Desperate Measures

3

“Montpelier? Sounds French.”

“The first settlers in this area were French.”

“And this is the capital of Vermont?” Pittman sat with Jill at a restaurant table that gave them a window view of New England buildings along a picturesque street. “It doesn’t feel as if many people live here.”

“Fewer than ten thousand. But then only about six hundred thousand people live in the entire state.”

“A good place to hide out.”

“Or to send students to a school that’s isolated enough that they won’t be contaminated by the outside world while they’re being taught to be aristocrats.”

Pittman sipped his coffee. “Do I detect a little anger?”

“More than a little. My parents tried to raise me that way-to think of myself as better than ordinary people. They’re still horrified that I’m a nurse. All those sick people. All that blood.”

“I get the feeling your background involves a lot more money than-”

“In polite society, this isn’t talked about.”

“I was never good at manners.”

“Millions.”

Pittman blinked and set down his coffee cup.

“I don’t know how much,” Jill said. “My parents won’t discuss it. We’re having a difference of opinion about how I should conduct my future. They’ve been trying to punish me by threatening to disinherit me.”

“So that’s what you meant about the trust fund from your grandparents.”

“They’re the ones who earned it. They could handle it without being jerks. But my parents think the money gives them some kind of divine right to look down on people.”

“Yes, you are angry.”

“I told you, I want to help people, not ignore them or take advantage of them. Anyway, my grandparents anticipated all this and let me be independent by establishing the trust fund for me.”

“We have a similar attitude. When I was a reporter-”

“Was? You still are.”

“No. I’m an obituary writer. But there was a time… before Jeremy died, before I fell apart… The stories I loved doing the best were the ones that involved exposing the corruption of self-important members of the Establishment, especially in the government. It gave me a special pleasure to help drag them down and force them to experience what life is like for all of us ordinary bastards of the world.”

“Drag aristocrats like Jonathan Millgate down?”

“I sure tried my damnedest.”

“Be careful. If you talk like that to the wrong person, you could be providing a motive for why you might have wanted to-”

The next obvious words-kill him-never came out. Abruptly Jill stopped talking as the waitress set down their orders: grapefruit, English muffins, and yogurt for Jill; hash browns, eggs, and bacon for Pittman.

“You’ll never get back into shape if you keep eating that way,” Jill said.

“At least I ordered whole-wheat toast. Besides, I’ve been using a lot of energy lately.”

“Right. You’re not in enough danger-you’ve got to order a death sentence for breakfast.”

“Hey, I’m trying to eat.”

Jill chuckled, then glanced around at the warm dark tone of the wood in the rustically decorated room. “I’ll be right back.”

“What is it?”

“Somebody just left a newspaper. USA Today.” She looked eager to read it, but once she returned to their table and studied the front page, she murmured, “Suddenly I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Bad?”

As the waitress seated a man and a woman at the table next to them, Jill handed him the newspaper. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

Pittman scanned the story, becoming more and more disheartened. The crazed obituary writer’s murder spree continued, bold letters announced. Pittman was being blamed for killing Father Dandridge. He was also being charged for shooting a man who, with two associates, had supposedly been sent to Jill’s apartment by Jonathan Millgate’s son to pass on his thanks for the skillful attention she had given his father while in intensive care. In addition, Pittman was suspected of abducting Jill.

“It keeps getting worse,” Pittman said. “Maybe I ought to just hang myself and be done with it.”

“Don’t say that, not even as a joke.”

Pittman thought about it.“The thing is, it was a joke-about suicide. I’m amazed. A couple of days ago, I wouldn’t have been able to do that.”

Jill looked at him harder. “Maybe some good will come out of this.”

Pittman gestured toward the newspaper. “At the moment, it doesn’t look that way. We’d better leave. We’ve got plenty to do.”

“Find the library?”

“Right.” Pittman stood. “There’s a reference series most libraries have. The Dictionary of American Biography. It lists the background, including education, for almost every intellectually famous person in the United States. It’ll tell me if all the grand counselors went to Grollier. Then maybe the librarian will be able to help with something else.”

“What’s that?”

“How to find Grollier Academy.”