Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (9 page)

Jordan's throat had gone crimson. The man was blushing.

“At least it seems that way to me.” He took another sip.

Noel was moved. Maybe a bit jealous. Even with his best writing, he'd never thought of it as singing. But was Beck's blush because he'd lied well? Or because he'd shown a private section of himself? “Always good to feel proud of what you've done well. Tell me, who are your writing models?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, a little Vonnegut, some Dickens, Mark Twain, Hiassen of course. Whitman, definitely.”

“William Least Heat-Moon?”

“Who?”

“A man who wrote a book called
Blue Highways
. Like the roads you just described.”

“Never heard of him.”

“How about your characters? They based on people you know?” He watched Jordan's face tighten. Not knowing, or trying to figure out a plausible answer?

His head shook. “Nobody I know well. Bits and pieces of people I've met, some friends even, but I did a lot of shaping.” His face relaxed, the grin came back. “And lots of rewriting. This draft was the fifth.”

“You get any critique along the way? Between drafts?”

Suddenly the blush again, and a hesitation. “No, I didn't. Why'd you ask that?”

Something wrong here? “Usual reason. Get an outside view and rewrite from whatever you learn.”

“No,” he said again.

“What made you want to rewrite?”

He stared into the remains of his coffee. “When it didn't feel right, sound right, I'd close my eyes again and try to see the scene. And take more mental pictures. And compare these with what I'd described. And it got clearer.”

A good trick. Noel wondered where Jordan had learned it. Or was he a true autodidact? “Well, I have to agree with you. The fiction writing process does sound more intriguing than the prose. If you'd like, I'd be pleased to read either or both.”

“Hey, that'd be great. Give me your email address and I can send them to you—” He glanced at his watch. “Better be this afternoon. I'm on duty in a few minutes.”

“I can probably get them from Langley.”

“Uh, no, don't do that.” He stood. “Langley might feel like I'm pressuring him. Or something.”

Or something what? Noel took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote out his private email address. A while since he'd had to do this—usually these days he'd give someone his Islands Investigations International card. He tore out the page, handed it to Jordan. “Don't know how long it'll take me to read the material. But I'll get back to you.”

“Thanks.”

They both stood. Suddenly Jordan seemed nervous. In a hurry to get to work? Or afraid he'd reveal information that might prove dangerous to him? “D'you have a recommendation for a late breakfast?”

Jordan grinned. A forced attempt at being pleasant? Hard to tell. “Sure. Try Thor's. On Nichols. Good place. Their breakfast's fine. It's a pub and it's even better at night. I know from experience.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Yeah. And, uh, thank you, Noel. See you. Got to speed off.”

“Good luck.” He watched Jordan stride to the door, and out. Noel left more slowly. Would Jordan Beck change into waiter's garb? That belt-and-suspenders outfit wasn't exactly the semi-upscale look.

He returned to Peter Langley's office but found it locked. Conferences with colleagues, department meetings. Glad not to be living that life. In the car, Noel checked his map. Thor's, on Nichols. He drove into town and parked across the street from the pub. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, said the menu beside the door.

He went in. A young woman with spirally black hair, good cheekbones and a few small zits asked, “Just one?”

“Yes.” Noel glanced about. Seemed he was the only customer for the moment. Spirally Black seated him by the window. “Tom will be with you in a moment.”

“Thank you.” Tom. The Tom that Peter had mentioned, one of Jordan's buddies?

Tom arrived with a pitcher of water. “Morning. You'll be having lunch?”

“Breakfast still being served?”

“Yep.” He glanced at his watch. “For another twenty minutes.”

Noel ordered. Tom left, returned quickly with hot coffee, and filled Noel's cup. “Thanks, Tom.” He sipped. Excellent. If Kyra were here they could ask each other what they now knew that they hadn't known yesterday, a tactic they employed in most of their investigations. Noel knew Peter Langley had possible but uncertain cause to question Jordan's honesty, that the novella was far better written than any of Jordan's other work, that Peter was stalling on Jordan's grade, his judgment of the work. Noel sipped more coffee. Even good as it cooled. He also knew that he admired Peter for his insistence on certainty. In fact, Noel knew he'd enjoyed his time with Peter Langley altogether. Knew too that he'd better be careful on that front.

Breakfast arrived, eggs over easy, crisp ungreasy bacon, the potatoes more roasted than hashed; always good. Toast and honey. He held out his cup toward Tom. “A little more, please. It's first-rate.” And now a lie: “Just as Jordan said.”

“Oh, hey, you know Jordan?”

“A little. Friend of yours?”

“We hang out.”

“Just met him, really. I hear he's a good writer.”

“Yeah, he's been doing a master's up at the college.”

“Right. He said that. You read any of his stuff?”

“Me? Nope, I don't read much. Except magazines, newspapers sometimes.”

“Must be a hard thing, working on a long piece of writing.”

Tom laughed. “Anything that takes a long time's got to be hard.”

“Yeah, kind of lonely too.”

“Jordan gets around.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he's one cool dude.”

“A cool dude?” In those doubly held-up shorts?

“You know, never any come-on. Waits for people to come to him. Some of the babes who hang out here, oh man. Come back in the evening, you'll see.”

“He have a special girl?”

“Kinda. He likes 'em smart as well as gorgeous. Me, I settle for lookers. If you know what I mean.”

“I do. Believe me. I like 'em that way too.” Just easy now. “So who are the smart and gorgeous around here?”

Tom laughed. “You got to make your own introductions. Come by tonight.”

“Wouldn't want to cut in on Jordan. Who's the one he likes most? I'll stay away from her.”

“Hey, no problem. Susanna Rossini. But you don't have to worry; probably she won't be here tonight.”

“Oh? Well then, no problem.”

“Hasn't been around for a while. We all kinda miss her. She's—”

The hostess with the spirally hair had taken Tom's elbow. “New customers,” she whispered.

“Oh yeah, sorry Pica.” And to Noel, “Good talking to you.”

Noel glanced around. Half a dozen new guests. “And to you.” He'd leave Tom a larger than usual tip. Good breakfast, and it'd hold him till supper. At the Wild Pacific? With Kyra. A double-edged evening . . .

SOMETHING WRONG WITH
Larry? He'd called Peter again this morning to cancel their tennis match. Unlike him—he not only enjoyed the game but knew the exercise was essential. He spent too much time in his lab, not good for the heart living a sedentary life. Peter made sure Larry got at least some physical activity. For the last two years they'd been meeting twice a week for exercise, competition and friendship. Tennis on the Morsely courts when weather allowed, squash at the gym otherwise.

Today when Larry had phoned to cancel, just like three days ago, pleading that he had to follow through on an experiment so needed to stay at the lab, Peter talked him out of it. So it was a reluctant Laurence Rossini who'd appeared at the courts, and he played a listless first set. They were relatively equal in ability. Peter was twelve years Larry's junior and faster on his feet, but Larry volleyed with the accuracy of a sniper, his placement exquisite. Frequently a set went to 6-6 and they had to move into tie-breaking time. In today's first set, Peter beat Larry 6-2. But then some new strength bolstered Larry's determination, and Peter had never seen him so accurate. Fast, too—his second set serves were much harder than the first. Larry won, 6-4. They limited themselves to two sets, saving the last of their energy for a beer. But today after the second, Larry seemed drained. All the energy he'd poured into winning disappeared with the speed it had arrived half an hour earlier.

“Okay, Larry,” Peter said.“What's the problem?”

“Problem? There's no problem.”

“There's a problem. Want to talk?”

“Happy to talk, but there's no problem.”

“Okay, no problem. We'll go for a beer and talk about your non-problem.”

Larry grimaced, then shrugged. “But I want to shower first.”

“Good idea. Then I have to phone someone. See you in a few minutes.”

Usually they went right to the Faculty Club, sweaty as they were. Definitely something wrong. In the shower, Peter wondered if it had to do with Larry's big project. They'd had a brief conversation about it some weeks ago. Peter had not thought about it much, but Larry's behavior today brought the whole thing back.

Peter admired Larry Rossini. A biomolecular engineer, he was a genius. He was Morsely University's genius. A major coup, luring him away from Duke University. Luckily the Foundation could endow the lab space, enough to keep it running for thirty years, so Larry could get on with his work. Plus they'd be paying his salary, doubling his Duke income, and Morsely University would make annual contributions to the Foundation equal to half of Larry's salary.

The work was carried out under remarkable wraps, even more so for a laid-back island in Haro Strait. A ten-foot chain fence around the lab's perimeter, always a guard at the entry, no admission without a pass. Even Larry's lab assistants were sworn to secrecy. Peter had long sensed Larry wanted to talk about his work, but with the exception of that one conversation earlier this month, he always held back. They'd played squash that afternoon, no chat till the beer, extra sweaty that day, in a corner of the Club. Peter knew Larry reasonably well, but about the lab's work he didn't have a clue. His curiosity about the lab was longstanding. But that afternoon Larry had thrashed him at squash; to not allow Larry space for gloating, Peter speculated, “Work's okay?”

“Yeah, we're making good progress.”

“Going to be ready for your conference?”

“There's more to be done, Peter. We'll present what we know at that point.” He stared toward the immense fireplace, its burly andirons holding long split logs in preparation for fall.

“And you're not even going to hint at what you're doing.”

“Much safer for you if you don't know, my friend.” He rubbed the back of his neck dry, then his hair.

“What does safety have to do with it?”

“I'm not going to answer that. Believe me when I say it. Ready for another beer?”

The international conference planned for early next year would be where Larry would share his—discovery? invention?—with invited colleagues. Peter felt fairly certain Larry considered him a friend, but he doubted friendship would pay the price of admission.

Now, dried and dressed, Peter pulled a phone out of his pocket. How had Noel fared with Jordan? He'd call and ask. Pleasant man, Noel Franklin. Attractive too, in a modest way. At supper yesterday when he'd talked about his partner, a large sadness seemed to come over him. Understandable, but he'd shown this grief to a complete stranger. Peter wondered if Noel allowed his vulnerability to rise to the surface with most people. And hoped he was more guarded than that. Before falling asleep last night, he'd wondered if he was feeling protective of Noel. Couldn't be, why would he care about Noel? Barely knew him. Peter's last thought before falling asleep: it'd be good to know Noel better.

On the spot he decided to invite Noel to supper. He hefted his iPhone. Grill some garlic scampi, linguine pesto on the side, and that bottle of Battling Owl Pinot Gris he'd bought for a special occasion. Nothing unusual about inviting a guy to dine with him, except he'd done that only once before. He grinned a grim little smile, remembering how badly that time had turned out. Decisively, he returned his phone to his pocket; he'd call after a beer.

Peter turned the brass knob on the imposing door of the Faculty Club and walked through the foyer. A colleague in history sat at one of the tables with an attractive young woman, likely a graduate student from the way she deferred; Peter nodded to him. A table of colleagues in foreign languages, sipping from martini glasses, some kind of discussion; then one of them laughed hard. In the corner he noted Larry sitting with Richard O'Hara, president of Morsely University. O'Hara looked like he had to be the president of something—bald with a rim of too long gray hair, narrow face and chiseled nose, wearing a Harris Tweed jacket—in August?—over a dark red shirt, smothered by a blue tie. They were deep in animated conversation, heads close together, O'Hara's bent down because of his longer torso; seven or eight inches taller than Rossini. Larry now wore a black shirt and bright yellow tie. With his shock of graying hair, he and O'Hara were a study in physical contrasts.

Peter sat on a sofa in the near left corner. If Larry looked up, he'd see him. He noted a glass with clear liquid in front of the president and a beer stein in Larry's hand. Peter picked up the phone on his table, dialed zero and had his usual chat with Trevor.

He set the phone back. Call Noel now? But Larry and O'Hara might be done any minute. What kind of conversation were they so lost in? He slouched back in his chair and half closed his eyes. He couldn't hear any other conversations; the lounge was designed to muffle sound, to create a sense of intimacy. So the word “No!” spoken fiercely, surprised him all the more since it had come from Larry. Peter didn't move, squinting in order to see the conversation more clearly. And to suggest he wasn't paying them any attention. O'Hara reached toward Larry's forearm, which Larry pulled away, his whole body jerking backward. O'Hara receded into his chair; relaxing or trying to look unperturbed? Peter watched Larry's shoulders slump, his head shake. O'Hara leaned forward and spoke. Larry's head shook wide, just once. Not in anger, Peter thought, but weariness. O'Hara pushed his chair out and stood. He stared at Larry and vibrated his index finger down twice. Again Larry shook his head.