Mariah Stewart - Last Breath

Daria glanced at the card.

“That’s the number for my office, back in the States.”

“There’s no company name on it.” She looked at both sides of the card.

He lowered his voice. “I’m with the FBI. I don’t advertise that around here, though of course Magda and Cyrus know. Call that number and leave a message, it will get to me. Anytime. Day or night. I’ll get the message.”

“Thanks.” She half turned in her chair and offered her hand to him. “I’m happy to have finally met you. I hope we meet again.”

“So do I, Daria.” Then he leaned down and kissed her cheek. “As a matter of fact, I’m counting on it.”

And with that, he’d disappeared, and her perfect evening ended.

She yawned and sank lower into the hot water, her eyes still closed. Certainly if Connor were here at the Villa tonight, Magda would have wasted no time letting her know. Maybe it was just as well, Daria thought. If he’d been there, she’d have been tempted to dress for dinner, to sit at the table for two in the corner of the courtyard, hoping he’d join her, hoping he’d invite her for a horseback ride on the beach later that night. She smiled wryly. She’d even be happy with a camelback ride.

As it was, she’d call for dinner in her room, dine alone, and get the first good night’s sleep she’d had in months.

Daria drove through the Pennsylvania countryside, trying to remember the last time she’d visited Howe. The only recollection she had at all was of one time when she was around eight, and the entire family had gathered for some type of memorial in honor of the first Benjamin Augustus Howe, the university’s founder and her great-great-grandfather. She had a vague memory of a gathering in a fancy Victorian parlor where lemonade and petits fours were served. She’d been mesmerized by the tiny pastries, exquisitely decorated with flowers in shades of pink and yellow, and served on silver platters lined with lacy white doilies. The family had just returned from several months in the Jordanian desert, and such sweets were as foreign to her and her siblings as television. She smiled, recalling how she and her sister Iona had stuffed themselves with the delicious treats, and how sick they’d both been by nightfall.

Any subsequent visits they may have made to the university, however, were lost to the years.

The street sign on her left announced that Howeville was a half mile ahead. That, too, brought a smile to her face. She’d always thought Howeville sounded so Dr. Seuss, and she couldn’t help but think of all those Howes down in Howeville whenever she saw the name of the town.

But Howeville it was. And it was straight up the road. She slowed to the speed limit, then slowed yet again when an Amish buggy pulled out from a side road up ahead. She had no recollection of Amish living in the area, but wasn’t all that surprised to find they were. She’d passed several sizable farms since she’d left I-95, and Lancaster County was only a short drive away.

The town itself definitely had a split personality, an old country town with a modern attitude. Daria passed Howeville Feed and Grain, located across the road from a large field with a sign that promised Amish produce every Tuesday from eleven in the morning until four in the afternoon. There were two car dealers, a pizza place, a Mexican bakery with a hand-lettered sign, and a café. The brick hotel on a corner of the main intersection in town was now condominiums, and the old train station had been turned into an ice cream and sandwich shop. She drove through the green light at the center of town, past the library and a small old-fashioned diner that advertised the best burgers in town.

Main Street dead-ended at the entrance to the university. A wide brick arch bore the original name of the school- Benjamin Howe College -and its founding date, 1879. The arch covered a paved lane that wound slightly to the left and ended in a wide parking lot. A courtyard of sorts was formed by the three imposing buildings that framed the lot. All three were constructed of brick and appeared to have seen better days. While far from derelict, Daria noticed that the black shutters were all in need of paint, and the brick clearly needed pointing. She parked in a spot designated for visitors and got out of the car she’d rented at the airport.

She folded her arms across her chest, and took in the campus that sprawled out around her. Disappointed to find that nothing looked familiar, she hunted in her purse for the index card on which she’d written the directions Dr. Burnette had given her on the phone.

The building she wanted was directly in front of her. She swung her bag over her shoulder and headed up the front steps to a covered porch. Double doors-also needing a refresher-opened into a wide lobby. Steps to the third floor rose up in the center, and halls led off to either side. The carpets were just this side of threadbare and the paneled walls needed a good cleaning. Rectangular shapes on the walls above the dark paneling hinted of paintings that had once hung there, and the chandelier in the center of the lobby was unlit. The overall impression was one of past grandeur.

Daria took the hall to the left as she’d been instructed, and stood outside the door bearing a wooden plaque with C. LOUISE BURNETTE, PHD PRESIDENT painted in black script. She hesitated, not sure whether to knock or just walk in.

“May I help you?” a voice from down the hall called to her.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Burnette,” Daria replied.

“Dr. McGowan?” The woman walking toward Daria was short and squat and had dark hair that just grazed her shoulders. She appeared to be in her mid-forties and walked with a spring in her step. “I’m Vita Landis, Dr. Burnette’s assistant. You’re right on time.”

She shifted the stack of papers from her right arm to her left and opened the door, holding it for Daria to pass into the reception area. This room, too, had seen better days.

“How was your trip?” Vita asked as she walked around Daria and placed the papers in the middle of her desk.

“Fine, thank you. It was a good day for a drive. Last night’s rain cooled things off a bit.”

“Bound to get humid, though. Worst thing about this time of the year in this part of the country. Humidity. Means two things to me. Bad hair and mosquitoes.” She hit the intercom button on her phone. “Dr. McGowan is here, Dr. B.”

Vita hung up and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, the office door opened and a tall, slender woman dressed in a lightweight pale green pantsuit with a short-sleeved jacket stepped out, hand extended. She appeared to be in her mid-sixties, with light brown hair cut in a short no-nonsense style.

“Dr. McGowan, I’m so pleased to meet you.” She gave Daria’s hand a hearty shake. “I cannot begin to tell you how happy we all are that you agreed to come.”

“I’m delighted to be here,” Daria said truthfully.

“Come in,” the woman invited, “so we can chat. Vita, if there’s any iced tea left, I’m sure Dr. McGowan would appreciate a cold drink after her drive. You did say you were driving from Baltimore, didn’t you?”

“I did. I spent a few days with my parents in South Carolina, then flew into BWI and rented a car.” Daria took one of the two armchairs that faced each other at the far side of the room. The chairs overlooked a garden where dozens of roses were in bloom, and paths led to a pergola where stone benches sat. “This is lovely. The garden is beautiful.”

“One of our history professors found a description of the original garden in a journal that Iliana McGowan kept through the 1920s. After her husband died-your great-grandfather-she devoted herself to raising their children and tending to her father, serving as his official hostess. At the time, he was still president of the university. I’m sure you’ve heard the story before. This was his office.” Louise Burnette had remained standing. “That’s him, over the fireplace. It’s one of the few paintings we kept out of storage when we removed the others.”