Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox Page 0,61
lead to any harm.”
“The harm’s been done, long ago, and I have no choice anymore about whether I’m caught up in it or not. Someone’s already made that decision for me. But you can help.”
“Of course I’ll help, Nick. You know that.”
“You have a safe-deposit box, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Later, I want to give you some documents to keep for a while.”
“I’ve been wondering why you’re carrying that horrible briefcase around, here, at a play. How old is that thing?”
Nick ignored her question. “As soon as you can, put the documents in the box. Don’t tell anyone, anyone what they are or that I have anything to do with them. Better yet, don’t even read them. Una, I can’t deny that there might be some…”
“Trouble? That word again. This is serious. More than harmless genealogical research. Nick, what’s going on?”
“Maybe I’m like old Adam in the play; Orlando says he’s pruning a rotten tree that can’t yield a blossom. But I think I can right some old wrongs–and some newer ones, from what you’ve just told me.”
Una shook her head and put her hand on his arm. “I wish you were back in the boring old English department, living the life of quiet desperation you’d grown to despise. All the violent plots there were merely literary.”
A friend of Una’s from the history department came up to chat with them; but the conversation soon turned to university politics, the latest juicy grants and fellowships, backstabbing, and toadyism.
“I’ll get us another drink,” Nick said, making his escape.
The table holding the champagne glasses and little masterpieces of hors d’oeuvres with a decidedly New Orleans zing was off to one side of the lobby, beneath an impressive stained glass window somewhat in the Tiffany style, except with recognizable Louisiana motifs. Fortescue students in the early part of the century made these windows, as well as Fortescue Pottery, ceramics that have gained deservedly high regard.
Nick waited in a competitive wave of bodies to get to the table; New Orleanians get testy when deprived of their pleasures.
He was admiring the big backlit window above the bar when a woman said, “‘Persephone’s Return to the Marsh,’ it’s called. A gift from Artemis Holdings.” She was standing beside him, as beautiful as Persephone herself, Nick thought. “Zola Armiger,” she said, re-introducing herself. “We met briefly at–”
“The Plutarch. Sure. You’re not easy to forget. A gift, huh?” said Nick, pointing at the window. “Yeah, I see the tasteful donor plaque there. Tell me, does Artemis Holdings have a weekly quota of good deeds? Like a minimum daily requirement of some vitamin that keeps your public relations department happy? I’m halfway expecting you to tell me your company gave Shakespeare a stipend.”
“I wish we’d been able to, but I’m not quite that old. We’re still searching for our modern bard.” She seemed to be considering him for the position. “You wear your skepticism on your sleeve, which I suppose makes you the good scholar you’re reputed to be. Tell me, do you see an ulterior motive in everything?”
“Descartes is one of my heroes: doubt everything,” Nick said. The crush of people carried them a few inches closer to the bar. “Or almost everything,” he added, taking in her beauty.
“I assure you, we are what we appear to be.”
“You mean Artemis is a company full of great-looking women? Where do I sign up?”
Zola couldn’t suppress a laugh at his flagrant flirting. Her dark eyebrows, Nick noticed, were perfect sonnets of expression. Seeing them, Shakespeare wouldn’t have needed her money as a spur for inspiration.
Finally with new champagne glasses in hand, they walked to a grouping of pedestals topped by some choice Fortescue vases.
“A quota?” she asked. “Why should there be any limit to the good one is able to do? Artemis and the Samaritan Fund–which I manage–do good when the opportunity arises; we know this enriches us spiritually and teaches good corporate citizenship to others.”
“Three cheers for benevolent capitalism.”
She was determined to make her point. “We believe that the companies that treat their customers and employees with respect are the ones that will endure. Our quota of good deeds, as you call it, is our vote of confidence in such organizations. This philosophy might make enemies for us, might cause people to ridicule us–”
“Like me, for instance.”
“I don’t think you were being serious, were you? No, I sense that your sarcasm is a shield. You seem to me the kind of man who avoids seriousness whenever he can, who doesn’t like to