“Right now, Abby is working for me,” Sam said.

Jenny’s smile was stiff, but she kept her demeanor coolly polite. “I see,” she said again.

Gerald Frye looked at Sam with a troubled expression. “I don’t understand. Is Miss Radwell trying to find a specific book for you?”

“Yes, she is,” Sam said. “It’s one I want for the family collection, not the company library. It disappeared several years ago, but it’s rumored to be coming up for auction. Abby has that covered. The reason we’re here today is because I want to do some research.”

“Yes, of course,” Frye said. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. I need to get back to the lab.” He bobbed his head at Abby. “A pleasure, Miss Radwell.”

“Dr. Frye,” Abby murmured.

Frye disappeared through the steel doors. Jenny gave Sam her own version of a professional smile.

“How can I help you, Mr. Coppersmith?”

“I’m looking for anything and everything you’ve got written by or about Marcus Dalton.”

Jenny frowned slightly. “The nineteenth-century researcher who became obsessed with alchemy?”

“That’s the one,” Sam said.

“I’m afraid we don’t have much. He was never considered a serious scientist. There is very little written about him in the literature, and as I recall, most of his own writings were destroyed in a fire or an explosion. Can’t remember the details.”

“Let me see what you’ve got, Jenny,” Sam said.

“Certainly, sir.”

It did not take long to exhaust the library’s holdings on the subject of Marcus Dalton. An hour after Jenny produced a short stack of books, all secondary sources, Abby and Sam left the lab and walked across the parking lot to the SUV.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Sam said. “I had a feeling it would be, but I had to be sure.”

“Jenny O’Connell was right,” Abby said. “Marcus Dalton was not taken seriously in his own lifetime or by any of the historians of nineteenth-century science. Too bad so much of his own work was lost in that explosion.”

Newton was waiting right where they had left him, his nose pressed to the partially open window in the rear seat of the SUV. Abby knew that he had probably been sitting there, his whole attention riveted on the entrance of the Coppersmith Inc. lab, ever since she and Sam had disappeared inside. He greeted them with his usual enthusiasm.

Sam got behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot. “Not that it’s any of our business, but did you get the impression that there was something personal going on between Frye and Jenny?”

Abby smiled. “Yep. We interrupted an office romance.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “I hope it works for both of them. Jenny has been alone since her husband died a few years ago.”

“What about Dr. Frye?”

“As far as I know, he’s never been married.” Sam took the interstate on-ramp, heading north toward Anacortes. “I saw Jenny’s expression when you explained that you were a freelancer in the private market. Do you get that a lot?”

“Only if I deal with people like her, who work the academic and scholarly end of the market.”

“How often does that happen?”

She smiled. “Not often. It’s almost impossible for any of them to get a proper referral. Thaddeus held a major grudge against the academic world in general, because it disdained his insistence that the paranormal should be taken seriously. As a result, he almost never referred anyone from that world to me. On the rare occasion when I do agree to take on a client from any of the established institutions in academia, we rarely reach an agreement on my fees.”

Sam grinned. “They can’t afford you?”

“I always jack up my fees when someone from academia comes calling. Petty, I know, but we all have to have our standards.”

“Guess I should be feeling lucky that you agreed to take me on as a client.”

“Got news for you, Sam Coppersmith. Like it or not, you’re from my world.”

“I’m okay with that.”

THE URGE TO CONFIDE THE FULL SCOPE OF THE DISASTER TO her special friend was almost overwhelming, but Orinda Strickland had resisted, at least until today. Some things simply could not be spoken of outside the family. Not that she didn’t trust Lander Knox. He was a very discreet young man. He was the only one who really understood her. She looked forward to these luncheons so much. Nevertheless, one had one’s pride. The loss of the family fortune and the possibility that Dawson might be facing bankruptcy, perhaps even prison, was simply too devastating to reveal. That sort of thing had to be kept secret.

“You look lovely today,” Lander said. He held her chair for her.

She managed a light, gracious chuckle and sat down at the table. “You always say that. But thank you, anyway.”

“I say it because it’s true.” Lander sat down across from her. “You radiate qualities that are increasingly rare in the modern world. Grace, style, dignity. And wonder of wonders, you can carry on an intelligent conversation. Do you realize how few women of any age can do that these days? That’s why I savor our luncheons together so much.”

It was shortly after noon, unfashionably early for lunch, but the advantage was that the downtown restaurant was only lightly crowded. That meant there was less of a chance that she would run into an acquaintance, Orinda thought. She would have preferred to lunch at her club on Lake Washington. The Stricklands had been members for several generations. But she knew that there would be raised eyebrows and a good deal of curiosity if she were to show up with a handsome, distinguished man who was young enough to be her grandson.

There was absolutely no reason for her to feel awkward about her relationship with Lander, of course. He was a friend, nothing more. They were intellectual companions with a wide range of mutual interests who, sadly, happened to be decades apart in age.

They had met quite by accident at the opera during intermission. Both of them had attended alone that evening. It had been obvious from the start that Lander was well-bred and well educated. He did not say much about his background, but it soon became clear that he was descended from an old, established East Coast family. The faint hint of a Boston accent was so charming.

The conversation that had followed had been the most stimulating one she had enjoyed in years. Her husband, George, had never enjoyed the opera or the symphony or high art. His greatest pleasure had been a string of yachts, each one larger than the last. She had never liked being out on the water. Their marriage had been conducted along parallel lines that had suited both of them. Losing him ten years ago had been a shock, but she had not truly mourned.

In spite of the sick dread that was eating her up inside, Orinda managed a smile. But the phone conversation with Dawson had left her thoroughly unnerved. The realization that Abby was the key to the family’s financial salvation had come as a terrible blow. She had been forced to take an antianxiety tablet to calm herself.

Dawson and Diana were right, Abby viewed the situation as a gol-den opportunity to take her revenge against the family. Dawson had reported that she wanted more than a simple cash payment for her services. She would no doubt demand to be named as a full-fledged beneficiary of the family trust. It was unthinkable. The woman was not a Strickland. There was no blood connection whatsoever. And she was mentally unbalanced.

As incomprehensible as it seemed, Orinda was starting to believe that Abby actually wanted to see the family lose everything. The ungrateful bitch. After all I’ve done for her. Brandon Radwell could never have afforded the tuition and fees at that special school on his own.

“I see your son–in–law is having a signing event for his new book on Friday night,” Lander said.