“My day was a bust,” I griped, and slumped in my chair at the kitchen table.
“Good thing there’s wine,” Dad said, and grinned as he handed me a glass. “Try this. It’s a new Fume Blanc from Chateau St. Jean. Crisp and smooth with a hint of melon.”
“Sounds yummy,” Mom said, and took a petite sip. “Mm, it is.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, accepting the small glass of wine from him. I took a sip and checked the wall clock for the tenth time. Derek hadn’t yet called to say he was on his way, and I was feeling edgy. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because I’d been driving around playing private eye all day. I got up from the table and moved around the kitchen, checking the refrigerator, checking the soup on the stove, glancing out the window.
I went into the living room and tried Emily’s phone number again. Even though her principal had verified that she was on a leave of absence, she would still be checking her messages. Wouldn’t she? So maybe my first message got lost in the telephone-answering void.
Listening to the sound of her voice on voice mail again brought back memories. The first time I called, I wasn’t absolutely certain it was her, but now I knew for sure. I left another message with my home and work numbers. I told her I lived in the city and could drive out to meet her anytime she wanted. I just really needed to talk to her, I said, then realized I was starting to sound desperate, so I hung up the phone.
I was agitated about more than just Emily not contacting me and Derek being late. I was homesick for my apartment, for my work, for the city. I’d been away from home too long. I imagined my mail piling up and deadlines being missed, even though my neighbors were collecting my mail and my clients had all been alerted that their books would be ready in the next two weeks. I loved my parents, loved my hometown, but I still ached to get back to the city.
I came into the kitchen and idly tore a piece of paper from Mom’s notepad. I began folding it, first forward, then back, turning and twisting and making tiny folds. This was what I did when I was nervous. Within two minutes, I’d made an origami stork.
“For you.” I held it out to Dad.
He chuckled as he took it from me. It wasn’t much bigger than his thumb, but he held it carefully in the palm of his hand and shook his head in amazement. “You’re a genius.”
“Hardly.” It was my turn to laugh. “I do make an awesome paper bird, though.”
“A work of art,” Mom said lovingly.
The phone rang and Dad picked it up, listened, then handed it to me. “It’s Derek.”
I grabbed the phone. “Hi.”
“Darling, I can’t make it out there tonight. There’s simply too much going on.”
“You sound tired.
“Just aggravated.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, I am, too. I want you to be extra careful. I don’t like to leave you alone at night.”
“I don’t like it, either.”
I asked him if he’d unearthed any information on the Ogunite church or the survivalists, but he confessed that he had been too busy to deal with any of that. We spoke for a few more minutes; then I hung up and called Gabriel to give him the news. He assured me he would stay at Jackson’s tonight and we would all talk tomorrow.
I hung up the phone and immediately felt lonely. And that was ridiculous. I couldn’t go one night without seeing Derek? What was wrong with me? I had a rich, full life and was perfectly capable of entertaining myself. I enjoyed my time alone. Besides, I wasn’t actually alone. My parents were both watching me carefully.
“Derek can’t make it tonight,” I said. “He’s still at work and it sounds like he’ll be there for a while.”
“In that case, we’ll just have to play three-handed Bananagrams,” Mom said.
The next day, I decided it was time to make a bold move. I asked Mom for the keys to her car, but when she found out where I intended to go, she refused to be left behind.
“All right,” I said, “but this isn’t a carefree stroll in the park. We’ll take one quick walk around the campus, gather whatever empirical data we can glean, and then we’re out of there.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” she said, saluting smartly.
“And don’t wear anything too colorful,” I warned. “We don’t want to attract any attention.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll dress just like you,” Mom said.
I looked down at my dark jeans and slim, black leather jacket, then back at her. “Ouch, Mom.”
She waved me off. “Oh, you know what I mean. You always look beautiful.” Then she ran down the hall to change clothes.
I wasn’t so sure she meant that, but ten minutes later, she came out in blue jeans, a thin red sweater, and a cropped navy jacket.
“Mom, you look very chic.”
“Just like you,” she said, making me laugh.
We drove four miles to the Art Institute and found a parking place in a local shopping area a block from the school. As we strolled briskly along the wide, tree-lined walkway of the campus, I noticed colorful banners on every light pole touting the latest artist retrospective being held at the institute’s well-respected art gallery. The banner’s image was blurry and I paid little attention to it, figuring it was some local artist I’d never heard of.
“It’s a pretty campus,” Mom said. “Did you enjoy your time teaching here?”
“I did, most of the time.” As I gazed around at the students hurrying to classes, I felt a rush of nostalgia for my college days. We passed the student union, and I considered walking inside to indulge in a little vicarious taste of student life, when someone shoved a flyer into my hand. I was ready to toss it in the trash, but happened to notice the large headline: GENIUS ON PAPER.
I stared at the stippled face of the honoree, then glanced up at one of the banners flapping on the light pole. I could finally make out that blurred image. Gazing back at the flyer, I read all about the upcoming retrospective featuring the most important works of that late, great papermaker, Max Adams.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, and scanned the flyer as Mom read over my shoulder. The opening-night cocktail party for the monthlong Max Adams Retrospective was scheduled for two Saturdays from now. The party was to feature several prominent artists, a live jazz band, a cash bar, hors d’oeuvres, and one very special guest.
“Look who the show’s curator is,” Mom said, pointing to the name at the bottom of the flyer.
I read the name, then did a double take. “Angelica Johansen. You have got to be kidding.”
“Didn’t you suspect she knew Max was alive?”
“Yes, and now I’m sure of it.” I shook the piece of paper. “This could be why she set the whole thing in motion, starting with selling the book to Joe.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course,” I said. “She expects Max Adams to be her special guest.”
Mom and I stepped inside the dark lecture hall and found ourselves on the top tier of an arena-style auditorium. In the front of the class, standing at a podium next to a large slide screen that showed a photograph of the Greek Acropolis, was Solomon.
With a slide-change clicker in one hand and a laser pointer in the other, Solomon was delivering a stirring account of his last visit to the famous ancient ruin.
He glanced up at the top row and I shivered involuntarily. The lights were dimmed and he was busy lecturing, but I felt as though he could see right through me from twenty rows away. He seemed taller, older, better-looking, and more solidly built than I remembered him.
“Do we have latecomers?” he asked acerbically, his deep, smooth voice resonating through the room.
“Sorry, wrong classroom,” I said loudly, and pushed Mom toward the door.
Once in the hall, I had to take a few deep breaths to calm my stuttering heart. I hadn’t seen Solomon in almost ten years, but all it took was a few short seconds in the same room to leave me certain that the man could be a cold-blooded killer.
“I had no idea he was so forceful,” Mom said, breathless herself.
“I’d forgotten,” I muttered, wondering if I’d simply been too young and naive to recognize Solomon’s potent sexual energy, or if his unpredictable, domineering ways back then had blinded me to his magnetism.
“No wonder Crystal is so in love with him.”
“I know. He’s got some lethal pheromones at work.”
