were modern,
Scandinavian, and somewhat the worse for wear. When the company
moved to Ireland, Alex explained, they had shipped their own
furniture. He had an agent scouring the antiques shops for Victorian
tat.
Barbara took her drink to a couch that resembled the one in
the living room of the cottage. She collapsed onto the cushions. "My
God, what a ride. They have got to extend DART to the airport."
DART was the Dublin transit system train. "I will not drive through
Dublin at rush hour again, Alex. I swear it. And never with Kayla
Wheeler."
"How is she?"
"Obnoxious." Barbara tossed back half a glass of wine. "At
the best of times, Kayla whinges. It is not the best of times.
Considering that she and Slade couldn't stay in the same room
without bickering, I'm a bit surprised at the display of grief."
Alex frowned. "Barb—"
She made a face. "Yeah, I know. Have a little respect. I notice
you didn't volunteer to make the airport run."
"Damnit, I had to deal with the Netweaver contract."
"Sez you."
They glowered at each other.
I drifted to a window and sipped wine to cover my irritation.
I hate it when married couples rend each other in public. The
window overlooked an expanse of lawn and the river, the Avoca, I
supposed. It was still light out and would be until almost nine. I
reminded myself we were as far north as Juneau, Alaska.
Dad said, "This is a nice burgundy, Alex. A European
Community perk? Are the French going to start using varietal labels
one of these days?"
Alex allowed himself to be led into oenological speculation,
and the tension eased. I ought to have engaged Barbara in similar
chitchat. I was trying to come up with a neutral topic when the
doorbell rang. Barbara jumped up, muttering something about
dinner guests, and left the room.
Alex said, "We asked our friend, Maeve Butler, to dinner to
meet you. She's an archaeologist. And Mike Novak's coming, I think.
Mike and Liam McDiarmuid from the design staff. And Tracy Aspin—
you remember Tracy, George. She was a year behind Barbara and
me."
Dad's face brightened. "Of course. Tracy did a paper on
Elizabeth Cady Stanton."
Barbara ushered in a thirtyish woman who had the spare
elegance of a greyhound. She was tailed by Sgt. Kennedy. He was not
in uniform.
Alex took a startled step forward.
The aristocratic lady smiled at him. "Hullo, Alex. I brought
Joe to even your numbers. I knew you wouldn't mind."
Alex swallowed visibly but shook hands with the sergeant,
who listened to his escort's graceful apology with the bland
expression I had learned to distrust.
Barbara looked grim. "You know George and Lark already,
Joe, so I'll introduce Maeve. Maeve Butler, our favorite history
professor, George Dailey, and his daughter, Lark."
Maeve held out a long, aristocratic hand, first to me, then to
Dad. "A pleasure. I read your article on cotton smuggling through
Liverpool and the western ports, Professor Dailey. Very solid."
"The one in Economic History Review ?"
"To be sure. I'll look forward to your work on the
Quakers."
"I'm not certain where it's leading," Dad murmured. A
becoming flush tinged his cheekbones. My father is the most modest
of men, but scholarly ego is a wonderful thing. I left him to feed it and
turned to Sgt. Kennedy.
"Alex tells me the coroner is going to sit on Mr. Wheeler—is
that the correct terminology?"
He took a glass of wine from Alex. "Thanks. Strange you
should mention that, Mrs. Dodge."
"Oh, do call me Lark."
He set his wineglass on an end table and withdrew a slim
manila envelope from the breast pocket of his heathery gray tweed
jacket. He looked good in tweed. He handed me the envelope.
I fingered the paper. "What is it?"
"A subpoena."
"What!"
"For the inquest. It's set for Monday morning." He glanced
over where Dad was having a reunion with a young person, probably
Tracy Aspin. Two men had come in, too. I wondered which of them
was Mike Novak, the man I had spoken to on the telephone. Alex
poured wine. An
Scandinavian, and somewhat the worse for wear. When the company
moved to Ireland, Alex explained, they had shipped their own
furniture. He had an agent scouring the antiques shops for Victorian
tat.
Barbara took her drink to a couch that resembled the one in
the living room of the cottage. She collapsed onto the cushions. "My
God, what a ride. They have got to extend DART to the airport."
DART was the Dublin transit system train. "I will not drive through
Dublin at rush hour again, Alex. I swear it. And never with Kayla
Wheeler."
"How is she?"
"Obnoxious." Barbara tossed back half a glass of wine. "At
the best of times, Kayla whinges. It is not the best of times.
Considering that she and Slade couldn't stay in the same room
without bickering, I'm a bit surprised at the display of grief."
Alex frowned. "Barb—"
She made a face. "Yeah, I know. Have a little respect. I notice
you didn't volunteer to make the airport run."
"Damnit, I had to deal with the Netweaver contract."
"Sez you."
They glowered at each other.
I drifted to a window and sipped wine to cover my irritation.
I hate it when married couples rend each other in public. The
window overlooked an expanse of lawn and the river, the Avoca, I
supposed. It was still light out and would be until almost nine. I
reminded myself we were as far north as Juneau, Alaska.
Dad said, "This is a nice burgundy, Alex. A European
Community perk? Are the French going to start using varietal labels
one of these days?"
Alex allowed himself to be led into oenological speculation,
and the tension eased. I ought to have engaged Barbara in similar
chitchat. I was trying to come up with a neutral topic when the
doorbell rang. Barbara jumped up, muttering something about
dinner guests, and left the room.
Alex said, "We asked our friend, Maeve Butler, to dinner to
meet you. She's an archaeologist. And Mike Novak's coming, I think.
Mike and Liam McDiarmuid from the design staff. And Tracy Aspin—
you remember Tracy, George. She was a year behind Barbara and
me."
Dad's face brightened. "Of course. Tracy did a paper on
Elizabeth Cady Stanton."
Barbara ushered in a thirtyish woman who had the spare
elegance of a greyhound. She was tailed by Sgt. Kennedy. He was not
in uniform.
Alex took a startled step forward.
The aristocratic lady smiled at him. "Hullo, Alex. I brought
Joe to even your numbers. I knew you wouldn't mind."
Alex swallowed visibly but shook hands with the sergeant,
who listened to his escort's graceful apology with the bland
expression I had learned to distrust.
Barbara looked grim. "You know George and Lark already,
Joe, so I'll introduce Maeve. Maeve Butler, our favorite history
professor, George Dailey, and his daughter, Lark."
Maeve held out a long, aristocratic hand, first to me, then to
Dad. "A pleasure. I read your article on cotton smuggling through
Liverpool and the western ports, Professor Dailey. Very solid."
"The one in Economic History Review ?"
"To be sure. I'll look forward to your work on the
Quakers."
"I'm not certain where it's leading," Dad murmured. A
becoming flush tinged his cheekbones. My father is the most modest
of men, but scholarly ego is a wonderful thing. I left him to feed it and
turned to Sgt. Kennedy.
"Alex tells me the coroner is going to sit on Mr. Wheeler—is
that the correct terminology?"
He took a glass of wine from Alex. "Thanks. Strange you
should mention that, Mrs. Dodge."
"Oh, do call me Lark."
He set his wineglass on an end table and withdrew a slim
manila envelope from the breast pocket of his heathery gray tweed
jacket. He looked good in tweed. He handed me the envelope.
I fingered the paper. "What is it?"
"A subpoena."
"What!"
"For the inquest. It's set for Monday morning." He glanced
over where Dad was having a reunion with a young person, probably
Tracy Aspin. Two men had come in, too. I wondered which of them
was Mike Novak, the man I had spoken to on the telephone. Alex
poured wine. An
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