A Quiet Death (10 page)

Paul scowled at me without speaking.

‘It was a spur of the moment thing,' I forged on. ‘I found the building Lilith lived in, learned that Zan was probably foreign, and that Lilith moved from her apartment in New York City to a cottage, location unknown.'

Paul flopped over on his back, crossed his arms over his chest, glowered at the ceiling. ‘You could have told me what you were up to, Hannah.'

‘I told Ruth.'

‘You're not married to Ruth.'

‘I'm sorry, Paul, but I knew you'd worry and I didn't want to spoil your weekend.'

Paul stewed in silence for a few moments.

‘I think you'll find it interesting,' I continued.

‘Life with you always is, Hannah.'

I took that as a green light and kept driving. ‘Lilith's parents were killed in a plane crash when she was still in her teens,' I reported, playing the sympathy card.

‘Ah, the proverbial lost-both-parents-in-a-tragic-plane-and-or-car-crash hard-luck story,' Paul commented brightly, his little sulk apparently over.

‘Don't scoff. That part of her story is absolutely true. It took me a bit of searching, but I finally found a reference to it on the Internet. On September eleventh, 1968, Charles and Lucille (née Aupry) Chaloux were killed in the crash of Air France Flight 1611.'

‘How come that didn't come up before when we Googled Chaloux?' Paul wondered.

‘It might have done, on screen nine hundred and seven. But if you add “plane crash” to the equation, the article pops up on the first screen'

‘Any details?'

‘Hold on.' I reached for the iPhone on my bedside table and swiped it on. ‘It says here that Flight 1611 was en route from the island of Corsica to Nice, France, when it crashed into the Mediterranean Sea killing all ninety-five on board.'

Paul sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Damn. Lilith would have been only fifteen. What caused the crash?'

‘The
official
report said a fire in the lavatory near the galley, of undetermined origin.'

‘Do I detect a note of skepticism in your voice?'

‘Well, there was a French general on board, René Cogny, so there was talk.'

‘And?'

‘I was saving the best for last. In 2005, there was a Lynx News white paper on the crash that advanced the theory that the accident was the result of a missile strike or bomb, and that the true cause had been suppressed by the French government under secrecy laws.' I paused, waiting for that to sink in. ‘Guess who the reporter was?'

‘Who?'

‘John Chandler.'

‘So?'

‘Don't you think it's a little more than a coincidence that John Chandler is doing a story on a plane crash that killed the parents of Lilith Chaloux?'

‘And ninety-four other people, I believe I heard you say.'

‘True. But the connection made me curious, so I looked up John Chandler on the Internet. I think I've found Zan!'

‘John Chandler? You think John Chandler is Zan? Are you out of your cotton-picking mind?'

Now it was my turn to sulk. ‘So, are you ready to hear what I learned about John Chandler, or not?'

Paul plumped up his pillow, stuffed it behind his back and sat up, giving me his full attention. ‘Shoot.'

I tapped the Safari icon. ‘Listen to what Wikipedia says. “John Chandler – born on November fifteenth, 1950 – is a television journalist for Lynx News where he anchors the program,
And Your Point is?
Born Alexander Sví
č
ká
ř
in Brno, Czechoslovakia, he emigrated to the United States in 1956 with his parents, Rubert and Janna (née Cerny) Sví
č
ká
ř
. He became a United States citizen in 1971, changing his name to John Chandler.

‘“Chandler graduated from Earlham College in 1972 with a degree in Peace and Global Studies,”' I read on. ‘“While at Earlham, he was a reporter for the campus radio station, WECI-FM. From 1972–74 he served in the Peace Corps in Guatemala where he acted as liaison between government agencies bringing relief to victims of Hurricane Fifi. Later, he worked as an aide to Jimmy Carter during his successful 1976 presidential campaign.

‘“Prior to joining Lynx News, Chandler worked for the Catholic News Service and the Associated Press in Europe.

‘“Chandler lives in the Georgetown area of Washington DC and is married to Dorothea Goodrich, a vice-president of the Women's Democratic League. He has two grown daughters.”

‘There!' I plunked the iPhone down on top of the duvet and took a deep breath. ‘Don't you see? It all fits! Chandler's real name is Alexander. Zan!' I ticked the remaining points off on my fingers. ‘There's the Peace Corps connection, the fact that he worked for the AP in Europe – no wonder he was mailing letters to her from all over the world – married, two daughters. And finally . . .' I took a deep breath. ‘I think I know where he met Lilith! The Democratic National Convention was held in New York City in 1976, and they probably worked together on Jimmy Carter's campaign!'

I fell back against the pillows, triumphant. ‘So, what do you think?'

‘Compelling coincidences, I have to agree, but I don't think you could use it to prove anything in a court of law. There are a lot of men in the world named Alexander.'

‘Ah, yes, but I'm remembering what Elspeth Simon said about Lilith's Zan. She told me his last name had little squiggles on it. Wait a minute.' I retrieved the iPhone and scrolled back to the beginning of the Wikipedia entry. ‘There,' I said, aiming the tiny screen at Paul so I could point out the acute accents and upside down circumflexes over the letters ‘i,' ‘c,' ‘a,' and ‘r' in Sví
č
ká
ř
. ‘Squiggles. I rest my case.'

‘
Č
árkas
and
há
č
eks
,' Paul corrected. ‘Not squiggles.'

I stuck out my tongue. ‘Smarty pants.'

I opened my bookmarks and tapped on a link to a
Times
article I'd saved earlier. ‘There's more. Novak was interviewed by the
Washington Times
. He's quoted here as saying that one of his journalism professors advised that he'd never get a job in broadcasting with a name like Sví
č
ká
ř
. Impossible to pronounce, hard to spell. So, he changed it.' I glanced up from the little screen. ‘I looked it up. Sví
č
ká
ř
means “candle-maker” or “chandler” in Czech.'

I switched the iPhone off and put it back on the bedside table. ‘Seems to me that somebody's repealed that silly law about foreign-sounding names and success in broadcasting. Guillermo Arduino, Fareed Zakaria, and Wolf Blitzer seem to be making out just fine.'

‘Mandalit DelBarco.' Paul's pronunciation was eloquent, the syllables of the NPR reporter's name rolling off his tongue like honey dripping from a flaky buttermilk biscuit. He closed his eyes. ‘Maria Hinojosa, Christiane Amanpour, Sylvia Poggioli,' he recited. ‘Pah-JOE-lee, Pah-JOE-lee. I could listen to Sylvia Poggioli read the telephone book.'

I had to laugh. ‘How about Lakshmi Singh?' I added, ‘Or, what's her name, the NPR business reporter, Snick Paprikash.'

Paul snorted. ‘You mean Snigdha Prakash.'

‘Her, too. Or Ofeibea Quist-Arcton.'

‘Simple always worked for Larry King,' Paul mused.

I raised an index finger. ‘Ah, but King's real name is Lawrence Harvey Zeiger.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘I am a font of all wisdom,' I said, hooking a thumb in the direction of my iPhone.

‘Squiggles,' Paul repeated with amusement. ‘Men have been hung on less evidence.'

‘Well, I'm not planning on hanging Mr Chandler,' I said. ‘I have no interest whatsoever in the man's sex life.' I paused.

‘Do I hear a “but?”'

‘
But
, if Chandler can tell me where I can find Lilith Chaloux, no questions asked, I'd be really grateful, and I think she would, too.' I reached out for Paul's hand. ‘If these were your letters to me, I'd certainly want them back, bad poetry and all.'

Paul squeezed my hand. ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue, If I had some chocolate, I'd give it to you. How's that?'

‘Thank you, Mr Longfellow!' I kissed him on the forehead. ‘Tomorrow, I'll just take a ride into DC and pay a call on Lynx News.'

I shot my husband an anxious glance, hoping that since my little New York adventure had gone off without a hitch, he'd not pout and get all stroppy with me about a short hop, into the District of Columbia.

Paul squinched up his face. ‘On the Metro?'

I pulled the duvet up to my chin. ‘No, I've temporarily retired my SmartTrip card. I don't think I'm ready for the Metro yet. Not tomorrow, not the next day, maybe never.'

‘Just be careful.' Paul searched out my hand under the covers and gave it a squeeze.

‘I always am.'

The next morning, I was sitting at the computer in our basement office working on my second cup of coffee when Paul staggered down from the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. ‘You're up early.'

‘I couldn't sleep, so I decided to do a little snooping around on the Internet.' I handed him my empty mug. ‘Fetch me more coffee, pretty please, and I'll tell you all about it.'

Paul returned several minutes later bearing mugs of steaming coffee, pulled up his office chair and sat down on it.

‘Look what I found in the photo archives at
Time
magazine,' I said after he'd gotten settled. I handed him a printout hot off the printer. ‘The photo's credited to Annie Leibovitz and is captioned “Jann S. Wenner and Hunter S. Thompson at a
Rolling Stone
party held for the Jimmy Carter campaign staff, New York, 1976.” The same picture shows up on Jann Wenner's webpage,' I added, ‘but it's been cropped.'

‘I know who Hunter Thompson is – that gonzo reporter – but who the heck is Jann Wenner?' Paul asked.

‘How soon you forget. 1967? The Summer of Love?
Rolling Stone
magazine?

Paul still looked puzzled.

‘Wenner founded
Rolling Stone
.'

‘I knew that,' Paul said, with a grin that told me that he hadn't a clue.

‘Anyway. Check out this larger version of the photo. Who is that, there, in the background?' I tapped the image.

Way in the background, her face turned slightly away from the camera, was a young woman with her hair cut in a Dorothy Hamill-style wedge, whose profile looked very much like Lilith. She held a wine glass aloft, as if toasting someone outside the frame.

‘Looks like Lilith Chaloux.'

‘I'm almost positive it's Lilith. And who is that standing next to her, that long-haired guy, looks a bit like John Lennon, cupping a cigarette like it's a joint?'

Paul leaned forward, squinting. ‘Could
be
a joint.'

I bopped him on lightly on the head. ‘Be serious.'

‘Looks like the guy in those other pictures – Zan,' Paul admitted.

‘Yes indeedy-do. And I found another picture, too, in the photo archives of the Jimmy Carter Library and Museum.'

‘My, my, you do get around, Mrs Ives. And still in your pajamas, too.'

I ignored the jab and passed Paul a streaky, monochromatic printout. ‘It's a photo of Zan standing in front of a green and white Carter/Mondale “Leaders for a Change” poster, wearing a chocolate brown “Gimme Jimmy 76” T-shirt. Or it would be if your stupid printer hadn't run out of magenta toner.'

Paul handed the printout back. ‘Interesting, but what does this tell you that you don't already know?'

‘What I said last night? That was all conjecture, speculation based on Zan's letters, Chandler's bio and a handful of pictures. Reading those letters is like wandering around Planet Zan in a spacesuit, Paul. I often found myself wondering what was real and what wasn't. But here it is!' I waved a hand at the screen. ‘Independent confirmation. And if you can't believe
Rolling Stone
, who can you believe?'

‘Zan himself?'

‘Stay tuned for the next exciting episode – A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Panama. Or, I'm dreaming of a wide isthmus,' I said, quoting either Rocket J. Squirrel or Bullwinkle the Moose. ‘And speaking of iconic cartoon characters, if I don't want to greet John Chandler while wearing PJs, I better get cracking.'

THIRTEEN

I
may have been OK with Amtrak, but the thought of stepping on another Metro train at New Carrollton made my stomach heave. Even though it was raining cats and dogs, I let New Carrollton fade in my rear-view mirror and, with windshield wipers set to frantic, drove all the way into Washington, DC. I parked in the garage at Union Station, retrieved my umbrella from the trunk and hustled through the rain the few short blocks to the Lynx News headquarters building at New Jersey Avenue and C Street, NW.

At the information desk in the ultra-modern lobby, I shook out my umbrella, propped it up in the corner with several others to dry, and asked to see John Chandler.

‘Do you have an appointment?'

‘No, but tell him it's important. I have a story for him.'

‘And your name is?'

I told her.

The receptionist looked me up and down, as if checking for explosives. I must have passed muster, because she picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers. Speaking softly, so that I could barely hear her, she said, ‘There's a Hannah Ives here, asking to see Mr Chandler.' After a moment, she nodded, hung up, and said, ‘Sign in here.'