The Fortune Teller's Daughter

by Lila Shaara

  “Where do you think they got the money?”

  “They design a lot of components of weapons systems,” she said. “Power supplies. Big government contracts. That’s another reason they didn’t like me much. I wasn’t very cooperative. They said I shouldn’t have come here if I didn’t ‘share the vision’ of the school. They were right. It was Charlie’s vision, too. He loved being rich. And famous. But I didn’t do enough research on the school before I came. I was so flattered and excited. And stupid.”

  “You weren’t stupid, you were young. I bet they didn’t tell you they wanted you to work on military contracts when they invited you.”

  “No,” she said. “They didn’t. But that was back when they had hopes for me.”

  · · ·

  They were ten minutes early. “Is that bad?” Maggie asked.

  “No,” he said, although he would have preferred to keep them waiting. It was unprofessional, but just ornery enough that it would have been satisfying. But rather than take more time sightseeing around the grounds, they climbed the cement steps into the main administration building. It was grand and Georgian, four stories of freshly repointed brick and large white-trimmed windows. The ceilings were high and old, pressed tin in flowery shapes. The inside of the building smelled of paint and was cool, with the light illuminating tiny specks of dust in beams that stroked the broad marble floor of the hallway. There was an elevator, but Maggie shook her head. “It vibrates,” she said. “It makes me hyperventilate.” So he held her hand as they climbed the stairs to the fourth floor.

  They came to an open reception area with a phone bank and three computer terminals on broad oak-stained desks. There was no one in sight. Behind the secretarial stations was a frosted glass door with “Office of the Dean of Arts and Sciences” painted on it importantly in gilt letters. He led Maggie to it, then let go of her hand. Then he reached into his pocket for his cell phone and turned it off. “Don’t want to be rude,” he said.

  There were two women and one man in a beautiful office that seemed soaked in cherrywood paneling and brass trim. They were seated, but they stood when Harry and Maggie entered the room. The man offered his hand first; Harry shook it firmly. “Wesley De-Graff,” the man said, looking calm and confident. He wore a gray suit and red patterned tie and was well-built with a big chin, small nose, and very little hair. “I’m Cantwell’s chancellor.”

  Harry merely nodded as the rest of the introductions were made. Gillian DeGraff didn’t look like Harry expected, short and squat and dark when he’d been prepared to see someone tall and willowy and aristocratic. Pamela Ziegart was another matter, a tall, aging woman with a face like a mosquito, all points and squints. She wasn’t unattractive, but she looked as if anger sat on her face all year round and as if she disdained most things. He could see a few traces of Jonathan in her, but not many. No one needed to introduce Maggie. Wesley was again the first to address her. “Hello, Emily,” he said. “It’s good to see you again. A shock, as you might imagine, but a pleasant one.” Maggie didn’t answer, just stared at him with her wide, bright eyes.

  “Yes,” said Gillian in a voice that Harry recognized from the phone, all patrician and good vowels. “So nice to hear that you’re not dead after all.”

  “Well,” Wesley began after they’d all sat down, “as I said, I’m delighted that Emily is no longer lost to the world of the living, but I’m not sure what we can do for you. I assume that this isn’t a social visit?”

  Harry said, “As I’m sure you all know, for the last five years or so of his life, Charles Ziegart systematically used all of his wife Emily’s work, presenting it as his own.”

  This had the effect that Harry intended. The three of them had almost exactly the same expression, which would have been comical if Harry hadn’t already felt needles of anger sticking him. Gillian was the first to speak. “That’s simply not true. Besides, she was his student. She worked for him.”

  Harry nodded. “So I’ve been told. Legally, you’re all safe. But from a public relations standpoint, you’ve got a problem.”

  This time it was Wesley who spoke. “If it’s your intention to slander Charlie or the university, you’re the one who’s going to have legal problems, Mr. Sterling.” He no longer looked friendly.

  “I’m only interested in printing the truth.” Harry leaned back in his chair, regarding the three of them, wondering how long it would take for Pamela Ziegart, sitting quiet and imploded in the farthest chair, to say something.

  “Get out,” said Gillian. Her voice was flat with anger.

  “In a minute,” Harry said. “I assume you also know that Jonathan Ziegart killed his father.”

  That did it. Pamela stood up. “How dare you! You have some nerve, coming here and tossing horrible accusations around.” Wesley and Gillian had recovered more quickly and were making delicate efforts to shush Pamela, but it wasn’t working. She squinted at Maggie. “You hated us, you wanted everything we’d worked for. You couldn’t stand it, that he still had a family. Greedy little bitch.”

  Maggie spoke for the first time. “I didn’t take him from you, Pamela. I didn’t take anything from you. You know that perfectly well.”

  Pamela seemed to get bigger as her rage seemed to inflate. “Your goddamned application stole him from me.”

  Maggie’s mouth opened, and Harry could see that this was a blow she hadn’t expected. He said to Pamela, “You’d better sit down and shut up before you say anything else equally asinine.”

  Gillian said, “Pamela, calm down. I’m calling security and having the two of them forcibly removed from the premises.”

  Pamela sat down; then, looking at Harry, said, “Everyone knows that she was responsible for Charlie’s death.”

  Harry said, “That’s bullshit. You and everyone else know it’s bullshit, including the police. I’ve talked to Commander Sutton of the state police.”

  There was a silence in which Harry could hear Pamela’s heavy breathing through her thin nose. Gillian’s hand was on her desk phone, but she didn’t pick it up. She said, “You never answered Wesley’s question. If you came all the way from whatever swamp you inhabit to insult us with slurs on Charles Ziegart and his son, there’s no point in talking any longer. We have much better things to do with our time, even if you don’t.”

  Harry said, “We’ve been in touch with an attorney in town, Rick Clooney.”

  Wesley made a nervous motion with his hands. “He’s a criminal lawyer. I can’t imagine why you’ve talked to him. If there has been any wrongdoing, it isn’t by anyone at Cantwell.” He looked at Maggie, his face no longer friendly. “Your allegations against Jon are patently false, so you can’t possibly have any evidence, unless you’ve manufactured some. I agree with Pamela that this is highly distasteful, and legally actionable if you make these claims publicly. I can’t believe that you would try to smear the name of anyone in the Ziegart family, Emily.”

  Harry said, “Because she benefited so much from her association with them?”

  This had the effect he wanted, getting Wesley’s attention back to him. “Well, yes. Without Charlie, where would she be, after all?”

  “Probably on the faculty of MIT.”

  This was answered by a general humming of disagreement. “I hardly think that’s likely,” Wesley said.

  “He killed my mother, too,” Maggie said with no affect.

  There was another thick silence, the DeGraffs and Pamela Ziegart staring at Maggie with collective horror. Harry was glad they weren’t looking at him; he was shocked as well, never having considered this possibility. He thought, I bet that’s true. Oh my God. We’ll probably never be able to prove that either. Bluff, he thought, bluff like you’ve never bluffed before. He spoke before they could spew out more heated denials. “We are well aware of the limitations of the justice system. We know these allegations are true, but we don’t have the kind of evidence that would meet the standard of proof in criminal court. We’re being frank with
you about this.”

  “Are you blackmailing us?” said Wesley. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Emily relinquished all claim to monies generated by her work and her share of Charles Ziegart’s estate because of coercion and threats by Pamela and Jonathan.”

  “What coercion?” said Gillian. “The only thing she was threatened with was exposure.”

  “Jonathan said he would kill Fay,” said Maggie. “If I didn’t leave.”

  Gillian said, “Who’s Fay?” at the same time that Wesley spat out, “This is ludicrous!” He faced Harry. “I can’t believe someone of your professional stature would be a party to this. It’s all fantasy, and a crass, and probably criminal, attempt to blackmail the university.”

  Harry said, “It’s not blackmail if the money was rightfully hers in the first place.”

  Pamela made a noise of disgust, a sort of spitting sound. Harry expected her to say something, but she only stared at Maggie with that mosquito glare of hers, hatred making her eyes glassy.

  Maggie looked at Wesley. “Pamela’s afraid of him, too, you know.”

  “Of who? Her own son? That’s ridiculous. I happen to know how close they are.”

  Pamela made the spitting sound again but still said nothing.

  Maggie said, “You should be careful if he hears about this meeting. He might suspect that we talked about him. He’s pretty paranoid. He really wouldn’t like it if his mother told the truth about him to anyone.” All eyes traveled to Pamela’s face, which had undergone a subtle shift. Harry thought, She’s afraid but doesn’t want to show it.

  Gillian said, “Why don’t you tell us exactly what you want, and quit wasting our time?”

  “You’re right,” Harry said. “We want money.”

  Wesley repeated, “That’s ridiculous.”

  Gillian said, “How much?”

  Wesley said to his wife, “Don’t even dignify this stupid threat by asking that.”

  Harry said, “Two hundred thousand dollars.” There was another collective gasp. “The Ziegart effect patent has brought the university many times that over the years. Emily just wants a small percentage of what she’s entitled to.” He waited, letting that sink in. Then he said, “Along with the documentation that her Ph.D. is finished, and appropriately favorable letters of recommendation so that she can regain her academic standing and find a job.” He looked at Gillian. “We don’t want anyone to lie. We just want letters from faculty who know of her work, in the same format they use for any student, honestly evaluating her performance, talents, and potential. They need to refrain from adding prejudicial and unfounded accusations or insinuations as well.”

  Wesley’s face was incredulous and angry, but Gillian said to Maggie, “If we do this, you’ll keep these slanders to yourself?”

  Maggie said nothing. Harry nodded. “She just wants to be able to work in a lab again, and to be able to file her own patents without fear of retaliation.”

  Gillian looked at Harry. “You’re a reporter. How do we know that you won’t put the lies you’ve told us in print?”

  Harry said, “You have my word that I won’t publish anything about Jonathan Ziegart’s threats and criminal actions, as long as he doesn’t try to harm anyone else.” Poor Doug McNeill, he thought. No justice for you, or for Josie, or Marlene Timms, or even Darcy Murphy. But without any real evidence, he knew there was nothing they could do anyway. “We could put my assurances in writing if you want.” He grinned at her, which she didn’t seem to like.

  Wesley said, “No. You can print whatever you want. Our lawyers will see to it that you never publish again. Not even a shopping list.”

  Pamela and Gillian looked at him. Gillian turned to Harry and said, “We need to talk in private for a few minutes. Wait outside.”

  · · ·

  There was a bench in the reception area, and the two of them sat down. Harry felt exhilarated, a feeling he’d forgotten, closing in on smug power mongers, getting under their skin, making them itch with guilt and the fear of exposure. He knew it probably didn’t speak well of him that he enjoyed it so much. Only people who deserve it, he thought. As long as I’m on the side of the angels.

  Maggie stared at the wall across from them. He wondered what the dots of light really looked like, and if that was what she was looking at. She said, “She’s probably right, Harry. About Charlie. About why he married me.”

  “If that was the only reason,” he said, “he was an idiot.” She kissed him on the cheek and then laid her head on his shoulder as he added, “They’re going to give in. I can smell it. How were their auras?”

  “Dirty,” she said.

  A half hour later, they were called back into the room. Nothing was to be put in writing. “If you break our agreement, we’ll sue you, Mr. Sterling.”

  “I know,” Harry said. “But Jonathan Ziegart is still a murderer, and if any evidence comes to light about his crimes, old or new, we’ll make sure that he gets prosecuted. That’s not up for negotiation.” He looked at Pamela.

  Wesley said, “You understand, no one in this room can control the behavior of another human being. Jonathan is completely blameless. But I don’t want you smearing the family or the university if he’s caught speeding or something. He’s his own man.”

  Harry thought, his stomach contracting, They all know perfectly well what he’s capable of. They believe us. They’ll never admit it, but they knew all along. Maybe DeGraff didn’t before, but he does now, and so do his wife and the merry widow. Ex-wife, he corrected himself. He clenched his fists, then relaxed them again with great effort. Assholes, he thought, fucking assholes. But all he said was “Why don’t you folks try anyway? Give him a talking-to. Maybe you have more influence with him than you think.” He looked at Maggie, then back at the trio flanking one another in the stately office. “If he hurts her anymore, you’ll have to answer to me.”

  Maggie spoke to them for the last time. “And if he hurts Harry, I’ll destroy all of you.”

  55

  FOUR OF CUPS

  REVERSED

  New opportunities

  She is so hot, he thought, all sinewy angles and burning color. One thing he had to give Harry Sterling; he had great taste in women. “Mrs. Sterling?” he said to the gorgeous brunette who answered the door.

  “Yes.?”

  “I’m a friend of Harry’s. My name’s Jonathan Ziegart. When I told him I was going to be in Orlando on business, he asked me to bring your son some books. Is he here?”

  “Yes.” Ann Sterling looked irritated. “Come on in. I can’t believe Harry didn’t at least call to tell me you were coming.”

  She is also dumb, he thought. She left him alone with Dusty for a half hour. He’d managed to charm her out of her fractious mood, and even to cadge a root beer. Then he’d made two references to the fact that Harry had a new girlfriend, a beautiful, petite blonde, and said how happy they looked. That had sent her back into the sullens, but she was too well-bred to kick him out.

  The boy was pretty sullen himself, but Jon handed him a boxed set of the Lord of the Rings trilogy he’d picked up at the airport bookstore that morning. He never read fiction himself but supposedly all teenage boys loved books about trolls and witches and whatever. “Your dad said that you’d like these.”

  “I read ’em all two years ago,” Dusty said, turning the box over in his hands. “He knows that. This is weird.”

  Jonathan felt the beginnings of hatred for this dopey-looking boy, his arms far too long for his body, his feet too large for his skinny little legs. He felt certain he could smell him, too, a mixture of churning hormones and sweat. “Well, I guess he forgot. You know, he’s old. Getting forgetful. Haha.”

  Dusty regarded Jonathan through long bangs that threatened to skewer his eyeballs. “What’s your last name again?”

  Jonathan told him, and the boy’s face got a strange look on it, possibly of recognition. Interesting, Jonathan thought. “Has your father mentioned me?�
��

  “Your dad was a big scientist.”

  “Yes. Your father is thinking of writing a biography of him. That’s how we got acquainted.”

  This got no response but an openmouthed gape. Jonathan decided the interview had become tiresome, so he said good-bye, leaving behind an indifferent mother and a puzzled son. The boy was almost certainly into drugs of some kind. All teenagers took them these days. It had been true of his generation, too, he thought, trying to be fair. He’d always been careful about what he put into his body, but so many of the Cantwell faculty kids, his classmates, treated themselves as lab specimens, trying out every chemical they could find and monitoring its effects with almost clinical interest. He recognized that a lot of this experimentation was fueled by adolescent boredom and depression. He’d read that teenagers were more prone to suicide these days. Dustin, he thought, was a good candidate for that. Nice and surly, divorced parents. Another interesting problem, how to foster that potential.

  He wasn’t worried that the boy would tell Harry about his visit. The thought of the conversation they would probably have on the phone and the impotence of Harry’s worry over it made Jonathan press a little too hard on the accelerator of the rental car. He made himself slow down. He didn’t want to get pulled over, and he wasn’t in a hurry. There was plenty of time to find a copy center on the other side of town.

  56

  THREE OF CUPS

  REVERSED

  Happy endings turn sour. Beware of gossip from an old friend

  Harry drove back to the hotel with Maggie silent and still in the seat next to him. He waited for her to speak; when she didn’t, he said, “This is all good, you know. You got what you wanted.”

  She looked at him with big, blue eyes. “I thought it would make me feel better,” she said.