One photo consisted of two lines of print. “It's the closing sentences,” she said, “from Multiverse.”
We cannot help then but draw the conclusion that each of us has an endless number of copies. Consequently, we are never really dead, but simply gone from one plane of existence.
“I never really understood it,” she said. “Oh, and I almost forgot.” A photo of a superluminal appeared. The ship's name, or maybe a designation, was partially visible on the hull, but the symbols were nonstandard:
Since all vessels use the same character set, the vehicle seemed to be a photographic fiction.
“I also have three autographed copies of Multiverse, and also-” A battered, broad-brimmed hat appeared. She looked at me expectantly. Then sighed. “It's the Carpathian hat he made famous.” She put more framed photos on display. Robin and Elizabeth in the bright sunlight on the front deck of their home, Robin at a lectern with one hand raised dramatically, and Elizabeth with another, younger, woman. (“That's me,” said Howard.) And there was Robin receiving an award, shaking hands with students, conferring with various people. And at his desk with his eyes fixed on a notebook. And one I especially liked: Robin at a restaurant table pouring tomato sauce onto a salad while Elizabeth watched with an indulgent smile.
“He loved tomato sauce,” Howard said. “He put it on everything. Potatoes, sandwiches, beans, meat. He used it for a dip.”
“Okay,” I said. “I've got it.” That was my moment to cut it off, to explain that we only deal with artifacts that are connected in some way with famous places or events, or with historical figures. That I was probably not the only person in Andiquar who'd barely heard of Chris Robin. But I ducked.
And she roared ahead. “Look at this,” she said, activating another visual. It was a painting of Robin and his wife. Elizabeth was dark-haired, attractive. The kind of woman who always draws attention from guys. She wore a pleasant smile, but there was a formality in the way she stood and in the way she looked at her husband.
“She died last year,” Howard said.
“Yes, I'm sorry.”
Her eyes clouded. “I am, too. She was irreplaceable.”
Robin could have been a perfect typecast for the mad scientist in an over-the-top horror show. His eyes peered out at me with unrelieved intensity. His hair had retreated from the top of his skull, though it was thick and piled up over his ears. Unlike Elizabeth, he made no effort to look gracious. His expression reminded me of Dr. Inato in Death by the Numbers whenever he was about to unleash a killer typhoon on a crowded resort.
Another oil painting displayed a few musical notes and a date. “Those are the opening bars from 'Starlight and You,'“ she said.
I'd heard the song, of course. It had been popular off and on for years. “What's the connection?”
She looked surprised. “He wrote it.”
“Really?”
“Do I sound as if I'm kidding?” A note of annoyance had crept into her voice.
“Not at all,” I said. “Music or lyrics?”
“Both. Chris was a man of many talents.”
Well, I thought, maybe we had something after all. I was reminded once again of the perils in dismissing a prospective client too quickly.
Another painting depicted him and Elizabeth standing atop a bluff overlooking a moonlit ocean. “They lived on Virginia Island,” she said. “Did I mention that?”
“Yes.”
“It's a gorgeous place. Have you ever been there?”
Virginia Island was halfway around the planet. “No, Ms. Howard, I'm afraid I've missed it.”
She smiled tolerantly. “You need to get out more. Get away from the office and see the world.”
Robin was wearing the Carpathian hat, slanted off to one side. He and his wife stood with their backs to the imager. They were leaning against each other, looking out to sea. Though they were not clasped in each other's arms, it was a remarkably romantic picture.
A photo depicted him walking through a terminal, carrying a small piece of luggage, with a notebook slung over one shoulder. “This one's of special interest,” she said.
“Why's that?”
“He was leaving for that last flight.”
“Did something happen on the flight?”
Another show of disdain. “At the end of it,” she said. But she seemed disinclined to go further on the subject, so I let it slide.
There was always a possibility somebody would be interested. I decided to let Alex make the call. “Very good, Ms. Howard,” I told her. “We'll be in touch with you shortly. If we decide to accept the commission, Mr. Benedict may have some more questions for you. And he'll want to see the actual material.”
She let me see that she had some issues with my competence. “To be honest,” she said, “I'm surprised there'd be any hesitancy on your part. I mean, you've said yourself that you deal in artifacts connected with people of historical interest. If my brother-in-law doesn't fit that description, I find it hard to imagine who would.”
“Ms. Howard, you have to understand that he was a physicist. And I've no intention of demeaning that, but scientists don't usually become celebrated. And it's celebrity that drives the price. We have to be sure he fits the profile in which our clients are interested, and also that we ourselves are in a position to do him-and you- justice.”
She got up. “That sounds like double-talk.”
“I'm sorry if it does. I'm trying to be honest with you.”
“Of course you are. And I assume you won't object if I make the offer to someone else?”
“That would be your choice, Ms. Howard.”
“Just in case,” she said, “I'll leave the chip.”
We walked back out to the front door. It opened, and she strode through onto the deck. “I'm always surprised,” she said, “that these small companies don't train their people better.”
I smiled politely. “How about his AI? Is that available?”
“No,” she said.
“Is there a reason? That could be the most valuable object in the estate.”
“No. Elizabeth wiped it.”
“That's odd. Why would she do that?”
“I have no idea. I didn't realize its condition until after she'd passed.”
Alex wasn't in the building. When Howard arrived, I'd been sending out notification bulletins to clients, letting them know we'd found the artifacts they'd requested or, in several cases, that they were unavailable, or that we hadn't been able to locate them. Often objects just vanish. Someone gets them who's not connected to the rest of the world, or who has no wish to deal regardless of the price being offered. Occasionally, thieves make off with something, and it disappears from view for an extended period. Valuable artifacts have vanished for centuries, only to surface again.
Anyhow, I went back to work and was just getting ready to break for lunch when Alex came in. He'd been doing his workout routine, which now consisted mostly of swimming over at the Delancey pool. He brushed the snow off his coat and gave me a broad smile, the implication of which was that all the world was bright and enticing. I smiled back. “I see Audree was there today,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, she couldn't get off this morning.”
“When you write your autobiography, Alex, I have a title for you.”
“And that would be-?”
“There's Never a Shortage of Beautiful Women at Delancey's.”
He grinned. “It's too long, Chase.”
“Well, I don't know-”
“And you never want to start a title with There.”
“Oh.”
“You have a lot of talent, sweetheart, but you'll never be a writer.” He pulled off his hat and scarf. “It's cold
