drank his tea. “There’s a long tradition of strange relationships in the world of letters. The young and eager subjugate themselves to the older and experienced.”
“Oh, bull hockey!” I’d had enough. “No one should treat another living creature the way she treats Boswell.”
“It’s a peculiar arrangement, even by the standards of eccentric academics.” He shrugged. “But the young man accepts it. He isn’t an indentured servant or a slave. He can leave any time he chooses.”
“He could pack his gear and make a run for it while she sleeps,” I said.
“Do you think she sleeps?” A mischievous grin lit Tinkie’s face. “Vampires don’t require rest, do they?”
“Good one, Tink,” Oscar said as everyone chuckled. My partner had a quick and ready wit.
Yes, we were a jolly bunch as we waited for Coleman to free himself from Olive’s machinations. To pass the time, Richard Webber entertained us with tales of historic battles where competing academics vied to outdo each other and win acclaim. One thing about Richard Webber—he loved an audience. “Academia is a war zone fraught with the blood of the innocent and the naïve.”
“He’s a bit over the top,” Graf whispered in my ear.
“No kidding. I’ll bet the students love him.”
Oblivious to the murmuring in the audience, Webber continued, “The stakes are important to only a handful of people, but to those people this is life or death. If Olive is able to prove her cockamamie theory that Tilda is a Richmond or Falcon ancestor and the Lady in Red, and that she was involved in Lincoln’s assassination, we’ll be watching Olive on national television. She would love that, wouldn’t she? She’d throw over her academic career for a host position on an entertainment network in a heartbeat.” His lips pursed. “If she’s right, though, this would impact the entire Mary Surratt execution.”
“Was Mary Surratt guilty?” I’d heard two different sides of the story about the Southern woman who owned a boardinghouse in Washington, D.C., where John Wilkes Booth was often seen.
Webber held up both hands. “She was the first woman executed in the United States. Charged with conspiracy to assassinate a president, she was rushed to a trial, never allowed to defend herself properly, and summarily hanged as a conspirator. The trial was a sham, engineered by Secretary of War Stanton as a military trial rather than a civil one. Most historical experts agree the evidence against Mary Surratt was not enough for a conviction. She ran a boardinghouse where Booth and his co-conspirators gathered at times. Being a Confederate sympathizer is a far cry from participating in an assassination.”
“I never learned any of this in a history class,” I said.
“History is written by the victors. Surely you know that, Ms. Delaney. The Surratt hanging brought shame on a government viewed as occupiers by half the country. You understand how some actions require deep burial in the shifting sands of time.”
“Indeed, I do. I—”
My comment was short-circuited when Coleman strolled up to the table. An impression of lips in bright red graced his right cheek. Olive had kissed him! I couldn’t believe it. “You’d better go disinfect yourself.” I hadn’t meant to speak those words aloud, but the whole table laughed. Even Graf.
“If you’re thinking of bedding that woman, I’d be careful,” Oscar said with mock concern. “She’s lovely and could make a burlap sack look elegant, but if you rolled on top of her, one of her ribs might poke you and puncture a lung.”
Everyone laughed, except me. I didn’t find it funny that a woman who plotted the destruction of Coleman’s friends would have the audacity to kiss him—and that he would let her.
“Who’s responsible for the bomb?” I asked, getting down to business. I didn’t want to know the details of Olive’s play for Coleman. Or that she got close enough to leave evidence of a smooch
“Oh, bull hockey!” I’d had enough. “No one should treat another living creature the way she treats Boswell.”
“It’s a peculiar arrangement, even by the standards of eccentric academics.” He shrugged. “But the young man accepts it. He isn’t an indentured servant or a slave. He can leave any time he chooses.”
“He could pack his gear and make a run for it while she sleeps,” I said.
“Do you think she sleeps?” A mischievous grin lit Tinkie’s face. “Vampires don’t require rest, do they?”
“Good one, Tink,” Oscar said as everyone chuckled. My partner had a quick and ready wit.
Yes, we were a jolly bunch as we waited for Coleman to free himself from Olive’s machinations. To pass the time, Richard Webber entertained us with tales of historic battles where competing academics vied to outdo each other and win acclaim. One thing about Richard Webber—he loved an audience. “Academia is a war zone fraught with the blood of the innocent and the naïve.”
“He’s a bit over the top,” Graf whispered in my ear.
“No kidding. I’ll bet the students love him.”
Oblivious to the murmuring in the audience, Webber continued, “The stakes are important to only a handful of people, but to those people this is life or death. If Olive is able to prove her cockamamie theory that Tilda is a Richmond or Falcon ancestor and the Lady in Red, and that she was involved in Lincoln’s assassination, we’ll be watching Olive on national television. She would love that, wouldn’t she? She’d throw over her academic career for a host position on an entertainment network in a heartbeat.” His lips pursed. “If she’s right, though, this would impact the entire Mary Surratt execution.”
“Was Mary Surratt guilty?” I’d heard two different sides of the story about the Southern woman who owned a boardinghouse in Washington, D.C., where John Wilkes Booth was often seen.
Webber held up both hands. “She was the first woman executed in the United States. Charged with conspiracy to assassinate a president, she was rushed to a trial, never allowed to defend herself properly, and summarily hanged as a conspirator. The trial was a sham, engineered by Secretary of War Stanton as a military trial rather than a civil one. Most historical experts agree the evidence against Mary Surratt was not enough for a conviction. She ran a boardinghouse where Booth and his co-conspirators gathered at times. Being a Confederate sympathizer is a far cry from participating in an assassination.”
“I never learned any of this in a history class,” I said.
“History is written by the victors. Surely you know that, Ms. Delaney. The Surratt hanging brought shame on a government viewed as occupiers by half the country. You understand how some actions require deep burial in the shifting sands of time.”
“Indeed, I do. I—”
My comment was short-circuited when Coleman strolled up to the table. An impression of lips in bright red graced his right cheek. Olive had kissed him! I couldn’t believe it. “You’d better go disinfect yourself.” I hadn’t meant to speak those words aloud, but the whole table laughed. Even Graf.
“If you’re thinking of bedding that woman, I’d be careful,” Oscar said with mock concern. “She’s lovely and could make a burlap sack look elegant, but if you rolled on top of her, one of her ribs might poke you and puncture a lung.”
Everyone laughed, except me. I didn’t find it funny that a woman who plotted the destruction of Coleman’s friends would have the audacity to kiss him—and that he would let her.
“Who’s responsible for the bomb?” I asked, getting down to business. I didn’t want to know the details of Olive’s play for Coleman. Or that she got close enough to leave evidence of a smooch
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