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“Are you gift shopping?” he asked, his voice deep, his accent again striking me as familiar and foreign.

Diantha flashed him a high-wattage smile, meeting his frank sexual appraisal with one of her own. “Yes, it’s such a chore when it should be …”

He left her hanging.

“Joyous,” I supplied.

“Yes, joyous.”

“Mr. Bain, this is my daughter, Diantha Lowe.”

She extended her hand and he took it the way an old-school European would, keeping it in both of his, as though she had given him a token to hold. He brought his heels together. “Enchanté. I’m Freddie, Freddie Bain.”

Diantha bowed her head and withdrew her hand. Enchanté, aussi, she said and laughed, as though at a private joke.

“Joyous, yes,” he echoed. “Then let us make it joyous for you.” He produced a pair of small jade figurines, dancers, I would have guessed, but in poses more erotic than thespian. “You have a beau, perhaps. These would remind him of you in those days after Christmas.”

Diantha looked at the price tag. “Pricey,” she said.

“But these are for you. A mere token. Our mark-ups are …”

He had a very mobile face, so that one moment he was all smiles and the next nearly feral, the eyes askance then very direct.

“Thank you, but I simply can’t.”

“I must insist.”

She laughed again and looked at me. I shrugged even as I gritted my teeth. Mr. Bain was not the sort in whose obligation I would want to be.

“I’ll put them to one side for you, Miss Lowe …”

“Oh, please, call me Diantha. You have quite a spice collection.”

“Yes. Thank you. And always fresh. We get in shipments all the time. We use them in the restaurant. You must join me for a cup of tea.”

There was no escaping it. He ushered us most proprietarially into the Everest Tea Room, an alcove lined with a large photo mural of the famous peak. He rang a bell; a moment later a slight young woman appeared with a samovar and glasses in old silver holders. Tea Russian-style.

“These are so beautiful,” Diantha exclaimed, holding one of the glass cups in her hand. Then, “Whatever made you think of opening a place with a Sherpa theme?”

Mr. Bain’s agile face shifted from quizzical frown to a smile that came and went like a tic, then back again, staying in place. “I had occasion to spend time in Nepal. I became interested in the Sherpas. They are a fascinating people. They do what they have to do and never lose a particle of their pride or dignity.”

“What took you to Nepal?” I asked, nodding toward the mountain in the photograph, indicating my question as rhetorical, to give him the opportunity to announce his alpinist proclivities and achievements, should he have any. He glanced at me sharply for a moment, perhaps sensing my ploy.

“I was going through my Buddhist phase,” he said, directing his answer to Diantha, as though only she were present.

She laughed. “I’m still waiting for mine.”

He bowed toward her. “I don’t believe you will need it, Ms. Lowe.” He poured our tea and offered around the sugar.

“So you came back enlightened and started this restaurant and shop?” She returned his glances in a way that made me feel extraneous.

“You could say that. As an exercise in enlightenment.”

“Why the Irish …”

“Oh, a sheer whim. My grandmother Katie O’Flaherty was Irish.”

It sounded to me like a blatant bit of fabrication, but Diantha nodded, charmed.

“Now you tell us about yourself, Ms. Lowe. Are you new to Seaboard?”

“Yes, but I feel I have been here forever.”

“Or perhaps in another life?”

“Maybe. Deep in the gene pool.”

“We all have past lives, Ms. Lowe.”

They went on in that vein for a while, Diantha telling him really nothing, intriguing him the more as he made no secret of his interest in her.

Then he veered off suddenly, addressing me. “Has there been any more news of Professor Chard’s fate?” he asked.

I was able to answer with technical honesty, saying, “None whatsoever. I’m sure that Mrs. Chard, his widow, would have called me had she heard anything from the State Department.”