The Second Draft
Gordon Avery didn’t know much about dreams. He never remembered his, hardly ever mentioned them, and if pressed would dismiss them as nothing more than the brain twitching after dinner. What he did know was that he’d been married to Margaret for forty-one years, he thrived on routine, and he’d never had what you’d call a gay thought—or at least, none he could recall. So he was stunned when, two months after the funeral, a man in a linen jacket and horn-rimmed glasses knocked at his door carrying a box of manuscripts and speaking in a tone that sounded rehearsed. “Mr. Avery?” the stranger said. He introduced himself as Alan Grigsby and offered a clammy handshake. “First, let me express my deepest sympathies for your loss. Margaret was… formidable. A truly brilliant woman.” Gordon nodded, stiffly. “Yes. She enjoyed her mysteries.” “Indeed,” Alan smiled in that secretive way. “But she wasn’t just writing mysteries. She was the anonymous author of The Bramblewood Affair series.” “The what?...