Zinnia (12 page)

“I'm not involved, Aunt Willy. I'm just one of the two people who found the body. Mr. Fenwick was a client of mine.”

“And that's another thing. You know I don't approve of your part-time job with Psynergy, Inc.”

“I need the money,” Zinnia said bluntly. “I've explained that to you. My interior design business fell off rather drastically after the Eaton scandal. I'm only now beginning to rebuild.”

Wilhelmina looked pained. “It seems we've had to endure one catastrophe after another since we lost
Edward and Genevieve. And most of the disasters have been at your hands, young woman.”

Zinnia said nothing. She merely raised her brows.

Wilhelmina put her cup firmly down on the saucer. “Which brings me to the crux of the matter. We must stop the downward spiral of events. You are the only one in a position to save this family.”

“The family will survive, Aunt Willy. No one's starving. You and Uncle Stanley seem to be managing off the annuities Great Uncle Richmond left for you. Cousin Maribeth is making ends meet with the profits from her boutique. Leo will graduate soon and I'm sure he'll be offered a research assistant position at the university. We're all going to make it.”

“There is a difference between mere survival and assuming one's proper position in the world,” Wilhelmina retorted. “Speaking of Leo. You've been a bad influence on him, Zinnia. You have not encouraged him to take an interest in business.”

“Leo was born for academia, not the business world.” It was an old argument, one that bored Zinnia, but her aunt would never admit defeat.

Wilhelmina regarded her with the sort of gaze that was meant to instill backbone in those she considered to be lacking in that quality. “Sometimes events demand that one make sacrifices for the sake of the family. I'm sure you know what I mean.”

“Indeed, I do.” Zinnia gave her a glowing smile. “You'll be pleased to know that Duncan Luttrell phoned just before you arrived. He asked me to have dinner with him tonight.”

“Mr. Luttrell called?” Wilhelmina looked as if she hardly dared to believe her ears. “In spite of those horrid stories in the tabloids linking your name with Chastain?”

“Yes. He was very sympathetic.”

“Thank God.”

“Don't get your hopes up, Aunt Willy. Remember, I'm unmatchable.”

“Let me be frank here, Zinnia. Everyone knows that in certain circles marriages are occasionally contracted without the assistance of a marriage agency. Especially when there are important family considerations.”

“But surely you wouldn't want me to take such a risk, Aunt Willy. Even assuming I could persuade some man to take a chance on me. I mean, it's my whole future we're talking about. I can't imagine anything worse than being shackled for life to a man I couldn't love and who didn't love me. Why, it would be a living hell.”

“Skip the melodrama, dear. It may interest you to know that before the Founders established the institution of the match-making agency, our ancestors on Earth routinely married without the guidance of syn-psych counselors.”

Zinnia burst into laughter, nearly spilling her tea. “That's just an old myth, Aunt Willy, and we both know it. No civilization that was advanced enough to colonize other planets would run their private lives in such a primitive fashion.”

Zinnia waited until after her aunt had left before she tried Newton DeForest's number again. It was the third time she'd attempted to phone him that day. No one had answered her earlier calls.

She counted the rings. After the fifth, she reluctantly started to replace the receiver.

“Hello?” The man on the other end of the line sounded remarkably cheerful and a little breathless.

“Professor DeForest?”

“Yes. Sorry, I was out in the garden when the phone rang. Who is this?”

“My name is Zinnia Spring, sir. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm doing some research on the islands of the
Western Seas and I understand you're an authority on Chastain's Third Expedition. Would it be possible to talk to you about it?”

There was a pause. “What was your name?”

“Zinnia Spring.”

“Are you an academic, then, Miss Spring?” DeForest sounded suddenly hopeful.

“I'm afraid not. I'm an interior designer.”

“Oh.” There was a short pause while he assimilated that piece of news. “Why in the world would an interior designer be interested in Chastain's Third?”

“It's a personal interest, Professor DeForest. A hobby, you might say. I'm fascinated with the legend and I want to learn as much as I can.” She allowed a delicate pause. “I'm told that you are the leading authority on the Third, sir.”

“I suppose I could spare some time tomorrow.”

Zinnia seized a pen. “That's wonderful. May I have your address?”

At eight-thirty that evening Zinnia smiled at Duncan Luttrell across a snowy white tablecloth. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. I've been trapped in my apartment most of the day. I left once, early this morning, and was almost cornered by a crew from one of the tabloids.”

“You're safe here at the Founders' Club. The staff knows how to keep reporters at bay.” Duncan grinned. “I won't claim that the food is still the best in New Seattle because Chastain's Palace stole the chef six months ago, but the privacy's great.”

“I appreciate it.” Zinnia glanced around at the paneled confines of the dining room.

She had deliberately chosen a refined, rose-orchidred gown with a discreet neckline and long sleeves to suit the somber elegance of her surroundings. The Founders' Club was a prime example of the heavy Gothic style popular during the Later Expansion
Period. Arched doorways, carved stonework, and a sense of brooding age were the key elements. The atmosphere provided a suitable backdrop for the wealthy movers and shakers of New Seattle who were members of the club.

A sense of wistfulness went through Zinnia. “My father used to belong to this club.”

“I know. So did mine.” Duncan looked up as the wine steward came to a halt beside the table. “A bottle of the 'ninety-seven Chateau Sequim blue, please.”

“Yes, Mr. Luttrell.” The steward vanished quietly.

Zinnia relaxed for the first time that day. Duncan had a soothing effect on her. Having dinner with him was a lot like dining out with her brother. No pressure, just a sense of pleasant companionship.

Duncan was good-looking in an open, rugged sort of way. He had a strong muscular build that seemed at odds with his career in the high-tech world of computers. He wore his light brown hair cut short in a conservative style that suited his position as the head of his own firm. His brown eyes lit easily with laughter.

After the waiter had taken their order, Duncan turned back to Zinnia with a commiserating expression.

“I know how irritating the tabloids can be,” he said. “After Dad took his own life last year, the press hounded me for days. I refused all comment and they eventually went away.”

“My technique precisely.”

The waiter returned with the wine. Zinnia waited until Duncan concluded the tasting ritual and approved the vintage.

When they were alone again, Zinnia took an appreciative sip of the fine blue wine. She rarely got to drink the expensive stuff these days. The bottle she had at home in the icerator was a cheap green.

“I think the worst of it is over. When you picked me up tonight, the
Synsation
van was gone.”

“A good sign.” Duncan smiled. “So long as you and Chastain don't feed the fires of gossip, the whole thing will dry up and blow away.”

Zinnia winced. “Don't worry. I definitely don't want to throw any more bones to the gossip columnists. And it's safe to say that Nick Chastain feels exactly the same.”

“I understand how you happened to stumble over Morris Fenwick's body. You're the type who would worry about a missing client. What I don't quite get is why Chastain was with you when you found Fenwick. The stories in the papers did not make that clear.”

Zinnia hesitated a split second while she decided how much to tell Duncan. For some obscure reason she felt a responsibility to protect Nick's privacy and she knew intuitively that he would not want her to discuss the Chastain journal. She opted for a limited version of the truth.

“You'll never believe it, but apparently Nick Chastain collects rare books.”

Duncan chuckled. “You're right. Hard to believe a casino owner with a taste for antiquarian books.”

“I know. But he was one of Morris's clients and I was aware that they had been in negotiations. When Morris failed to keep an appointment, I contacted Chastain to see if he knew what had happened to him.”

Duncan frowned. “You actually went to see Chastain?”

“I couldn't think of anything else to do. He was as concerned as I was. We both went to the book shop to see what was going on and found poor Morris together. Mr. Chastain called the police.”

Duncan looked thoughtful. “Mind if I give you a little friendly advice?”

Zinnia held up one hand. “Stop. I have a hunch
you're going to tell me the same thing I've already heard from everyone else. You want to warn me to stay clear of Nick Chastain. Right?”

Duncan smiled, but the expression in his eyes remained serious. “Right. I'm no expert on the subject, but I've heard enough to know that Chastain is not the kind of guy whose attention you want to attract.”

“Don't worry, I'm in complete agreement.”

A short silence descended.

Duncan picked up his wine glass and swirled the contents with a reflective air. “When you went to see Chastain did you get into his office?”

Zinnia helped herself to a bit of pâté and a cracker. “Uh-huh.”

Duncan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So, is it true what they say about his incredibly bad taste?”

Zinnia grinned as she crunched down on the cracker. “Every single word.”

She could not see him but she sensed his presence. He was there in the darkness, waiting for her. She knew she should turn and run from him while she still could. But some invisible force tugged at her, drawing her into the endless night. If she entered that darkness with him there would be no turning back. She would be trapped with him in the terrifying emptiness that seemed to extend forever.

She heard the muffled sound of her own heart beating. The sound grew louder, ringing loudly in her ears. The thunder of blood.

Zinnia came awake with a great startled gasp. Her nightgown was clinging to her sweat-dampened body.

Only a dream. A nightmare.

But the thunder did not cease.

It took her a few seconds to realize that what she was hearing was the telephone, not her pounding heart.

She glanced at the clock beside the bed. Midnight. No one called at midnight unless something was terribly wrong.

She picked up the receiver with a trembling hand. “Yes?”

“Miss Spring? This is Polly Fenwick. Morris Fenwick's wife?”

“Yes. Hello, Mrs. Fenwick.”

“Did I wake you?”

“It's all right.” Zinnia collapsed back against the pillows. “I'm so very sorry about Morris.”

“That's why I called.”

Zinnia frowned as the anxiety in Polly Fenwick's voice finally seeped through the phone. “Are you all right, Mrs. Fenwick?”

“I've been going through his things. There was a note. With instructions, you know.”

“Instructions?”

“Very specific. Morris was that way. Very specific. I followed the instructions to the letter. I found a book that he had hidden. It looks like a diary or a journal of some kind.”

Zinnia stilled. “A journal?”

“According to Morris's note, it's quite valuable. But his instructions are to dispose of it as fast as possible. He thinks it may be dangerous to possess it. I'm to sell it to Mr. Chastain. You, know, the man who owns that casino in Founders' Square?”

“Yes. Yes, I know.” Zinnia was having trouble following the rushed explanation. Part of her mind was still churning with the images embedded in the nightmare. “Excuse me, Mrs. Fenwick, but are you saying that you have this journal in your possession?”

“Yes. Didn't I make that clear? But Morris's note says I must get rid of it quickly. Apparently he
thought someone might come looking for it if anything happened to him.”

“What, exactly, does the note say?”

“I just told you, I'm to conclude the sale of the journal the moment I discover it.”

“You want to sell the journal now? Tonight?”

“Yes. I don't mind telling you that Morris's note has made me very nervous. I'm sorry to bother you like this, but it definitely says here that I'm to call you. It says you'll contact Mr. Chastain for me. Will you do that?”

“Me?”

“Please, Miss Spring. My stomach is terribly upset as it is. I just couldn't call that dreadful man personally. The very thought of dealing with him terrifies me. Why, he's not much better than a gangster.”

Shades of Aunt Willy. Zinnia closed her eyes. “All right. I'll call Mr. Chastain for you.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Spring.” Gratitude and relief bubbled in Polly's voice. “We mustn't be seen together, though. I thought we could meet at Curtain Park in an hour.”

“You're sure you want to do this tonight?”

“Definitely. I won't sleep until this matter has been taken care of, Miss Spring. You will come with Mr. Chastain, won't you? I'd be too frightened to go through with the sale if you weren't there. Morris said in his note that I could trust you.”

“All right. But I can't guarantee that I'll be able to get in touch with him tonight. He operates a gambling casino, Mrs. Fenwick. There's no telling what he's doing at this hour of the night.”