more bitter still. “I think she liked the perversity of it. Bowing at the knee to a daughter of Titania.”
“She’s not bowing anymore,” I said, with a sigh. “I’m sorry to be the one who told you. And I’m sorry about the ‘here kitty, kitty’ thing. It just seemed like the best . . .”
“Wait. She died in Fremont, and you don’t know what killed her.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still there.”
“Yes.”
“Are you in danger?”
I considered lying. Only for a few seconds, but still, the urge was there. Pulling his jacket closer around me, I said, “People are dying. Sylvester’s sending someone to get Quentin out, but I’m staying until we know what’s going on. I can’t run out on them.”
Again, silence.
“Tybalt?”
“You really are a little fool, aren’t you?” His tone was distant, almost reflective. “You still have the jacket I left with you?”
“I do,” I admitted.
“Good. I’ll be wanting it back.”
“I’ll try to stay alive long enough to return it. Can you put Marcia on? I need to ask her for a favor.”
His tone sharpened. “What favor?”
“Something’s wrong with the phones, and I can’t get through to Shadowed Hills. Someone needs to tell Sylvester we’re in trouble. Big trouble. Someone just tried to kill us, and they came pretty close to succeeding.” I paused. “He can probably call me from the pay phone in the parking lot. He should station someone there.”
“Consider the message relayed,” said Tybalt, in that same distant, thoughtful tone.
“What are you—”
The phone buzzed in my ear. The line was dead; he’d hung up on me.
Groaning, I turned and dropped the receiver back into the cradle. “Whatever’s wrong with the phones, it’s specific to Shadowed Hills. I got through to the Tea Gardens just fine.”
Quentin was once more pretending to review the employee files. He slanted a sidelong look my way, and asked, “What did Tybalt want?”
“To give me a headache. Still, he wouldn’t take the message if he wasn’t planning to deliver it.” I leaned over to take the folder from his hands, scanning the first page, and wrinkled my nose. Maybe the company dietitian cared about the fact that Barbara liked her field mice alive, but I didn’t. “Change of subjects. Does it say anything in here about where her office is?”
“Nope. Did you know that Colin had a doctorate in philosophy?”
I looked up. “What year, and where from?”
“Nineteen sixty-two. Newfoundland.”
“Any of the others have degrees from Canadian colleges?” I flipped through Barbara’s folder, stopping at the sheet labeled “education.” “Babs didn’t—her degree’s from UC Berkeley. Women’s Studies and English.”
“Peter taught History at Butler University in Indianapolis, and Yui’s file says she used to be a courtesan in the court of King Gilad.”
I looked up again, eyeing Quentin. “Please tell me you know what that means.” He turned red. “Good. I didn’t want to explain it. So we have basically no connections.”
“None.”
“And of the four victims, two have offices that don’t seem to exist.” We’d done Peter’s office before Colin’s. It was almost empty, containing a desk and an assortment of office supplies. The few personal touches we found dealt with football—a Butler University pennant on one wall and a foam- rubber football that he probably tossed around when he was bored. There was nothing that provided us with a visible motive for murder, and that worried me.
“One at least—I mean, no one’s actually said Barbara had an office.”
“Right.” I dropped myself into the chair by the fish tank. The Hippocampi fled to the far end, the tiny stallion swimming back and forth in front of the rest as he “protected” them from me. “Maybe she worked out of a broom closet, I don’t know. No offices means no leads. Not that we’re getting much from this place unless you like weed.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I shook my head. “So they were telling the truth about the turnover rates. It doesn’t look like they’d lost an employee in a long time before this started.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“It leaves ‘us’ nowhere, Quentin. You’re leaving as soon as your ride gets here.”
“And what if I won’t go?” He crossed his arms, jaw set.
“Sylvester’s orders, kid. You’ll go.”
“Why are you so determined to get me out of here? I want to help. I want to—”
I grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled it down, exposing the scar on my left shoulder. Quentin stopped talking, and gaped. I held the collar down long enough to make sure he got a good look before tugging it back into place, glaring at