Zinnia

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Because it’s a family heirloom.” Orrin straightened his tie and collar. “If you had any sense of responsibility toward the family you’d understand that. Now get out of here before I have you thrown out.”

  “I’m on my way.” Nick walked to the door. He paused briefly just before he opened it. “I almost forgot to ask, how are things going with Glendower? Any luck convincing him to pour money into Chastain, Inc.?”

  Orrin stared at him with stunned shock. Then a slow flush rose in his face. “What do you know about Glendower?”

  Nick shrugged. “I’m aware that Chastain, Inc. is in bad shape since the acquisition of Meltin-Lowe. You paid far too much for the company, didn’t you? Meltin-Lowe turned out to be a very deep hole. Now you’re in trouble. You need cash so you’re wooing potential investors. I believe Glendower is the third one you’ve talked to in the past six weeks.”

  “That is none of your business, damn it.”

  “Relax, I’m family, remember?” Nick smiled. “But a word of warning, Uncle. I know you’ve got a cash-flow problem, but if you’re after Bartholomew Chastain’s journal because you believe those old rumors about the treasure, save your time and energy. The legend that my father discovered a fortune in fire crystal is just that, a legend. Old Demented DeForest invented that part of the story just like he did the part about aliens abducting the expedition team.”

  Without waiting for a response, Nick let himself out of the office. He closed the door very quietly.

  Helen bristled when she saw him.

  “Have a nice day.” Nick smiled as he went past her desk.

  She flinched.

  He walked down the plush corridor to the elevator. When the doors slid open he stepped inside and glanced at his watch. Perhaps Zinnia had called by now. Impatience and a strange sense of eagerness pulsed through him.

  A few minutes later, he walked out of the imposing entrance of the Chastain building and into a light misty rain. He strode quickly to where his dark green Synchron was parked at the curb.

  He reached for the phone as soon as he was behind the steering bar.

  “I’m on my way back to the casino, Feather.” Nick eased the sleek Synchron into the light traffic. “Any messages?”

  “I put out the word that you were willing to pay five grand for any information about the Chastain journal, just like you said, boss. But nothing so far.”

  “Double the reward.” Nick absently calculated the distances that separated the Synchron from the other vehicles on the street. He factored in the effects of the rain, the wet pavement, and the speed of the blue compact ahead of him. Something was not quite right in the matrix. He changed lanes.

  The driver of the blue compact suddenly slammed on his brakes, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision with another vehicle. Tires screeched. Horns blared. Nick accelerated smoothly past the near-accident.

  He drove the same way he did everything else, with an instinctive awareness of all of the elements in the matrix in which he moved. He always knew exactly where he was in relation to the objects around him. His timing was nearly always perfect. It was one of the side effects of his psychic talent.

  “Any other messages?” he asked.

  “Nothing important,” Feather said.

  Nick tightened his grip on the phone. “Has Miss Spring called yet?”

  “No, boss.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He punched the disconnect button on the phone.

  She would call. He was good at this sort of thing. He knew she would call.

  But he could feel something shifting again in the matrix. Zinnia was proving to be unpredictable.

  Chapter

  8

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Zinnia poured coff-tea into the dainty antique Early Explorations Period cup. “Don’t worry, Aunt Willy, the Synsation van is the only one left out in front. In another day or so it will be gone. This kind of news loses its impact fast.”

  “It’s outrageous.” Wilhelmina accepted the cup and saucer with the arrogant grace that had been bred into her bones. “One would think that the police would do something about those dreadful little insects who dare to call themselves journalists. In my day they showed a proper degree of respect for privacy. Now, nothing is sacred, not even one’s personal life.”

  Zinnia regarded her with irritation and admiration. Wilhelmina was a commanding presence in any setting. Seated here amid Zinnia’s collection of airy, whimsical Early Explorations Period furnishings, she was a monument to family authority. Zinnia had to concede that Willy was the reigning matriarch of the Spring clan.

  A large woman of statuesque proportions, Wilhelmina transcended any common notions of beauty. She was endowed with the sort of strong, indomitable features that would have done credit to a statue of a First Generation Founder.

  The decline and fall of the Spring family fortunes in recent years had only served to shore up Wilhelmina’s aura of unbending determination. She was a woman with a mission. She would not rest until she had seen the bottom line of the family finances and the social position of the Springs restored to their former impressive levels.

  “And as for you, Zinnia, whatever were you about last night? How did you come to be in the company of a common gambler?”

  “Actually, Mr. Chastain is rather uncommon and I got the impression that he doesn’t gamble.” Zinnia pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t put it past him to take a few calculated risks, though.”

  “Of course he’s a gambler. He owns a casino, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think he plays any of the games.” Zinnia sipped her coff-tea. “Mr. Chastain prefers to be in control of things.”

  “Be that as it may, the man is little more than a gangster. Hardly what one would call respectable. You had no business being seen with him.” Wilhelmina’s eyes snapped. “And whatever possessed you to become involved in a murder investigation?”

  “I’m not involved, Aunt Willy. I’m just one of the two people who found the body. Mr. Fenwick was a client of mine.”

  “And that’s another thing. You know I don’t approve of your part-time job with Psynergy, Inc.”

  “I need the money,” Zinnia said bluntly. “I’ve explained that to you. My interior design business fell off rather drastically after the Eaton scandal. I’m only now beginning to rebuild.”

  Wilhelmina looked pained. “It seems we’ve had to endure one catastrophe after another since we lost Edward and Genevieve. And most of the disasters have been at your hands, young woman.”

  Zinnia said nothing. She merely raised her brows.

  Wilhelmina put her cup firmly down on the saucer. “Which brings me to the crux of the matter. We must stop the downward spiral of events. You are the only one in a position to save this family.”

  “The family will survive, Aunt Willy. No one’s starving. You and Uncle Stanley seem to be managing off the annuities Great Uncle Richmond left for you. Cousin Maribeth is making ends meet with the profits from her boutique. Leo will graduate soon and I’m sure he’ll be offered a research assistant position at the university. We’re all going to make it.”

  “There is a difference between mere survival and assuming one’s proper position in the world,” Wilhelmina retorted. “Speaking of Leo. You’ve been a bad influence on him, Zinnia. You have not encouraged him to take an interest in business.”

  “Leo was born for academia, not the business world.” It was an old argument, one that bored Zinnia, but her aunt would never admit defeat.

  Wilhelmina regarded her with the sort of gaze that was meant to instill backbone in those she considered to be lacking in that quality. “Sometimes events demand that one make sacrifices for the sake of the family. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed, I do.” Zinnia gave her a glowing smile. “You’ll be pleased to know that Duncan Luttrell phoned just before you arrived. He asked me to have dinner with him tonight.”

  “Mr. Luttrell called?�
�� Wilhelmina looked as if she hardly dared to believe her ears. “In spite of those horrid stories in the tabloids linking your name with Chastain?”

  “Yes. He was very sympathetic.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Aunt Willy. Remember, I’m unmatchable.”

  “Let me be frank here, Zinnia. Everyone knows that in certain circles marriages are occasionally contracted without the assistance of a marriage agency. Especially when there are important family considerations.”

  “But surely you wouldn’t want me to take such a risk, Aunt Willy. Even assuming I could persuade some man to take a chance on me. I mean, it’s my whole future we’re talking about. I can’t imagine anything worse than being shackled for life to a man I couldn’t love and who didn’t love me. Why, it would be a living hell.”

  “Skip the melodrama, dear. It may interest you to know that before the Founders established the institution of the match-making agency, our ancestors on Earth routinely married without the guidance of syn-psych counselors.”

  Zinnia burst into laughter, nearly spilling her tea. “That’s just an old myth, Aunt Willy, and we both know it. No civilization that was advanced enough to colonize other planets would run their private lives in such a primitive fashion.”

  Zinnia waited until after her aunt had left before she tried Newton DeForest’s number again. It was the third time she’d attempted to phone him that day. No one had answered her earlier calls.

  She counted the rings. After the fifth, she reluctantly started to replace the receiver.

  “Hello?” The man on the other end of the line sounded remarkably cheerful and a little breathless.

  “Professor DeForest?”

  “Yes. Sorry, I was out in the garden when the phone rang. Who is this?”

  “My name is Zinnia Spring, sir. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m doing some research on the islands of the Western Seas and I understand you’re an authority on Chastain’s Third Expedition. Would it be possible to talk to you about it?”

  There was a pause. “What was your name?”

  “Zinnia Spring.”

  “Are you an academic, then, Miss Spring?” DeForest sounded suddenly hopeful.

  “I’m afraid not. I’m an interior designer.”

  “Oh.” There was a short pause while he assimilated that piece of news. “Why in the world would an interior designer be interested in Chastain’s Third?”

  “It’s a personal interest, Professor DeForest. A hobby, you might say. I’m fascinated with the legend and I want to learn as much as I can.” She allowed a delicate pause. “I’m told that you are the leading authority on the Third, sir.”

  “I suppose I could spare some time tomorrow.”

  Zinnia seized a pen. “That’s wonderful. May I have your address?”

  At eight-thirty that evening Zinnia smiled at Duncan Luttrell across a snowy white tablecloth. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I’ve been trapped in my apartment most of the day. I left once, early this morning, and was almost cornered by a crew from one of the tabloids.”

  “You’re safe here at the Founders’ Club. The staff knows how to keep reporters at bay.” Duncan grinned. “I won’t claim that the food is still the best in New Seattle because Chastain’s Palace stole the chef six months ago, but the privacy’s great.”

  “I appreciate it.” Zinnia glanced around at the paneled confines of the dining room.

  She had deliberately chosen a refined, rose-orchidred gown with a discreet neckline and long sleeves to suit the somber elegance of her surroundings. The Founders’ Club was a prime example of the heavy Gothic style popular during the Later Expansion Period. Arched doorways, carved stonework, and a sense of brooding age were the key elements. The atmosphere provided a suitable backdrop for the wealthy movers and shakers of New Seattle who were members of the club.

  A sense of wistfulness went through Zinnia. “My father used to belong to this club.”

  “I know. So did mine.” Duncan looked up as the wine steward came to a halt beside the table. “A bottle of the ’ninety-seven Chateau Sequim blue, please.”

  “Yes, Mr. Luttrell.” The steward vanished quietly.

  Zinnia relaxed for the first time that day. Duncan had a soothing effect on her. Having dinner with him was a lot like dining out with her brother. No pressure, just a sense of pleasant companionship.

  Duncan was good-looking in an open, rugged sort of way. He had a strong muscular build that seemed at odds with his career in the high-tech world of computers. He wore his light brown hair cut short in a conservative style that suited his position as the head of his own firm. His brown eyes lit easily with laughter.

  After the waiter had taken their order, Duncan turned back to Zinnia with a commiserating expression.

  “I know how irritating the tabloids can be,” he said. “After Dad took his own life last year, the press hounded me for days. I refused all comment and they eventually went away.”

  “My technique precisely.”

  The waiter returned with the wine. Zinnia waited until Duncan concluded the tasting ritual and approved the vintage.

  When they were alone again, Zinnia took an appreciative sip of the fine blue wine. She rarely got to drink the expensive stuff these days. The bottle she had at home in the icerator was a cheap green.

  “I think the worst of it is over. When you picked me up tonight, the Synsation van was gone.”

  “A good sign.” Duncan smiled. “So long as you and Chastain don’t feed the fires of gossip, the whole thing will dry up and blow away.”

  Zinnia winced. “Don’t worry. I definitely don’t want to throw any more bones to the gossip columnists. And it’s safe to say that Nick Chastain feels exactly the same.”

  “I understand how you happened to stumble over Morris Fenwick’s body. You’re the type who would worry about a missing client. What I don’t quite get is why Chastain was with you when you found Fenwick. The stories in the papers did not make that clear.”

  Zinnia hesitated a split second while she decided how much to tell Duncan. For some obscure reason she felt a responsibility to protect Nick’s privacy and she knew intuitively that he would not want her to discuss the Chastain journal. She opted for a limited version of the truth.

  “You’ll never believe it, but apparently Nick Chastain collects rare books.”

  Duncan chuckled. “You’re right. Hard to believe a casino owner with a taste for antiquarian books.”

  “I know. But he was one of Morris’s clients and I was aware that they had been in negotiations. When Morris failed to keep an appointment, I contacted Chastain to see if he knew what had happened to him.”

  Duncan frowned. “You actually went to see Chastain?”

  “I couldn’t think of anything else to do. He was as concerned as I was. We both went to the book shop to see what was going on and found poor Morris together. Mr. Chastain called the police.”

  Duncan looked thoughtful. “Mind if I give you a little friendly advice?”

  Zinnia held up one hand. “Stop. I have a hunch you’re going to tell me the same thing I’ve already heard from everyone else. You want to warn me to stay clear of Nick Chastain. Right?”

  Duncan smiled, but the expression in his eyes remained serious. “Right. I’m no expert on the subject, but I’ve heard enough to know that Chastain is not the kind of guy whose attention you want to attract.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m in complete agreement.”

  A short silence descended.

  Duncan picked up his wine glass and swirled the contents with a reflective air. “When you went to see Chastain did you get into his office?”

  Zinnia helped herself to a bit of pâté and a cracker. “Uh-huh.”

  Duncan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So, is it true what they say about his incredibly bad taste?”

  Zinnia grinned as she crunched down on the cracker. “Every single word.”

  S
he could not see him but she sensed his presence. He was there in the darkness, waiting for her. She knew she should turn and run from him while she still could. But some invisible force tugged at her, drawing her into the endless night. If she entered that darkness with him there would be no turning back. She would be trapped with him in the terrifying emptiness that seemed to extend forever.

  She heard the muffled sound of her own heart beating. The sound grew louder, ringing loudly in her ears. The thunder of blood.

  Zinnia came awake with a great startled gasp. Her nightgown was clinging to her sweat-dampened body.

  Only a dream. A nightmare.

  But the thunder did not cease.

  It took her a few seconds to realize that what she was hearing was the telephone, not her pounding heart.

  She glanced at the clock beside the bed. Midnight. No one called at midnight unless something was terribly wrong.

  She picked up the receiver with a trembling hand. “Yes?”

  “Miss Spring? This is Polly Fenwick. Morris Fenwick’s wife?”

  “Yes. Hello, Mrs. Fenwick.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “It’s all right.” Zinnia collapsed back against the pillows. “I’m so very sorry about Morris.”

  “That’s why I called.”

  Zinnia frowned as the anxiety in Polly Fenwick’s voice finally seeped through the phone. “Are you all right, Mrs. Fenwick?”

  “I’ve been going through his things. There was a note. With instructions, you know.”

  “Instructions?”

  “Very specific. Morris was that way. Very specific. I followed the instructions to the letter. I found a book that he had hidden. It looks like a diary or a journal of some kind.”

  Zinnia stilled. “A journal?”

  “According to Morris’s note, it’s quite valuable. But his instructions are to dispose of it as fast as possible. He thinks it may be dangerous to possess it. I’m to sell it to Mr. Chastain. You, know, the man who owns that casino in Founders’ Square?”

  “Yes. Yes, I know.” Zinnia was having trouble following the rushed explanation. Part of her mind was still churning with the images embedded in the nightmare. “Excuse me, Mrs. Fenwick, but are you saying that you have this journal in your possession?”