Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [50]
Pendergast did not reply.
“If I’m going to help you,” D’Agosta said, “you can’t clam up every time I broach an awkward subject.”
Pendergast sighed. “You are quite right. It does seem that Helen was fascinated—perhaps obsessed—by Audubon from early in life. This desire to learn more about Audubon, to be closer to his work, led—in part—to our meeting. It seems she was particularly interested in finding the Black Frame.”
“Why keep her interest a secret from you?”
“I believe—” he paused, his voice hoarse, “—she did not wish me to know that our relationship was not founded on a happy accident, but rather a meeting that she had intentionally—perhaps even cynically—engineered.” Pendergast’s face was so dark, D’Agosta was almost sorry he’d asked the question.
“If she was racing someone else to find the Black Frame,” D’Agosta said, “she might have felt herself in danger. In the weeks before her death, did her behavior change? Was she nervous, agitated?”
Pendergast answered slowly. “Yes. I always assumed it was some work-related complication, getting ready for the safari.” He shook his head.
“Did she do anything out of the ordinary?”
“I wasn’t around Penumbra much those last few weeks.”
Over his shoulder, D’Agosta heard the clearing of a throat. Maurice again.
“I just wanted to inform you that I’m turning in for the night,” the retainer said. “Will there be anything else?”
“Just one thing, Maurice,” Pendergast said. “In the weeks leading up to my final trip with Helen, I was away a good deal of the time.”
“In New York,” Maurice said, nodding. “Making preparations for the safari.”
“Did my wife say, or do, anything out of the ordinary while I was away? Get any mail or telephone calls that upset her, for example?”
The old manservant thought. “Not that I can remember, sir. Though she did seem rather agitated, especially after that trip.”
“Trip?” Pendergast asked. “What trip?”
“One morning, her car woke me up as it headed down the drive—you recall how loud it was, sir. No note, no warning, nothing. It was around seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, I recall. Two nights later she came back. Not a word about where she’d been. But I recollect she wasn’t herself. Upset about something, but wouldn’t say a word about it.”
“I see,” Pendergast said, exchanging glances with D’Agosta. “Thank you, Maurice.”
“Not at all, sir. Good night.” And the old factotum turned and vanished down the hall on silent feet.
22
D’AGOSTA EXITED I-10 ONTO THE BELLE CHASSE Highway, barreling along the nearly empty road. It was another warm February day, and he had the windows down and the radio set to a classic rock-and-roll station. He felt better than he had in days. As the car sang along the highway, he guzzled a Krispy Kreme coffee and snugged the cup back into the holder. The two pumpkin spice doughnuts had really hit the spot, calories be damned. Nothing could dampen his spirits.
The evening before he’d spent an hour talking to Laura Hayward. That started the upswing. Then he’d enjoyed a long, dreamless sleep. He woke up to find Pendergast already gone and Maurice waiting for him with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and grits. Next, he’d driven into town, where he’d scored big with the Sixth District of the New Orleans Police Department. At first, on learning of his connection to the Pendergast family, they’d been suspicious, but when they found he was a regular guy, their attitude changed. He was given free use of their computer facilities, where it took less than ninety minutes to track down the dealer long interested in the Black Frame: John W. Blast, current residence Sarasota, Florida. He was an unsavory character indeed. Five arrests over the past ten years: suspicion of blackmail; suspicion of forgery; possession of stolen property; possession of prohibited wildlife products; assault and battery. Either he had money or good lawyers, or both, because he’d beaten the