Slugfest

Fifty-four

After the morning’s excitement the rest of the day was tame. Not many attendees remarked on the extra humidity, thinking, as Lucy had, that it had been ratcheted up for the tropical plants. And if there were booths and exhibits in some disarray, perhaps they were just closing up shop early. Those who did know about the morning’s disaster were impressed at how quickly people had bounced back, but for most attendees it was business as usual.

Four of the pieces I had lent to other exhibitors had sold, so Lucy and I would have that much less to pack and ship back to Springfield. I was surprised Hank hadn’t called, but he was reliable and I expected to hear from him before Monday afternoon when everything had to be removed to get ready for the next event.

Having lived with them for days, I had decided to purchase one of the sculptures myself. It probably meant I wouldn’t make any money for my efforts this weekend, but I was confident Primo would give me a discount. I’d grown fond of the piece, a four-foot oxidized metal sculpture Primo had called Spade and Archer. He had used fragments of a shovel and of a bow and arrow. Since my astrological sign was Sagittarius and I am a gardener and a mystery fan, it seemed to have my name on it as well as Sam’s and Miles’s. I remembered the dumplike backyard at Primo’s place and worried that I’d never find the piece again, so I opted to take that one with me in the Jeep when I left the city and not ship it with the others.

At 1 P.M. Jensen swung by with formal invitations to Mrs. Moffitt’s after-show party in Hunting Ridge. Connie Anzalone had mentioned it on Friday and I had been faintly jealous, but now David, Nikki, and I had been invited, too. David’s unpleasant neighbor with the unsold fountains quietly seethed. Lucy cleared her throat.

“Is it all right if I bring a friend?” I asked. “Maybe two?”

Jensen said yes, and as soon as he left, Lucy pulled me aside. “Speaking of friends? Sarah called just after you left. That professor you asked about? Quite a character. I told her we’d call back since I wasn’t sure what you wanted to know.”

Sarah Marshall picked up after five rings. According to her, the good professor had had an eye for the girl students. That may have been a contributing factor to his getting the boot, but the school blamed it on his unauthorized experiments on pest repellents. Something to do with toxins, Sarah wasn’t sure because the juicier part of the story involved an undergrad, and why stick to boring science when there were more salacious—and easier to remember—details?

“First they pulled the plug on his funding and then they canned him,” she said. “I asked about students who might have worked for him. I don’t think the school would keep records of his former interns,” she said, yawning. “There were lots of them. I’m not sure if I could even get access to them. Especially now. Reporters have been nosing around because of that aggie student who died in New York. Garland something. The prof’s name was Lincoln Wrentham.”

“How are you spelling that?” I asked.

“With a W. Can I go back to sleep now?”

We found a surprising amount of information online about Lincoln Wrentham. At least surprising to me, who prided myself on having the fewest links of most people I knew. Wrentham’s last known address was somewhere in New Jersey. No current employer found. No recent papers published. Divorced.

My cell phone rang. It was Sarah, slightly more awake than she’d been earlier. I could hear her drinking something that I took to be coffee.

“Listen, there’s something else. Wrentham’s daughter went to school here. Some free or discounted tuition thing. She was registered under another name, but when the revelations about her father came out, so did her real identity, and she left when he did. Just as well. It would have been awkward to have everyone know daddy was boffing her classmates.”

“You remember her name?”

“Sure. She was in my creative writing class. A-plus student. Emma Franklin.”