Ghost Image (12 page)

Was this man Kevin's stalker? Had he been waiting for him as Kevin left the Tidal Basin that day? Kevin had said someone could have been watching the two of us, and I'd told him flat out that no one was there and we were all alone.

Now it looked like I'd been wrong.

My e-mail dinged and I jumped. It was exactly midnight. Ryan Velis had written back.

I would be very interested in discussing your letter from John Fairbairn to Francis Pembroke as well as possibly shedding some light on the background of Dr. Pembroke. If, by chance, you are willing or able to travel to Monticello, we can discuss this in person. I would also be happy to give you a private tour of Thomas Jefferson's gardens and look forward to hearing from you.

I hit Reply and wrote:

I can be there by 11 am tomorrow (today) if that would be convenient. I'll be driving from Washington, D.C.

He wrote right back.

Excellent. I have some questions for you as well. Bypass the visitors' entrance and drive up the mountain to the parking lot below the mansion. Someone will let you through the gate. I'll be expecting you.

I wondered if his questions had anything to do with Kevin's book.

Tomorrow morning I'd find out.

10

U
rsula Gilberti's secretary called just before nine a.m. as I was navigating onto Highway 29 about forty miles outside Washington near Gainesville, Virginia. A little farther out, 29 turns into a pleasant country road that winds through Civil War battlefields, past farms, orchards, vineyards, and pastures where horses and cattle graze against the hazy backdrop of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Right now, though, I was still dealing with the headache of commuter traffic on a Friday morning.

“Ms. Medina,” she said, “I hope I'm not calling too early, but the senator has asked me to tell you that Archduke Victor and Miss Gilberti were called away unexpectedly on a family matter. Any further meetings will have to wait until they return.”

I merged into clogged traffic and said, “Thank you for letting me know.”

What further meetings? The last time I had seen Ursula was the day before yesterday when she arrived at the Franciscan Monastery just before Officer Carroll walked me into the church for questioning. Perhaps she had assumed my presence there meant
I agreed to her terms that any further photography work I did for Victor and Yasmin's wedding would be without pay. I had already decided to stay on, not because of Ursula's vague and probably inflated promise to recommend me to all her friends, but because I'd made a commitment to Victor, whom I liked very much and didn't want to let down.

“Senator Gilberti will contact you herself next week to discuss further arrangements,” the secretary said. “And she also requests that you send her the engagement party photos as soon as possible.”

One of the meager benefits of not being paid was that I no longer needed to jump through every single hoop Ursula Gilberti held up.

“Please tell Senator Gilberti that I sent her, her daughter, and Archduke Victor an e-mail with a link to the photos last night, so she should check her in-box. Also, I'll be in London next week, so if there's anything else, she can contact me when I return. And you'll have to excuse me, but I'm driving and I need to pay attention right now.”

“I'll look for those photos and I'll let her know you'll be away. You have a nice day, Ms. Medina.”

Jack phoned next. “I was going to call last night to ask if you ever figured out what that key unlocked, but I got stuck on campus until late. Then one of the seminarians needed to talk, and that went until midnight. Any chance you're free for lunch today?”

“I wish I were, but I'm halfway to Charlottesville. I'm meeting someone at Monticello at eleven o'clock.”

“Monticello?” He sounded surprised. “Work related or just taking a day off?”

“Neither.”

I told him everything, including the discovery that Kevin owned an original copy of a book that had once belonged to Sir Isaac Newton.

“Are you serious?” He sounded floored. “I wonder if Kevin knew it was that valuable.”

“I don't know, but the bigger question is who actually owns the book. I wonder what kind of deal Edward Jaine had with Kevin. Did he give Kevin money with no strings attached so Kevin bought the book himself, or did Jaine buy the book and Kevin was only borrowing it?”

Jack let out a long unhappy whistle. “That would be a mess. If Jaine bought it, then they'd have to sort out whether it was a gift or just a loan. And if it was a gift, Kevin should have reported it to the Franciscans.”

“What do you mean?”

“Technically everything Kevin owned when he was alive belonged to the Franciscans. He took a vow of poverty, just like I did, just like all religious orders do. Only diocesan priests don't take that vow, so they can have personal wealth.” He added in a dark voice, “There is a third messy possibility. Maybe Kevin didn't get around to reporting the book so the Franciscans were unaware he had it in his possession.”

“And if he didn't do that?”

“Cue the lawyers.”

“Seriously? Would the religious order of St. Francis of Assisi, founded on poverty and humility, actually go to court over something like that?”

“I wouldn't bet against it,” Jack said. “There are only three things God doesn't know: how much money the Franciscans really have, how many communities of nuns there are, and what any Jesuit is thinking at any given time.”

I burst out laughing. “You're joking . . . aren't you?”

“Only about two of the three. We Jesuits are real enigmas.”

“No fooling.” I smiled. “But I wish I knew what Kevin and Jaine were arguing about at the Austrian ambassador's the other night.”

“Even if it had something to do with the book, I seriously
doubt Edward Jaine trashed Kevin's study room at the Library of Congress looking for it,” Jack said. “He doesn't really fit the profile for breaking-and-entering, you know?”

“Maybe someone did it for him?”

“That still seems like a stretch.”

“At some point Father Xavier needs to know about all this,” I said. “The book, Asquith's, the room at the library . . . all of it.”

“I called the monastery yesterday. They're totally swamped. Every news organization in the world wants an interview. Plus they're still trying to process Kevin's death, right in their own garden. I think you can wait a few days, Soph, to contact Xavier and add one more thing to his plate. Nothing's going to change, especially since the book is safe and sound at Asquith's.”

“All right. It's probably just as well, because I'm going to London for a week with Harry.” I told him about Chappy, my mother's trip to Connecticut, and her plans to move my grandfather into assisted living.

“Chap would hate that,” Jack said. “He's always been so independent. I'll keep you all in my prayers. Maybe there's some other explanation for what happened. There are a lot of reasons people get confused, especially the elderly.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I have connections in high places. I'll do what I can. And if I don't talk to you before you leave, have a great trip.”

“Thanks. Hey, I just remembered something. Kevin was supposed to drop by the Library of Congress on Wednesday after he met me and then he said he had a meeting with someone. He wasn't happy about it and said it was something he had to say now because it would be worse later if he didn't speak up. He didn't tell me who he was meeting, of course, but what if it was a follow-up conversation with Edward Jaine at the monastery?”

“You really have that guy on the brain, don't you? And then Jaine killed Kevin?”

“It could have been an accident, or an argument that got out of
hand.” I knew I sounded defensive, but for some reason that I couldn't explain, I didn't care for Edward Jaine. “It's not so impossible.”

“Except I happen to know who Kevin was really meeting with,” Jack said. “Yasmin.”

“Yasmin? Why?”

He didn't answer right away and, knowing Jack, he was doing mental jujitsu about the ethics of telling me what was going on. “I suppose I'm not betraying any confidences now that Kevin's dead,” he said at last, “but we had a quick chat at the party. One of the things I noticed—and you probably did, too, since you were photographing everyone—was that Yasmin and Victor were never together, almost like they weren't a couple. Then there was an incident Kevin and I happened to witness that made us wonder if Yasmin's ready for this marriage.”

“You mean when Yasmin almost spilled her drink on her dress because of the guy who was ogling her?”

“You saw that?”

“His name is David Arista. Thea Stavros told me about him, and then coincidentally I met him the next day when I was at the Smithsonian. Olivia, my editor at Museum Press, says he's got a reputation among the female employees. Now he's working with Yasmin on the Smithsonian Creativity Council. Olivia says they're very close.”

Jack groaned. “Kevin noticed little things here and there on other occasions when he'd been with Yasmin and Victor. He told me he finally decided to talk to her, caution her not to rush into anything, especially marriage, if she wasn't one hundred percent sure it was the right thing to do. Afterward he was going to call me and, if his talk didn't go well, we were considering taking a page out of St. Matthew's gospel.”

“Pardon?”

“Then the two of us would join forces and have the ‘come to Jesus' talk with her,” he said. “Yasmin shouldn't be marrying Victor if she's got feelings she hasn't sorted out for David Arista, or
anybody else, for that matter. Everyone's going to get hurt if she goes through with it. And in our business, you're morally obliged to say something if you see that kind of train wreck coming.”

“So what happens now?”

“Well, right now I think the most immediate concern is Kevin's funeral at the monastery once the medical examiner releases his body. After that, maybe I can try to talk to Yasmin.”

By the time Jack hung up, I'd reached the outskirts of Charlottesville and 29 had widened again into a multilane highway lined with ugly strip shopping plazas and modern commercial sprawl spreading like a stain toward a sweet little university town that had been founded in 1762. The weather had changed again overnight, back to a raw, gray chill that was more late winter than nearly the beginning of spring. As I made the long corkscrew drive through a fog-shrouded forest up Thomas Jefferson's mountain, I finally realized what had been nagging at me for the last few miles since my conversation with Jack.

If Kevin's talk with Yasmin hadn't gone well and she suddenly realized he had doubts about her marriage to Victor, then she could have been in quite a panic, worrying whether he might also share his thoughts with her fiancé. When I saw her at the monastery on Wednesday, she'd been early for our five o'clock meeting. Though the parking lot had been empty, that didn't mean she hadn't already arrived and left her car elsewhere before I'd seen her, maybe to seek out Kevin and urge him not to do anything that could interfere with her wedding or ruin her plans. Though she had seemed stunned at the news he was dead, maybe she was a good actress.

I'd just told Jack I thought Edward Jaine had a motive for murder.

Now I wondered if maybe Yasmin did as well.

• • •

Someone buzzed me in at the security gate after I drove past the visitors' parking lot at Monticello and told me it wasn't much
farther up the mountain to the small private lot near the mansion where Ryan Velis had told me to park. The gardens and grounds staff had their offices in a long rustic shed that included storage barns and a nursery. The low structure was so well tucked into the side of a steep hill I nearly walked past it until two men standing next to a tractor directed me where to go.

“End of the building, last door,” one of them said. “He's in.”

Dr. Ryan Velis was tall and lanky, probably around my age, with sandy hair just beginning to gray, an open freckled face that was tanned and weathered from years outdoors, and an engaging smile. He was dressed for gardening work in old jeans, a heavy dark green sweater, and a quilted vest. He rubbed his palms together before reaching across the desk and sticking out his right hand.

“How do you do? Sorry, I know it's like shaking hands with a block of ice. I'm out and about in the gardens so much I hate to heat this barn up and waste the electricity. Unless of course it's the dead of winter.” He spoke with a folksy drawl as if I were an old friend who'd come a-calling, but he'd given me a sharp-eyed going over.

“I'd tell you to take off your coat and make yourself comfortable, but better not because it is a mite chilly. Do have a seat, though. And I can offer you coffee. Brewed fresh and it's hot. Warm your hands right up.”

“Thanks. Milk and sugar, if you don't mind. And thank you for taking the time to see me.”

His office looked like he was losing the war on paperwork, with files, magazines, documents, and books piled on every surface and overflowing a bookshelf. At least half a dozen moving boxes were stacked behind his desk in a long, low wall. He poured two coffees from a coffeemaker on a table near the window and handed me a mug with a scuffed silk-screened picture of Monticello. The milk came powdered and in a can along with the sugar.

“So,” he said, wrapping his hands around his mug and lean
ing back in his chair, “you knew Kevin, God rest his soul. What a loss. I'll miss him.”

“Me, too. It's still such an awful shock.”

“How did you meet, if you don't mind my asking? You're a professional photographer and you've spent most of your career overseas with a news agency.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Don't look so surprised. You didn't think I wasn't going to look you up, did you? Your photographs, by the way, are stunning.”

“Thank you.” I'd looked him up, too. I just hadn't expected him to be this direct. “A mutual friend, a Jesuit priest, introduced us years ago and we became friends. How about you?”

“I saw him when our paths crossed at various conferences over the past few years, but I only started working at Monticello the week before Thanksgiving so I didn't really get to know him until he came here for a month in January.” He sipped his coffee and added as if it were an afterthought, “What brought you to me? I mean, besides the letter?”

“I saw your name listed along with Kevin's as one of the speakers at a conference at the Botanic Garden . . . ‘Losing Paradise.' Plus I knew Kevin was here in January doing research.”

He set down his mug and folded his hands on his desk. “Tell me about this letter.”

I realized then that he hadn't known about it before I contacted him and that Kevin hadn't confided in him. But if I expected any help, I had no choice but to do as he asked.

“It's a letter from John Fairbairn, the head of the Chelsea Physic Garden, to a Leesburg doctor named Francis Pembroke,” I said. “It was written in April 1807 and it's rather long.”