It did not take long to exhaust the library’s holdings on the subject of Marcus Dalton. An hour after Jenny produced a short stack of books, all secondary sources, Abby and Sam left the lab and walked across the parking lot to the SUV.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Sam said. “I had a feeling it would be, but I had to be sure.”
“Jenny O’Connell was right,” Abby said. “Marcus Dalton was not taken seriously in his own lifetime or by any of the historians of nineteenth-century science. Too bad so much of his own work was lost in that explosion.”
Newton was waiting right where they had left him, his nose pressed to the partially open window in the rear seat of the SUV. Abby knew that he had probably been sitting there, his whole attention riveted on the entrance of the Coppersmith Inc. lab, ever since she and Sam had disappeared inside. He greeted them with his usual enthusiasm.
Sam got behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot. “Not that it’s any of our business, but did you get the impression that there was something personal going on between Frye and Jenny?”
Abby smiled. “Yep. We interrupted an office romance.”
Sam looked thoughtful. “I hope it works for both of them. Jenny has been alone since her husband died a few years ago.”
“What about Dr. Frye?”
“As far as I know, he’s never been married.” Sam took the interstate on-ramp, heading north toward Anacortes. “I saw Jenny’s expression when you explained that you were a freelancer in the private market. Do you get that a lot?”
“Only if I deal with people like her, who work the academic and scholarly end of the market.”
“How often does that happen?”
She smiled. “Not often. It’s almost impossible for any of them to get a proper referral. Thaddeus held a major grudge against the academic world in general, because it disdained his insistence that the paranormal should be taken seriously. As a result, he almost never referred anyone from that world to me. On the rare occasion when I do agree to take on a client from any of the established institutions in academia, we rarely reach an agreement on my fees.”
Sam grinned. “They can’t afford you?”
“I always jack up my fees when someone from academia comes calling. Petty, I know, but we all have to have our standards.”
“Guess I should be feeling lucky that you agreed to take me on as a client.”
“Got news for you, Sam Coppersmith. Like it or not, you’re from my world.”
“I’m okay with that.”
20
THE URGE TO CONFIDE THE FULL SCOPE OF THE DISASTER TO her special friend was almost overwhelming, but Orinda Strickland had resisted, at least until today. Some things simply could not be spoken of outside the family. Not that she didn’t trust Lander Knox. He was a very discreet young man. He was the only one who really understood her. She looked forward to these luncheons so much. Nevertheless, one had one’s pride. The loss of the family fortune and the possibility that Dawson might be facing bankruptcy, perhaps even prison, was simply too devastating to reveal. That sort of thing had to be kept secret.
“You look lovely today,” Lander said. He held her chair for her.
She managed a light, gracious chuckle and sat down at the table. “You always say that. But thank you, anyway.”
“I say it because it’s true.” Lander sat down across from her. “You radiate qualities that are increasingly rare in the modern world. Grace, style, dignity. And wonder of wonders, you can carry on an intelligent conversation. Do you realize how few women of any age can do that these days? That’s why I savor our luncheons together so much.”
It was shortly after noon, unfashionably early for lunch, but the advantage was that the downtown restaurant was only lightly crowded. That meant there was less of a chance that she would run into an acquaintance, Orinda thought. She would have preferred to lunch at her club on Lake Washington. The Stricklands had been members for several generations. But she knew that there would be raised eyebrows and a good deal of curiosity if she were to show up with a handsome, distinguished man who was young enough to be her grandson.
There was absolutely no reason for her to feel awkward about her relationship with Lander, of course. He was a friend, nothing more. They were intellectual companions with a wide range of mutual interests who, sadly, happened to be decades apart in age.
They had met quite by accident at the opera during intermission. Both of them had attended alone that evening. It had been obvious from the start that Lander was well-bred and well educated. He did not say much about his background, but it soon became clear that he was descended from an old, established East Coast family. The faint hint of a Boston accent was so charming.
The conversation that had followed had been the most stimulating one she had enjoyed in years. Her husband, George, had never enjoyed the opera or the symphony or high art. His greatest pleasure had been a string of yachts, each one larger than the last. She had never liked being out on the water. Their marriage had been conducted along parallel lines that had suited both of them. Losing him ten years ago had been a shock, but she had not truly mourned.
In spite of the sick dread that was eating her up inside, Orinda managed a smile. But the phone conversation with Dawson had left her thoroughly unnerved. The realization that Abby was the key to the family’s financial salvation had come as a terrible blow. She had been forced to take an antianxiety tablet to calm herself.
Dawson and Diana were right, Abby viewed the situation as a gol-den opportunity to take her revenge against the family. Dawson had reported that she wanted more than a simple cash payment for her services. She would no doubt demand to be named as a full-fledged beneficiary of the family trust. It was unthinkable. The woman was not a Strickland. There was no blood connection whatsoever. And she was mentally unbalanced.
As incomprehensible as it seemed, Orinda was starting to believe that Abby actually wanted to see the family lose everything.
“I see your son–in–law is having a signing event for his new book on Friday night,” Lander said.
“Yes.” Orinda shook out her napkin. “It’s the start of his book tour. He’ll be gone for almost a month. I understand the publisher has scheduled a number of appearances.”
“Have you read
“I glanced through it.” Orinda sniffed. “I’m afraid it’s the usual psychobabble that passes for deep insight and wise advice these days. But my daughter tells me that there’s a very good chance it will sell quite well, and may even lead to a TV show.”
Lander’s smile held both sympathy and condescending amusement. “It’s all about marketing and packaging, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. My son–in–law is very good at both.”
Orinda opened her menu and reminded herself to be careful what she said about Brandon. Not that Lander wasn’t aware of her feelings on the subject. He never pried into personal matters, but over the past few months it had become very easy to talk to him about so many things.
Their luncheons were supposed to be reserved for conversations about opera, literary works and other cultural matters. But all too often she found herself confiding certain matters that really should be kept in the family.
She gave thanks yet again that Lander could be trusted to be discreet. In spite of the difference in their ages, they were similar in so many ways. He had a charming, poetical way of describing their relationship.
