The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [15]
Dana was dressed to catch the eye. Wide gold hoops glittered against the masses of her dark hair, and an off-the-shoulder white blouse carried out the gypsy look which was now fashionable. Blazing scarlet, electric blue, wide stripes of chartreuse and orange contributed to her layers of skirts; a sash of purple encircled her waist, and she jangled with bracelets and necklaces.
She was not the only acolyte worshiping at the famous scholar’s shrine. He was surrounded by people, Andy’s student friends and two of the older Fellows from the Institute. He towered above them physically. His gray hair was cut short. Burned brown by the eastern suns of successive winter digs, he looked twenty years younger than his real age, and his broad shoulders were those of a man who has done his share of the punishing physical work required on an archaeological excavation.
The contrast between his casual but conventional white shirt and dark slacks and Andy’s peacock-colored clothing was as extreme as the difference in their complexions, but the resemblance was there—not only in the features of the long, clean-cut faces but in the crackling vitality that animated those faces. Andy was on the fringe of the group near his father, but he was not part of it. Lounging against the wall, he held a half-filled glass, and the expression on his face as he watched his father was one of patronizing amusement. He turned his head, saw the newcomers, and bounded toward them, emitting cries of welcome.
“I gave you up,” he said to Jean.
The blue eyes met hers with an intensity that cut the two of them off from the rest of the room. Then Andy remembered his manners. He turned to Jacqueline. “You look beautiful. Come on and meet the great man.”
Jacqueline gave Jean a look of half-comic appeal as she was drawn away, but Jean refused to respond; the great man had too many panting females in his entourage as it was.
She wandered over to the refreshment table and helped herself to a glass of wine. She was joined at once by Ximenez, who greeted her with pleasure.
“You have been working too hard,” he said. “We missed you at our daily meetings; you are our peacemaker, you know.”
“From what Jacqueline tells me, you haven’t needed much arbitration,” Jean said; and then, at José’s look of bewilderment, she elaborated. “Albert. Jacqueline says he’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared? What a word.” Ann’s cool voice broke in.
“He was strange that last day we saw him,” José said thoughtfully. “Outside of himself.”
The odd phrase struck Jean disagreeably.
“What do you mean?”
José’s black eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“It is hard to describe. Excited? That is not quite the word. There is an English word—‘fey.’ Perhaps I do not understand its correct meaning….”
“I hope not. It has something to do with a premonition of approaching doom.”
“It also means crazy,” Ann said irritably. “For God’s sake, you all talk as if he’d vanished in a cloud of smoke, in front of sixty witnesses. Why make such a big thing of it?”
“Right on. Let’s not talk about awful Albert.” Michael had joined the group. “Hey, José, have you seen the watercolors at that new gallery on the Via Margutta?”
José had. The conversation became too technical for Jean, who was not in the mood for shoptalk after her days of strenuous study. Turning, she caught Andy’s eye. She had the feeling he had been watching her for some time, and she felt herself flushing absurdly, like a schoolgirl. Andy was the only male in the group who could affect her so. Ted and José were good friends. Michael? There was a potential spark in that relationship, but Michael was too emotionally unstable for Jean. He was definitely the flitting type—from flower to flower to flower. Andy was something else. When he summoned her, with a smile and a slight movement of his head, Jean obeyed.
“Having fun?” he asked softly. The words were trivial, but the tone, and the look that accompanied