A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron Page B

hurried down the hall, I reasoned that talking about one’s work, especially with someone who was knowledgeable about such things, was almost as much fun as actually conducting said work. Whitlow, even if he was friends with Dean Belcher, must have some sympathetic qualities if he was willing to take a position as the director of such an institution as Shrewsbury. And although I knew that Belcher wouldn’t have lifted a finger to get me the fellowship, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have his “good friend” get interested in my project. It was an opportunity I should make the most of.
    I was surprised to see how imposing a figure the director was. Evert Whitlow looked more like a businessman than the head of a historical repository, and he worked hard to maintain that image. He wore a crisp charcoal wool suit with a conservative power tie, kept his thinning sandy-reddish hair cut close and carefully, and had a ruddy complexion that suggested an Irish heritage, a lot of weekend golf, and martinis before dinner and port after. He shook my hand firmly.
    “I hope you don’t mind a working lunch,” he said as he showed me to a chair. “I don’t like to give up too much time to the nonessentials, not when there’s so much work to get done in a day.”
    “Not a bit,” I responded. Even though he was saying exactly what I’d been thinking just moments before, I resented the impression that I was being categorized as a “nonessential.”
    “I’ll just have some sandwiches sent up and we can get started. There’s a nice gourmet deli in Monroe with a truck that stops by every day with their classic sandwiches readymade.” He picked up the phone. “It’s a real lifesaver for me, timewise. What do you like?”
    “Anything’s fine.”
    He told an unseen assistant to order some roast beef and chicken salad. “What else? Chips? I don’t know—” He paused to look over at me. I shrugged and he answered, “Well, maybe some fruit salad. And a couple of waters.”
    He settled himself into his chair and tidied some papers out of the way. “So. I understand you are looking at—” he glanced surreptitiously at a notepad—“the Chandler diary?”
    “That’s right. Are you familiar with it?”
    Whitlow shook his head. “No, not at all.”
    Trying to be gracious and get him off the hook, I said, “Well, I’m not surprised. It’s exciting for me, but compared with some of the treasures you’ve got here, it is pretty small potatoes.”
    “I’m not really all that familiar with the bigger potatoes,” Whitlow said, shrugging. “It’s not essential to my job; I leave that side of things to Harry Saunders and Sasha Russo. They keep me informed with an executive summary.”
    I must have looked surprised that he wasn’t any more interested in the collection, and he laughed politely at my expression. Fortunately, he received a call, and by the time his assistant came in with a couple of cardboard cartons with our food, I was able to compose myself. Whitlow looked at the labels on the sandwiches and said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll take the roast beef. My wife would kill me if she knew—cholesterol through the roof, you know—but as long as she doesn’t see…” He shrugged again, then promptly tore into his forbidden sandwich with gusto.
    I bit into my sandwich and was surprised by how good it was. Then I sighed and realized I hadn’t been for anything like a proper run since I’d been here and would have to make up for that shortly. If the amount of homemade mayonnaise was any indication, the director wouldn’t have been off the hook with his wife if he had chosen the chicken salad either.
    After a couple of bites, the director resumed our discussion. “I was hired, just a couple of years ago, now, to get the foundation known, to improve the bottom line, to expand the possibilities of the place. I haven’t got time, and frankly, I haven’t got the interest, to get too involved in the