Hermann 'Bear' Claus looked up from the open file folder on his desk when Felicia came into the office with the mimeographed report on the Arden assignment.
"The latest," she said. "Sanguineus is at the ranch with his prospect. He wants to know if you'll be going out there this weekend."
Claus took the report and leaned back in his swivel rocker. "No, the Funan business has taken an unexpected turn," he said. "He'll be doing the traveling this weekend. A preliminary visit to Singapore. I want to see his prospect here in New York, tomorrow. Tell him to bring her with him on the flight to La Guardia. She can stay here while he's in Funan. His assistant will be Sally Anne Bern. Let her know about the change in the schedule. She should be through with her geological course in California by now."
"Yes, she messaged me earlier today. Oh and I need to know if Dariana Campobello has qualified. If so, then her Intel orientation can be scheduled for next week."
"I haven't decided yet," Claus said with a twinkle in his eye. He knew what his decision would be, but for the sake of professionalism he would hold off a while longer. "Fred Rolgo will be here on Monday. I'll let you know about Campobello after my meeting with Fred. He has a special insight into her personality and background that I must take into account. Anything else?"
Felicia tapped her chin with her fountain pen, an habitual reflex when a question of some import was posed to her. She was one of those tightly wound Basque women whose ambition brought her to New York from the too complacent society of southwestern Spain. Her energy was always more than it needed to be in any situation. Claus liked her hardwired positive attitude, her pleasant brunette looks, her slightly immodest dress, and most especially the contact she had in the NSA; an uncle on her father's side who had been an Interpol agent for nineteen years. As Claus was about to find out, her contact had provided a nice cushion for a hard landing.
"Uncle Tomas told the county D.A. that the unidentified remains in the burned out car at the Blue Pelican is Eleanor Lyme."
"And the district attorney believes that?"
"Not too surprisingly. They identified the driver's remains as being John Huffins, there being no doubt about that, and it was known that he shared a room with Ms Lyme."
Claus nodded. "The thermite explosive Sanguineus used absolutely melted the body of the woman, as he intended. Even her teeth melted. How was Tomas able to convince the D.A. that the body was any particular person? There was nothing to go on except the presumption that it was Huffins' roommate."
"He told the D.A. that the method of identification was classified, since the case concerned terrorism."
"That's always a handy excuse," Claus said. "Is this in the report?" He taped the stapled document that lay on the file folder.
"It was predicted. But I found out from Uncle Tomas at lunch that the D.A. has gone along with it."
"So then, we're off the hook. Good. Thank you, Felicia. Tell Gina to get hold of Dr Wingate. I'll see him at three this afternoon, if he's free."
"Yes, sir."
When she left the office Claus turned his attention to the report, the memory of Felicia's bare back gradually fading as he read about the death of the cemetery superintendent.
The police put it down as a burglary. The one piece of evidence pointing to the killer was a five inch length of blond hair. 'This will almost certainly lead to Penny Arden,' the report said.
Well, thought Claus, we needn't be worried about that.
The most satisfying part of the report was the revelation that the Liam-Lucy analysis method had been cracked by NSA communications experts, thanks to their secretive raid on the Nob Hill house that yielded the essential clues. The assassinations, as messy as they had been, made all the surviving principals happy. Claus could breathe easy.
Sanguineus watched the bay stallion being ridden expertly by the woman he had recruited as a Red Rum prospect.
He was sitting in the shade of a dilapidated barn at the ranch, drinking a glass of tea, dressed only in jeans, thinking that he had perhaps equalled Rolgo's prospect, this Dariana spitfire from Havana. His own prospect had a colder nature, but that would help to keep her head cool in a hot spot.
"You were bred for the saddle," he said to her when she had dismounted.
"Wasn't I," said Eleanor.
It was three weeks later that Helen Arden arrived at the mansion. She had gone ahead with the plan of her late lamented sons, Ross and Liam, to build a nine-hole golf course on the south lawn. It was a fine day.
She stood on the south veranda with her walnut cane and felt the breeze off the seacliffs in her white ringlets. She was fond of the briney smell and the childhood memories it brought.
Helen had decided to move back into the mansion and sell her Monterrey home. There were so few Ardens left in the world that she even contemplated adopting some children for her cousin's daughter to raise, here at the mansion, if she could talk the flamboyant woman into it. Helen didn't like her. But bright, talented children in the roost would help her to shine with something like benevolence upon Morgana Arden-Straatmann.
Helen went cautiously down the veranda steps. She paused to note the progress of the groundskeeper attending to the prize roses along the path to the tennis courts. Then she continued on down the gentle slope of the lawn where she had a good view of the golf course.
The bulldozers had configured it, but as yet the fairway grass had not been put in, and the greens were covered with artificial grass carpets, to better test the angles of various lies.
Helen stood in the shade of one of the two pine trees that the course designer had spared. She watched laborers with shovels refining the big hole that would one day soon be a water hazard.
After a minute she noticed the little patch of daffodils that grew under the two pines, one patch under each tree, near the border of the bare earth beneath the low-hanging branches. She wondered who had planted the flowers, and what they signified.
Helen wasn't sure why, but this had her reminiscing about Penny and Nellie. They had been missing now for over a month, and with the bizarre discovery of Liam and Lucy in the 'Penelope' crypt, and the finding of poor Ross's body at the base of the cliffs, Helen felt a cold certainty that her two nieces were also the victims of a mysterious foul play. It was no wonder that Morgana did not want to live at the mansion. The news pundits were having a field day passing judgment on Arden House, calling it cursed and haunted.
What nonsense, Helen thought. She was inclined to believe that the shyster the family hired, that villainous John Huffins, had got involved in a mob activity and drew into it Ross and Liam, and the girls too, perhaps.
The bell rang.
Helen turned and walked slowly back to the veranda, where a maid was setting the table for lunch.
The breeze off the ocean stirred the daffodils. The sun shone sparkling on the upper branches of the twin pines. In the shade of them, at the base of the trunks, where the grass had died long ago, the ground lay sleeping.
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