as they neared the buffet table.
“You have no idea.”
Isabella fixed her attention on a platter of tasty-looking puff pastry canapes. “Those look good.”
“Go for it,” Raine said. “I’m off to check out the cheese tray.”
Isabella picked up a small dish and circled around the small group blocking the path to the puff pastries.
“From what I hear, Fallon Jones is getting worse,” a man said in low tones. “He’s become obsessed with that conspiracy he calls Nightshade.”
“Now, Hal, that’s just gossip,” a woman observed. “You have to agree that Nightshade represented a genuine threat.”
“Past tense,” Hal insisted. “That’s the point, Liz. Look, I give J&J credit for breaking the back of that organization, but with Craigmore gone, there’s no way Nightshade will ever recover. With its leader dead and five of the drug labs destroyed, the organization is finished. We should be directing our resources elsewhere.”
“Jones is convinced that Nightshade will reconstitute itself,” a younger man volunteered. “According to what I’ve heard, he believes that the scientist who recreated the formula is still out there somewhere, probably concocting another version of the drug for a new boss.”
“Doubtful,” Hal said. “But here’s the real issue, Adrian. There’s no way to know if Jones is right or if he’s simply sunk so deep into his own fantasies that he can’t find his way back to reality. We need someone in charge of J&J who can put things into perspective. The agency should refocus on handling routine investigations for members of the Society. That’s why it was founded in the first place.”
Adrian looked thoughtful. “I talked to Fallon earlier this evening. He’s not real great with the social chitchat thing but he didn’t strike me as a wacko.”
“It’s in the blood,” Liz said. “Everyone knows that the men in that line who inherit a high-level version of chaos theory-talent eventually become paranoid and get lost in their conspiracy fantasies.”
“Is that right?” Adrian asked.
“Well, there was that old story about one of Fallon’s multiple-greatgrandfathers, Erasmus Jones,” Hal said. “A mad-scientist type who eventually committed suicide. And there were tales of Caleb Jones, as well.”
Liz’s expression tightened. “The speculation is that Fallon’s version of the talent came directly from his ancestor, Sylvester Jones.”
Adrian’s brows shot up. “He’s got the same talent that the founder had?”
“No two talents are ever exactly alike,” Hal said. “But it’s no secret that Sylvester was half mad and completely paranoid at the end. Liz is right, that kind of thing can come down through the bloodline.”
Adrian drank some wine and looked thoughtful. “What do you suggest?”
“A lot of people are saying that the Council should appoint a new director of Jones & Jones, someone known to be stable and level-headed,” Hal said. “A strong strat-talent, perhaps.”
“There has always been a Jones at the head of J&J,” Liz pointed out.
“Just as there has always been a Jones in the Master’s Chair,” Hal said grimly. “Doesn’t mean it has to be that way. Maybe it’s time for a change. Arcane should start by severing its connection with the agency.”
Isabella popped a stuffed pastry puff into her mouth. “Now that,” she said to Hal, “would be a real dumbass thing to do.”
Hal, Liz, Adrian and everyone else within earshot turned to look at her. There was a great hush around the buffet table.
“And you would be?” Adrian asked. Curiosity and a tinge of masculine interest lit his eyes.
“Isabella Valdez,” she said. “I’m an investigator with J&J. I work at headquarters. Also, I manage the office for Mr. Jones.”
“Ah, so you’re the new assistant. I’m Adrian Spangler.” Adrian stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” Isabella brushed crumbs off her palms and shook his hand.
No one else moved. No one else said a word. It was as if everyone in the vicinity except Adrian and Isabella had been flash-frozen.
“So, why would firing Fallon Jones and dumping J&J be a dumbass thing to do?” Adrian asked. There was no challenge in his tone, just curiosity.
“Because with J&J and Fallon Jones, the Society has the best psychic investigation agency on the planet,” Isabella said briskly, “at least for the kind of investigative work that Arcane needs. The agency is uniquely qualified to handle Arcane business because it has a grasp of the history of the organization as well as access to all of the private files pertaining to the old cases.”
“Good point,” Adrian said. “It would be hard for another agency to step in and take over.”
Hal frowned. “It might take some time for a new agency to get up to speed, but the trade-off would be a higher level of professional stability at the top.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Isabella said. “Stop trying to imply that Fallon Jones is unstable and crazy. I doubt that you would know a real conspiracy nutcase if you tripped over one.”
Adrian grinned. “And you would?”
He was enjoying himself, Isabella realized. She noticed that Raine had quietly joined the small crowd at the buffet table. Raine, too, looked amused. But everyone else appeared to be teetering on the fine line between shock and fascination.
“Absolutely,” Isabella said. “I happen to be an expert on the subject of conspiracy theorists. I can spot ’em a mile away. That’s one of the assets I bring to the firm, by the way. Trust me, Fallon Jones is no conspiracy freak. Polar opposite, in fact.”
Hal scowled, but Liz and Adrian and several others were starting to look intrigued.
“All right,” Adrian said. “I give up. What is the polar opposite of a conspiracy freak?”
Isabella smiled. “A real detective, of course.”
This time a few whispers rippled across the gathering crowd.
Isabella reached for another canape. “Don’t you get it? Fallon Jones thinks like a detective, not a conspiracy kook. He uses his talent to link facts and make connections, but he doesn’t invent those facts and connections and he doesn’t manipulate them the way true conspiracy nuts do. He’s a psychic Sherlock Holmes. Holmes and Jones would be the last people on earth to be sucked into a conspiracy fantasy.”
It dawned on her that the crowd was no longer staring at her. Everyone’s attention was focused on a point behind her.
She turned around and saw Fallon watching her with an inscrutable expression. There was a little heat in his eyes.
“What do you say we go outside and get some fresh air, Watson?” he said.
“Watson got to carry a gun.”
“Forget the gun.”
“You never let me have any fun on the job.”
“Not true. I let you find a serial killer and some dead bodies, didn’t I?”
“Well, there is that.” She plucked two more hors d’oeuvres off the tray. “You’ve got to try one of these little puff pastry thingies. They’re yummy.”
“Thanks,” Fallon said.
He took a canape in one hand, nodded briefly at the small crowd watching the scene and wrapped his other hand around Isabella’s arm. He ate the puff pastry as he steered her toward the glass doors that opened onto the terrace.
“Good, aren’t they?” Isabella said.
“Not as good as Marge’s muffins.”
“No,” she agreed. “Nothing else is that good.”
“Except your grandmother’s ginger soup.”
“Except for that.”
23
