Софи Райан - Telling Tails

“For?” I prompted.

“A half hour talk on the changing face of the European Community by Dr. Isabella Durand, assistant professor of government and Chloe Sanders’ faculty adviser.”

We agreed to leave for the library in ten minutes. When I got downstairs I expected to find Rose waiting with Mr. P., but he was alone. “Where’s Rose?” I asked.

Mr. P. gestured in the direction of the Angels’ office. “She said she has other irons in the fire. It’s just going to be the two of us.”

I frowned, looking past him to the door to the back of the building. “What do you mean ‘other irons in the fire’?”

He shook his head. “Those were her exact words. Other than that I don’t know.” He followed my gaze. “Sarah, you do realize that we have exactly”—he looked down at his watch—“twenty-one minutes to get to the library?”

And Rose wasn’t going to tell anyone what she was up to until she was good and ready. Mr. P. didn’t say the last part, but it was implied.

I made a face. “We should go,” I said.

* * *

Far more people in North Harbor were interested in the changing face of the European Community than I expected, although the strawberry shortcake they were serving after the talk may have had a little to do with the good turnout. Isabella Durand was much younger that I had expected. She couldn’t have been more than a year or so out of graduate school. She was tall and curvy, with a mass of curly blond hair and dark eyes behind her gray-frame glasses. She was wearing a chambray sundress and black lace-up gladiator sandals that showed off her runner’s calves. She was also an excellent speaker, advancing her argument that a European economic and political union made the case for a similar construct in our part of the world.

Mr. P. and I waited until the crowd had thinned before we approached Isabella Durand. Mr. P. offered his hand. “Dr. Durand, I enjoyed your talk very much, although we disagree on the influence of a resurgent Russia.”

Resurgent Russia? Mr. P. never ceased to amaze me.

The professor smiled. “You’re not the first person to challenge my reasoning in that area.”

“And I’m certain I’d enjoy hearing more about your logic, but I’d like to talk to you about one of your former students, Chloe Sanders.” He extended one of his business cards.

Isabella Durand’s expression changed even before she read the card. Her body stiffened and the smile on her face tightened. “Is Chloe in some kind of trouble?” she asked.

“She’s been working for a man named Jeff Cameron,” Mr. P. said. “He’s been out of touch with his family.”

“You mean he’s missing.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “You can’t believe Chloe had anything to do with that?”

Mr. P. cocked his head to one side. He reminded me of a curious bird, eyeing a worm. “Dr. Durand, why did Chloe attend a lecture by Mr. Cameron which was supposed to be for students and faculty when she was taking a semester off?”

For a moment the professor didn’t say anything. Her mouth moved and then she seemed to swallow whatever response she’d been about to make. She exhaled softly. “Mr. Peterson, the reason Chloe took last term off is between her and the university. You obviously don’t have Chloe’s permission to have that information or she’d be here right now.”

Mr. P. didn’t say anything. He’d told me once that people didn’t like silences and if you left one, the other person would often step in to fill it.

“But it’s not a big secret,” the professor continued. “Chloe was a little overwhelmed with the amount of work global studies requires. She needed a bit of a break; that’s all. As for Mr. Cameron’s lecture, Chloe had written an excellent paper on outsourcing—his lecture topic—for my class the previous term. I thought coming to the talk might encourage her to return to classes in the fall. That’s it.”

She looked around before giving us a polite smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are other people I need to talk to.” She started for the table under the window, where there was coffee and some of what looked to be Glenn McNamara’s cinnamon-raisin muffins.

Mr. P. turned to me. “I’m ready to leave if you are,” he said.

We started for the door. “Do you think she was telling you the truth?” I asked.

“Not for a moment.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “What about you, my dear?”

I thought about all the evasive behaviors I’d seen from Dr. Durand: how she’d stiffened, hesitated, swallowed down her words. The professor was definitely keeping something from us. “Me, neither,” I said.

He reached over and patted my arm. “Now all we have to do is find out why.”

Chapter 11

We returned to the shop to find Rose using her considerable charm on a couple—a man and woman who looked to be in their early thirties.

“Thank you for accompanying me to the library, Sarah,” Mr. P. said. “I’m going to see what I can find out about our professor.” He headed for the sunporch, and since everything seemed under control, I went up to my office.

I spent the next while working on an estimate for a family that wanted us to handle the clearout of their mother’s house. Mom, it turned out, was on a South Pacific cruise and was moving into an apartment when she got back. After about forty minutes I shut off the computer and delivered a cup of tea and a butterscotch oatmeal cookie to Mr. P. in the sunporch office.

“Any luck?” I asked.

He broke the cookie in half and took a bite. “Not yet. Dr. Durand doesn’t appear to take part in any form of social media.” He reached for his tea. “However, there are still some more rocks to turn over.”

“I forgot to tell you earlier; I talked to my mom this morning,” I said. “I asked her to ask Dad if he could find out anything about Jeff and Nicole’s grandmother. I thought it might help if we knew a bit more about his background.”

“That’s a very good idea,” Mr. P. said.

“I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Avery came in the back door then. “Hey, Sarah, I’m done painting for now. What do you want me to do next?”

“Help Rose in the shop, and when you have time, change the tablecloth and the dishes on the round table, please.”

“Okay,” she said. “What do you want me to use on the table?”

“Whatever you decide,” I said. “I trust your judgment.”

She clapped her hands together like a little kid. “I know exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Can’t wait to see it,” I said. I headed outside. There was no wind and it seemed like a good time to work on my chairs.

I opened the big front doors to the former garage work space and put down a large tarp on the pavement in front of the building. Then I got out my homemade spray box, which was nothing more than the cardboard carton a commercial washing machine had come in with the bottom and front cut out. I’d scrounged three of the heavy cardboard boxes when the Laundromat one street over from Jess’s shop had been renovated.

I’d just set one of the wicker chairs in the box when Charlotte came walking up the sidewalk. I brushed off my hands on my old shirt and walked down to meet her. “Hi,” I said. “How was the gym?”

“Educational,” she said. “I learned I’m way too uncoordinated for aquacize.”

I slipped my arm around her waist. “I do not believe that,” I said.

Charlotte smiled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but it’s true. That class was like the Rockettes’ kick line in water. I did learn a few things, though.”

“How to kick your foot up as high as your nose?” I teased.

“Heavens, no,” she said. “If I tried that—even in the water—I’d be in traction.”