Mesozoic Murder (16 page)

“Are you sure it's a person?”

“I assumed so. Why?”

“Well, there is a mythological Greek beast spelled G-R-Y-P-H-O-N, which is sacred to Apollo and associated with the sun. A Gryphon had the body of a lion and the head, wings, and talons of an eagle. Several of the beasts were said to pull the chariot of Apollo across the sky. The Gryphon is also an avenging bird that lays a solar egg.”

Ansel considered Peyton's information. Had Lydia overheard enough of Nick's phone conversation to know for sure if he'd been speaking about a person or about a creature?

“I need to know more about Stouraitis. Where can I get that information?”

Peyton turned back to the keyboard and tapped in a volley of letters. “Just a second.”

The Apollo Web site vanished. Up sprung a home page labeled
Avis Arcana
. “Stouraitis isn't the shy type. He's gone global. I'll print this out.” He typed in a command and the laser printer next to the computer spit out copies.

Ansel smiled. “That's great, Mr. Peyton. I can't thank you enough for your help.”

“Seeing your pretty smile is all I need. Just be careful. Stouraitis deals with some unsavory people. I'll call upon the Mother Goddess in a ceremony this evening and draw a rune of protection for you. Perhaps that will help your quest, but you've already got something going in your favor if you face Stouraitis' power.”

“What's that?”

“Your last name. A Greek diviner is going to think twice before messing with a Phoenix,” Peyton said, giving her a conspiratorial, emerald-eyed wink.

Chapter 20

Ansel parked the truck at a convenience store a mile from Peyton's house. She purchased a Coke and a candy bar, then snacked on the junk food as she read over the pages about Dr. Athanasios Stouraitis and his Avis Arcana. The printout contained an overview of the historical origins of augury, its mythological credos, qualifications for membership, and a detailed biography of Stouraitis. She started to read.

Born in 1950, Stouraitis had resided in Athens forty-seven years before coming to the United States. He acquired a zoology degree and a biology Ph.D. from the University of Crete. He had been employed for twenty years by the Greek Department of Environment as an expert on Aegean birds, serving numerous times as an officer for prestigious international organizations such as the Greek Ornithology Society and the Hellenic Ornithology Society.

Ansel perused a long list of published works, which included more than two hundred ornithological journal papers, magazine articles, and associated materials. Stouraitis had been a guest speaker at a staggering variety of European symposia on birds. Retired for five years, he still officiated over several American environmental conservatory committees and boards. Stouraitis was also a member of the Bowie College Board of Trustees. He'd had a productive life for a man who worshiped Apollo and believed he was a western oracle.

There was no doubt that his entire countenance radiated the authority and power of a formidable adversary. Stony eyes stared at her from the printed sheet. Medium-length graying hair curled over undersized ears and a broad, smooth forehead. A narrow chin hung beneath full lips pinched and unsmiling. Peyton had told her that Stouraitis dealt with unsavory characters. Had Nick and Evelyn crossed him?

Ansel folded the printouts and stuck them into the glove compartment. She considered driving north to Lustre for a quick reconnaissance of Stouraitis' estate and decided against it. Better to stick to her plan of driving to Mission City. After reviewing Leslie's membership file earlier, she had questions to ask him.

She arrived at Leslie's residence in fifteen minutes. His blue Oldsmobile Regency sat parked on the driveway. A battered white Econoline van, looking vaguely familiar, shadowed Leslie's car nose-to-trunk. She halted the truck by the curb.

Leslie owned a fairly new, L-shaped, light tan, concrete block house with a white fascia. A decorative gray board fence with a gate ran to the left of the garage and around half the house. The sod lawn was green but sparse. A scrawny pair of prickly junipers formed twin sentinels along the driveway. Ansel went through the gate and up the angled walkway leading to a white door set between two multi-pane windows. She had raised her hand to push the doorbell when the door opened and a man pushed through the screen door.

“I'll see you later,” he said over his shoulder, then stopped short, realizing Ansel blocked his path.

Ansel lurched backward, avoiding the swinging aluminum door before it struck her. Her eyes widened. “Shane? What a surprise.”

Shane Roco, her seminar student, glared at her. She hadn't heard from or seen him since they'd left Pitt's ranch the day Nick's body was discovered. Shane was clad in the same immaculately pressed shorts and shirt ensemble he'd worn on Saturday.

“Ansel, is that you?” Leslie's spectacled face appeared beside Shane's. “Good to see you.”

Shane stepped through the doorway. “Hi, Miss Phoenix.”

“You know Doctor Maze?”

Shane's mouth became a smirking half-smile. “He's my grandfather. Are we having a seminar this weekend?”

His grandson? “Yes, Sunday afternoon. We'll meet at my workshop. I'll email the details. Are you coming to the buffet?”

“I'll think about it. I've got to run. See you later.” He slid past Ansel and hurried toward his van.

Leslie held the door open. “Come inside, Ansel.”

She pulled her gaze from the antisocial student and stepped into the house. They stood in a medium-sized living room, very neat and new-looking with a modest sofa, recliner, television, and stereo unit in contemporary styles. The walls were relatively bare, the dowdy lighting fixtures profuse. If not for the interesting three-dimensional bird sculptures placed around the entranceway and living room, the house would have been very austere, almost monkish.

The birds of all sizes were intricately detailed with real bird feathers. A bald eagle was absolutely stunning. More life-like than Bieselmore's pathetic seagull.

“My wife did those,” Leslie said, noticing her interest. “It was her hobby. As an artist yourself, you would appreciate the time it takes to make one of these. Each bird is made from wire, papier-maché, acrylic paints, and real feathers. Takes several hundred sessions to make them right. She won several exhibitions, you know.”

“They're beautiful. Where did she get the feathers?”

“From craft catalogs and local pet stores. They throw out feathers by the bagful when they clean the cages. Sit down. Coffee?”

Ansel picked a flowery, brown and white sofa. “No thanks. I didn't know Shane was your grandson. Why didn't you mention he was taking a Pangaea seminar?”

“Shane is my daughter's son. I didn't know he was in the seminar until Monday when Ellen told me. I called you Monday night. Left a message to call me, too.”

She vaguely remembered his recording among those she'd listened to before being attacked. She'd never called him back. “You're right. Sorry.”

Leslie lowered his bony frame into the recliner. “Don't worry about it. You're here about this awful mess with Nick and Evelyn, I suppose. A Detective Fiskar came to see me this afternoon. When will this madness stop?”

Ansel turned off her thoughts about the police and Dorbandt, a sore spot at the moment, and concentrated on Leslie. “I'm handling the society's involvement with as much decorum as I can. I think the society will weather the storm all right.”

“I hope so. I'd hate to see us lose the POP Center funds when we're so close to finishing the deal. I saw you on the news. Your presentation under pressure was commendable. You're right. Time will sort this tragedy out. I don't know how I'll get through the funerals.” Leslie heaved a huge sigh. “Thanks for coming by.”

Feeling pleased somebody had seen her television interview and found it acceptable, Ansel smiled. She respected Leslie's opinion. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Karen Capos asked me to appraise Nick's fossil collection. When I went to Nick's apartment to begin cataloguing, I found some Baltic amber pieces with plant and insect inclusions. Since I don't know a lot about amber and you do, I wondered if I could ask you some questions?”

Leslie stared, as unmoving as a statue for several seconds. “What makes you think I know about it?”

“You're a geologist,” Ansel said, grinning so she wouldn't seem threatening.

“Yes, I am. However, fossil resins and their subgroups aren't my field. Those types of organic materials are relegated to techno geology studies pertaining to oil and coal. My field is physical geology.”

Ansel was flustered. Leslie had never been shy about his accomplishments or talents. Normally, he expounded on any subject relating to geology. Backpedaling over his professional expertise defied everything she knew about him.

“That's strange,” she replied bluntly.

“What is?”

“Evelyn told me she'd seen a copy of your Yale University paper on resinous caustobioliths inside Nick's apartment. She said it appeared in the
Metamorphic Geology Journal
. I wanted to read it.”

Leslie's face shot through expressions of shock, annoyance, and fear in a matter of seconds. His wrinkled face turned ashen. His intense gray eyes enlarged into nickels beneath his thick prescription lenses. His hands clenched upon his lap, skeletal fingers turning pale.

“Are you all right, Leslie?”

“Just tired. Evelyn made a mistake. I didn't write the paper.”

“Really? She was quite astute when it came to knowing about scholarly publications and their authors.”

“Well, she was confused. I'd hardly forget a journal paper if I wrote it. I may be archaic, but I'm not senile.” He managed a brief, forced smile.

“You taught at Yale.”

“Yes. I worked in the geology department for ten years before I retired to Montana. Now I just want to live out my life writing and enjoying the fruits of my labor. No hassles.”

“You must have been really annoyed when Nick asked for money.”

Leslie's mouth flew open. He leaned forward defensively, the survival instincts of a startled animal preparing for battle. “What?”

“Cameron told me you lent Nick money.”

“Biesel the Weasel,” Leslie scoffed. “I should have known. That prig. He sticks his snout into everyone's business.”

“You didn't give Nick money?”

“Yes, I lent Nick some money. One time. Is there a law against that?” Leslie fixed her with a challenging glare.

“Of course not. I'm just curious why he came to you.”

Leslie snorted. “I guess Nick thought I had money to spare. He came to see me after I received my first royalty check for
Walk Your Dinosaur
. Said he'd made some bad investments and needed something to tide him over until the next paycheck. I was flush so I loaned him five hundred dollars. It was no big deal. I don't appreciate Bieselmore gossiping about it.”

Ansel shook her head. “Nick lied. He didn't have a paycheck coming. He'd quit his job and left his wife. His old fossil collection is gone. He probably sold it to pay for expenses. I want to know why you're lying to me now, Leslie. If you were so flush, why couldn't you pay your dues to the Pangaea Society?”

“You're blowing this out of proportion. The fact is, I'm displeased that you've been perusing my personal files. I thought we had an amicable relationship, Ansel.”

Ansel nodded. “You don't have to explain anything but, believe it or not, I'm trying to help you. The police would have asked you the same questions if they'd known you loaned Nick money. Eventually Cameron will tell them, and they'll be back. I could have told Dorbandt about this loan several times, too, but I didn't.”

Leslie fiddled with his entwined hands, then studied his lap for several seconds before looking up again. “I haven't done anything wrong.”

Ansel saw through Leslie's deception. Guilt etched its way across his haggard face as a spider web of new worry lines. He was stonewalling about something. Something that hinged either on the journal article he denied writing or on Nick's loan. She had to turn up his fear factor a few notches.

“Having anything to do with Nick during the last year could be dangerous. I was attacked in my trailer two nights ago by a man looking for money Nick owed.”

“You were attacked?” Leslie swiped a bead of perspiration from his face. “My God. Were you hurt?”

“No. I was lucky.” Ansel leaned toward the geologist. “Please tell me what you know, Leslie.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

“The paper on caustobioliths is yours.”

“No,” he insisted.

“I can call the Yale library and find a copy. I'll get one faxed to me and read it.”

Leslie leaped from the recliner. “There is no paper.”

“I can also call the Dean of the Department of Sciences and inquire about it. If that doesn't work, I'll contact the editor of the
Metamorphic Geology Journal
.”

“Leave this alone,” Leslie yelled, his face turning fuchsia.

“Tell me why I should,” Ansel shot back.

“You're out of line, Ansel.”

“I'll call Detective Dorbandt.”

“Don't,” Leslie wailed in fear. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to level with me.”

“Why can't you forget about it? That paper has haunted me for years. I made a mistake. One stupid, stupid mistake.”

Leslie stumbled and practically fell backward into the recliner, his hands over his face. He moaned several times and then regained control. He pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. When he looked up, his face was flushed, his gaze watery and weak. Ansel feared he would have a stroke. He looked totally drained and defeated.

“Nick was blackmailing you,” she said.

In his private hell, Leslie could barely nod. “Yes. The filthy bum was bleeding me dry.”