Slowly, he turned the pages: the
Reaching into his coat pocket, he removed a sheet of notes he had scribbled.
Folding up the sheet and putting it away again, Pendergast poured himself a glass of Burgundy. As he drank it off, he seemed barely to taste the remarkable vintage.
He now knew--to his great mortification--that his initial meeting with Helen had been no accident. And yet he could hardly believe it. Surely, his family's connection to John James Audubon wasn't the reason she had married him? He knew she had loved him--and yet it was becoming increasingly clear that his wife led a double life. It was a bitter irony: Helen had been the one person in the world he had been able to trust, to open up to--and all the while she had been keeping a secret from him. As he poured another glass of wine he reflected that, because of that very trust, he'd never suspected her secret, which would have been obvious to him in any other friend.
He knew all this. And yet it was nothing compared with the remaining questions that almost shouted out at him:
What was behind Helen's apparent fascination with Audubon--and why had she been so careful to conceal her interest in the artist from him?
What was the relation between Helen's interest in Audubon's famous engravings and an obscure breed of parrot, extinct now for almost a century?
Where was Audubon's first mature work, the mysterious Black Frame, and why was Helen searching for it?
And most perplexing, and most important: why had this interest of Helen's ultimately caused her death? Because, while he was sure of little else, Pendergast was certain--beyond doubt--that somewhere, hiding behind this curtain of questions and suppositions, lurked not only the motive for her death, but the murderers themselves.
Putting aside the glass, he rose from the armchair and strode over to a telephone on a nearby table. He picked it up, dialed a number.
It was answered on the second ring. 'D'Agosta.'
'Hello, Vincent.'
'Pendergast. How you doing?'
'Where are you at present?'
'At the Copley Plaza hotel, resting my dogs. Do you have any idea how many men named Adam attended MIT while your wife was there?'
'No.'
'Thirty-one. I've managed to track down sixteen. None of them says he knew her. Five others are out of the country. Two more are dead. The other eight are unaccounted for: lost alumni, the university says.'
'Let us put friend Adam on the back burner for the time being.'
'Fine by me. So, where to next? New Orleans? New York, maybe? I'd really like to spend a little time with--'
'North of Baton Rouge. Oakley Plantation.'
'Where?'
'You will be going to Oakley Plantation House, just outside St. Francisville.'
A long pause. 'So what am I going to be doing there?' D'Agosta asked in a dubious voice.
'Examining a brace of stuffed parrots.'
Another, even longer pause. 'And you?'
'I'll be at the Bayou Grand Hotel. Tracking down a missing painting.'
19
PENDERGAST SAT IN THE PALM-LINED COURTYARD in front of the elegant hotel, one black-clad leg draped over the other, arms crossed, motionless as the alabaster statues that framed the gracious space. The previous night's storm had passed, ushering in a warm and sunny day full of the false promise of spring. Before him lay a wide driveway of white gravel. A small army of valets and caddies were busy ferrying expensive cars and gleaming golf carts here and there. Beyond the driveway was a swimming pool, sparkling azure in the late-morning light, empty of swimmers but surrounded by sunbathers drinking bloody Marys. Beyond the pool lay an expansive golf course, immaculate fairways and raked bunkers, over which strolled men in pastel-colored blazers and women in golf whites. Beyond passed the broad brown swath of the Mississippi River.
There was a movement at his side. 'Mr. Pendergast?'
Pendergast looked up to see a short, rotund man in his late fifties, wearing a dark suit, the jacket buttoned, and a deep red tie bearing only the subtlest of designs. His bald pate gleamed so strikingly in the sun it might have been gilded, and identical commas of white hair were combed back above both ears. Two small blue eyes were set deep in a florid face. Below them, the prim mouth was fixed in a business-like smile.
Pendergast rose. 'Good morning.'
