The Fortune Teller's Daughter

by Lila Shaara

  Harry felt oddly hurt by this comment, which a distant part of him found amusing. Make up your mind, it said.

  Harry called at the beginning of the week to insist on Dusty’s visit. He tried to make the call while walking back to his house from the university after his last class of the day. He lived only a mile and a half away but hadn’t ever considered walking back and forth till recently. The ground was level, and there were shaded sidewalks most of the way. He wasn’t sure he’d want to make the trip on foot when the real heat set in, but the dogwoods and redbud trees were in bloom and he was surprised at how beautiful this part of town was. Its beauty was of a far more manicured variety than that of Gunhill Park, but it still was pleasant to take a little time to enjoy it. After all, he thought, I have the time.

  But his cell phone didn’t work, putting a dent in his pastoral mood. After pushing a few nonresponsive buttons, he concluded that the battery was no longer holding a charge. He swore at it, making a mental note to replace it as soon as possible. When he was back at home, he dialed Ann’s number on his desk phone. After a few mild threats, he got her to agree to meet him at a halfway point the following Saturday morning, delivering their son to him as though it was a hostage exchange. Dusty would take the bus home on Sunday evening. He wouldn’t mind as long as he had a book and his new iPod.

  · · ·

  Harry had gotten a copy of the Ziegart effect paper from Frank Milford through campus mail on Tuesday. He read the whole thing through, understanding one word in five. The version that Milford had given him had been published in the Northeastern Journal of Physics and Engineering. The only author listed was Charles Ziegart.

  He went online and found the website of Cantwell University in Lucasta, Pennsylvania. From it he obtained the main office number of the Charles Ziegart School of Physics and Engineering. He loved how much easier the Internet made doing research, although he’d found that most things you learned online were at best partial truths; there was no substitute for interviewing people in person. It was remarkable how often people lied, even about inconsequential things; but it was also remarkable how easy it was to tell most of the time, at least for him. The more fiercely earnest people looked, the more likely it was that something they were telling him was fabricated, constructed, or at least massaged. Harry was gifted in smelling falsehood, but even his powers diminished over the phone, and they disappeared altogether when looking at a computer screen. He could get started with the Internet and a few phone interviews; if anything interesting turned up, he would have to travel to Pennsylvania. He wasn’t sure he was up to it. He didn’t want to be farther away from Dusty than he already was. He almost hoped his initial inquiries would amount to nothing.

  He left a message at Cantwell University with a secretary who sounded as though she’d been smoking since cigarettes were invented. His call was returned a few hours later by a woman named Gillian DeGraff, whose accent suggested northeastern prep schools and vacation houses on Cape Cod. Dr. DeGraff identified herself as Cantwell’s dean of arts and sciences. “The director of the Ziegart School is out of town for a conference. He’s only been with the university for three years, and didn’t know Charles Ziegart. So Louise called my office.” Harry gathered that Louise was the smoky-voiced secretary. “We’re gratified to come to the attention of The Washington Post.”

  “I’m formerly with the Post. I’m teaching law at the moment. I’m also working on a book, which is why I called in the first place.”

  “I gathered that from what Louise said. What can I help you with?”

  “I was interested in the Ziegart effect. More specifically, I want to know whatever you can tell me about Charles Ziegart himself. Did you know him personally?”

  “Oh yes. He and I were quite close. My husband is Cantwell’s chancellor, and Charlie was one of his best friends. I still have lunch with his wife almost every week.”

  He wondered if her casual use of “Charlie” was meant to impress him. “You mean his first wife?”

  “He was married to Pamela for almost twenty years before he did the thing that so many academics do, I’m afraid. They get a midlife itch, especially with younger, adoring students around them. Men of Charlie’s fame and ability often need a lot of ego support, you know. I’m sure you’ve seen such things yourself.” She gave a laugh. Harry didn’t laugh in turn. At his silence, she added, “Or maybe you haven’t. I don’t know how many journalists have that kind of giant intellect. I know some do, of course. Edward R. Murrow. Walter Cronkite and so forth. But you don’t see so much gravitas in the media now.”

  Harry ignored the bait. “I understand he died in a car accident?”

  “Yes, over seven years ago. It was one of the worst things that’s happened to this university. Charlie was very beloved, and was a brilliant lecturer as well as a scientist and scholar. Wesley, my husband, actually closed the university for two days, something that rarely happens unless you’ve got a huge natural disaster or something.”

  “I assume the school was named after him later?”

  “Yes. Several well-situated alumnae helped raise the funds.”

  “A nice bit of immortality.”

  “For a great man. Besides, he’ll be remembered for generations for the work he did. I take it you’re familiar with it?”

  “Only what I’ve gotten off the Internet and from talking to the chair of the physics department here, Frank Milford.”

  “I don’t believe I know him. Where did you say you were teaching?”

  “I didn’t. North Florida University.”

  “Oh.” The syllable said enough. “Well, we can’t all be Charlie Ziegarts, obviously.” She paused, maybe quelling an urge to say anything more insulting about Frank Milford, then went on. “Have you done a lot of biographies? Do you specialize in scientists?”

  “I’m not a biographer. I’m an investigative journalist.” For someone in her position, Harry thought, she didn’t seem very astute. He assumed she’d looked him up before calling him, checking out his bona fides. He certainly would have in her position. But merely invoking the name of The Washington Post was often enough to get into people’s personal business. “I’ve written several books. Now I’ve turned my attention to intellectual property law. I’m doing a new book on the use of research funded by public monies for profit, as happens a lot now with pharmaceuticals.” The lie came out of his mouth fluidly, making Harry remember how good at his job he used to be. He supposed he should feel worse about being such a good liar. Well, he thought, that may turn out to be the topic of the book. He waited for her reaction. It was pretty much what he expected.

  “What does any of that have to do with Charles Ziegart?”

  So it wasn’t Charlie anymore. “I’m not sure, to be honest. But I understand that his work brought some military contracts to Cantwell, and I was curious about how that worked. I thought it might make a good contrasting case, if the government actually pays well for university research, as opposed to the outright theft of it that some companies in the private sector do. Or”—he gave a polite laugh—“allegedly do.”

  “Oh,” she repeated. He could feel the chill descending on the conversation. “Well, I can’t really disclose much about that,” she said. “You understand.”

  “What can you disclose?”

  “If you’ve read any of his papers, I’m sure you can imagine that there are many applications for his work. Universities always need money. We get only a small percentage of our budget from tuition and donations. An awful lot of grant money has evaporated in recent years for just about everything except medical research. And as you say, academic data get into the public domain pretty much immediately. So anytime a facility like ours can reap royalties from the work of our faculty, it’s a great boon. It provides labs and equipment and helps fund the development of the next generation of scientists.”

  “Graduate students.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How much do the graduate students contri
bute?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are they mostly free labor for the faculty, or do they do their own research?”

  “For one thing, Mr. Sterling, graduate students are hardly free. At Cantwell, most of them are supported by the university. The research fellows get their tuition, benefits, and a generous stipend. And the work they do here is under the supervision of a world-class scholar, and that experience sets them on a professional road that they benefit from the rest of their lives.”

  “What happened to Doug McNeill?”

  “What? Who?”

  “Doug McNeill. The third author on the original Ziegart effect paper.”

  “He wasn’t on the published version.”

  “I’m aware of that. Why not?”

  “I’m not sure. He passed away, as I assume you know. Natural causes. I don’t remember the details. He never took very good care of himself. What does that have to do with the topic of your book, Mr. Sterling?”

  “Probably nothing. But sometimes it’s helpful to get a whole picture of a subject, to know who he worked with. In this case, who his closest students were. Did you know the second wife, Emily Ziegart, well?”

  Gillian DeGraff took some time to answer. “Not that well. As I said, I never really could accept her as Charlie’s wife. She wasn’t very friendly, especially once she got Charlie to marry her.”

  “She was his graduate student?”

  “Yes. Not a very promising one, I’m afraid. She saw her opportunity to get ahead the quickest way possible, by marrying one of the preeminent scientists of our day. Poor Charlie did have a weakness for youth and flattery, and she was smart enough to know how to flatter him up and down. And of course, they spent long hours together in the lab.”

  “She was on the original paper, too, I understand.”

  DeGraff made a noise of disgust. “No doubt a reward for other services rendered, if you’ll forgive my crudeness. I think the hardest thing for Pamela to accept was that, although Emily was young, she wasn’t even all that pretty. Kind of chunky and graceless.”

  There was a sound of paper rustling, and Harry knew that she was winding up the interview. He said, “Why were their names removed before the paper was published?”

  “Presumably because they didn’t deserve to be on it in the first place. Charles Ziegart was a generous mentor.” She rustled more paper and said, “If I may ask, how did you come to be interested in Charlie’s work in particular, Mr. Sterling?”

  Harry didn’t see any reason not to tell her. “A graduate student here went to a fortune teller. The fortune teller claimed that someone she knew really invented the Ziegart effect.”

  “What?”

  “I checked it out on a whim. The fortune teller is an alcoholic who occasionally watches the Discovery Channel. She has a niece who is a short-order cook. There aren’t any physicists among her clientele or friends as far as I can tell.”

  “This is what got you interested in Charlie Ziegart?”

  He didn’t want to ask her yet about the likelihood of “Charlie” stealing the work of his graduate students. “It was brought to my attention partly as a joke, but partly because people knew of my interests. And Charles Ziegart is inherently interesting.”

  “True.” More rustling paper.

  “Do you know how Emily Ziegart died?”

  “She killed herself. It didn’t have anything to do with us.” Harry was about to ask for more details when Gillian DeGraff said, “I’m afraid I’m already late for a meeting, Mr. Sterling. Good luck with your research,” and hung up. Harry sat looking at the phone for several minutes, thinking.

  14

  TEN OF WANDS

  Power without wisdom or integrity

  He still hadn’t heard back from Todd Greenleaf, so the next morning Harry tried the number again from his office on campus. He didn’t expect to gain anything of interest from speaking to the old reporter, but he didn’t want to leave such an obvious stone unturned. Virtually all of the news stories on Ziegart’s death had been rewrites of Greenleaf’s comprehensive article in the Lucasta paper. He tsk-tsked such laziness but knew from experience how little firsthand news gathering went on. Budget cuts, shrinking subscription lists, and a loosening of standards: more celebrity news and political spin. He thought, I’m turning into a grumpy old man, pining for the good old days.

  When he got Greenleaf on the phone, he had to hold the receiver a few inches from his ear as the older man spoke in a piercing voice. It was obvious that he was somewhat deaf, given how many times he made Harry repeat every question.

  “Married a hot young wife after dumping the old one,” Greenleaf said. “Lucky SOB.”

  “Ziegart’s accident was caused by a bee sting while driving? Sounds unlikely.”

  “Bugs cause car crashes all the time. I got a friend who eats through a tube now because he rammed a bulldozer when a cock-a-roach ran up his leg.” His laughter was like ripping paper.

  Harry pushed past his dislike and said, “I came upon a rumor that he stole his research, especially for the Ziegart effect.”

  “Really? Whaddya know.”

  “You never heard anything like that?”

  “Nah. He was like an Einstein or something. Who would he steal from?”

  “Maybe his students.”

  “You kiddin’? They’re all there to learn from him. What the hell?”

  “You never reported anything on Emily’s suicide, either.”

  “Love does strange things to women, doesn’t it? I sorta remember something about that, but there wasn’t any interest in it at the paper. My editor, he didn’t think it was newsworthy, you know what I mean?”

  “Not newsworthy?”

  “Oh, I think the old widow, ex-wife, whatever, put a word in the publisher’s ear or something. Don’t give the new wife any more ink, if you know what I mean.”

  “That didn’t bother you?” Harry felt his skin tingle with something like anger.

  “Nah. Happens all the time. And we had other stuff goin’ on, if I remember. It was right around 9/11 and the Shanksville crash. All the Pennsylvania papers were busy with that. Mrs. Z number two offing herself just wasn’t a big enough story to squeeze in. Not enough grease, you know what I mean?”

  “Did you have any information on it? Stuff that you didn’t use?”

  “Nah. Didn’t bother. I had me the carpal tunnel then, too. Didn’t want to do anything that I didn’t need to.”

  Harry wasn’t sure how having carpal tunnel syndrome made one unable to place a few phone calls, but before he could ask anything else, Greenleaf said, “Look, all the facts I had were in print. I got a beer gettin’ hot on the lanai, you know what I mean? Have a nice life.” He hung up.

  Darcy Murphy hated his supervisor, a man who’d had the money and the time to go to college. His boss was an electrical engineer, and Darcy always drew the syllables out—“eeelectrickahl ennnginnneeerr,” like it was a clownish title, something fake. He knew his supervisor didn’t like him much either, which hurt Darcy’s feelings, although even he knew that made no sense.

  Darcy hated being stuck in the office even more than he hated his supervisor, and even more than the Florida heat. The air-conditioned air made his sinuses dry up and crack, giving him headaches that made his eyeballs feel like they were going to pop from their sockets. He was nursing a bad one now, worse than a hangover, which was unfair since he hadn’t tied one on for a long while. So many of his friends had joined AA, he thought the whole world was in some sort of goddamned 12-step program, talking about higher powers instead of Jesus or God or anything real. It made him think of that pagan stretch of Highway 21, with its blasphemous shrine and the fortune teller. His skin crawled at the thought. Something should be done, he thought. There ought to be a law.

  His supervisor was younger than Darcy, which rankled even more than the degree. The Little Shit, as Darcy called him in private, was sitting behind a desk the size of an old Chevy; he l
ooked like a snotty child in a school too big for him.

  “Darcy,” said the Little Shit, “I’ve reviewed your latest report.” He looked up at the scrawny man, swaying angrily above him. “You can sit down if you want.”

  Darcy considered scratching his ass in front of his boss but was afraid it might backfire, no pun intended, his gesture seen not as a mark of his contempt for the privileged child before him but as a sign of his own commonness. He tried to think of a way to do it while making it clear that he really knew how to behave in company and just didn’t think the Little Shit was worth putting on any manners for, but he knew he couldn’t pull it off. So he sat down, his rear end sending his brain a protest.

  The supervisor said, “You found everything on the premises in order?”

  “Seems so,” said Darcy.

  “Yet you added a comment that you think they ‘bear watching’ and recommended monthly inspections. We don’t have enough manpower to be constantly checking on people who aren’t doing anything wrong. Unless you have some other grounds for your suggestion?”

  “Just a feelin’,” Darcy said. “A hunch. Something’s up out there.”

  “Something’s up?” the supervisor said. The younger man waited, and Darcy read a sneer in the comment and the silence.

  “I been in this job fourteen years,” Darcy said, his teeth barely parting for each syllable. “I got me a nose for sh—stuff. They been looked at by a few folk before me. They knew something was up, too. Just because we ain’t found nothin’ don’t mean there ain’t nothin’.”

  The supervisor looked at Darcy while nervously chewing a large wad of gum. Darcy had always thought gum chewing was filthy. It made people look like cows. “Look, Darcy, I respect your nose. But I need a concrete reason to take men off other jobs to go bothering people. If you think there’s something really wrong out there, we should make it a law enforcement matter. But if it’s just your gut or, rather, your nose, well, we may need to move on, at least until something substantive turns up.”