The house was set back from the dark road. Its gravel driveway was long enough for eight cars to park, one after another around the long loop. More cars were parked on the grass. Light glowed from the big window next to a wide porch.
The car I was following was in back, near the road. I watched my subject, Bryan Furier, walk up to the porch and ring a bell. The front door opened and Furier went in.
I waited at the end of the driveway, with the back of my Prius sticking out into the road. Once the door closed behind Furier, I turned off the motor and headed up to the porch, moving as quickly and silently as I could.
The porch was 20 feet long, and extended to half of the front window. I made my way on light feet down the planks of the porch and leaned over cautiously, peering inside through a half-inch gap in the burgundy-colored drapes.
A group of people sat in a circle of chairs. Some held glasses of wine or bottles of beer. All of them, 15 or more, had something in their laps or on the floor at their feet. A book. I couldn’t make out the title, but it was definitely the same book for everyone.
I decided I couldn’t stay up here any longer before someone noticed me, and pretending I was lost probably wouldn’t go over very well. I hurried back to my car and pulled out before anyone could spot me. I drove a hundred feet further along the road and pulled over on the narrow shoulder. This stretch of the road was deserted—no houses, no traffic, just dark trees and a moonless sky.
Now what? It didn’t look like Furier was having an affair. More like he’d joined a book group without telling his wife. Maybe the discussion was the prelude to a swingers’ party? That didn’t seem likely, but I’ve never been to an orgy, so I wouldn’t know.
My client, Jayne Furier, suspected her husband of cheating on her. “Every Tuesday, for the last four weeks he says he has a late patient,” she’d told me when we met in a coffee shop near my apartment. “He’s a dentist, some people have to come late, fine. But every Tuesday? He hasn’t been himself lately. Something’s wrong.”
Cheating spouses pay for a big chunk of every P.I.’s cable bill, so I took the job.
Parked on the side of the road, I used my phone to search the real estate records for the town of Hartwell, Illinois, about 30 miles west of Chicago. Warren Hartwell Inc. was listed at the house’s owner. Interesting. It was a printing company, mostly small runs of textbooks, training manuals, family histories and memoirs, and some small collections of poetry.
I was just checking out some titles when a blue light flashed in my mirror. The police. Uh-oh.
The cop who knocked on my window was tall and beefy. “Everything okay, sir? Lost?”
“I think I got turned around.” I kept my hands on the steering wheel. “Which way is Bensenville?”
He chuckled. “You passed it Can I see your license and registration?”
I handed them over. “Tom Jurgen. Chicago. Visiting friends in Bensenville?”
“Possible client. The GPS on my phone sometimes channels another part of the multiverse.”
The cop chuckled and passed my documents back. “Turn around, go back to 19 about three miles back, going east. Look for York Road. Have a nice night! Drive safe!” He slapped the hood of my car as he walked back to his vehicle.
At least he hadn’t made my walk a straight line or recite the alphabet backward, neither of which I can do sober anyway. On the other hand, he didn’t pull out right away. He waited until I started up, turned, and headed back up the road.
I stopped at a gas station to text Rachel I was on my way home. She texted back almost right away: Bring ice cream and maybe we’ll have sex later. I started a search for Baskin Robbins.
Rachel was getting ready to leave the next morning as I came into the kitchen. She’s my wife—we’re still newlyweds, technically, although we lived together for years—and she works three days a week as a therapist at a mental health clinic. Today she was dressed in her professional slacks and a blue blouse.
“I made coffee.” She set her Supergirl mug in the sink. “I think I left some for you. What’s up for today?”
“Call my client, tell her it doesn’t look like her husband’s having an affair, send the invoice.” I got out a bowl for my cereal. “You home at the regular time?”
“Yeah, sixish.” She kissed me. “See you. Good sex last night.”
“Good ice cream, too.” Pralines and cream is her favorite. I watched her go, heard the locks click on the door, and poured myself some coffee.
At 9:30 I called my client—Jayne Furier was a VP at an insurance firm downtown—and told her what I’d seen last night. “It does not look like he’s having an affair,” I finished, “but I can’t tell you what’s really going on. It looked more like a social or literary salon than anything.” “I don’t know.” She sounded confused, understandably. “He’s sick today. Canceled his patients. He’s sleeping now. Nothing went on out there? You’re sure?”
“Well, like I said, I couldn’t stay and watch very long. Something might have happened later, but it didn’t have that vibe, from what I could tell. What time did he get home?”
“Nine or so. Nine thirty.”
I’d been there at seven. “I suppose there would have been time for—something. But I don’t know. What’s interesting is that the house is owned by a company the town is named for, Hartwell. Does that name sound familiar?”
“No, I don’t think so. What kind of company?”
“Publishing. I could look into the company and the town a little, if you want. Although I have to say, at this point it would probably be more cost-effective for you to simply talk to him.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She thought about it a moment, then said, “Just a second” to someone else. “Can I let you know? I have to go into a meeting. I’ll call you back later today, if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine. Whenever’s convenient.” You have to give clients time to process information and make decisions about it. And so far this had been a simple case, like most cheating spouse jobs. No vampires or witches. I get too many of those.
I spent the rest of the day trying to track down employees at a plant that had burned down in a suspicious fire which was part of a lawsuit over negligence. Nothing supernatural there, either. Just after lunch my phone buzzed. Jayne Furier. “He’s—Bryan’s in the hospital.”
I frowned. “What happened?”
“He just—he called me, and he couldn’t talk, he was just growling and swearing and spitting. I called my sister to go check on him, and he was unconscious, but still making strange noises, and kind of crawling round on the floor. She sent me a video, hang on—”
A moment later an email popped up. I saw Bryan Furier wearing pajama bottoms, sprawled on the floor, sweating all over his body, his face red and twisted. “Rrr . . . ahh . . . gah!” he groaned, spitting up at the phone. “Arr . . . rarrr . . . gahh!” He pounded a fist on the floor and kicked out at the air as a woman’s voice tried to calm him with his name and promises to get him help.
“They took him to Northwestern. I’m here now, and he’s—they don’t know what’s causing it. They gave him something and now he’s in a coma.”
I’d seen this kind of thing before—the growling, the spitting. But I didn’t want to freak Jayne Furier out. Yet. There were probably any number of legitimate medical reasons aside from the one I was worried about.
“Is it about last night?” she asked, breathless. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I w3ant to know what happened out there. This isn’t Bryan, something isn’t right, something’s not . . .” She stopped, gasping.
“All right,” I said in as reassuring a tone as I could manage. “Let me look into it. If I have to, I’ll go out there and knock on the door. Is that okay?”
“Yes, fine. I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, I understand.” I’ve had to deal with lots of worried spouses and family members. Sometimes their stories don’t have happy endings. “I’ll be in touch.”
I spent a few minutes looking up Hartwell, Illinois on the internet. According to its website, the town had been founded in 1894 as Whitman, but changed its name in 1946 several years after Warren Hartwell started up his first printing press in a warehouse and founded his publishing business, bringing jobs and money to the town. Hartwell died in 1962, and business shrank over the years, but the printing business was still going, expanded and profitable. The original warehouse had been torn down years ago, but the site was home to a town historical society. Open until six.
I usually get better information by talking to people than roaming the internet. So I texted Rachel to let her know where I was going and headed for the car.
The Hartwell Historical Society was a small brick building next to the town’s post office and across the street from a grocery store. A bell rang as I walked inside, and a young man stood up from a reception desk beneath a large painting of an old white man, with the name “Warren Hartwell” on a plaque beneath. The society charged $10 per person for admissions, according to a sign next to the painting.
“Hi! Welcome to the Historical Society!” In his 20s, the guy wore a green blazer with a big red WHW monogram on the left side, underneath a name tag that identified him as Hal.
“Hi.” I picked up a brochure. “I’m interested in that house outside of town? The one that’s owned by the Hartwell company?”
“The Hartwell House? Right. Let me see . . .” He started tapping at a laptop next to the cash register.
“Does anyone live there now?” I asked. “Is it still in the family?”
“You can find out everything about the Hartwell family in gallery two.” He pointed.
I really wanted to talk to someone, not look at old pictures, but it seemed more polite to at least start there. So I paid my $10 and followed his finger to gallery two.
The exhibit turned out to be more informative than I expected. They had the first small printing press Warren Hartwell had owned and operated in his basement, along with some of the first fliers he’d printed for the local church. There was a photo of his first wife, Evelyn, and their newborn child in front of a stack of freshly printed textbooks.
The company struggled at first, then suddenly expanded, taking over into an old warehouse and churning out more textbooks, church pamphlets, and the occasional self-published autobiography or novel. I couldn’t figure out what Hartwell had done to turn his company into a success overnight, and nothing in the exhibit’s photos and artifacts addressed the abrupt change in fortune. Warren Hartwell lived to be 84 years old, and in his later years he spent a lot on money on the town, funding its library, hospital, one of two elementary schools and a high school, and an assisted living facility for senior citizens.
The exhibit was straightforward about his three marriages: His first wife divorced him, and his second wife was much younger. They married within weeks of divorce No. 1, and his second son was born six months later, although you had to take a close look at the dates to find the truth. Hartwell divorced wife No. 2 seven years and one more son later. One photo showed her getting into a car, and the caption noticed that she later married a former manager at Hartwell’s publishing company.
His third wife didn’t have any more children with Hartwell, but they stayed married for 30 years until she suffered from a vague, undefined “illness.”. Some Googling on my phone uncovered the fact that she spent the last seven years of her life in an insane asylum.
Hartwell sold his publishing company shortly before his death in 1962, but in the early 2000s, with print publishing already on the downslide, two of his grandsons acquired it from its owners, and one of their sons, Sam Hartwell, became the CEO after his brother died.
Several photos of the big house hung in one corner. The captions noted that Hartwell House was available for meetings and family gatherings, with a cook and grounds crew. A floor plan let me see the room I’d peeked into last night. There was a phone number, an email address, and a QR code for people interested in renting it.
“Did you find everything you want?” Hal asked me back at the front desk.
“Pretty much. Do people see Sam Hartwell in town very much?”
“He comes to the town meetings. He eats at the Bistro. I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s pretty nice.”
“Does he have a family?” The exhibit hadn’t mentioned a wife or kids.
“No. I mean, I don’t think he’s gay. But I’ve never heard of him dating or anything. Not that I’d really know.”
I’d found out all I needed from him, so I said, “Thanks,” and left.
After checking in with Rachel, I started the car. Sometimes the only way to get answers is to just go to the source and start asking questions. So I drove back to the Hartwell house.
The long gravel drive was empty, but I saw two cars in a garage to the side. I parked in front, walked across the porch, and rang the bell.
The door opened 10 seconds later. “Yes?”
I recognized him from pictures at the Historical Society. Sam Hartwell—30ish, with blonde hair cut shot, bright blue eyes, wearing a dress shirt with a loose necktie. I was surprised to find him at home, but if he ran the company, he could probably wherever he wanted. He looked me over, puzzled but not suspicious.
“Mr. Hartwell? I’m Tom Jurgen, from Chicago.” I handed him a card. “It’s about Bryan Furier. I believe he was here at your house last night?”
He looked over my card, then looked up quickly. “Is something wrong?”
“He’s sick. In the hospital.”
“Is it serious?” Hartwell shoved my card in his pocket.
“He’s unconscious, in a coma. He was acting like he was having some sort of seizure. Do you know of anyone else whom was here who’s having problems?”
He glanced over his shoulder into the house. “You’d better come in.”
Hartwell led me into the front room where I’d watched Furier and the other last night. Nice carpeting, big chairs and long sofas, and many bookcases, but they seemed filled with multiple copies of the same books. Hartwell Publishing titles? I couldn’t make out any of the titles.
“Bryan was here for a, a reading group I hold in my home.” Hartwell sat down, and pointed to a chair for me. “There are about 20 of us. We read from some of the works my company puts out—Hartwell Publishing?”
“I’ve heard of you.”
He took out his phone. “Let me get you something to drink. Coffee? Soda?”
“Some water would be fine.” I looked around the room. “Are these your books?”
“Some of them. It’s a pet project of mine, a line of inspirational books. Quotations, stories, poems, that sort of thing.” He finished texting. “We meet once a week. Bryan’s been joining us for about a month. We read and discuss one of the books here.” He lifted a hand, gesturing toward the bookcase behind him.
“Sounds nice. Did you notice Bryan feeling bad when he was here last night?”
“No.” Hartwell shook his head. “He seemed perfectly fine. And as far as I know, no one else is sick. Is it COVID or something?”
“I don’t think the doctors know yet.” A young woman in a short skirt walked in just then, carrying a cup of coffee for Hartwell and a bottle of water for me. I thanked her, and Hartwell smiled. “My assistant, Laurie. We’re done for the day, Laurie, you can go home now.”
“Sure thing, Sam.” She smiled at me and left.
“How did Bryan get involved with your group?” I asked after sipping the water. Ice cold.
“One of his friends, Randy. Randall Jarvis. I started the group about six months ago. Randall lives here in Hartwell. He invited Bryan one night, and I guess Bryan liked what we were reading.”
“What do you read?”
Hartwell hopped up with a smile, eager to share. “We’ve been reading from this.” He snatched a book from the shelf, one of 25 identical titles, and handed it to me.
UNLEASH THE POWER BENEATH. The title stared up at me in black capital letters. “A Guide to Creating the World That Was Meant to Be.” The author, or editor, or whatever, was Nicholas Newman. I flipped it open. Pages of quotations, advice, meditation prompts, reflections, and occasional drawings of sunsets and cliffs.
“You can take that,” Hartwell said.
“Thanks.” I stood up. “Well, thanks for your time. I think I’m done. Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother at all. I hope Bryan gets better.” We shook hands, and he led me to the door.
In my car I saw a white Ford Explorer backing out of the garage. Laurie, the assistant. I waited for her to turn around toward the driveway, but she stopped and opened her door. “Everything okay?” she called.
I lowered my window. “Fine, thanks.”
Then she slipped down out of the truck and walked toward me. I tried not to stare at her legs. “I hope Mr. Furier’s okay,” she said, leaning down and resting her arms across my open window. “Oh, he gave you the book.” She pointed to it on the seat.
“Yeah, I read this kind of stuff.” I was lying, but she was cute and Rachel was nowhere around to punch me. “I can always use a little more positive thinking in my day.” That was true enough.
She frowned. “It’s a—weird book. Be careful.”
“Weird how?”
Laurie shook her head. “It—changes people. I don’t know. I read it once, and it gave me dreams for a week. Not great ones.” She backed away. “Sorry. Have a good one!”
I watched her walk back to her truck, then looked down at the book. Then I headed down the driveway to the street.
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