food in there.
“The hot tub’s nice at this time of night.” He took two glasses from a cabinet. “I could turn on the lights in the backyard and we could talk there, chill a little. It’s like fairyland.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit and you said this was going to be about work.”
“You don’t need a bathing suit and it could still be about work.”
“Knock it off, please.”
“Let me guess. You’ve got a boyfriend?”
“Where’s your computer?”
“Is that a no?”
“Ian—” I gave him a warning look.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s in my bedroom.”
“That’s it. I’m leaving.”
He reached out and grabbed my arm. “No, don’t. Please.”
“I shouldn’t be here—”
“Yes, you should.” He took both my hands in his. “I’m sorry for acting like an ass. You don’t need to go, I mean it. I’ll get my laptop from the bedroom and bring it downstairs. Okay? Why don’t we sit in the living room? We need to figure this out. I don’t want to do it alone.”
I nodded. “All right. I’ll stay for a while. Where’s the living room?”
He looked relieved. “Upstairs.”
The second-floor living room was as appealing as the kitchen. The centerpiece was the floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books, art, and sculpture on either side of a Victorian fireplace. A modern sofa upholstered in tangerine canvas and two barrel armchairs in chocolate brown leather were pulled around a large piece of driftwood with a glass top that served as a coffee table. The art on the walls included Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein prints and a couple of modern oils.
Mail lay fan-shaped on the floor by the front door where it had been pushed through the brass mail slot; the curtains had not been drawn in the bay window. I liked that about cities and towns where houses practically sat on the street—the chance for a quick glimpse through a lighted window while driving by, a flash of someone’s life, a vignette of family.
Ian turned on a torchère next to the front door and two brass table lamps on either side of the sofa. He didn’t bother to pick up the mail.
We sat next to each other, elbows touching, as he turned on his computer.
“Why don’t we search for Richard Boyle
“That was my next idea.” He tapped the keyboard and whistled. “Bingo.”
I caught my breath as I looked at his screen. “‘Epistles to Several Persons: Epistle IV, to Richard Boyle’ by Alexander Pope. So it’s not Richard Boyle ‘the Fourth.’ This has to be the right guy. I wonder who he was?”
“Who cares? Let’s read the damn epistle. That’s what we’re looking for.”
“It might be important to know.”
“I doubt it. Hang on, here it is … thank God for the Internet … damn. Why couldn’t he have written a limerick? Five lines. This goes on for pages. I don’t suppose you were an English major.” He scrolled down through multiple screens.
“French and history. Exactly what I need to run a vineyard.”
He gave me a sideways grin. “So what does all this stuff mean? The beginning is in Latin. All I speak is pig.”
“If he wrote, ‘Caesar divided Gaul into three parts,’ I can translate that, but otherwise forget it.” I took the computer from him and set it on my lap. “Let’s go through the English verse, line by line.”
After half an hour he leaned back and stretched. “I give up. It’s about architecture … buildings. It’s like a letter in verse to this guy—Richard Boyle—admonishing him about gardens and nature and … stuff. If there’s a clue in this, I’m not getting it.”
“Maybe the clue is who Richard Boyle was,” I said. “Like I suggested.”
“If you’re right, you’re going to rub it in, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
I wasn’t right. After more searching all we knew was that Richard Boyle, third Earl of Burlington and fourth Earl of Cork, had been known as “the architect earl” because of his role in reviving Palladian architecture in England, making it the generally accepted style for country houses and public buildings. The poem itself was ostensibly about gardening, but it also poked fun at the vulgar and ostentatious estate of a rival.
“Palladio,” Ian said. “Now we’re talking about a sixteenth-century Italian architect. We keep going further and further back in history, for God’s sake. Next we’ll find some link to the Stone Age.”
I sat back and rubbed my temples. My head had started to throb.
“I have no idea, except that Palladio’s ideas were grounded in classical Greek and Roman architecture,” I said. “And he in turn influenced the men who designed and built the city of Washington.”
“Bully for him.” Ian sounded irritated. “And this relates how to Rebecca turning over information about Tommy Asher?”
“I don’t know. But she did say that the Asher Collection—which is all about the design and planning of Washington—was displayed in their New York offices and that her boss often brought historians in to talk to his employees about it.”
“Meaning she knew about Palladio and the difference between Ionic and Corinthian columns and what an architrave is?”
“Right.”
“And if, say, it’s a key ring flash drive that could be downloaded onto a computer, we’d be looking for something about two inches long and half an inch wide,” Ian said. “That narrows it down to just about any- freakin’-where in the city.”
“Maybe just the public monuments. Or gardens.” I rubbed my eyes. This was getting to be insane.
He shut the laptop and picked up his empty glass. “I need another drink.”
“If you’re going downstairs, how about walking me to my car?” I said. “We’re not going to get anywhere tonight with this, and my head’s about to split apart from thinking so much.”
“You’re not ditching me?”
“We have one more day. Why don’t we start again in the morning?”
“I say we stick with it until we figure it out.”
His words had grown thicker as the evening wore on, the accumulated consequence of a couple of beers and a tumbler of Scotch.
“Ian, I need to go.”
“Please?”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
I stood up and reached for my cane. He pulled me back down on the sofa and kissed me. “Stay.” His voice was low. “I want you.”
“No.” I struggled to push him away from me. “Don’t do this. I mean it.”
“It’s okay, baby.”
He tried again and this time I pushed harder.
“Stop it!”
He released me and I saw the two red blotches on his cheeks. “Sorry. I’m not really an oaf most of the time. I just got carried away. You’re beautiful, you know. I could fall for you in a heartbeat.”
I looked away. Tomorrow he wouldn’t remember this. “I think you should walk me to my car. Now, please.”
He had to unlock the kitchen door from the inside before he let me out into the cool evening. I shivered and he put his arm around me, rubbing my shoulders. At the back gate he unlocked the padlock. When we got to my car, he leaned down and kissed me again.
This time I let him do it.
“Why don’t you call me when you get home?” His words were lightly slurred. “I wanna know you got there safely.”
