Zinnia (9 page)

“How could the members of my very own family even dream of asking me to risk an unmatched marriage?” Zinnia smiled to herself as she reached for the letter opener. “Besides, what decent, sensible man would want to marry a woman who has been declared unmatchable?”

“You know what I think?” Leo retorted. “I think you secretly like the fact that the agency said it couldn't find you a match.”

“How can you possibly suggest such a thing?” Zinnia slit open an envelope and found another bill inside. “Being declared unmatchable is a fate worse than death. Everyone knows that.”

“Except you, apparently.”

Zinnia smiled to herself. Four years earlier, shortly before her parents had been lost at sea, she had thought she might be falling in love. His name had been Sterling Dean. He had been a handsome vice-president at Spring Industries and it had seemed to Zinnia that they had a lot in common. They had both
registered at Synergistic Connections to confirm that their mutual choice was a good one.

To everyone's amazement and the acute dismay of the syn-psych counselor, Zinnia had emerged from the testing process with the dubious distinction of being one of an extremely small number of people declared to be unmatchable. Something to do with her paranormal psychological profile, the experts said. She was different in some subtle ways that made it impossible to successfully match her with Sterling Dean or anyone else who was listed on the registry at that time.

Zinnia had not even begun to adjust to the shock of being told that she might never marry when the news of her parents' deaths had arrived. After that, she'd been too busy dealing with grief, the crumbling Spring empire and the family's future to worry about her official status as an eternal spinster.

Family and friends who had learned about her agency results viewed her with mingled shock, fascination, and pity. But lately Zinnia had begun to see distinct advantages in her situation. In a society where enormous pressure was applied to everyone to marry, she had a free pass.

The conventional wisdom was that what she actually possessed was a ticket to loneliness, but she did not spend much time thinking about it these days. She was too busy trying to make a living.

“Aunt Willy says you told her that you enjoy Luttrell's company and that he's got a nice sense of humor,” Leo pointed out.

“I do and he does.” She did not add that a week ago Duncan had gone so far as to hint that he might be open to the notion of a non-agency marriage.

Duncan was the president of SynIce, a high-profile computer firm. He had introduced himself to Zinnia six weeks ago at an art exhibition. They had fallen into conversation when they had found themselves
standing, equally baffled, in front of a painting from the Neo-Second Generation school. They had each taken a long look at the meaningless blobs of paint, caught each other's eye, and immediately succumbed to laughter.

They had promptly adjourned to the museum cafe to share a cup of coff-tea and a conversation about art.

When Duncan had phoned a few days later to invite her to the theater, she had accepted. Aunt Willy had gone into ecstasy. Zinnia was well aware that visions of recouping the family fortunes through marriage were dancing in the heads of her nearest and dearest.

“You're always saying how important a sense of humor is in a man,” Leo reminded her.

“Absolutely crucial,” she assured him. “After growing up with Dad, how could I live with anyone who didn't know how to laugh?”

“I know. As a businessman, Dad was a complete washout, but he was a great father. I still miss him and Mom, Zin.”

“Me, too.” A pang of wistfulness went through Zinnia as she recalled her father's robust zest for life.

Edward Spring had been a great-hearted man of huge enthusiasms. His wife, Genevieve, had shared her husband's boundless optimism and gentle nature. Zinnia and Leo had grown up in a home that had been filled with warmth and laughter. Unfortunately, neither of their parents had had a head for business. Under Edward and Genevieve's management, Spring Industries had been driven straight into the ground.

“I guess it's just as well that you're not carrying a torch for Luttrell,” Leo said. “The tabloids as good as implied that you're Nick Chastain's mistress.”

“It will be old news by tomorrow,” Zinnia assured him. She picked up a pen and fiddled with it. “The Spring name doesn't have the interest level that it did a year and a half ago.”
“Maybe not, but Chastain's name will sure sell newspapers.”

She tossed aside the pen and sat forward. “You know what's really maddening about this whole situation?”

“Yeah. The fact that the papers are trying to slice and dice your reputation again.”

“No, it's that everyone seems to have forgotten that poor Morris Fenwick was murdered last night.”

“Unfortunately, Chastain is a lot more interesting than Morris Fenwick,” Leo said. “And so are you, for that matter.”

“It's not right. The newspapers and everyone else should be focused on finding Fenwick's killer.”

“The cops will get him,” Leo said off-handedly. “Whoever it was will probably be picked up in a drug bust sooner or later.”

“Maybe.” Zinnia hesitated. “Leo, if I wanted to consult an expert in the Western Seas expeditions, especially one that was conducted about thirty-five years ago, who would I see?”

“Any particular expedition?”

“Yes. Don't laugh, but I'd like to find out more about the Third Chastain Expedition.”

“The Third?” Leo laughed. “You're kidding. That's just an old fairy tale. It never even took place. The university that sponsored it had to cancel the venture at the last minute. Seems the expedition master walked off into a jungle and committed suicide a few days before the team was scheduled to set out.”

“Was his body ever found?”

“No. We're talking about a jungle, Zinnia. You don't usually find bodies in jungles unless you know exactly where to look. And I guess no one did in this case.”

“There's the DeForest theory about the fate of the Third,” Zinnia reminded him tentatively. “It came out several years ago.”

Leo gave a snort of laughter. “Yeah. And the only place that it got published was in the tabloids. No real scholar would even give it the time of day. Demented DeForest's crackpot story about aliens abducting an expedition team was a tremendous embarrassment to the University of New Seattle. It cost him tenure and his job.”

“Demented DeForest?” Zinnia repeated.

“That's what they call him in serious academic circles. I think his first name is Newton or something. He was a professor in the Department of Synergistic Historical Analysis until he went off the deep end and started writing about aliens and lost expeditions.”

“Are you telling me that there are no experts on the Third Chastain Expedition that I can contact?”

“None. Like I said, there was no Third.”

“But what about Bartholomew Chastain? He existed. He supposedly kept a journal. Morris thought he'd discovered it.”

“Oh, sure, Chastain was for real and his first two expeditions were highly successful. He probably did leave some journals of his early trips. Professional explorers always keep diaries of some kind. But there couldn't have been a record of the Third Expedition because that one never took place.” Leo paused. “The only thing that might exist—”

“Yes?”

“I suppose Chastain might have begun a journal for the Third at the time the plans were made for it. He might have recorded the preparations and plans before he killed himself.”

“Maybe that's what Morris found,” Zinnia mused. “What happened to Professor DeForest?”

“He was forced to retire, as I told you. I think someone mentioned that there was some family money. He inherited an old estate. Far as I know, he's still living there.”

“And he's the only authority on the Third Expedition?”

“Let's put it this way, he's the guy who invented the legend. I wouldn't go so far as to call him an authority.”

“I see.” Zinnia tapped the end of a pencil against the desk.

“Hey, Zin?”

“Yes?”

Leo's voice took on a more somber note. “Do you think Nick Chastain will bother you?”

“What do you mean, bother me?”

“From what I've heard, he's kind of mysterious. Very reclusive. No one knows much about him.”

“I think that's the way he likes it,” Zinnia said. “What's more, I'm sure he intends to stay as mysterious and reclusive as possible. Which means that he'll keep well clear of me. The last thing he'd want to do is draw more attention to himself by extending his association with the infamous Scarlet Lady.”

“Hmm.”

“Think about it,” she said, warming to her own logic. “If he were to start bothering me, as you put it, he'd only risk more public exposure. There would be more speculation. His picture might show up in the papers again. It's the last thing he'd want.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Trust me, he'll stay out of sight. He knows that so long as he doesn't add jelly-ice to the fire, the story will die.”

“What about you?” Leo still sounded worried.

“I can avoid the reporters until they give up and go away. It's family members who are going to be difficult, not Mr. Chastain.”

“If you say so.”

“Don't worry, I've heard the last of him.”

Zinnia said goodbye and hung up the phone. When
it rang almost immediately, she jumped in her chair. She glared at it and waited for the answering machine to pick up the call.

“This is Nick Chastain. I assume you're there, screening calls, Zinnia. I would very much like to speak with you.”

She froze. Even through the answering machine, the sound of his voice sent a tingle of awareness across her nerve endings just as it had the previous night. Apparently her strange reaction to him had not been merely a product of the darkness and the unsettling circumstances.

Nick ceased speaking but he did not hang up. He just waited.

She hesitated a few seconds but in the end she could not stand it.

“Damn.” She composed herself and reached for the receiver as gingerly as if it were a live spider-frog.

“Yes, Mr. Chastain?”

“Please call me, Nick. After what we went through together last night I think we should be on a first-name basis, don't you?”

The thread of humor in his words bore no resemblance to Duncan Luttrell's easy laughter, she thought. Nick's amusement came from some dark remote realm, a place where humor was in extremely short supply, and what there was of it had gotten twisted and stunted from lack of sunlight.

“What a surprise.” She tried to infuse a blasé tone into her words. “I just told my brother that you were unlikely to call because you would be busy putting as much distance between the two of us as possible. I got the idea that you prefer to keep a very low profile, Mr. Chastain.”

He ignored that. “I assume you're being pestered by reporters?”

“There were some phone calls this morning which I ignored and I think the
Synsation
news van is still parked outside my apartment but it's nothing I can't handle. What about you?”

“I employ people to do useful tasks such as keeping the press away from me.”

“Yes, of course.” Zinnia got to her feet. Dragging the telephone cord behind her, she went to the window to look down at the
Synsation
van. “How convenient.”

“I can arrange to send someone to your apartment to do the same for you.”

Zinnia had a sudden vision of the hulking Feather stationed downstairs in the lobby. The manager and her neighbors would never forgive her.

“For heaven's sake, don't do that.” She frowned at the distinct hint of panic in her voice. She cleared her throat. “I mean, thank you very much, but that won't be necessary. The reporters will go away when they get bored.”

“Maybe. But that could take a while.”

“You know something? If those journalists paid half this much attention to Morris's murder, the police might be a little more motivated to do a really thorough investigation.”

“I'm sure the cops are giving it their best.”

“I'm not so sure about that.” Zinnia turned and stalked back to her airy little Early Exploration Period desk. “I think that Detective Anselm is content to wait until a likely suspect wanders into his office and confesses.”

“Anselm's a good man. He'll pursue any leads he uncovers.”

“I hope you're right, but I'm afraid he's going to put the case on the back burner because it looks like just another money-for-drugs robbery.”

There was a short silence on the other end of the line.

“Do you still believe there's more to it?” Nick finally asked without any inflection at all in his voice.

“I was awake for hours thinking about it.” She sank slowly back down onto her chair. “Don't you find it awfully coincidental that poor Morris got killed just as he was making final arrangements to sell the Chastain journal?”

“There you go with the conspiracy theories again. Are you sure there's no matrix-talent gene in your family?”

“This is not amusing, Mr. Chastain.” She frowned. “I wonder where he hid the journal.”

“You're not the only one who would like to know what happened to it.”

The grim determination in his words did nothing to calm her restless nerves. “It may not turn up for a long time. Don't forget, Morris was a matrix. Very big on puzzles and secrets. No one can hide things as well as a matrix.”

“And no one can find things that are hidden as well as a matrix,” Nick said.

“True. You know the old saying, it takes a matrix-talent thief to catch a matrix-talent thief. Perhaps you could hire one to help you locate the journal. A matrix-talent, I mean, not a real thief.”