hug, and then, eyes aglow, she asked Eddie about rumors that he had been seeing Mona Veazie.
    â€œI believe Gary is seeing her,” said Eddie.
    â€œWhat about Torie Elden?” One hand saucily on hip, the other rubbing her newly rounded belly. “Somebody saw the two of you at Craig’s Colony Club the other night, and—”
    â€œI’m not seeing anybody.”
    â€œWell, you should be.” She raised a hand to forestall his response. “We are where we are, Eddie. Let it be.”
    Her use of