His sarcasm outraged her. "I have no intention of denying that I was here tonight. Why would I lie to the police?"
"If you can't think of a reasonable answer to that question, there's no point getting into an in-depth discussion of the subject." Nick broke off to speak into the phone. "Give me Detective Anselm, please."
Zinnia listened as Nick spoke briefly with the person on the other end of the line. There was a marked note of casual familiarity in his voice. This was obviously not the first time he had dealt with the police. Given his line of work, that was probably not surprising, she thought.
"Yes, we'll both wait until you get here," Nick concluded. He replaced the receiver with his black-gloved hand and looked at Zinnia. "Anselm said he'd be here in a few minutes."
She relaxed slightly. The authorities were on their way. It would all be over soon.
"Poor Morris." She tried to think of something constructive to do. "I wonder if I should call his wife."
Nick's gaze sharpened. "Fenwick is married?" "Yes, I think her name is Polly. The two of them haven't lived together for several years. Morris told me once that Polly moved out a long time ago because she thought he was getting too weird." "I see."
"A very sad situation. They couldn't get a divorce, of course, so all they could do was separate. Morris blamed himself. Everyone knows matrix-talents are difficult to match properly." "So I'm told," Nick muttered. "Morris said that when they were dating, he and Polly had gone to an agency where the syn-psych counselors warned them that it wasn't a good match, just barely passable. But they went ahead and got married, anyway." Zinnia closed her eyes. "Good lord, I'm rambling, aren't I?"
"Let the police notify Mrs. Fenwick," Nick suggested with surprising gentleness. "It's their job." "Yes. Poor Morris."
"Do you think you could stop calling him 'poor Morris'?"
"He was irritable and eccentric and secretive, and he was forever concocting conspiracy theories the way matrix-talents are inclined to do, but I got to know him. I was fond of him. At heart he was just a harmless little man who loved old books. I can't imagine anyone killing him. Unless-" "Unless what?"
She glanced around uneasily. "I wonder if this is connected to the Chastain journal."
"Not likely." Nick surveyed the room with a single assessing glance. "For one thing, as far as I know, I'm the only one who wanted the journal badly enough to do something this drastic."
She felt as if she had just stepped into an empty elevator shaft. "My God, are you saying that you would have murdered someone in order to get your hands on the journal?"
His mouth curved with deep cynical amusement, as if he had expected her to make the accusation.
"Only as a last resort," he said.
"If that's a joke, it's in extremely poor taste."
"I'm noted for my lousy taste. But that's another matter. Bottom line here is that I prefer to pay for what I want and Fenwick knew that. He had assured me that he would let me top any offer he got and I believed him. As I told you, we had an understanding."
"A gentlemen's agreement, you mean?"
"I'm flattered that you classify me as a gentleman, Miss Spring. I had the distinct impression that you thought I was one of the lower life forms."
Guilt assailed her. She knew that she had been very rude. "I'm sorry. I certainly did not mean to imply that I thought you were a, uh, lower form of life."
"It's difficult to accuse a man of kidnapping without insulting him in the process," he observed.
"Yes, I suppose so." She was thoroughly mortified now. "I beg your pardon. I'm afraid that I jumped to some unfortunate conclusions."
He inclined his head in a graceful manner. "Apology accepted. If you want to know the truth, I found your concern for Fenwick rather touching. Not many people would go that far for a business client. Especially one who was an irritable, eccentric, secretive matrix."
The satisfaction in his words disturbed Zinnia. It occurred to her that Nick Chastain was a man who probably preferred to hold the high cards in any situation. Making her feel guilty and coaxing an apology from her were subtle ways of shifting the balance of power in their relationship.
This was a man who knew how to manipulate and intimidate others and did not hesitate to do so when it suited his purposes.
Fortunately their association was fated to be extremely brief, Zinnia thought. She knew that if she had any sense she should be profoundly relieved by that fact. And she was relieved. Definitely. No two ways about it. The last thing she wanted to do was get mixed up with Nick Chastain. She had problems enough in her life.
So why was she feeling a small wistful twinge of regret at the thought that she would probably never see him again after tonight, she wondered. Too much stress. That was the key. Her emotions were all over the board at the moment. After all, she had just stumbled into a murder scene.
She took a firm grip on over-stressed nerves. "Whoever did this must have been looking for something."
"Maybe. But I don't think it was the journal. It would have been too valuable to hide here in his main sales room. He was a matrix. He would have concealed it in a more clever fashion."
She peered at him, wondering why he seemed so certain of his conclusions. The evidence of a frantic search was all around them. "There's an old saying that things hidden in plain view are less likely to be discovered."
His mouth twisted with polite disdain. "No matrix would subscribe to that dumb theory."
She thought about it. "You're right. Matrix-talents are too secretive by nature to trust the plain view concept." She looked around. "Morris had other valuable books in his collection besides the journal.
Two original North monographs, for example. Perhaps the murderer was after them."
Nick studied the ransacked room and then shook his head once. "I doubt it. This place was torn apart in a random fashion. Whoever did it wasn't searching for valuable books."
"How can you be certain of that?"
He shrugged. "I can see at least two volumes of the third edition of the Founders' Encyclopedia on the floor. Each of them is worth at least five hundred dollars to a collector. No one who knew anything about the antiquarian book trade would have left them behind."
"Oh." Impressed, Zinnia switched her gaze back to Nick's face. He was watching her intently. Their eyes locked and for a moment she could not summon the will to look away.
The world grew very still around her. She felt the hair stir on the back of her neck. A prickling sensation coursed down her spine. It was as though every sense she possessed, physical and psychic, was poised on the cusp of acute awareness. The feeling was just a hairsbreadth shy of painful.
"What is it?" Nick asked in his soft heart-of-a-cavern voice.
"I hadn't realized that you knew so much about rare books."
"There's a lot that you don't know about me, Miss Spring." He smiled faintly. "And there's a great deal that I don't know about you. That makes us even."
She shivered. The small whispers of awareness continued to make her uneasy. She'd never experienced a reaction quite like this around any man. Then again, she had never been in a situation quite like this, she reminded herself. For some reason, her life had been so humdrum that she had never before found herself in a room with a dead client and a mysterious man who put on gloves before he walked into the middle of a murder scene.
She was relieved to hear a siren in the distance. "Why did you follow me?"
"I didn't. I had Feather follow you. He called me on the car phone when he realized what you were about to do."
That bit of information incensed her. "What business was it of yours, Mr. Chastain?"
"I think that, under the circumstances, my concern was reasonable. After all, you took the risk of confronting me in order to accuse me of kidnapping. There are very few people who would have done that. It indicated a certain degree of unpredictability and recklessness on your part. How could I know what you might do next?"
"Why should you ca
re what I did next?"
"You're involved with the journal. I'm interested in anyone who's connected to it in any way."
"Did you follow me because you thought I might lead you to it?"
"No." He looked mildly surprised. "It never crossed my mind that you would know its whereabouts. Fenwick made it clear that he had it stashed safely away and that he was the only one who knew where it was. Since he was a matrix, it would probably take another matrix to find it."
"So you had me followed just to see what I would do next?"
"Something like that."
"Of all the nerve." The wail of a siren was louder now. It made her feel increasingly bold. "I suppose you realize that was an invasion of my privacy?"
"Would you rather be standing here all by yourself with Fenwick's body while you wait for the cops?"
He had a point. It would have been a lonely vigil. "No, not really."
She decided there was no point mentioning that there were a number of other people besides himself who would have made more comfortable companions in such a situation. He might take such a remark as yet another insult. Something told her that she had pushed her luck far enough tonight. Nick Chastain did not seem the type to tolerate insults well.
"Tell me," Nick said quietly, "Have you given any thought to how this is all going to look in the morning papers?"
She stared at him as the full import of what he was saying sank in. For the first time she realized that this might not end once the police arrived. Memories of the nasty tabloid headlines she had endured a year and a half ago flashed through her mind.
"Damn."
The cold amusement burned again, briefly, in his eyes. "My sentiments exactly."
"Well, it won't amount to much of a story for the New Seattle Times," she said. "After all, murder isn't exactly front-page news unless there's an unusual slant."
"Something tells me that as far as the Times is concerned, this particular murder will definitely have an interesting slant." He paused. "You're the Scarlet Lady from the Eaton scandal and I'm the owner of Chastain's Palace."
"Damn," she said again.
"I think we can safely assume that the New Seattle Times is going to splash Fenwick's death across the front page. And that's nothing compared to what the tabloids will do."
Zinnia became aware of a dull ache at the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and absently massaged her nape. "They'll have a field day, especially, Synsa-tion. The only thing that could make it worse, I suppose, would be an indication that drugs were involved. At least we know that's not the case."
"Why do you say that?"
She frowned. "This is poor Morris Fenwick we're talking about here. There's no way anyone, not even a tabloid journalist, could link his death to drugs."
"I take it you're a glass-half-full kind of person," Nick said. "That's okay. I've never understood optimistic types, but I've always found them to be amusing."
Chapter 5
Zinnia groaned aloud when she read the morning headlines in the New Seattle Times:
Murder Victim Discovered by Casino Owner and Designer
Possible Drug Link
The body of an antiquarian bookman, Morris Fenwick, was discovered late last night by a local casino owner, Nick Chastain, and his companion, Miss Zinnia Spring. The motive for the murder is unclear, but police suspect that the killer was after money for drugs.
Sources in the department speculated that the perpetrator was searching for cash or valuables on the premises of Fenwick's Books when he was surprised by the owner of the shop. Mr. Fenwick was apparently killed by a blow to the head. The shop was left in a shambles.
"The place was ripped apart," stated Detective Paul Anselm of the NSPD. "Looks like the guy was enraged because he couldn't find any money. We're having a real problem with a new street drug called crazy-fog. A lot of burglaries lately have occurred because the users want quick cash to buy the stuff."
Zinnia braced herself with a cup of strong coff-tea before she went downstairs to the street to buy a copy of Synsation. Once she was outside on the sidewalk she was able to read the lead headline from twenty paces.
Casino Owner Chastain and the Scarlet Lady Involved in Crazy-Fog Murder
An old file photo of herself was positioned next to a long-range shot of Nick walking out the front door of Chastain's Palace. The story that followed was full of so-called details which amounted to little more than idle speculation. The piece concluded with a quick rundown of background information on Nick and herself.
. . . Both were unavailable for comment. Nick Chastain is the publicity-shy owner of Chastain's Palace, a popular casino in Founders' Square. Miss Spring is the daughter of the late Edward and Genevieve Spring. Readers will recall that Mr. and Mrs. Spring were lost at sea four years ago when their racing yacht went down in a sudden storm. Shortly after the tragic events, Spring Industries was reported to be experiencing financial difficulties. The company later went into bankruptcy.
Eighteen months ago, Miss Spring, an interior designer, figured prominently in a scandal involving one of her clients, Rexford Eaton, President of Eaton Shipping.
"So much for the virtues of optimism," Zinnia muttered to herself as she walked back through the door of her loft.
The phone rang. It was not the first time. It had been ringing all morning. Zinnia tossed the copy of Synsation into the trash can as she waited for the answering machine to pick up the call.
It was her Aunt Wilhelmina this time, which made a change from the endless messages that had been left by reporters.
"Zinnia? What in the world is going on? I've just seen the morning papers. I am shocked. I cannot believe that you have become involved with that dreadful casino owner. You're a Spring. We do not associate with his sort. And how could you put yourself into a situation involving murder and drugs?"
Zinnia yanked her red trench coat off the whimsical Early Exploration Period coat tree and headed for the door. She was in no mood to discuss the night's events with her aunt but she owed Clementine Malone an explanation.
A screaming yellow van with the words READ SYNSATION FOR THE LATEST SENSATION painted in purple on the side rounded the corner at the end of the block just as she drove out of the underground garage.
Zinnia accelerated rapidly and swept past the vehicle. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a photographer inside the van lift his camera for a shot of her fleeing car.
She was tempted to give him the universally recognized single-digit salute, but she resisted. Aunt Willy would not have approved.
Byron Smyth-Jones-Psynergy, Inc.'s executive secretary, receptionist, and all-around gofer-was at his command post behind the front desk when Zinnia arrived fifteen minutes later.
Byron had recently abandoned the popular Western Islands look for the newer and decidedly more avant-garde Alien Artifact style. Both had been inspired by the New Seattle Art Museum's exhibition of the mysterious and very ancient alien relics that Lucas Trent had discovered deep in an island jungle.
No one knew what to make of the strange artifacts because there was no trace of any other intelligent life on St. Helens. As far as the descendents of the Earth colonists could discern, they had the planet to themselves. The handful of mysterious relics were the only existing evidence that once, a long time ago, someone else had discovered St. Helens.
The Western Islands look had consisted of designer versions of the hard-wearing boots and khaki clothing favored by the rugged folk who prospected and mined the fuel source called jelly-ice. The attire had sometimes appeared a little silly on trendy urban types such as Byron, but at least it had looked as though it had been designed for real human beings. The Alien Artifact style, on the other hand, was over the top in Zinnia's professional opinion.
Today Byron was a vision in tight-fitting acid-green pants and a matching shirt patterned with images of the artifacts. He wore a heavy necklace made out of plastic designed to resemble the strange silver-colored alloy the aliens had use
d for their tools. His blond hair was razored to within a quarter of an inch around his entire skull. The toes of his black-and-green knee-high patent leather boots were so pointed Zinnia wondered how he managed to walk.
"Sex, murder, and crazy-fog. How exciting can life get?" Byron chuckled gleefully as he put down the copy of Synsation. "How did you ever come to meet Nick Chastain? I want to hear every single juicy detail, Zinnia. Never in a million years would I have guessed that the two of you were involved in a relationship. You've been hiding things from your good buddy, Byron. I'm devastated."
Zinnia glowered at him. "For the record, Mr. Chastain and I are not involved in a relationship."
"The Times called you Chastain's companion, a loaded word if ever there was one." He stabbed a finger at the tabloid lying on the desk. "And Synsation clearly states that you two are a couple. So, which is it?"
"Neither. Is Clementine in yet?"
"I'm here, Zinnia." Clementine stuck her head around the door of her office. "I nearly had a seizure when I opened the paper. You okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Zinnia relaxed slightly. The sight of her part-time boss was somehow reassuring.
Clementine Malone could be brusque and acerbic, and she had a very short fuse, but she was also savvy, good-hearted, and loyal to her employees.
Unlike Byron, Clementine was not swayed by every passing gust of the fashion wind. Year in and year out she stuck with studded black leather and steel accessories. Her brush-cut, stark white hair was a brilliant contrast to her dark eyes.
"I tried to call you but there was no answer," Clementine said. "Kept getting the machine so I hung up and didn't leave a message."
Zinnia grimaced. "The phone started ringing before I even got out of bed. I haven't answered it all morning."
Clementine eyed her thoughtfully. "Mind telling me how in five hells you wound up in the company of Nick Chastain last night?"
"It's a long story. When I still couldn't reach Morris Fenwick late yesterday evening, I sort of panicked. I leaped to the conclusion that Mr. Chastain had, uh, gotten hold of him."
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