EXPECTATIONS
follows "Blue Christmas"

               ***December 3, 2024***

"A writer's conference?" Robert Goren repeated speculatively.

Quentin Hastings VI leaned back in the armchair in Bobby's office. As his father teased, he still dressed like the "world's oldest millennial hippie," but Bobby noted he seemed to have toned down slightly since his daughter was born. Today, he wore simple jeans, a tie-dyed purple and electric blue sweatshirt, and matching hi-top sneakers. His hair was tied back with the usual thong, and his favorite red jasper pendant was around his neck. Shining in his left ear was the pink-and-green "watermelon stone" stud earring, which matched his wife Donna's nose stud.

"I heard what happened the last time you and Alex went to a writer's conference," he said, smiling between a clipped, newly-grown, almost Victorian beard. "I promise Hastings House will take care of it and that nothing like that will happen again."

Seated in his oversized plush office chair, Bobby pulled up the right leg of his jeans where Zes, as the Hastings family and his friends called him, saw the half-inch diameter circular scar in the calf, knowing there was a corresponding scar on the opposite side, a souvenir of a booby-trapped, snare-infested wood two years earlier and an old foe's attempt at revenge. He winced involuntarily, but Bobby merely flickered a wry smile.

"I appreciate that."

"It's actually part conference and part publisher exhibition," Zes continued, leaning forward. "The first part of the week they hold discussion groups and roundtables and have panels, then the conference is opened to the public later in the week to interact with the authors. It's unique in that aspect, a cross between a writers' seminar and a book fair–"

An explosion of chatter came from the hallway, then the pelt of children's feet. Bobby had left the pocket-panel doors ajar to signify that he wasn't working on anything classified. In a second, Randall had pushed them aside like Samson's pillars, Olivia so close on his heels that they could have been tethered together. Their big collie Sam, a chunky tricolor, used the opportunity to squeeze inside, romping immediately to check out Zes and lick his hands.

In their wake, looking as unflappable as always, was Alexandra Eames, two reusable shopping bags in each hand, her eyes crinkling with pleasure as she smiled at their friend. Bobby's face lit up immediately.

"Papa, I got a B+ on my algebra test!" Olivia said.

"I told you you could," Randall argued. "It's really simple."

"P'raps for you," Olivia countered, her voice still holding part of the lilting British/Australian accent that was a heritage from her antipodal birth mother and two years in a British boarding school. "But thank you for teaching me...hullo, Zes! How are Donna and Penny?"

She immediately converged on Zes, and both Bobby and Alex wondered if she sometimes considered herself responsible for his romance with her former tutor. After all, she had once said loftily in childish conceit, if she hadn't needed a tutor, perhaps Donna Hogarth and Zes Hastings would have never met.

Randall, having no close emotional ties with the publisher, marched up to Bobby and used ASL to say something to him. Bobby considered, then answered, "I'm glad you had good marks on the history test. Tell Brother Michael I'm happy you're doing well in ASL."

Randall glowed with satisfaction. Bobby raised an eyebrow at Alex, and she winked back; both recalled the withdrawn eleven-year-old they'd brought home from New York City less than six months earlier. He would never be the extrovert his sister was, which was fine with both adults. They loved both children equally, but it often appeared that intellectually precocious, honey-blond Olivia, their already adopted daughter, was "Bobby's child" and dark-haired mercurial Randall, currently their foster child but in the early stages of adoption, was Alex's.

And God help you, Bobby thought, if you try to take him away. Alex Eames took no prisoners.

He said, "What, no hug for me?" when he saw Olivia bestowing one on Zes.

"He's a guest, Papa," she said logically. "I have to be polite."

She apologized by throwing herself in his lap to bestow upon him an embrace that nearly throttled him and upended the chair. Sam then added to the tumult by trying to set his forepaws on the arm of Bobby's chair; when it rocked sideways from eighty pounds of collie, he was sternly told to get down.

"Is it always this wild?" Zes asked Alex cheerfully.

"Oh, you've caught us on a quiet day. You wait and see when Penny's older," Alex quipped. "All right, noisy ones. Upstairs to change. Take Sam with you. Your father made gingerbread earlier today..."

"Yayyyy!" Olivia exclaimed, kissed Bobby, and then bounced off his lap, grabbing Randall's hand and towing him from the library. Sam followed them at a jaunty trot.

"I've been thrown over for cake," Bobby grinned. "Alex, Zes is proposing our attendance at a writer's conference."

"We tried that once," she objected, putting down the bags of pet supplies.

"As guests this time," Zes interjected hastily. "February, during school vacation. We want to give Bruno's journal ample promotion before its release on June 15. I'm not hearing any rumors coming out of the publishing houses about books of similar subject and caliber. We may have a unique product. Kristine's already reached out to his son, who'll be sending us photographs for stand-ups, and Bobby will be there to sell Bruno."

"Where?" Alex went straight to the point.

"Up the road," Zes answered. "The Armory Convention Center in Springfield. The attached host hotel is a Hilton, but–" Here he added the coup de grace. "Alex's favorite hotel is on the opposite end of the convention center, across the street, Bridgeton Suites. Comes with a kitchenette for two perpetually hungry children, a free breakfast buffet, and, ta-da, pet friendly, so you can be a complete family for a week. One of the other conferences being held there that week is the New England Pet Faire, and I'm sure they'd be thrilled with a visit from a veteran therapy dog."

"More advance publicity for They Called Me 'Conchie'?" she asked shrewdly.

"As much as we can muster before the real push on publication. You know the nature of the beast from last time. We've got a big 'do' scheduled in the city for June, so tell your sister and brother and Bobby's aunt and nephew to keep some time cleared."

"What space did you get?" Bobby asked, knowing Quentin Hastings V had been aiming for one of the historic hotels.

"We couldn't quite swing the Plaza," Zes responded, "so we went with the writer's choice."

Bobby beamed. "The Algonquin?"

"Give the man a cigar."

"Now you've done it," Alex said, amused. "He'll be introducing Min to Dorothy Parker next."

"Who's Dorothy Parker?" Olivia said, hearing her nickname as she passed by the library doors in search of gingerbread in the kitchen.

"A noted writer of the 1930s," Bobby told her. "A little bit above your age level, though." Olivia promptly rolled her eyes and he continued, muffling a chuckle, "A group of famous writers, playwrights, and publishers met at the Algonquin Hotel for years. They were called 'the Algonquin Round Table,' but Parker referred to them as 'the Vicious Circle.'" Olivia laughed. "You'd have liked Harold Ross. In fact, I think you could read Thurber's The Years With Ross. I read it when I was slightly older than you. Come to think of it, you're just the age for James Thurber. You could start with Thirteen Clocks or go directly to My Life and Hard Times."

"Who's he?" Randall said, behind her now. "Ross whatever. Thurber I read in Language Arts last month. 'The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.'"

"Ross was the original editor of 'The New Yorker.'"

"I've looked at that at Barnes & Noble," Randall proclaimed. "It looks boring. How about some gingerbread, 'Livia?"

"How about a trip during winter vacation?" Bobby proposed.

"Where?" Olivia asked immediately.

"Zes wants us to attend a writer's conference in Springfield," her father answered.

Olivia's eyes sparkled. "Does that mean we can go to Deerfield? Donna said they give a much better interpretation of the Native American side of the story than before, and acknowledge the enslaved people who lived there, and has it on her approved museums list."

"It seems we have the Donna Hogarth-Hastings seal of approval," Alex said mischievously.

"I'm afraid the village is closed in the winter," Bobby said with regret, "but you can see the museum. It's open only on certain days."

"What's Deerfield?" Randall asked.

"It's a village famous for a battle in the French and Indian War—that's what they called The Seven Years War here in the States—and has 18th-century style homes," Olivia began.

"Like Sturbridge?" Randall asked as they turned toward the kitchen.

"That's 19th century," was the fading, exasperated reply, and Alex suppressed a laugh.

"He helps her with algebra, and she teaches him history," Bobby said with a grin. "Seems fair."

"I've got a final incentive," Zes finished, smiling smugly. "This year the conference committee plans to pair authors in booths for the portion of the week open to the public. A romance author would share a booth with another romance author, a self-help guru with another, etc. I've seen the shortlist and know who you'd be paired with: Marian Howland."

"Marian...Howland?" Bobby straightened, then hopped from his seat, looking like he'd been gut-punched.

"I know that name from somewhere," said Alex.

"You've seen it on my nightstand." Bobby was restlessly taking a turn around the room. "Zes, isn't sitting me in a booth with Marian Howland like pairing 'Dick and Jane' with A Wrinkle in Time?"

Zes responded indignantly, "Don't sell yourself short, Bob. Holly told me she'll take you on any time if you want to swap serial killer lectures for editing historical texts. Your edits and annotations have been professional. I'm marketing you with the book for a reason."

Alex lifted her chin, smiling. "Aha! Ravaged Land. Postwar Korea. Historian on the NYT nonfiction bestseller list."

"That's her. In fact," said Bobby hurriedly, "remember Adlai Copeland?"

Alex recalled the case instantly. "Dr. Copeland with the asshole father who belittled his younger son?"

Bobby nodded. "His father showed us the galleys of Dr. Copeland's final book, remember? Marian Howland was the academic his father selected to oversee the final edits and annotations."

Alex replied acidly, "I'm surprised anyone could meet the exacting standards for 'my Adlai.'"

There was a buzz from Zes' pocket, and he pulled out his phone, then collected the scarlet and purple backpack leaning against his chair. "That's my Uber to the station...need to get moving. My lady expects me home for supper."

"Give our love to Donna," Alex said, hugging him, "and a big hug for Penny. Tell her we expect all of you for Christmas."

"Yes, Captain Eames," Zes said with a feigned salute. At the front door, he paused, turning back. "Alex, I don't suppose you're writing anything–"

Alex chuckled. "You know what I told you. Writing a book was the hardest thing I've ever done. Once was enough."

"All right," the younger man sighed and vanished out the front door at the brief beep of a horn.

Bobby said thoughtfully, "You've never been afraid of hard work, Eames."

"Editing was easy," was her dry response. "Baring my soul was the trouble."

He let it drop. "We should get to the kitchen before we lose the chance to sample the gingerbread."

Alex smiled, humor restored by the change of subject. "Olivia's probably given Bandit his own piece by now."

               ***February 23, 2025***

Alex always thought they looked like a circus when they arrived at hotels.

It had been bad enough, she mused as she led the way from the parking lot through the faux-brick sidewalks and dormant plants of the dog-walk area of the Bridgeton Suites with Sam at heel at her left and Bandit the budgie in his open-topped plastic-shielded carry box wrapped in flannel against the sharp west wind in her right arm, when it was just her, Bobby, and the pets. Now Bobby brought up the rear with a heavily-loaded luggage cart that included the collie's collapsible crate and the bird's travel cage, and between them were the children, Randall on the left and Olivia on the right, trundling their smaller personal suitcases which wouldn't fit on the luggage cart.

"Randall, will you take your turn opening the door, please?" Bobby kept the order of "turns" scrupulously in his head.

"Yes, Dad," he said importantly, skirting Alex and the "zoo," and held open the door leading into the hotel's breakfast/meal area. The smell of warm chili wafted out the door as he did, and Sam lifted his nose, sniffing in interest.

"None for you, mister," Alex warned, amused.

Bandit, his button-black eyes observing everything with abject curiosity, announced, "Bad dog!" and a small boy eating a bowl of chili and a messy do-it-yourself taco looked at the woman across the table from him and whispered loudly, "Mommy, did that bird talk?"

"Yes, he did," Alex replied with a smile as they threaded their way past.

Yes, everyone knew when the Goren family arrived: the tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-sixties with the deceptively placid face and observant eyes; the shorter, energetic woman a half-dozen years younger who forged forward briskly despite the surprised stares from the hotel-goers enjoying the complementary Sunday supper buffet; the endlessly curious blond girl who absorbed every detail of their passage; and the distractible boy who checked out everything more covertly. Not to mention the big collie with the waving tail and the chatterbox of a budgie who fluffed his feathers and told the check-in clerk serenely, "Birds can't talk. Good boy!" as Alex signed the paperwork and Bobby kept the kids from reversing direction toward dinner.

Once they had secured Bandit's cage on the tray table they had brought and turned on the television for him, then given Sam some water, they headed back downstairs. The collie was in his therapy dog vest, and they took a table in a corner. He finished the portion of food Alex had brought along, then lay under the table, head resting on his forepaws, his eyes darting back and forth and his nose twitching. Several surreptitious bits of hamburger made their way from childish fingers to a questing canine tongue until Bobby said firmly, "Enough, or you'll be the ones nursing a sick dog all night."

"The suite is so brill!" Olivia chattered as she spooned up refried beans. "The living room is bigger than the one in Lancaster."

"The hotel's larger, too," Randall observed. He hated beans and most taco toppings and was wolfing a flour tortilla filled with diced onion and ground beef with fresh tomatoes on the side. Alex requested that he eat other salad vegetables, so he had meticulously picked out cucumbers and snow peas from the salad bar. "There are 200 rooms in this hotel. There were only 120 rooms in Lancaster. This hotel is newer, too. I read the inspection sign in the elevator."

"It's recent construction," Alex told him. "The convention center, the host hotel, and this one. Before that, it was a strip shopping center anchored by KMart." She inclined her chin toward a small table near the faux fieldstone fireplace in which a gas log glowed and crackled. "Isn't that Marian Howland? Her book jacket portrait doesn't do her justice."

According to her book cover biography (accompanied by a stiff portrait shot taken in a rigid business suit), Marian Howland was in her mid-sixties. Still, the woman of medium build they observed in a pink sweatshirt and grey sweatpants looked a decade younger, with her strawberry blonde-and-silver hair in an attractive shag cut surrounding an oval visage glowing with carefully tended skin. She was finishing a cup of chili, taco remains left on a plate before her, but set the chili down when she noticed their interest. As she sipped from a coffee cup, her almost violet-blue eyes starred with carefully drawn lashes fixed on Bobby, and she smiled at him with a playful arch of her meticulously-shaped eyebrows before taking in the rest of the family. Next to her, a tall, slender young man with thick, dark hair worn swept back and a full beard was occupied eating an overstuffed taco and refried beans, his plate half-hidden by a large leather notebook. Bobby tilted his head meditatively, thinking the man's eyes looked familiar, but he couldn't place him.

"Is that the writer you're sharing the booth with?" Olivia asked immediately.

"Yes," Bobby answered.

"She's pretty," Randall commented forthrightly. "Like Mrs. Deenie, my teacher last year."

"But you said Mrs. Deenie was nice," Olivia objected. "She only smiled at Papa. Do you think she'd be angry if we introduced ourselves?"

"I'll introduce myself first and take any heat." Bobby patted her shoulder. "Sometimes fans make things difficult for writers and actors who don't want to be approached in public places."

Alex said, half teasing, "Are you sure it's not because she's batting those big blue eyes at you?"

He smiled, leaned sideways, and whispered to her, "I can appreciate an attractive face, but my heart belongs to the Princess Ozma."

Alex knew she was blushing when Olivia smothered a grin, and Randall stage-whispered to his sister, "They're doing it again."

"It's cute," Olivia defended, and both adults laughed.

As soon as he was certain Howland had finished her meal, Bobby rose, straightened his collar, and brushed an imaginary crumb or two off his shirt. Olivia said impishly, "You look sick, Papa!" and he winked at her, then smoothed his features as he approached the table.

Howland awaited his coming with a more businesslike attitude. "May I help you?"

Bobby outstretched his right hand, saying in a slightly abashed voice, "I wanted to introduce myself before the conference opened. We'll be sharing a booth later in the week."

She raised a cool eyebrow. "You're Robert Goren?"

"Yes, and perhaps this sounds disingenuous, but I'm slightly overwhelmed to share a booth with an author of your caliber. I enjoy your books."

She exchanged a firm handshake with him, and he had the feeling she was examining him as intently as he had once done with suspects. "I'm not familiar with your name from historical circles, Mr. Goren."

"I'm not a historian, Dr. Howland, although I have been published, a short memoir called The Refuge. I'm here to promote a book I edited, the work of a deceased friend and neighbor of ours, Bruno Volpe, a conscientious objector who served as a medical corpsman during the Korean War."

"I've heard some discussion of it. Published by Hastings House, correct? The title is They Called Me 'Conchie,'" was Howland's crisp response.

At the table, Olivia wiggled. "What are they talking about? She doesn't look very happy."

"I think she's testing Bobby out," Alex observed. "Dr. Howland is a tenured history and political science instructor at Yale. She's known to be very precise and cut-and-dried. I've read interviews with her. 'Peppery' and 'tart' were the adjectives most used."

"That isn't nice," Olivia frowned, quick to come to her father's defense. "She sounds like my English master at Creatwood. He was awf'ly stern."

"Like Mr. Donovan, my math teacher," Randall said. "He isn't friendly like some of the other teachers. He's kind of a grump."

"But you learn a lot from him," Alex pointed out.

Bobby smiled to himself as he glimpsed Olivia's indignant reaction. "Our children are curious about you, especially my daughter, who's a history buff. I suspect she wanted to attend this conference so she could go to Deerfield."

Howland's face softened. "She must be disappointed that it's closed for the season."

The young man sitting next to her had finished his meal and now delicately cleared his throat, and Howland looked embarrassed. "I beg your pardon, Fred!" and smiled at him. "That was unspeakably rude. Do nudge me more quickly next time! Mr. Goren, this is my very essential assistant, Fred Bannen. He keeps me on schedule, tidies up my computer messes, and does too many odious tasks I avoid. Fred, Mr. Goren and his partner Ms. Eames–"

"Wife," Bobby corrected mildly, realizing Howland wasn't as ignorant of her booth partner as she pretended.

"And didn't take your name?" Howland asked speculatively.

"On legal documents, yes. I see no reason for it socially. I value Alex's independence as much as she does."

Howland's approving expression told him that he'd risen in her estimation. Her voice became more cordial. "Mr. Goren and his wife will be joining us in the booth, Fred."

Bannen outstretched a hand and shook Bobby's firmly. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Goren," he said in a friendly baritone voice. "Why not invite your family over?"

Bobby lifted his left hand and waggled his fingers playfully.

"Oh, brill!" Olivia burst out.

"She was pretty nice," Randall said sleepily, "almost like Mrs. Deenie."

"I enjoyed talking with her, too," Alex said, tucking him in, amused that he still used his previous year's teacher as a yardstick of compatibility, as Olivia did with Donna Hastings. The children had a room with two queen-sized beds separated by a floating nightstand and a separate bathroom. Randall was already under the covers with his head pillowed while Olivia scrambled into bed as Bobby retrieved a chair from the living room/kitchen for her nightly reading. Randall listened—or not—as he pleased, so Bobby had chosen Jewel of the Thames as that week's book, knowing a Sherlockian-type mystery would interest them both, along with one of the Mighty Muskrats mysteries "just in case."

"Mr. Bannen was quite jolly, too," Olivia commented, her stuffed fox Captain cuddled in her arms. "He asked if we liked being children of writers..."

"...and we said 'yes, of course,'" Randall interjected. "We had a long talk about my telescope, too."

"You mean you had a long talk about your telescope," teased Olivia and Randall stuck out his tongue, making her giggle.

Bobby cleared his throat and began the tale of Portia Adams, a young woman with a most unusual heritage. He wasn't far into the story before Randall, and then Olivia were sound asleep; he would have to reread most of it. Sam ambled into the room as soon as he closed the book, sniffed at both beds thoroughly, and then sacked himself out between them.

"Going to leave poor Bandit to the wolves, Sam?" Alex asked softly, and the collie's ears twitched.

"Suspicious of a strange place," Bobby guessed, picking up the chair, and they switched off the light as they exited, leaving the door a hairsbreadth ajar. Finally, they made themselves comfortable shoulder to shoulder on the sofa watching television at low volume while Bandit wandered happily from one human to another, pattering across Alex's laptop keyboard and perching atop and chewing contemplatively on Bobby's worn copy of Carl Jung's Memories, Dreams, Reflections. When Bobby pointedly removed him, the bird scolded and flew to his shoulder and began preening the hair on his neck.

After a few minutes, Alex returned him to his cage, whispering, "Excuse me, little bug. I'll be using that spot tonight."

After availing themselves of the Bridgeton's ample breakfast buffet next morning, they dashed across the narrow, two-lane street between the hotel and the convention center to avoid carrying coats and hats all day. Rush hour was over, and the street quiet.

Already crowded even though it was not yet ten o'clock, the convention center was a massive, high-ceilinged structure fronted by two street-front corner entrances with a dozen entry doors each, and then a pair of multidoor entries along Freedom Parkway. Opening a single door unleashed a cacophony of voices as those associated with the Baptist Church Council of Massachusetts rubbed shoulders with the New England Pet Faire attendees and the members of the New England Annual Writers Conference.

Even Alex stopped and stared. Stretching ahead of them was a wide concourse that seemed to extend into infinity. To their left, between the two entryways, were small meeting rooms and also public restrooms. To the right opened the huge exhibit halls where large events were held. The Baptist Council's space, the "Plymouth" exhibit hall, was currently lined with rows of chairs leading to a sizable stage, draped at the rear with a Christian banner. The Pet Faire, in the next, slightly smaller, exhibit hall (designated "Springfield"), featured rows of booths arranged in aisles like a department store with a demonstration stage and audience area closer to the back wall. Next came a wide corridor with a half dozen vending machines and chairs at the right and entrances to the four large meeting rooms on the left (chairs were dotted between the doors for between-meeting respite); a second wide corridor followed a length of concourse with advertisements for upcoming events broken only by a narrow access hall for fire exits. This second corridor had double doors that led to three larger "banquet rooms" and shuttered food carts to the right and a row of chairs and small tables to the left.

Finally, there were two more exhibition halls, mirrors of the ones on the opposite end, with the smaller hall ("Fall River") unoccupied but with a placard for a cosmetics retailers' meeting to be held on Friday, and the larger, the "Boston" exhibit hall, where the larger gatherings for the writers' conference would take place. Currently "Boston" was set up similarly to the Baptist convocation, with rows of chairs before a stage with a large viewing screen mounted at the rear. Finally came the second corner entrance, followed by a pass-through atrium/observation deck and escalators to the Springfield Hilton Hotel.

"There's Mario Obbligato," Alex pointed out, biting her lip as they both spied the muscled, stocky man because they had last seen the police procedural writer at the fateful Scranton conference where they had been kidnapped. Alex still read his Abby Holzer mysteries, but they had retained a different layer of meaning in the Goren household. Bobby flashed a grimace.

The crowd was quite thick now, with so many participants crossing to the host hotel through the convention center that suitcases and handcarts cluttered the passageways. The combined effect of so many voices and the reverberation of those voices against the high ceilings made the massive space throb with sound. Alex had kept a fast hold on Randall's hand despite his turning twelve seven weeks earlier, and now she noted his grip tighten as the crowd thickened.

"Bobby!" she called warningly, above the tumult, and he glanced at her, and she inclined her head toward Randall. He nodded when he saw the boy's pale face, then gently veered to the right, where they could turn into the corridor with the food carts and seating. Ten yards from the main concourse, the crowd dissipated somewhat, and they could sit together.

"Rand," Alex asked anxiously, "are you okay?"

Randall nodded and swallowed, his face regaining some color.

Bobby now wondered if taking the children, or at least crowd-shy Randall, had been a wise idea. "Randall, will you be able to cope with this? Alex can drive you both home and Aunt Abbi will take care of you if you're not."

"Papa, please not home!" Olivia protested, her lower lip trembling. While she usually sympathized with Randall's aversions, the idea of a writer's conference had excited her, and losing the opportunity would be crushing. "I'll look after Randall. Pinky swear."

"Min, you already do," Bobby assured her.

"No!" Randall objected. "It was just so many people at once...I know now...please, don't make me go home. It's b-baby!"

"It's not 'baby' if it upsets you," Alex said gently. "We want you to enjoy being here this week, not endure–"

"I'm not up-upset." Randall took a deep breath, then hastily explained. "It was l-like the first day of school. Everyone in the h-hallway was talking; it was all so loud. Then I got used to it—and I had to go to school, d-didn't I? I don't haveta be here, but I w-want to be. It's okay now." Here he inhaled loudly. "I'll do my deep br-breathing like Dr. Allyson taught me."

Zes Hastings then separated himself from the eddying crowd and settled down in the chair beside Randall, his hands resting on its arms. Today he was dressed almost conventionally in a plain brown tweed suit jacket, but free of a tie and with an open shirt collar, the jasper pendant bobbing at his throat. "I don't blame you, Randall. I get a little hinky in crowds like this. Used to be claustrophobic as a kid."

"Didn't it go away when you turned twelve?" Randall asked in dismay.

"It's never that easy, Randall," Zes replied with sympathy, patting his shoulder. "Even now, I have to steel myself in crowds. But you'll be okay." He paused, then asked quietly, "Aside from the crowd, how are you kids?"

"I never thought I'd be tired of snow," Olivia sighed. "It seems like we were shoveling all the time instead of having fun in it."

"You sound like Donna," Zes commiserated, "and she's the snow queen. We must have a hundred photos of Penny next to the latest snowman." He winked at Bobby. "All of which my mother-in-law uses as a screen saver. Cheer up—only flurries in the forecast this week. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that your escort slash security person has arrived to protect you from...incidents. The security agency I engaged said he would need no introduction."

"Wal, if we don't meet agin," came a man's voice with an exaggerated Appalachian accent.

Bobby lifted his head, huffed in disbelief, then narrowed his eyes at the speaker, and Alex's lips parted in surprise.

"Hullo, Mr. Cavanaugh," piped up Olivia.

Harry Cavanaugh returned her grin, looming above their seats with crossed arms and a self-satisfied expression, his silvering fair hair receding even further since they had seen him a year earlier. While his face was still florid, he looked as if he had slimmed down yet bulked up slightly, wearing an unobtrusive charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and a pale blue tie that matched the color of his eyes. While it was not obvious to civilians, Bobby and Alex could tell he was wearing a shoulder holster.

"I'll let Fornell know he has a lousy sense of humor," Bobby said, resigned.

Cavanaugh drawled, "Send me back if you like." He shrugged. "There were other assignments I could have taken, but T.C. wanted someone familiar with y'all, especially Miss Olivia. Ding-ding-ding, that's me." He looked around. "Besides, I'd never been to this part of Massachusetts. Trying to broaden my horizons."

"That's because everyone thinks Boston and the Cape are all there are," Bobby observed. "They forget Stockbridge and Tanglewood, and remember the Mohawk Trail only in autumn."

"Now that's the Goren I remember," Cavanaugh snorted.

"How are your children and grandchildren, Mr. Cavanaugh?" asked Olivia politely.

"All fine, thank you, Miss Olivia. You never forget to ask."

"No, sir, and I shan't. Not after what you did for me." Alex smiled at Olivia's fierce expression. Then the girl offered, "Sir, this is Randall. My foster brother for now, but we're making him forever if they allow."

Randall lowered his eyes as he took Cavanaugh's proffered hand. "Hello, sir."

"Randall," she reminded, and he lifted his gaze to meet the older man's.

"It's okay," Cavanaugh smiled. "I know. I read about him on your blog."

Olivia's eyes lit up. "You read my blog?"

"Couple of times a week, young lady."

Alex decided that whatever else Harry Cavanaugh had done, Bobby completely forgave him that day. If you wanted to chip away at Bobby's emotional armor, favoring any one member of his family would do.

"T.C. send you the file on the Manton security detail?" Cavanaugh added to Bobby.

"He did. Manton needs to rein in his paranoia about his competitors. His stalker is homegrown, possibly a family member—you might want to–" Bobby rose, motioning to his former supervisor-turned-security agent, and stepped aside until they were inaudible next to the opposite wall.

"He never lets us listen," Randall complained.

"Real crime," Alex said firmly, "isn't a spectator sport, and not for children."

Olivia gave Randall the eye as if to say, Told you not to ask.

"Donna was wondering," Zes interjected, then paused slightly before continuing, "...um...how things were."

Alex knew the cryptic query referred to their financial situation after late December's abrupt unemployment news. "As you heard, Tobias has tossed a couple of things Bobby's way. And we're working through that mountain of gift cards."

"We're being frugal," Randall told him solemnly, and Olivia chimed in gloomily, "Neither of us has bought a new book in two whole months."

Zes smothered a smile at the tragic expressions on their faces.

Bobby and Cavanaugh returned then so the six of them could file into the exhibit hall and find seats in the middle of the room.

Alex had told the children to come prepared and they had; as soon as the introductory proceedings began, Olivia, sitting between Bobby and Randall, slipped a clear plastic bag containing a small cross-stitch project from her shoulder bag and started to work on it; Randall pulled out The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and immediately immersed himself in "The Red-Headed League." Alex was amused, however, when she stared down past the children and saw Bobby surreptitiously withdraw his Kindle from his suit jacket's inner pocket as a state senator and the mayor of Springfield spoke. Once the actual conference committee took over the podium, Bobby tucked the Kindle away.

"At this time, we'd like to introduce our Guest of Honor, a Northampton native," intoned the sonorous white-haired man who was the head of the Guest Committee, "a noted historian and author, Pulitzer-prize runner-up, and winner of a Peabody Award who should need no further introduction—Dr. Marian Howland!"

Under the thunder of applause, Olivia whispered to Bobby, "Hou la, Papa! I didn't know you'd be sharing a booth with the Guest of Honor." And then she looked troubled. "People might not be interested in talking with you."

Bobby rubbed her between the shoulder blades, embarrassed to admit that had been his first thought. "There are other things we can do, Min."

Howland spoke briefly but in the practiced tones of a long-time lecturer, tantalizing the audience with hints of her new book which addressed the "Mỹ lai," the mixed-race children of Vietnam left after the fall of Saigon. She finally concluded with her thanks to "the man who made my appearance here possible," and she gestured to the front row, "Mr. Jules Copeland."

Alex whispered to Bobby as they filed out to attend the opening "meet'n'greet" in the largest banquet room, "Stockbridge," "So the old goat is still alive."

Bobby gave her a small smile. "Make sure not to bare your teeth, Eames, if we run into him. I saw the name 'Copeland Properties' as the primary sponsor in the online program book and was fairly certain it was the same Copeland."

"I won't have the opportunity, thankfully," Alex said when they had pulled aside from the crowd. "I figure you can do the glad-handing and I'll take the kids and find something to do."

"Um," Cavanaugh raised a hand. "I had...an idea if you and the children are amenable."

Bobby tilted his head. "And?"

"Well, the two of you and Mr. Hastings here are supposed to be mingling, right? Networking and all that sh..." He eyed the kids, then censored himself. "...good stuff. I happen to know there's a used bookstore a few miles yonder," and he chuckled when Olivia and Randall perked up, "and also a Barnes & Noble nearby. Maybe you'd...trust me to amuse them while you did your due diligence?"

The children waited while Bobby and Alex exchanged silent glances, what Olivia called "the eye thing they do." Finally, Bobby asked skeptically, "Harry, is there something you're not telling us? You're...um...not terminally ill, are you?"

Cavanaugh eyed him. "Real funny, Wonder Boy." He studied his shoes for a moment, then met Bobby's eyes, making certain he addressed Alex at the same time. "Let's say I'm doin' a personal version of the twelve steps. And I'm on 'make amends.'"

Bobby turned to the children. "You two want to ride with this desperado?"

Olivia dimpled. "I think we can trust him, Papa."

"Be polite and follow instructions," Alex counseled. "Randall, please pay attention."

"Yes, Mom," he answered.

Bobby squatted in front of Olivia. "No buying out the store."

She grinned. "Pinky swear."

"You've got about two hours." Alex handed Cavanaugh her key card. "Don't forget their jackets and hats."

"Yes, Captain Eames," he replied smartly, sketching a salute at her, then gave Bobby a thumbs-up and, with Randall on his right and Olivia on his left, he shepherded the two out of sight.

"You're certain about this?" Alex asked.

"He was an insufferable jerk and a real blue flamer," Bobby said thoughtfully, "but you could trust him to do his job. Fornell wouldn't have hired him otherwise."

Zes laughed. "A 'blue flamer'? Haven't heard that one before. I think I've missed part of this story."

"Apparently that's 'FBI speak' for someone climbing the promotion ladder with no regard to who they step on," Alex explained. "Because 'blue flames' spout out of their ass."

This drew a guffaw from Zes and Bobby continued, "As you can imagine, he kept the Office of Professional Responsibility very busy. As for our time w-working together," and now he imitated Cavanaugh's drawl to the letter, "Wal, it started like this..."

As he concluded his shorthand version of his formerly adversarial relationship with Harry Cavanaugh, they slipped into the lengthy queue for hors d'ouvres and punch or champagne, finding themselves behind a local author, Petra Reynolds, author of children's nonfiction about western Massachusetts history. Bobby engaged with her at once about her work and was soon jotting down her name and website. She was short of stature and self-deprecating in a humorous manner, and she soon had them laughing with tales of other writers she had encountered at the previous years' conference, softening the long wait in line.

"Hey!" she exclaimed as someone bumped into her from behind.

"Excuse me!" a young man's voice said urgently, "We need to get to the buffet table."

Reynolds wheeled to face a brown-haired, almost baby-faced youth in his twenties pushing a manual wheelchair containing a scowling elderly man. "This isn’t the end of the line, sir," she said, rubbing her ankle where the wheelchair had struck.

"You need to wait your turn," Alex added sharply.

The young man said with a privileged air, "My grandfather is diabetic. He needs to eat."

"Perhaps you should have thought of that earlier," Reynolds bridled, wiggling her ankle painfully.

The aged man in the wheelchair, dressed in a tailored Armani suit and equally expensive shirt and tie, glanced up at them with still-shrewd, hawklike eyes in his wrinkled, ravaged face. But instead of fixing on an indignant Reynolds, he searched Bobby's, then Alex's faces.

"Please let me through," the young man said tightly. "I'm under strict orders–"

The elderly man's once deep voice had faded somewhat, but he responded imperiously, "I know you have my best interests at heart, Henry, but I'm fine at the moment." His eyes clicked past Zes, dismissing him as unnecessary, then he added with a wave of his thin hand, "I know the two of you from somewhere, I'm certain."

"You do," Bobby said. Age had rendered the familiar man smaller if no less imperious. He offered the man his hand and lied through his teeth. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Copeland."

Alex blinked, then realized it was indeed Jules Copeland, now in his early 90s. And this meant the harried yet entitled twit pushing his wheelchair must be...

"And this must be Henry," Bobby continued, a more sincere smile flashing as he shook hands with the impatient young man. "We haven't spoken with you since you were seven."

"Pleased," Henry Copeland said, appearing as if he wanted to be elsewhere. Alex couldn't blame him; if he remembered them at all, it was probably in association with his father's death.

"And this is Ms. Petra Reynolds, author of the Massachusetts Heroes history series, and Mr. Quentin Hastings, of Hastings House publishing," finished Bobby smoothly.

"Hastings?" the old man said, puzzled. "You aren't Hastings. I know all the publishers from my past years of sponsorship..."

"You probably mean my father," Zes said calmly, but his blue eyes were narrowed and for the first time since they had known him, they saw a flicker of annoyance cross his lean face. "He's under the weather this year."

Alex knew this was a bald-faced lie. They Called Me "Conchie" was Zes' pet project, and Quint Hastings had given him full charge of it.

A tall man in a houndstooth jacket shifting from foot to foot in the line behind them said impatiently, "Excuse me! If you're going to have a family reunion, please hold it somewhere else!"

Bobby waved his hand for Copeland and his grandson to go ahead of them. Henry lifted his chin as he pushed the wheelchair into the line.

"Wait, wait," Copeland called querulously. "You...the tall one. Come tell me where I know you and the woman from."

Maintaining his composure, Bobby mouthed "Sorry!" to Alex and Zes, then slipped sideways to slide to Copeland's side. "My name's Robert Goren, Mr. Copeland. My wife and I were the detectives who worked on your sons' murder cases."

Copeland craned his neck sideways. "You and..." He looked back at Alex puzzledly. "You were that fat detective and his skinny little partner?"

Alex's expression immediately turned glacial, but Bobby remembered his therapy sessions and responded as evenly as possible, "I've been working out for several years now, Mr. Copeland." He could see Alex's eyes snap, And that 'fat detective' could break you in two if he wanted to! "Yes, that was Detective Eames and myself."

"They allow police partners to marry now?" Copeland queried with disapproval.

"We're no longer connected with the NYPD, Mr. Copeland, and we married four years ago," Bobby explained stiffly.

Frost laced Alex's response. "Detective Goren has recently retired from the FBI."

"And Detective Eames transferred to the NYPD's Homeland Security division after I joined the Bureau. She retired at the rank of Captain and has been working with a committee on alternative policing." Bobby did not mention that the position had come to an abrupt end a month earlier.

"Excellent!" Copeland said, rubbing his hands together in what Alex would describe later to Olivia and Randall as a creditable imitation of Scrooge brooding over his money. "Self-improvement is a fine thing. Look at my Henry here! He's only 26 but has been helping me run my company for years, starting from when he was at university. A chip off the old block like my son Adlai, except his talent lies in a different direction! He handles the majority of the business for me now."

"Glad to hear that, Mr. Copeland," Bobby responded genially, his cheeks growing stiff from a pasted-on smile. "Keeping the business in the family. And how is Jeffrey? What does he do in your company?"

Copeland looked puzzled, then snorted. "Have no idea. Haven't seen him in years. That murderess Lena who killed my Adlai—her sister came out of the woodwork about a year after that harridan went to prison. Said I was abusing the runny-nosed loser and had the court remove him from my custody when he was nine. Good riddance."

Alex's voice oozed distaste. "Jeffrey's your grandson, too, Mr. Copeland."

"Bah," Copeland said dismissively with an irritating royal wave. "I could tell from when he was a child that he was just like his father. No fiber to him. Not to mention how he distracted poor Henry here—the sort of juvenile thing Ted was into at that age. He probably works some dead-end job in that podunk town his aunt came from. Danielle deserved him."

Bobby said through his teeth, "We've reached the buffet table, Mr. Copeland. Excuse me while I rejoin my wife."

He slipped back to join Alex, his lips tight and eyes dark with suppressed rage, and he grasped her hand so tightly that she said "Ouch!" under her breath and wiggled her fingers. He winced and loosened his grip.

"What would you like, sir?" Henry asked as they approached the table.

Irritated, Copeland's reply was a brusque, "Roll me close to the table, Henry. I'm not paralyzed."

Copeland chose his savory appetizers as if he were investing in a collection of precious stones, lingering over a charcuterie board, scallops wrapped in bacon, and other tidbits as the crowd behind him stewed. Finally, he leaned forward in his wheelchair, the thin hands gripping the armrests looking like gnarled tree roots as his disapproving eyes searched the table. He demanded of the uniformed server behind the table, "You there. Where is the shrimp almondine?"

"I'm sorry, sir," said one of the caterer's staff, a brisk Black woman who appeared to be the operations manager, "but our supplier came up short on shrimp for this event. We're already out of the shrimp almondine."

"Unacceptable!" Copeland declared with petulance. "I recommended your business to this convention on the strength of several of your dishes, especially your shrimp almondine. Outrageous! Don't think I won't complain about this, young lady! It's absolutely criminal how standards have fallen! Take me to the beverage station, Henry!"

His grandson shot the catering manager a reproachful look and, juggling his half-filled plate, pushed the wheelchair away. They saw Marian Howland spot the pair, smile tentatively, and wave, and then she and Fred Bannen circled the beverage table to greet him.

"Well," said Reynolds, astonished by the encounter, "I never...you know this guy?"

"Only in performance of our work," Alex returned sourly, choosing two gouda and prosciutto-topped crackers and a chocolate bonbon to complete her plate. "He's not a close friend."

"I think I'll get a drink later," the local author said wryly, watching Copeland hold court at the beverage table, in better spirits with the convention committee members commiserating with him. "See you two around." Reynolds vanished into the crowd.

"So much for that friendship," Alex remarked cynically. "Talk about lying down with dogs and getting up with fleas."

Bobby chuckled for the first time since they'd spoken to Copeland, and they joined the queue for the beverage table. Bannen saw them and said something to Howland, who sobered momentarily and nodded an apologetic look at Bobby.

"How does someone as intelligent as Marian Howland put up with that monster?" Alex asked as she accepted a glass of punch with a smile for the server.

"He's been her patron for years, ever since she finished the final edits on Dr. Copeland's book," Bobby answered, requesting a Fox Farms ale from the bartender. "She might not want to bite the hand that feeds her."

Zes, who'd kept silent but observant after being shut out by Copeland, helped himself to the punch, then asked, "What's your history with that dude?"

"Strictly professional," was Bobby's response as he accepted his glass of beer. "Both his sons were m-murdered. The culprit was...um...his daughter-in-law, the one married to the less favored son. The original of Alex's chapter 26 in Ice Blue."

"Excuse me, folks," Bannen said a minute later after they'd retreated from the beverage table. "Saw you get into it with Copeland. Sorry about that. Marian's embarrassed. He's an ass, but Marian's kind to him because of what happened to his son and because he's helped with her publishing career."

"Sons," Bobby pointed out bitterly.

Bannen nodded in wry agreement. "Yeah, sorry. I know the story from Marian. The fair-haired child and the family pariah. Sounds like it was rough on the unwanted kid."

"You have no idea," Alex responded sourly. "But it looks like Copeland's all smiles now after going on and on about the shrimp almondine. What did you and Dr. Howland do to cheer him up, take the thorn out of his paw?"

Bannen laughed. "Marian always puts him in a good humor because he associates her with his son Adlai. Not to mention that I had one of the last servings of shrimp almondine and there were other good things on my plate, so I gave him mine so he'd shut up. What a childish ruckus." Then he whispered. "Don't tell the old man, but I did eat one. He's right, they were good, but not good enough to pitch a hissy fit like that."

"Are you from the South, Mr. Bannen?" Bobby asked with a grin.

"Ah, you caught that." Bannen chuckled. "I was born in New York, but my family relocated to Alabama when I was in middle school. I picked up the lingo fast."

"What's it like working for Dr. Howland? I hear she's meticulous. That must mean long hours." Zes asked as he bit into one of the scallop and bacon concoctions. "Mmmn. There's maple flavoring on this one."

"Hard work never bothered me so long as I'm appreciated. Working with Marian is a dream come true, to resort to that cliché. She treats me as an equal and pays well. I was lucky to hook up with her right out of university," the young man said. "It wasn't my first choice, but considering the economic situation since the pandemic, it was what I needed. My life could have gone in a very different direction. "

"Are you friends with Henry?" Alex asked, sipping her punch.

Bannen shook his head. "He and 'Grandpa' are practically joined at the hip. If we do talk, it's about Marian's work, or about subjects related to Copeland Properties. He's remarkably self-effacing. Copeland brags about him, but Henry sa–"

Suddenly, alarmed voices raised from the space near the beverage table where Copeland had been regaling his audience. A woman exclaimed, "Sir? Sir, are you- Oh!"

"Grandpa!" came Henry's distressed voice, almost like that of a child.

"What's going on?" Alex asked, setting down her plate on a nearby table.

Zes had a different vantage from them and craned his neck to the right. "Copeland's...bent over. Doubled up–"

"Fuck!" Bannen said unexpectedly. "You don't think the old man is...Jesus, I gave him shrimp–" He vanished to reappear at Howland's side.

"Let's see if we can help." And Bobby plowed through the crowd without waiting.

If anyone was annoyed at a six-foot-four wall of energy excusing his way to the front, no one protested. Copeland was indeed doubled over, his sleek Armani suit and expensive shoes spattered with chunky, whitish, sour-smelling vomit. His grandson hovered over him, attempting to hold his head and clean the mess with two oversized red cloth napkins handed to him by one of the anxious caterers.

"Excuse me," Bobby said, bending over Copeland, helping Henry to support his head, and offering his handkerchief to wipe Copeland's mouth. "I'm a former police officer and FBI agent. Someone please call 911."

Jules Copeland suddenly struggled under both men. "Hey? No! I don't want a damn doctor!"

"Sir, you've vomited. It might be a simple stomach upset, but it could also be an allergic reaction–"

"Perhaps we should, Grandfather," said Henry anxiously.

"Nonsense!" Copeland responded by raising his head abruptly, rapping Bobby sharply on the chin and jerking his head back. "Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm sickly. Never had a food allergy in my life. Silly weakness." His hawklike glare fastened on a stocky young woman with a cell phone in her hands about to press a button on the screen. "Don't you dare! Henry, Henry, stop her!"

"Yes, sir!" Henry said, angrily approaching the woman with the phone; she shoved it back into her purse. "Did you want to go to the restroom to clean up?"

"This can't be cleaned up in a restroom, boy! I'm not in a presentable state. Take me back to my room!"

Henry, his expression both stormy and harried, grabbed the handles of his grandfather's wheelchair and gave it a quick jerk around. Bobby dodged backward to avoid an elbow in his belly and stood rubbing his bruised jaw, glaring after them.

"Are you all right?" Alex asked, reaching up to touch a dribble of blood at the center of his mouth.

"I bit my lip," Bobby said impatiently, picking up his handkerchief from the floor and wincing at the vomit on it.

"Here," Bannen handed him an unfolded scarlet napkin. "Wrap it up until you can wash it out. The caterers borrowed napkins from Le Pot-Au-Feu, the restaurant in the Hilton. You can return it to them in the morning." He added anxiously, "He's not allergic to shrimp, is he? I'd hate to think–"

"Would he have been arrogant enough to demand it in line earlier, if he was?" Alex queried, to comfort him.

"I suppose not," the younger man replied in relief, but added darkly, "But you never know!"

Howland appeared at his right side, quick to apologize entreatingly, "I am so sorry, Mr. Goren. Jules Copeland has supported me for years...but that was entirely uncalled for. I will call him out on it. My apologies, Ms. Eames, Mr. Hastings. No reason for that kind of abuse." She asked the spectators, "Did anyone see what happened?"

The stocky woman who'd attempted to take the photo with her phone said, "He was enjoying his plate of food, telling us about his gifted grandson, and suddenly he clutched at his throat, heaved a couple of times, then threw up."

"Is this Copeland's plate?" Bobby asked, looking at an upended dish on the floor.

"Yes," Howland answered and reached for the plate.

"Wait," Bobby said, turning to Alex, but she had vanished. In a few minutes, she returned with a fresh fork, a spoon, and a pair of latex gloves from one of the servers, accompanied by an approving smile. "Have at it, Sherlock."

He quirked an eyebrow at her as he pulled on the gloves, then upended the plate and picked up Copeland's food choices individually. There was still an untouched serving of shrimp almondine remaining, as well as an ample amount of its sauce, and several other appetizers.

"Detective," someone in the crowd asked, "do you think we're dealing with food poisoning?" Several people who'd watched the proceedings murmured and shuffled restlessly.

"All our food is freshly prepared," the caterer's representative, a tall frazzled-looking Hispanic man, protested, "and we have never received less than a 98 percent rating from our health inspector, Detective–"

"First," Bobby said, rising, "I'm not c-currently a licensed detective in any form, and haven't been in years. Second, Mr. Copeland entered the line twenty minutes after it began, and...um...no one else has become nauseated or has vomited." He nodded at the caterer. "I was enjoying it myself. Was anyone here one of the first at the buffet line who also had shrimp almondine, bacon-wrapped scallops, prosciutto and cheese bites, and albacore cups?"

A well-dressed, solid-looking man whose build showed that he enjoyed his food raised his hand and Bobby asked conversationally, "Are you feeling any ill effects, sir?"

"No," the chubby man said sheepishly, patting his pot belly with an almost affectionate bronzed hand. "I had all of those and more. It was all quite good and I'm considering going back for seconds."

"Then I'll assume we're all safe, sir," Bobby said with amusement, "and that Mr. Copeland doesn't want to admit he has a touch of stomach flu." He regarded Copeland's plate with a wry face. "I'll dump this at the door."

By now the conference committee was doing damage control by mingling with the crowd and urging them back to the table by taking up plates of their own. Some of the crowd responded, but an equal number wandered away. Howland, who'd been making small talk with Zes about the upcoming 75th anniversary of the start of the Korean War, said with a sigh, "Well, that puts a blight on the start of this year's conference, I'm sure."

"I was curious, Dr. Howland," Bobby said, relaxed, smiling, "about Jules Copeland's involvement with this conference. He deals in real estate and dabbles heavily in investments. Why would he have had anything to do with a writers' conference and especially with the caterers?"

"I was wondering that, too," Alex added thoughtfully. "He said he recommended them?"

Howland motioned them to an unoccupied table where Bobby could set down Copeland's plate and begin sampling his own. "The conference has been held since the 1990s, but his interest in it was rather recent. It confused me, too.

"About four years ago Jules—and Henry, by extension—started attending each year. I've always attended, as I still live in Northampton. Jules told me that he'd found out from some old computer files of Adlai's—e-mails and correspondence—that this conference was his favorite...although I'm uncertain why. Adlai was a guest speaker here, despite his not being a New England-based writer, after the release of Winter of the Patriarchs, and there were receipts for his membership for two separate conferences held before he died, although I don't recall running into him. But Jules got it into his head that Adlai had always supported this conference and contributed money to it, and decided to continue that tradition for Adlai's sake."

Her cameo-like face looked troubled. "You can see how that's turned out: his full-time support for the NEAWC came with the proviso that he could make suggestions to the organizing committee. They soon discovered that Jules expected his suggestions be implemented without question, and the funds he contributed were ample enough that the conference committee let him become their Lord Bountiful. The NEAWC's existence depends on its patrons' funding, and donations have been dwindling since 2020. I know they had a rocky start this year due to a delay with Jules's funds. The caterer was another of his 'suggestions' for this year."

She bowed her head, then looked up again, chastened. "Jules has been good to me. He's failing and old...and knows it, which makes him crankier than ever. If you could...look past his rudeness–"

"I'm here to spread the word about Bruno Volpe's journal, not to carry on a vendetta," Bobby told her. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we want to get back to our hotel. Our children are due back soon."

Alex noted that he almost absently—or perhaps it was how it was intended to look—picked up Copeland's plate of food as he rose, ostensibly to toss it in a trash container. As they strolled for the door, however, he darted quickly to another empty table to pick up a discarded, half-filled plate of hors d'ouvres and walked out the door with both of them.

"What are you up to?" she hissed as they emerged on the concourse.

"Didn't you know? The game's afoot."

As Harry Cavanaugh watched Olivia and Randall clamber into the back seat of his elderly but well-kept Bonneville and buckle their seat belts, he asked, amused, "You two ever say something more than 'Yes, sir,' 'No, sir,' and 'Thank you, sir'?"

Olivia pressed her teeth to her lower lip as she grinned at him. "Yes, sir, but Papa told us to be good."

"And Mom told me to pay attention," Randall added. "It's harder to talk when I have to pay attention, too."

Cavanaugh guffawed as he got into the front seat of the car. "Well, feel free to say what you like. Neither of you intimidate me."

Olivia, her head lowered, directed a raised eyebrow at Randall. "Well, then, why didn't you like Papa when you worked with him?"

The man coughed. "Wow. A shot directly amidships."

"It's all right, Mr. Cavanaugh. It was a nosy question," was Olivia's good-natured response as she peeked into the reusable tote bag from Red Brick Books. She and Randall had promised him they wouldn't "tell" that Cavanaugh had supplemented them when their carefully saved allowance money ran out.

Cavanaugh pulled out of the parking lot of the used bookstore and headed north and west to Barnes & Noble.

"I was jealous of him," he finally confessed. "He...had the smarts that I didn't."

Olivia had heard enough of the story in Washington, DC, during the book tour to be puzzled. "Why? Papa said that you were a good agent. That you rescued a kidnapped boy after everyone gave up hope. But you only wanted promotions later on, Mama said, while Papa only wanted to solve crimes. It wasn't your job he wanted."

"I know it sounds foolish—at least now it does. But all I knew then was that some wunderbar profiler could think me under the table. I was climbing to the top and wanted no one else in my path."

Randall used ASL under Olivia's nose. =Grown-ups are weird.= She dropped her head again, smiling, because she had picked up enough ASL between Randall and his classmate Kenny Shepherd to understand.

"So, what are your favorite books, Mr. Cavanaugh?" she asked, peeking in the bag again with satisfaction.

"What's with the plates?" Alex waited to ask until they returned to the room. "Surely you're not hiding a poison testing kit somewhere."

"Waiting for a second opinion," Bobby returned, to her mystification.

Twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door; Alex opened it to find Cavanaugh standing behind two angelic-looking children with bookstore bags in their hands.

"If you don't need me for a few hours," Cavanaugh said with a twinkle in his eyes, "I'm in 107. Going to take a rest from these two budding ADAs."

Bobby waved him off but followed him out the door, having noticed the bulge in the bookstore bags. "How much do I owe you?"

"I told the kids it was a late Valentine's Day gift," Cavanaugh said sternly, "and I won't let you make a liar out of me." He tapped something into his phone and a chime rang on Bobby's. "That's my number. Give me a call when you need me for dinner."

He walked off without another word, and Bobby shook his head. When he returned to the suite, Olivia and Randall had spread their treasures on the small dining table at one side of the communal living room and kitchen. Once the door was closed, Alex opened the door to Bandit's cage and the bird immediately flew out and made a wobbly landing on the table.

"Randall, your mother always says your nose is just like mine," he said conversationally. "Want to help me figure out something?"

"Like a mystery? Sure!"

Bobby had scraped all but the shrimp almondine and its sauce off Copeland's plate, leaving an identifying "C" smear of sauce. He had taken the other plate retrieved from the reception area and scraped away all but a mostly intact shrimp almondine and its sauce, scraping sauce around the shrimp. He held a plate in each hand. "Sniff both of these. Don't notice what they look like. Tell me what you think."

Randall made a face at Olivia, then applied himself to the job. "Well," he said presently, "they both sorta have the same smell. Shrimp. Garlic. Some...lemon. That funny smell almonds have. There's pepper...

"But this one," he said finally, pointing to Copeland's plate, "has another smell, way back. Kinda bitter. Icky."

"Then my nose hasn't failed me," Bobby said with a smile. "Thanks, buddy."

Randall glowed and flopped back into his chair at the table, rescuing The Case of the Baker Street Irregular from Bandit's industrious beak. Next, Sam walked up, sniffing at the shrimp with interest.

"Definitely not," Bobby said, and the collie laid back his ears and sighed. Bobby returned the two plates to the refrigerator, then offered the collie a dog biscuit and scratched the now-happy dog behind the ears.

"Papa, are you going to stand there like a cat that's got into the cream?" Olivia demanded.

Alex said dryly, "If he doesn't elucidate soon, I'm going to try some interrogation tricks on him."

"Promise?" Bobby grinned, then explained briefly to the children what had happened at the reception and who Jules Copeland was. "I noticed that both Copeland and whoever left the other plate had...um...separated the shrimp almondine from the other food so they would get the full flavor of the sauce. Shrimp almondine connoisseurs, as it were. I smelled something odd on C-Copeland's. Evidently, at his age he missed it."

"The bitter smell!" Randall crowed. His face glowed with success.

"Could you identify it?" Alex asked.

"As the kid who scared my mother to death by drinking dishwashing liquid, yes. Ipecacuana." He added for the children's benefit, "Makes you throw up. Nasty stuff."

"You can still buy that?" Alex asked, puzzled. "My mom had it in the house when we were kids, too. But doctors and poison control centers today say not to use it."

Bobby nodded. "I'm sure you can still get it somewhere."

"So...someone wanted Copeland to vomit? Why?"

"No clue—yet. Now, what did you two inveigle Harry into buying for you?"

"We didn't 'inveigle,'" Olivia said a little indignantly. "When he saw me looking at The Thurber Carnival he offered when I put it back. Should I have said no? It wouldn't be polite."

Bobby remembered what Cavanaugh had said about making amends. "This once is fine," he said quietly. "What did you get, Randall?"

"The Big Book of Spies and Spycraft," Randall said, pushing the book at him. "Spies are almost as sick as profilers."

"Think he'd like Get Smart?" Alex asked with a mischievous look.

"Did you know Harriet Tubman was a conductor on the Underground Railroad and a spy, too? And there was a guy named Sidney Reilly..."

Copeland was forgotten in being a family.

Bobby had a full roster of panels planned the next day, leaving Alex free to enjoy time with the children. In the morning they drove up to the Flynt Center in Deerfield for access to the museum, the sole attraction open in the winter. When they returned to the hotel after lunch, the New England Pet Faire exhibition was already opened with customers crowding the booths.

"Could we take Sam and Bandit to the fair?" Olivia begged, dancing around the room with the collie.

Randall was checking out the schedule Bobby had tacked to the refrigerator with a magnet. "I'd rather go with Dad to the next seminar! It's about writing mystery stories. Is Dad going to write a mystery?"

Alex laughed. "He hasn't mentioned that idea to me. But then your father has surprised me before. I had thought about taking Bandit, but it's too cold even in his box. You can prep Sam."

Ten minutes later, they walked into the convention center with the collie, on a leash and in his bright blue therapy dog vest. He was immediately alert, casting his nose from side to side, fast at heel at Alex's side. Other dogs surrounded him, but he simply waved his tail.

Alex had sent Bobby a quick text, and he appeared as silently as a ghost behind Randall. "How was Deerfield?"

"The museum is brill," Olivia told him firmly, "but we must go back when the houses are open."

"Too many chairs and dishes," Randall declared. "Dad, can I come with you to your panels?"

"I'm just m-managing sitting still myself," Bobby told him affectionately. "Do you think you can?"

Indecision crossed the boy's face, but he pleaded, "Can I try?"

"Always, buddy," was the response. "We'll take seats at the end of a row and keep each other on an even keel, how about that?"

Randall nodded and Alex advised, "Let me know if I need to take over."

"I'll be good!" Randall said, indignant, and Olivia giggled.

As they walked off, Alex and Olivia heard Randall ask, "I know what 'on an even keel' means, but what's a keel?"

"It has to do with ships..." and Bobby's voice faded away.

"Annotations," Olivia said knowingly, then she bit her lip and added, "Mama, I feel bad for Mr. Shaw. He never knew what a good friend Randall could have been."

Alex smiled fondly as she hugged Olivia. Sometimes the most profound thoughts came out of the girl's head. "I know. He's missed it all—but it's our gain. Let's check out the Pet Faire."

Sometime later, after they had visited all the booths and examined everything from pet "fashions" to dog feeding stations, Alex had bought a budgie activity toy for Bandit and a beef-scented chew bone which made Sam's nose react wildly. She also demonstrated Sam's obedience skills for a family considering a service dog for their wheelchair-bound daughter. Finally, she and Olivia retreated to a curtained-off area where chips, candy, and drinks were being sold. Sam refreshed himself with a drink from a promotional purified canine/feline water fountain and Alex treated herself and Olivia to hot chocolate. She was blowing on hers to cool it, her mind elsewhere, when Olivia asked, "Mama, isn't that the awful man's grandson?"

Alex bit off a smile, but said, "His name's Mr. Copeland and be nice. Where?"

Olivia, taught that it was impolite to point, directed her gaze at the alcove where two flat beige restroom doors stood out starkly from their brightly-curtained surroundings. "Near the loo."

Alex cocked her head, watching the drama: Henry Copeland, his young face furrowed with frustration, was talking with a woman in business dress and designer sunglasses, gesturing wildly. The woman looked displeased, and his hand gestures suggested that her words were upsetting. Very faintly they heard him protest, "I don't know how–" and then his voice lowered again.

"I wonder if he'd give Bandit a single seed," Olivia sniffed.

"Is this evidence you're assembling for his trial?" Alex chided gently and Olivia made a face.

"I know. I shouldn't make judgments without the facts."

"And you didn't have to grow up with his grandfather," her mother reminded.

"Where were his parents?" was the inevitable question and Alex gave her a sanitized explanation of Henry Copeland's history.

"You mean his auntie killed his father and then wanted his maman to kill his uncle?" Olivia asked, horrified.

"Bobby and I always remind you that the people we dealt with in Major Case weren't very nice," Alex told her gently. "A few we felt sympathy for, but they still committed crimes. We never arrested anyone without due cause."

"I wish you could have arrested Madame," Olivia vindictively retorted.

"She's in exile now. Maybe that's enough." Alex hugged her tightly, half an eye still on Henry Copeland. The tense conversation seemed to have cooled, and he finally shrugged in acquiescence and walked toward one of the side exit doors of the convention hall. The businesslike blond-haired woman remained, watching him with a tapping foot, then pulled out a cell phone and made a call before striding toward the main entrance to the Pet Faire.

"'Curiouser and curiouser,'" Alex quoted, and Olivia hopped to her feet, smiling, to finish the quote, "'cried Alice.'"

They completed their circuit of the Pet Faire by returning to one booth for a sample of a new dog food, and Alex assumed Randall had gone on with Bobby to the next panel ("Making Complicated Concepts Accessible in Historical Fiction" had been tagged on Bobby's schedule). As she and Olivia threaded their way out to the concourse, they became aware of a commotion happening to their right. A man's querulous voice was raised. Like two conspirators, they exchanged glances and followed the shouting to the corridor that led to the large meeting rooms.

Out of the babble of the crowd, Henry Copeland shouted clearly, "I've got no idea who you're referring to. Please go away!"

"What is the meaning of this, young lady?" Jules Copeland barked out. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, appearing in public dressed like a floozie? Security! Someone call Security!"

Without letting go of Alex's hand, Olivia stretched herself to peer around a hefty older man to glimpse the scene before the crowd shifted. Then a police whistle sounded and Alex looked up to see a flotilla of silver, gold, and rose gold satin-gloss balloons move out of sight over the crowd.

Olivia reported breathlessly, "There was a woman dressed like she was from the Folies Bergère! She was wearing a spangled silver bikini-cut maillot with a silver ostrich-feather headdress and what looked like five-inch silver heels! She had a brill bunch of balloons that she was trying to hand to Henry Copeland!"

Jules Copeland was still bellowing, regardless of the crowd. "What the fuck was that about Henry? Marian, are you here? Marian!"

Fred Bannen appeared at Alex's side, looking embarrassed. "Sorry that you saw that, Ms. Eames."

"I didn't really see anything," Alex admitted. "What did I miss?"

"I saw the lady with the balloons!" piped up Olivia.

The crowd was beginning to disperse and now they could see Marian Howland bending over the elder Copeland's wheelchair as people flashed back and forth before the pair, with Henry standing frozen staring in the direction taken by the security guard in escorting "the Folies Bergère woman" and her balloons toward the exit.

"It was bizarre," Bannen admitted, relaxing as he saw his mentor sigh in relief and straighten up. "Copeland and his grandson were talking to Marian and me and also Samuel Wallace—the man who introduced Marian yesterday—and Annette Davis, two of the conference organizers, when this...do you object to the word 'bimbo,' Ms. Eames? I mean...she had a breathy voice and said she was delivering a birthday message to Henry from someone named 'Madison.' I thought Henry would faint dead away. Everyone knows Henry's reputation from his grandfather's stories—he comes off as a nose-to-the-grindstone guy...'chip off the old block,' Copeland says."

Alex smiled knowingly. "Just like 'his Adlai'?"

"Constantly," Bannen said wryly. "Funny, though—today is Henry's birthday. Marian mentioned it."

"Eames!" came a muffled call from their left. Alex turned to see Bobby approaching in the distance with Randall trotting by his side and Harry Cavanaugh sauntering in their wake. Olivia ran forward to meet them and Bannen said softly, "I like that."

Alex's smile was warm as she asked, "Like what?"

"The way your face lights up when you see your husband," Bannen said, his voice briefly as wistful as a child's. "I wish my parents had looked at each other like that." Then his genial mood returned as he nodded at her and said, "I'll see y'all later."

Cavanaugh broke away from Bobby and Randall, heading for the knot of people still surrounding the Copelands and Alex craned her neck curiously, but Randall appeared, looking proud of himself. "Mom, I sat through two panels! And Dad only had to remind me three times."

"Well, I knew you could," Alex told him affectionately.

"Dr. Howland sat with us during the history panel," Randall continued. "She and Dad were talking about someone named Ken Follett who writes history books."

"Historical fiction," Alex corrected, with a sideways glance at Bobby.

"Like Johnny Tremain," supplied Olivia.

"I take it we've missed 'interesting times' again?" Bobby asked mildly.

Olivia repeated her observation of the scantily-clad woman in silver while Alex added what Bannen had told them. "Surely," she finished with asperity, "Grandpa occasionally lets poor Henry off the leash to have some fun? He's in his twenties and should be allowed a date and a social life now and then!"

"But Henry is 'his father's son,'" Bobby responded wryly. "Surely he can't have something as commonplace as dating or enjoyment on his mind? What kind of son of 'my Adlai' would he be then?"

"And I thought Ted and Jeffrey had it bad," Alex returned grimly. "Imagine Adlai's son having to live up to his reputation!"

"Maybe the sadder part is that Adlai was very laid back about his 'reputation.' Remember when we talked to Henry as a child? He seemed to adore his father and thought he was 'fun.' It's his grandfather that set high expectations in his life."

When Bobby finished, Randall asked hesitantly, "Dad, what do 'Livia and I have to live up to?"

Bobby patted his shoulder. "Our expectations, you mean? For you and Olivia to be fulfilled adults leading a life that makes you happy, surrounded by friends and family who love you."

To brush off the bad taste of the latest Copeland outburst, the four took a turn around the aisles of the New England Pet Faire, with Olivia dancing ahead to her favorite booths. When Bobby settled into a long conversation with a vendor selling reprints of Albert Payson Terhune's collie-protagonist books, Alex took the opportunity to use the restrooms at the rear. Someone had placed a line of folding chairs for people to wait for family members next to each restroom door, and when Alex emerged from the ladies' room, she saw a familiar figure sitting in one of them, his head in his hands.

"Mr. Copeland?" she asked. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Henry Copeland looked up in surprise, his face at that moment more careworn than anyone of his age and economic status need be. He smiled sheepishly and answered, "It's all right, Mrs.—I mean Ms. Eames. I needed...wanted some quiet."

Alex perched at the edge of the chair next to him. "Your grandfather's still very hard to please, I see."

Henry nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, I...uh...sometimes–" Then he pursed his lips and said stolidly, "But I owe him for so much. He took me in when my father...died, and my mother...well, she couldn't–" He shrugged. "You know, Ms. Eames. You were there."

Alex nodded in understanding, recalling the solemn-faced small boy who had called 911 to report that "mommy and daddy won't wake up."

Henry was thinking the same thing, adding, "I do remember you and Mr. Goren a little. You were very kind to me the morning that Dad...well...when he died. Mr. Goren said something about my being smart to have taken care of myself so well. I was so proud an adult had praised me."

"You were very brave," assured Alex.

"Not feeling very brave now," Henry admitted. "There are things my grandfather needs to know, and I dread telling him. I want to...well, there will be changes...Ms. Eames, he raised me and he expects–"

"You should respect what he did for you, and love him if you can manage it for someone as demanding as he is," Alex counseled. "But you don't owe him the rest of your life, Henry. You're an adult now, and he needs to accept that."

"The only thing Grandpa expects is everyone to toe his line," fretted Henry.

"From what I've heard, you've done a fine job continuing the work of Copeland Properties. Both Dr. Howland and her assistant have sung your praises as well."

Henry snorted, "That's nice of both of them, but I haven't actually–"

John Williams' "Imperial March" began playing from the cell phone in Henry's suit pocket and he gave a pained smile. "Excuse me, Ms. Eames. I've been summoned by the Powers That Be."

"You'll be fine, Henry," she tried to reassure him, seeing the bewildered round face of the stricken 6-year-old superimposed on the grown man.

Alex was unsurprised to hear the snick of a card in the lock and a click before the Bridgeton Suites door opened. "Harry? Come in quick!"

Bobby, on the sofa reading a publisher's catalog, looked down with amusement; Bandit was so busy shredding one of the catalog pages that he hadn't even noticed the entrance. Now the bird cocked his head at the stranger, slicking his feathers down warily as he checked out Cavanaugh's bulk leaned against the door with button-bright eyes. Then he ruffled his feathers and resumed his gnawing.

Alex gave him an amused nod. "Bandit's declared you harmless."

Bobby got straight to the point. "What did you find out? Would any of the security staff speak to you?"

"Caught up to her," his colleague said with a grin, tossing Bobby back his key card and lowering himself in the leather office chair at the desk squeezed in the living/dining/kitchenette area.

Alex looked surprised. "The woman with the balloons talked to you?"

"Oh, copiously," Cavanaugh drawled, checking out his fingernails. "Y'all be surprised what the application of a lil sugar does to some people. Besides, the guards had treated her badly. I offered her a Kleenex an' a shoulder to cry on." He pulled out his iPhone and scrolled into his notes app. "Her name is Melanie Wilkes—'Nana' was a Gone With the Wind fan, poor child! She works at a local store called PartyTime, which sells...surprise, surprise..party supplies and delivers birthday and anniversary balloons, with or without special costuming. An order was called into PartyTime from a man who was 'Madison's' office manager. He asked that balloons be delivered to Henry Copeland, and if the delivery person could dress as a Folies showgirl, so much the better, because 'Madison' knew that one of Henry's favorite things was French showgirls."

"Payment?" Bobby asked without looking up from the catalog.

"Venmo. And I had our tech at Security Solutions check the account—except there isn't one."

"C'mon, there has to be a cybertrail," Alex objected.

"Nope. Someday I'll introduce you to Ardwenna Gale. She's Saltonstall with data."

"So our UNSUB is familiar enough with tech to manipulate accounts and data, and has now turned his attention to Copeland the younger," Bobby mused.

Olivia pattered out of the bedroom in her nightclothes and robe. "Hullo, Mr. Cavanaugh!"

"Greetings, Mademoiselle," was his response.

"Are you working a case?" she asked eagerly.

Cavanaugh smiled. "I'm always working on something, hon."

"I know—it's not for kids," Olivia said with resignation. "Good night, Papa. Good night, Mama," and she kissed them in turn.

"No story tonight again?" Bobby asked.

"Too much going on. Randall's already asleep on the coverlet," she said pointedly, and he chuckled and followed her back into the children's room to tuck them in.

"...so we discussed the possibility of someone playing a prank on the Copelands. Min rolled her eyes and Randall said it was stupid."

"Glad our children are sensible," Alex smiled as she rubbed the last speck of almond oil into the curves of her cheeks and chin, then blotted her face with a tissue. Bobby was already in bed in plaid pajama bottoms and a Beatles-logo t-shirt reading; she shut off the bathroom light and took her place on the opposite side of the bed where her open laptop waited.

She was still tapping industriously on it fifteen minutes later when Bobby closed his book. "Lizzie's going to be up late reading that update."

Alex stopped, then smiled a little sheepishly and flushed. "No...well..." Bobby considered her with a sober expression, then she confessed, "Olivia's blog inspired me. I started keeping a journal before the adoption...jotting down mostly factual things at first, upcoming appointments, venting at Madame Pepin, notes about Olivia and school, the inspection schedule...then...I started adding...observations...thoughts...the stress of the inspections and how upset it made Min, collaborating with Liv on the ARWSOA project, Bruno's death, the BLE job...now with Randall, there's so much more–" She bent her head like an errant schoolchild, hair curtaining her face.

He always found the gesture irresistible and set his book on the nightstand. "Why be embarrassed, Alex? The only other time I saw you this uncomfortable was when Dr. Borman pulled his striptease act at the zoo."

She snorted and then laughed, recalling the exhibitionist veterinarian. "I guess because I was never one of those girls who told their secrets in purple ink to their little pink diaries and cooed about which boys she crushed on."

"No, you thought about V-8 engines and living on a horse farm," he teased. "How about now? Do you tell your computer journal about which boys you have a crush on?"

"No, see...there's just the one boy. The special one," she dimpled, clicking "save" in her journaling app and closing the laptop.

Bobby asked archly, "Do I know him?"

"Oh," she said, removing the laptop from the bed and shifting her position, "I...I'm pretty sure you do–"

"Good morning, Mr. Goren."

Bobby was seated in one of the large meeting rooms—this one was "Amherst"—where smaller panels were held, his paper schedule peeking out of his trouser pocket. He'd been reading but bookmarked his place with his forefinger, and smiled as Marian Howland gracefully lowered herself into the chair to his right.

His mind was still half on his book, but he mused that she appeared overdressed for a discussion panel about true crime narratives: a sleek blue wool dress with a V neckline, strap high heels, a sapphire pendant on a gold chain around her neck. He knew from a glance that the necklace alone was not costume jewelry; Alex might have given him better intelligence about the dress designer, but he could tell it was good quality, and the shoes appeared to be designer as well. Alex could have told him more.

"Good morning, Dr. Howland," he said courteously, secretly wishing he could have finished a few more pages of his book.

"Good morning!" she responded with a sunny smile. "Reading The Greater Journey, I see! Are you enjoying it?"

"I'm a McCullough fan," he confessed. "The Great Bridge is my favorite. I read it when I was twelve."

Howland relaxed in her chair, tilting her knees to the left, her neatly manicured hands resting on a dressy little blue purse in her lap. "So, what's your family up to today while you attend the conference?"

Bobby chuckled. "My daughter found a winter event at Old Sturbridge Village, so Eames has driven them there. She mentioned something about hitting an antique shop on the way back."

"Does your foster child enjoy history, too?" Howland seemed amused.

"Randall...oh, you'd be surprised by some of the things that interest Randall. When we took them to Sturbridge last fall he was fascinated by the tinsmith and the blacksmith. The blacksmith demonstrated his craft by making an iron hook for us and Randall begged to use it in his room to hang up his backpack. I wouldn't be surprised if searches for more iron hooks at the antique store. Both of them will look for old books." He realized something about her seemed overly familiar, but simply corrected gently, "He's our son, Dr. Howland. We've already begun the adoption process."

"Oh...good luck, then," she said lightly, then ventured, "I notice you sometimes call your wife by her last name."

"We worked together so long," he said with a reflective expression, "and she was the senior partner. It got to be habit–" and then he chuckled, "–and now it's an endearment."

Howland smiled in return. "I've read a little about your career and would love to hear more about it."

"I'd like to hear more about your books," he admitted.

"Well, let's skip out then," she suggested brightly. "I know a fine place to eat a few miles from here, very quiet and private. Fred can take us."

Had it been so long that he didn't recognize what was happening? he wondered, blinking in surprise. Or was it that he was so content that there was no need to acknowledge a pass anymore? The last woman who had approached him in that manner had been undercover, posing as "Maureen Leighton."

"Are you wearing Aeryn Lilac from Sephora?" was his abrupt question.

Howland colored. "Yes."

"I prefer it on my wife," he told her honestly. "We can sit in the hall if you want to talk. I have many stories to tell, but I'd be more interested in yours."

Howland folded her hands in her lap, staring steadily at them. "I apologize, Mr. Goren."

"I'm flattered, really, but I've been in love with Alex many more years than I ever acknowledged to myself. I've never needed—or wanted—anyone else since we got back together."

She admitted, "I'm happy for you. Relationships are still difficult for women in academia. So many men feel threatened."

"They must be stupid men," Bobby said frankly. "They shouldn't feel diminished by your intelligence, but elevated."

"That's kind to say."

"It's the truth."

"Was there something you were particularly curious about, Mr. Goren?"

"Jules Copeland. Why do you continue to put up with his BS? You've spent three days placating him over these ridiculous...' accidents.'"

She picked up on the skeptical inflection. "You think they're deliberate?"

"You're too intelligent, Dr. Howland, to see them as anything but."

"Even this morning? Elevators do get stuck, Mr. Goren."

"If it were the only thing that had happened, certainly. But with the shrimp incident, the table leg collapse, and what happened with the birthday balloons...an actuary I know says there are no such thing as coincidences."

She sighed. "I have...a history with the family, longer than even Jules knows. Adlai was a junior professor at Columbia and I a senior professor just getting tenure when we first met." She met his eyes briefly. "Before he married Charlene."

He saw it in her eyes. "You were lovers?"

"Yes. He was such a sweet, patient man, not an egotistical bone in his body, and, I confess, that made him attractive as hell compared with some of the other professors. Based on his father's temperament you would have expected something far different. Adlai even cared about his brother, and I know Ted was...well, impractical. Made foolish investments. Something that annoyed his father no end."

"'Annoyed' doesn't cover it," Bobby told her grimly. "Ted never got a word of approval from his father. He was beaten down before he could ever catch up."

Howland was perceptive enough to read his face. "Do I detect...experience with that situation?"

"Yes."

His voice was so clipped she asked no more. "Jules thought we were simply colleagues, and after a year we moved on, but we remained friends and Jules knew Adlai admired my work as I had his. Adlai told Jules that if he ever needed a co-author or editor for his work, I would be his choice.

"You're familiar with my work, so you might know I was in a slow period around the time Adlai died. I was wrapped up in finding care for my mother, who had dementia, and dealing with my father, who didn't do very well after Mom went to a care home. The book I had in release at that time, Shanghai Phantoms, was selling poorly, and I'd almost called Adlai for some advice when I heard about his death. I was in shock when I learned of it and when Jules called me about doing final edits on the galleys I almost turned him down. But it was providential; working on Adlai's book gave me the idea for Ravaged Land and I haven't looked back since."

She met his gaze staunchly. "I have a good deal to thank Jules Copeland for. I don't feel I can betray him, even if he didn't do right by Ted."

The speaker at the front of the room tapped and then blew on her hand-held microphone.

Bobby thought of Declan Gage.

He admired her loyalty. And yet loyalty to Jules Copeland—as his had been to Dec—was hard to swallow.

"Hello, Gorens!" Bannen said as he stopped by their table at the Hilton's onsite restaurant Le Pot-Au-Feu, which, despite its trendy name, offered mostly what would be termed "comfort meals." "Trying out the competition's food?"

"I like buffets better," Randall said, regarding his plate with disappointment. "There are better choices."

Bannen hefted a big leather notebook under one arm—shades of Bobby's old faithful portfolio, except his was black and didn't zip—and smiled. "Isn't the meatloaf any good?"

"It doesn't taste like Dad's," was the glum admission.

"Papa ordered you brown gravy instead of dreadful ketchup," Olivia reminded. "Pop on a bit more."

"Not Dad's gravy, either," but Randall did so and began to eat with a sigh.

"Join us?" Bobby asked. There was an empty chair next to their table, having been taken away from nearby seating where one of the diners was in a power wheelchair.

"No, thank you, Mr. Goren, I've already had dinner and want to go to my room and kick off my shoes. Marian had me busy today with errands; this is the last of them—I've ordered her some dinner to go. She was upset about something...more drama with Jules Copeland today?"

"He and his grandson were trapped in an elevator for an hour," Alex said, laying down her fork.

"Nothing happened to them, I hope?" the assistant asked anxiously. "Marian sets great store by Copeland—or at least by his late son, so she suffers the father."

"No one was hurt," Bobby assured him. "You seem to...um...take 'great store' by Dr. Howland as well. How long is it you've worked for her?""

"It's been five years now. She changed my life, and I'm grateful for it. She's not just an employer, but my friend. She took me on right out of Tulane; I applied for the assistant's position thinking I'd never be hired. I guess I wowed her." He grinned between his beard. "I know that sounds conceited, but I'd read all her books and loved them, even Shanghai Phantoms. Maybe I like that one the best because it was such an underdog."

"I like Shanghai Phantoms as well," Bobby admitted. "I've always enjoyed Dr. Howland's concentration on little-known subjects. Very few people know about the Jewish colony that developed in Shanghai after the Nazi Party came to power."

"There's a mystery novel that involves that colony, too–" the younger man offered.

Alex grinned. "Rozan. The Shanghai Moon."

Bannen pulled up the extra chair. "I so rarely find well-read people outside of my work. Mind if I stick around while I wait for her order to be ready?"

"Harry," Bobby said the next morning, "you wanna do me a favor?"

Cavanaugh eyed him. "Instead of safeguarding you like I'm being paid to do?

"I'll be in a booth with Dr. Howland all day. Not much exposure to danger there."

"Unless she makes a pass at him again," Alex said dryly.

Cavanaugh suppressed a smile. "You told your wife that?"

Bobby's knees moved restlessly "I tell her everything."

"And he made me laugh," Alex added, "when he admitted he didn't even recognize what she was doing until she invited him to an intimate lunch."

"Sign of a happily married man to me." A shadow passed over Cavanaugh's face, then he added briskly, "You need me to check out something?"

"All the current particulars about Copeland Properties, especially finances. Through regular channels and whatever extraordinary financial ones you might have access to."

"It's fifty/fifty whether Cristina Ruiz will speak to me," was the musing answer.

Bobby scribbled a number on the writing pad the hotel provided at the desk. "Veronica Heller. Tell her I sent you."

Cavanaugh nodded as he took the note. "What do you expect to find?"

"Something more significant than pranks, I'm afraid."

"And what are you doing today, Boss Lady?"

"We have an engagement at the Pet Faire this morning," Alex said briskly. "I volunteered to run Sam through his paces at a presentation about therapy dogs. Then the kids and I will take a turn around the book booths and finish up sitting with Bobby and Dr. Howland."

"Busy day for all of us," Cavanaugh said, rising. "Better get a move on."

After eight years with the Joint Terrorism Task Force briefing government committees, the mayor, and the press, Alex could have done her little spiel with Sam in her sleep. The collie heeled at her left side with perfect deportment as she explained the differences between a therapy dog and a service dog (and that not all dogs wearing service dog harnesses were authentic) and the training she and Bobby had given Sam, presented to a small but engaged audience.

Randall had offered to help her, and next, he shyly mounted the stage with Olivia giving him a thumbs up from her seat and posed as a withdrawn child so that Sam could exhibit his approach behaviors. Alex always called the sensitive dog Randall's first therapist, and Sam greeted him the same way as he had at their first meeting: the gentle sniff, the light touch of the nose, the press of his head. Randall responded to his overtures too quickly, but he could never resist the dog's gentle touch, and the obvious affection between them roused applause from the audience and attracted attention from other attendees.

Alex's eyes flickered as she noticed that the well-dressed woman who had encountered Henry Copeland earlier in the week was watching her, standing behind the final row of seats with her arms crossed, still wearing the designer sunglasses to obscure most of her face. She was not a tall woman but carried herself with shoulders back and chin high, blond hair coiled at the top of her head, wearing a charcoal grey Hermes three-piece suit with matching shoes that Alex tagged as Prada. Neither the diamond pendant nor the matching bracelet she wore were costume jewelry.

Olivia came on stage next and, with the children's help, Alex ran Sam through obedience routines that Bobby had taught the collie. He picked up fallen items, ignored distracting moves made by the pair, fetched a dropped glove, and did other exercises Alex emphasized were service dog activities.

When they finished, the blond woman was at the foot of the stage waiting for her. Now that she was close at hand, Alex noted something familiar about her—the soft yet square shape of her face, her friendly smile—but no names connected to the face came to mind.

"Ms. Eames, that was amazing," she said in a voice tinged with a mild Southern accent, close to Cavanaugh's businesslike tones, but with a deeper drawl than the native Tennessean possessed.

"Well," Alex said fondly, hugging Olivia and Randall, who flanked her on either side, "I have a good crew, and a smart dog."

Sam solemnly offered the woman a paw.

"Thank you, Sam," the woman said with a grin, shaking it. "I'm Dani Perkins-Braunvelt, and I'm thinking about establishing a charity in Massachusetts for therapy and service dogs. I was hoping to get some input from you."

When Alex tilted her head like Bobby Olivia giggled. "Are you–"

"That Braunvelt family. Yes. Damien Braunvelt is my husband."

"I would think you'd have advisors who could steer you in much better directions," admitted Alex.

"Mama's being modest," protested Olivia.

"Mom knows everything, and what she doesn't, Dad does," offered Randall, and Ms. Braunvelt laughed.

"I'm from Alabama, Ms. Eames. I like my info from the horse's mouth." She pulled up two of the chairs and offered one to Alex. "My husband said one of the reasons he married me was because he wanted something besides the 'carefully coiffed' debs his mother paraded in front of him as spousal prospects. We met while he was looking at real estate investments near Huntsville." She smiled when Randall pulled up two more chairs for himself and Olivia. "I was wearing torn blue jeans, tatty running shoes, and an ancient Boyz2Men t-shirt, fresh from riding the family horse and smelling of the same, and he still paid attention to me. So you're just the down-to-earth person I want to speak to..."

"You'll never guess who we ran into," Alex said, settling down in one of the chairs Zes had provided.

"We saw her with Henry Copeland two days ago, but Mama didn't know who she was," Olivia burst out.

"Let your mother tell her story, Min," Bobby said gently.

"Dani Braunvelt," finished Alex, signaling Sam to sit. The collie sighed and settled next to the chair, and Randall joined him, sitting tailor-fashion on the floor, petting the dog with one hand.

"Braunvelt?" Bobby asked with an upraised eyebrow. "Not the Braunvelt family?"

"The very same."

"She complimented Mama on her demonstration with Sam," offered Olivia helpfully, "and asked about therapy and service dog charities."

"They would be contributing to a charity here in Massachusetts?"

"Establishing one in connection with this conference—which, she tells me, the Braunvelt Group is planning to sponsor in the future."

Bobby rubbed his neck, puzzled. "We are talking about the same Braunvelt family, correct? New York's top realty corporation? The one in competition for the old Hotel Pennsylvania space against Copeland Properties before Vornado pushed them both out of the running with the PENN15 project?"

Slightly nettled, Alex remonstrated, "Yes. This is the wife, the former Dani Perkins. We had a long chat about therapy and service dogs. She manages the charitable division of her husband's business."

Bobby nodded; the Braunvelts were old New York money like the Astors and the Delanos but were as well known for their donations to good causes as for their real estate acumen. "The Braunvelt Trust must be expanding. I've never heard of their giving funds outside the state of New York."

"Ms. Braunvelt tells me they have a special connection with this conference."

"She had a funny look when she said it, too," Randall observed.

Alex saw Marian Howland with half an ear cocked at their conversation, but she was occupied with an enthusiastic professor from the College of William and Mary challenging portions of her text of Ravaged Land. Then a middle-aged woman approached Bobby's side of the booth and he gave her a welcoming smile.

"Mr. Goren," she asked hesitantly, "my father served in the Korean War and always said his life was saved by a CO medic. I wonder if that might have been your Mr. Volpe..."

The crowds had thinned already and the security guards were ushering the remainder of the attendees from the exhibition hall when Harry Cavanaugh sauntered back into the room. Confronted by one of the guards, he flashed something at the woman, and she let him pass. Fred Bannen had already escorted his boothmate away, and Bobby, helping Randall stack the promotional literature for They Called Me "Conchie" into a shopping cart, asked, "What magic document do you possess, Harry?"

"Try using your connections to your advantage, Wonder Boy," Cavanaugh advised. "I show 'em my retirement badge. Some people still respect those three letters, despite the damage done to the agency by certain persons." A pause, after which he added forthrightly, "Including myself." Then he waved a manila folder at Bobby. "Read it an' weep."

"Was I right?"

"Yes. Dinner's back at the room, by the way. Under expert advisement, I've brought a fine spread of Chinese food from the highly-rated Empress Palace, including," and he nodded at Randall, "spring rolls along with egg rolls, Mademoiselle's favorite potstickers–"

"Brill!" chortled Olivia.

"–and chicken chow mein and pork fried rice for the traditionally brought-up New Yorkahs," he added, mimicking a Brooklyn twang and Bobby chuckled.

"You didn't forget the beef lo mein?"

"No, sir," and he bowed to Randall.

"The three of you must have done a lot of talking on your bookstore expedition. And you're spoiling these kids," Bobby added, taking charge of the shopping cart.

"I wasn't home enough to spoil mine," Cavanaugh shrugged.

"You still have access to your sources at this hour?"

Cavanaugh flashed the manila folder. "After all this, you want more?"

"One more piece of the puzzle."

Alex had maintained her habit of going for a run each morning, even in that morning's snowy drizzle, but Bobby had contented himself with pacing off the convention hall between panels and during breaks. Thursday night, however, he had the fidgets; at home he usually worked it out in the basement exercise room or played with the kids, but both Olivia and Randall were in quiet mode that night, the former absorbed in the Thurber book and the latter playing a new spy game found online, prompted by the book picked up earlier in the week and vetted as safe by Alex.

She finally looked up from her laptop. "Bobby, you're about to wear the nap off that part of the carpet. Why not call your former partner in crime and get the itch out of your feet?"

He looked a bit sheepish. "I thought of that, Eames, but I didn't want–"

She finished the sentence for him. "–didn't want to subscribe to the Mr. Leave-the-Wife-Stuck-With-the-Kids trope. I know. You're not. I'm spending a welcome evening with my children–"

"Your darling children," Olivia corrected with a grin without looking up.

Alex laughed, then added, "Call Harry before I have to order myself some Dramamine, okay?"

The conference center was still open. Bobby Goren and Harry Cavanaugh matched strides as they passed the Baptist Council exhibition space; although their programming was over for the day, many knots of five and six people stood talking, some holding Bibles, some arguing current politics. Several children scampered back and forth playing tag. In a further corner, teenagers had congregated, some having the look of stereotypical Christian Youth Group participants with rosy-faced high-schoolers in plaid skirts and blouses or white shirts and sharply-creased navy blue trousers, but there appeared to be a rowdier element mixed in—if relatively clean-cut kids in leather jackets and more casual clothing could be said to be rowdy. Bobby noticed that one of them, a tall thin boy with long legs, resembled a young James Dean—if Dean had had his septum pierced and a tattoo on his neck mostly covered by the collar of a button-down shirt he looked uncomfortable wearing. The rest of his outfit consisted of a scuffed black leather jacket and black jeans, shod in Amiri running shoes. He had one of the prim-looking Baptist teens leaning on his left arm, but several other interested young ladies stood listening to him with admiring eyes; despite the female attention, the young man seemed primed for something that wasn't a stolen kiss.

"Even with their cell phones primed, they still do the matin' dance," Cavanaugh observed, amused.

The hall for the Pet Faire was closed. Three food carts on the center aisle were still open, with lines at two, and the other shutting down for the night.

The Writer's Conference was still going full blast, thanks to an open bar event. The crowd was mixed, some participants in suits and evening dresses, some in more casual clothing.

"At least we're not underdressed," Cavanaugh chuckled as Bobby's eyes flicked over the crowd.

"Ah," he said a moment later, "I thought I heard his voice."

Jules Copeland was some twenty feet away with a small crowd of nonfiction authors around him. Although his voice was edged with a touch of hoarseness, he could be clearly heard regaling his audience with a tale about his eldest son, his face beaming with joy as it always did when he spoke of Adlai. Marian Howland was at his right shoulder in a familiar blue wool dress, chiming in with details about Adlai's research for Winter of the Patriarchs.

"Did you want to know what else I found out?" Cavanaugh asked.

"Let's go over what you brought me first," Bobby said, leaning back against the wall watching Copeland's thin hands motion as he talked. "The financials look okay?"

"On the surface. It's more what they don't say than what they do. To sum up all that paper: Copeland Properties profits are down—way down. Everyone took a hit from the pandemic in 2020—and 2021 wasn't a sterling year either, but Copeland hasn't recovered where competing organizations have."

"Coinciding with Henry's assumption of his grandfather's duties? And Copeland hasn't noticed?"

"Ding-ding-ding—correct answer! And Copeland barely looks at the books any longer; maybe the quarterly reports and the end-of-year. So long as everything balances, he leaves everything in what he calls 'Henry's capable hands.' You think the kid is skiving off?"

"All the pieces aren't put together yet, but I don't get that vibe from Henry. You're just telling me he's not the businessman that his grandfather was, but he can't admit it to Copeland. Alex told me he was nearly in tears about something when she spoke to him the other day. That boy's been at the beck and call of 'Grandpa' for almost twenty years, thoroughly indoctrinated. Henry was a tough little boy. He endured his father's death, his mother's capriciousness, and the exile of his favorite cousin. He's grown up under the favoritism, yet the iron thumb, of his grandfather.

"And maybe there's something in Henry that's let loose recently—maybe he wants to be a 'real boy' rather than Grandpa's marionette. Perhaps there really is a 'Madison.'"

"And the...'accidents'? Someone else?"

"Someone with a bone to pick, but not with violence. More a reminder that 'You are not God.' From someone he hurt."

"You said the boy's aunt killed his father?"

"Expecting the boy's mother to kill her own husband. Lena even rented Charlene a copy of Strangers on a Train."

Cavanaugh snorted. "An' look at how that turned out."

"Harry–"

The James Dean boy was walking down the concourse with a teen girl they hadn't seen earlier, bright-eyed with distracting multicolor hair, wearing a duster coat over a trendy retro minidress in traffic-cone orange. They were laughing at some private joke. He said something, she playfully shoved him, and he nudged her back.

"C'mon! You don't mean that," she mocked aloud with a pronounced "Bastin" accent.

A cell phone tweedled a film soundtrack clip; suddenly the Dean boy pivoted, grinning at her and giving her a thumbs up. Then he cut in front of her, breaking into a run and his arm flashing outward as he passed by Copeland and his entourage. Bobby bolted after him with Cavanaugh behind him, but not before the teen had disposed of two eggs which landed "plop! plop!" one beside the wheelchair, one on Copeland's sharply creased trouser knee.

A woman screamed as the noxious scent of sulfur exploded at the same time as did the eggs, several people began to cough, others to retch, and the crowd around the elderly man fled, leaving Copeland gagging and bewildered, and a frantic Henry trying to mop up the effluent mess from his grandfather's clothes.

The workouts in the basement and his daily walk stood Bobby in good stead as he pounded down the concourse after the long-legged James Dean boy, Cavanaugh stubbornly trailing behind him. The teen threw a wild look over his shoulder, then skidded and ducked into the corridor with the chairs, toppling a "closed meeting" sign which Bobby dodged neatly. Then he grabbed at the doorknob to the nearest meeting room and was lucky enough to find it unlocked, bursting into the room and pushing the door shut. Bobby stayed hot on his heels. The room had been used that day and the chairs remained in ordered rows, but the lights were off. The teenager plunged in nonetheless. In his dark clothes, he was nearly invisible, but the flash of his white collar finally clued Bobby in to where he was.

His youthful eyes adjusting to the darkness more quickly, the James Dean boy's flying hands were nearly as quick as his feet he struck folding chairs aside and into Bobby's path as he pelted past and leaped over the final one blocking his way before exiting the opposite end of the room. His breath coming hard, Bobby swerved around three chairs but had to pause to get the final one out of his way, emerging in the smaller corridor, his darting eyes spying the long legs of the teen disappearing into the crowded concourse.

Bobby pushed hard as he raced after the culprit, taking deep breaths as he momentarily stopped to reconnoiter after emerging at the concourse as the chatting remnants of the Baptist convention pointed or gasped as the James Dean boy shoved his way past them—until he noticed several uniformed guards as yet unaware of him at the multi-door exit, and backtracked to take a sharp left into the maw of the exhibit hall instead. Bobby darted after him. It was darkened except for security lights and Bobby saw the teenager trip and catch himself before he also plunged into the dim hall.

It took his eyes a few extra seconds to adjust and see the young man heading for the exit door at the rear. He had abandoned his James Dean jacket, perhaps in a frantic effort to change his appearance.

Bobby took a deep breath and added extra effort to his run, skidding into the young man as he reached the door, blocking the exit.

"Lemme go, dude!" "James Dean" howled like a child. "I didn't do nothin' but a joke."

"Some joke!" Bobby panted, catching his arm. "Stop. We need to talk to you–"

The teen yanked his hand free, wheeled.

Harry Cavanaugh was standing in his way, arms crossed, with two armed security guards on either side of him.

"Goin' somewhere, son?" he asked mildly.

The fire exit door abruptly opened with a loud squeal. Bobby saw the flash of a startled face and a shoe grinding down a cigarette. It was enough distraction to permit the James Dean boy to pivot one final time, make an end run around Bobby, and flee out the door, sending the smoker in the doorway sprawling and disappearing into the darkness.

"Son of a bitch!" Bobby barked, then went to the aid of the shaken man fallen on the concrete outside.

"What just happened?" asked Fred Bannen, dazed.

"You boys finished with your male bonding? I hear we missed all the fun," Alex queried when the two men returned more than an hour later than they had anticipated.

Cavanaugh jerked his head toward Bobby. "Wonder Boy here should have taken track in high school instead of basketball."

Olivia and Randall were already crowded around Bobby. "What happened, Papa?" "Everyone was talking about it, Dad!"

Cavanaugh made a motion of tipping a hat to Alex. "I can hardly wait to see what tomorrow will bring, ma'am. But for now, I'm off to bed. Take care of Roger Bannister heah—I think he's a tad winded."

"In your dreams, buster," retorted Bobby in his best Brooklyn accent as he sank into the sofa.

Alex locked the door behind Cavanaugh as he asked, "You know what happened?"

"Mama went downstairs for more sugar for her coffee and found out there was a sundae-building contest in the buffet area downstairs!" Olivia said eagerly. "You should have seen the one Mama made with maple walnut ice cream and chocolate fudge syrup."

"With mini marshmallows, jimmies, and lots of whipped cream," Randall offered.

Bobby grinned at his wife. "Miss Sweet Tooth strikes again."

"I only made a little one," Olivia confessed. "Lemon sherbet with a lime sauce and then whipped cream."

"Hers was sour," Randall declared. "I made a little one, too, but with coffee chip ice cream, coffee syrup, jimmies, and chocolate-flavored whipped cream with tiny dark chocolate kisses on top in a diamond pattern."

"None for me?" Bobby pretended to be hurt.

"In the freezer. Pistachio with strawberry syrup, chopped peanuts, and whipped cream with sliced strawberries. And while we were stuffing our faces, Marian Howland and some of the other convention attendees came in talking about the teenager who attacked Copeland with rotten eggs. She mentioned that you and Harry gave chase."

"And I flubbed it," was the rueful reply.

"Not how Dr. Howland tells it," Alex said, settling beside him. "She was quite complimentary about you and Harry chasing down the perp, and more grateful that you helped Fred."

"She'll be a bit upset, then, when she discovers Fred has taken another job."

"He's leaving? I thought this was his dream job."

"Let's say that he's about to accept his patrimony," Bobby observed.

"What's that?" Randall asked. He was now sprawled on the floor pillowed on Sam's shoulder.

"It has to do with fathers," Olivia told him.

"I wish you wouldn't sit there like the cat that caught the canary," Alex objected. "At least tell us what happened..."

"What just happened?" Fred Bannen asked dazedly as Bobby helped him up from the stained concrete. He'd scraped his left hand and Bobby whipped out his handkerchief to absorb drops of blood oozing from torn flesh.

"Some kid lobbed two rotten eggs at Jules Copeland a few minutes ago. Harry and I ran him down, but I lost him when you opened the door."

Bannen clapped his hand to his chest, mouth ajar, then groaned. "I am so sorry, Mr. Goren. I- Marian doesn't know I still smoke. Please don't tell her. She hates smokers."

Bobby grinned sheepishly. "I'm not innocent about that vice, but did finally give it up."

"When I get stressed...well, you know, I guess. Do you think the person you chased was the one who played the other pranks on Mr. Copeland?"

"As young as he was? No. Just hired labor."

"We're sure the real perp put him up to it," Cavanaugh said in a tired voice, "not realizing a couple of ex-law enforcement officers were hanging around."

"Well, I apologize for ruining things," Bannen sighed, unwrapping the handkerchief and staring ruefully at his hand. He handed the stained cloth back to Bobby.

"You haven't looked stressed out this week," Bobby said, observing his shaking hands. "You've handled all your convention duties like a pro. Anything I can help with?"

Bannen looked wry. "No, Mr. Goren, it came up just today, and it's all on me. You see, tomorrow I'm giving Marian my notice. I hate to do it, but an opportunity has come up in my field in the family business that I can't pass up."

"Your work with Dr. Howland isn't your chosen field?" asked Bobby curiously.

"Working with books and someone like Marian was an avocational goal," Bannen confessed. "My real love is ones and zeros. I've had five great years with Marian, but it's time to do what I love."

"Putting it that way, I'm sure she'll understand since she's done that all her life."

For a moment, the younger man's eyes flashed, then he nodded soberly. "I think she'll be surprised, though. Thanks for the loan of the handkerchief."

When Bannen was out of sight, Cavanaugh cleared his throat. "Something's going down tomorrow."

Bobby's eyes were still on the spot where Bannen had vanished. "It'll be one for the ages."

"Well, Butch," Alex said with a grin, "while you and Sundance were chasing perps, I found out a little something while I was on 'What's Coming Dot Com'–" Here Alex tapped on her laptop.

"Is this one of those sites about the coming apocalypse?"

"Nothing so dire. Since we'll be in the city in June for the debut of Bruno's journal, I wanted to see if there was anything interesting upcoming on Broadway or new museum exhibits. The site's called whatscomingnyc.com and—surprise!—lists upcoming events." She turned the laptop to face him. "There's also a photo gallery of past events. Does this face look familiar?"

The photograph was of a young couple in evening dress, the man wearing a tuxedo with a bright blue cummerbund, and the woman in a dress matching the blue of the cummerbund. The woman's heart-shaped, almost winsome face was aglow and her dark brown eyes bright against her pale bronze skin, tight dark curls spilling over her shoulders kept in check with a silvery headband that matched the designer necklace she wore. Bobby didn't need to put on his reading glasses to recognize the man's face even as Alex read the caption aloud, "One of the city's most eligible bachelors, Mr. Henry Copeland of Copeland Properties, at the premiere of Merrily We Roll Along at the Hudson Theatre, October 2023, with his companion Ms. Madison Harmon, a rising young Broadway star who makes her principal cast debut in January in the upcoming revival of The Glass Menagerie, in which she plays Laura."

"Our prankster knows his stuff," she concluded. "There is a Madison."

"And Jules Copeland knows nothing about her."

The invitation had come via text and e-mail that afternoon while they were still at the convention center: the Braunvelt Group, as new sponsor of the New England Annual Writers' Conference, was holding a breakfast buffet the next morning in the three interconnected banquet rooms, Stockbridge, Worcester, and Provincetown. All members of the conference and their family and friends were welcome.

"I never turn down free food," Harry Cavanaugh had said cheerily when Bobby, seated on his side of the booth, asked him along, tapping what remained of his pot belly with amusement.

"Then you have something in common with every writer in this assembly," Howland told him. "Writers never turn down a free meal, either."

Friday morning, the conference's final day, found the six of them at the convention center. Neither the Baptist conference nor the Pet Faire was open at that hour so the east wing of the building was echoing and mostly silent, except for scattered groups of people who had wandered away from the banquet halls to chat before the buffet began.

As they came opposite the narrow corridor leading from the rear exits of the banquet and large meeting rooms, Jules Copeland's unmistakable voice bellowed out in fury. "I tell you I won't have it!"

"For goodness sake, Jules," Marian Howland protested. "Henry's of legal age; he should marry whom he wishes."

"Grandfather, please," they heard Henry say in a shaky voice. "Madison means so much to me–"

Four of them were spotlighted in the plain but well-lit hallway, Copeland once again dressed in his best, presumably for receiving accolades as the outgoing sponsor, sitting forward in his wheelchair, his face scarlet; Marian Howland beside him looking appalled; Henry, also formally dressed, looking angry and chagrined at the same time; and next to him an attractive young woman with abundant brown ringlets surrounding a heart-shaped face with arresting dark eyes.

"Bobby," Alex said. "Let's move on," for they had all frozen watching the drama play out before them.

It was too late—Henry had seen them and seemingly grasped at Alex's sympathetic presence as a drowning person scrabbles for a floating object. "Detective...Ms. Eames. Please...you and Mr. Goren, please come help give me the courage to do what I must."

Alex and Bobby exchanged glances, then Alex responded after giving pointed looks at the children, "All right, but keep it civil."

Henry nodded and his grandfather regarded him with astonishment. "Why are we dragging strangers into this situation, Henry? We're partners, we've been so for years, like–"

Alex thought, Please, don't say 'like my Adlai'!" and one look at Bobby's face told her he was preparing for the same words.

Henry cut him off, his face pale but resolute. "They're not strangers, not after seeing us at our worst when my father and Uncle Ted died. And you don't seem to be 'partners' with me on the news I've just given you."

"Well, of course not. They're sensible, having been detectives and all. Maybe they'll set your head straight! For God's sake, boy!" Copeland fumed. "For the past five years, I've introduced you to nothing but the best young women—girls who attended Brearly and Marymount, Spence and Horace Mann, with good breeding from fine families—and you come to me with...an actress? From Plattsburgh? And she's a–"

He cut himself off, but not before Zes muttered from behind Bobby, "A what, Mr. Copeland? A 'mongrel' like my wife's grandmother called her?"

Henry took a deep breath. "You might as well know the rest of it, Grandfather." His voice trembled. "You put such faith in me, and I know I've failed you. But I was never a genius in history like my father, nor one in business like you. You handed the reins of power over to someone who would never be up to the responsibilities..." He almost broke down, but Madison touched his arm and whispered to him, "It's all right."

"Copeland Properties is failing, Grandfather. Our profits have shrunk to the point...well, at the stockholders' meeting last Friday, there was a unanimous vote taken to salvage what's left of the company before it's worth nothing at all. I concurred. We'll be accepting a buyout in April as soon as all the terms are met." He swallowed. "The new company offered me the position of Chief Financial Officer. The finance office was where I should have stayed, sir. That was my strength, not running an entire business."

Copeland's face was scarlet. "I knew nothing of this! Crane, Ross, Lockhart—none of them said a word to me!"

"I asked them not to because it was best that I tell you myself," Henry answered, his face tightening at the mention of his grandfather's team of attorneys. "We agreed it was better that way."

"You...kept...secrets...from me," Copeland said in disbelief. "Me, who–"

He took a deep breath, but his eyes remained afire. "May I ask who's buying the company I so carefully nurtured for nearly seventy years?"

Bobby's mouth restrained a twitch as Cavanaugh suppressed a cough.

Henry's face was pale, but he answered evenly, "The Braunvelt Group."

There was sudden silence as the elderly man's face practically turned puce in fury. "Braunvelt! Christ, Henry...my father was fending off takeover attempts from Herman Braunvelt when I was in fucking–"

"There are children here, Mr. Copeland!" Bobby's voice was sharp.

Copeland glared at him, but finished with a hiss, "–when I was in short pants!"

"It's the one solution we have left, sir," Henry finished. "That—or lose everything."

Copeland collapsed back in the wheelchair, his face paling. "You can't, Henry. For God's sake, let me see if I–"

Henry surprised them. "I'm sorry, Grandfather. The stockholders made their choice and my mind's made up."

"Marian, tell the boy to have some sense," Copeland beseeched.

Howland gave a deep sigh, then replied in a flat voice that stunned Copeland almost as much as Henry's confession had, "No," she said, and walked away. Bobby gave her an almost imperceptible nod, and she set her lips and gave them all a look that said, I'm done with him as she passed by with her head held high.

Henry took Madison's arm. "We don't need him," he told her quietly, then said in a level voice. "If you don't accept Madison, then I don't expect you'll want us escorting you. If you wish to have someone push you, Grandfather, I suggest you call Viktor. He can park the car and come in to attend you."

"Don't be a fool, Henry," Copeland spit.

"No," said Henry. "Not anymore."

"Come," Bobby said gently to the children.

"Why is that man so angry?" Randall asked as they headed to the banquet rooms.

"Because he's used to being obeyed without question," said Alex.

"He needs to meet Brother Michael," was Randall's reply, "and learn about compromise."

"He needed a whack on the knuckles with a ruler from a 1960s nun," Alex grumbled under her breath and Bobby unsuccessfully suppressed a snort.

In the next few minutes, Olivia was round-eyed staring at the buffet table, which contained among the other breakfast standards lobster, oysters, and abalone. "Hou la, how rich are the Braunvelts?"

"Think of a nice version of Madame," Bobby advised, bending over her.

"That taxes my imagination too much, Papa," she said with her nose in the air, retreiving a plate.

Zes said from behind, "Harry said he'd hold five places for us. He'd like some scrambled eggs, a few slices of bacon, a slice of ham, and he said he'd try the biscuits and gravy although he didn't expect much from a northern version."

"I'll take care of it," Bobby said.

When they returned to the table Cavanaugh had chosen, Alex noticed it was next to a handicapped access table, and, in a few minutes, a burly, narrow-faced man with sleek, slicked-back dark hair and shaggy eyebrows, still wearing his chauffeur's uniform, rolled Jules Copeland up to the table. The tycoon seemed to have shrunken since his vitriolic outburst in the access hallway and spoke to the man—evidently, the "Viktor" Henry had mentioned—quietly before fiddling with his place setting and casting eyes around the room.

"Still looking for Henry," Alex commented. "Any reason you picked this spot, Harry? It's a little out of the way."

"Wonder Boy and I wanted a good seat for the floor show."

"Then I think the last player in our drama is approaching," she said with raised eyebrows.

"Hello, Gorens and company," said Fred Bannen.

"What happened to your beard?" Olivia exclaimed.

He had indeed shaved it off, and had his hair cut in a more businesslike style with his part to the left; in fact, from top to toe he had undergone a makeover; his suit, vest, and shoes were all designer-made, his outfit completed with gold studs and tie tack, and the latest model of Apple watch. "I've no need to hide behind it any longer, Miss Olivia. Although I'll probably still have to introduce myself."

"Did Dr. Howland take your resignation amiss?" Bobby asked him.

"Marian actually told me she wondered what took so long for me to find a better job; that I was too talented to be stuck as her assistant for the rest of my life. I feel a little bit sorry now— as I said...Marian's good folks. She even offered me severance pay, but I turned it down."

"I take it you heard about the argument a little while ago," and Bannen nodded in affirmation. "Does she know who you are?"

He looked abashed. "I...uh...didn't have the nerve."

"Or that you were responsible for the mischief played on Copeland and Henry?" Cavanaugh interjected.

Randall dropped his fork and Olivia stared at him outright.

"Oh, you figured that out," was the dry response.

"It was a theory," Bobby explained, "until I found out about your extensive computer experience and degree in computer science. Your pranks were an odd combination of technical knowledge—like the elevator—and a lash of childish revenge as payback for abusive treatment as a child. But you didn't want the young man with the eggs to take any heat, so you saved him yourself."

"I didn't want him taking the fall for my personal revenge, no. If he had, I would have helped him." The young man's eyes grew dark. "Besides, the stench of the eggs and that awful shrimp almondine vomit gave me great pleasure, even if it was childish. I wanted Mr. Copeland to see how it felt to be victimized. Whispered about. Viewed with scorn. Trapped with no way out." He gave Bobby an earnest, open look. "I've probably lost your family's respect, but this week the resentment got the better of me. I promise I'll do better...Detective Goren."

"Good morning!" boomed a voice from the front of the banquet room. "Welcome to the penultimate day of the New England Annual Writer's Conference. Please continue to help yourselves from the buffet, compliments of our new sponsor. In a few minutes, we'll be announcing the exciting news about this sponsorship."

The buzz of the crowd rose to painful proportions for several minutes, then settled down, and they almost missed the figure walking tall to Copeland's table. It was Henry, with a resolute look on his face.

His grandfather raised choleric eyes to him. "Come to beg forgiveness?"

"No, sir," Henry said firmly. "I would defend my fiancée again. And my position about the buyout as well. But Madison and I discussed it, and I'm hoping to make some sort of peace with you at least. You did take care of me with Dad gone all these years and Mom...well, she's in rehab again, so I still have hopes for her. Aunt Lena's...you know...all I have left is you, and Jeff, and I know he doesn't want to speak to me–"

"Who said that your cousin didn't want to speak to you?" asked Bannen abruptly.

Henry looked at him, puzzled, for a brief minute. "Fred? I'm sorry, Fred," he finally apologized, "I didn't recognize you without your beard–"

"Who told you that I no longer wanted to speak to you? It was Grandfather, wasn't it? Because it certainly wasn't my choice. Grandfather returned all my cards and letters to you, blocked my e-mails, had the servants turn away my calls."

Zes gagged on his coffee, looked at the three unsurprised adult faces near him, and protested softly, "You could have warned a guy, Bob."

"I could have been wrong," Bobby murmured in return, his eyes upon Henry, who was slack-jawed in shock, and Copeland, who stared at the nattily dressed young man in confusion.

"Not a chance," Cavanaugh remarked sotto voce.

"Jeff?" Henry uttered, stepping forward and staring into the face of his cousin. "It...it is you! I don't understand."

"Verbannen," Zes spoke up, having learned Dutch from his mother who'd been born and raised in Arnhem.

"'Bannen' is a Dutch word," Bobby explained. "It means 'outcast.' You...um...chose your...pseudomym, as it were, from how you felt."

"Because that's all I was at House Copeland," Jeffrey Copeland said bitterly. "The unwanted offspring of a murderess for a mother and a spendthrift loser of a father—or so Grandpa kept it drilled into my head. I've no excuses for my mother. What she did was heinous—but maybe it was because she was tired of sweeping everything under the rug so things would run smoothly for her martinet father-in-law, or because he finally twisted her mind enough so that she hated her husband as much as he despised him–"

"Your bitch of a mother killed my Adlai!" Copeland hissed.

"And her own 'loser' of a husband to boot?" Jeffrey said with scorn. "I know the history. Even I have to admit that Dad was a lousy businessman. But instead of taking him in hand, and helping him, you kept driving it home how inadequate he was compared to Uncle Adlai. Push. Push. Push! Even as a little boy, I remember." He waved his right hand in the air, an ugly scowl on his face. "Adlai was the sun in the Copeland universe and my dad some miserable airless, frozen, rocky asteroid orbiting Pluto. Not one kind word- He wasn't even dead before you started in on me, putting me in my place, deep in Henry's shadow–"

Comprehension dawned on Henry's face. "Is that why you began playing silly jokes on me, because you were hurt?"

Jeffrey snapped bitterly, "Yes, at least it got me some attention, even if it was the wrong kind. I know we were small, Hal," and Henry started, as if no one had called him by the nickname since his cousin had been swept away by his aunt, "but didn't you ever notice the different way we were treated? Who got the treats, and who was snubbed?"

Henry swallowed and his face twitched as if in pain. "The longer you lived with us...as I got older, yeah." He bowed his head, then said, "That last time...before your Aunt Danielle came for you...I wanted to say something, but..." His eyes shifted to Copeland, who appeared to be preparing to speak. "I kept my mouth shut. I was afraid of Grandpa and knew if I didn't keep my mouth shut, I might end up like you."

"What a lie!" Copeland howled. "I would never treat Adlai's child–"

"Do you even love me, Grandfather?" Henry asked suddenly. "Me, Henry? Or have I always been only that, 'Adlai's child,' something I could never live up to?"

Copeland looked thunderstruck.

"That's a good question, Jules," Marian Howland asked, stepping up behind her protégé. "Was I ever your friend, or an extension of Adlai? I'd be willing to bet now that it's always been the latter."

Then she held out her hand to Jeffrey. "I can't say I agree with your actions, but I was always glad to have known Fred. I hope I'll be as happy to know Jeffrey."

"I'm sorry I misled you," he said soberly. "I didn't want to be judged as a Copeland. I haven't considered myself one for a long time, even though I still legally carry the name."

"I understand," Howland nodded.

Samuel Wallace, the head of the conference committee, returned to the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?" When the conversation had faded to a low buzz, he smiled broadly. "As you may have heard," and he chuckled indulgently, "several times from me, I'm sure, beginning next year the New England Annual Writers' Conference will have a fresh, exciting sponsor. The members of the committee would like to acknowledge our sponsor for the past four years, Copeland Properties of New York City. Thank you, Mr. Jules Copeland!"

Here he indicated Copeland's presence in the audience, and the attendees gave him merely a smattering of applause. The old man, staring with resentful yet hurt eyes at Henry, lifted his chin in acceptance of the lukewarm accolade.

"We're not certain why he honored us with his sponsorship," Wallace continued, "but he came through when we needed him, four years ago, and in subsequent years, and we will be eternally grateful."

"I don't know what's so difficult to understand," Copeland complained aloud, fretful, as Wallace segued into a short history of the New England Annual Writers' Conference. "I've explained numerous times how Adlai favored this conference."

"Did he, Grandfather?" asked Jeffrey unexpectedly. "Or did you get the idea from a series of e-mails and documents Henry found in a folder on his computer?"

Henry stared at him. "How did you know that?"

Jeffrey looked at Marian Howland. "During the pandemic, there was no conference and a danger that any future ones would be cancelled because sponsorship had already been drying up. I was a young intern then, grateful to Marian, who was very unhappy that her favorite writer's conference might die. And then I remembered that Grandfather would do almost anything in Uncle Adlai's name. I...infiltrated Copeland Properties' computer system. I found an old folder of Uncle Adlai's correspondence and from there it was very easy to mime his style and spoof e-mails he'd received from his one appearance here. Like my Aunt Danielle, Marian changed my life. The least I could do was rescue her–"

Wallace's voice boomed from the front of the room, "And now, representing the Braunvelt Group, I am happy to introduce our new sponsorship contact, Ms. Danielle Perkins-Braunvelt!"

The applause was thunderous as the woman Alex and Olivia had met at the Pet Faire strolled on stage, smiling broadly. Instead of being dressed in the formal business clothing of the past week, she wore a long-sleeved cerise silk blouse, black palazzo pants, and chunky heeled black boots, her long dark blonde hair loose on her shoulders. With her formality dropped, she looked even more familiar to Alex.

She said to Bobby, "You know, she reminds me of–"

Next to them, Jules Copeland struggled in his wheelchair, sitting forward, his eyes bulging. "Henry! Henry! What is that woman doing here?"

It was Jeffrey who answered, "Do you mean Aunt Danielle, Grandfather?" He smiled, catlike for a moment, then more genially at the surprise on Henry's face. "She married Damien Braunvelt about the time I graduated high school. Didn't you know? You see, you're talking to the new head of the Braunvelt Group's IT division." He looked hopefully at his cousin. "I'm looking forward to working with you, Henry.

Then he gazed upward so that he faced the woman onstage and she gave him a brilliant smile in return.

Bobby said quietly, "She reminds me of someone, too, Eames. She could almost be a twin of her older sister Lena."

From the journal of Alexandra Eames.

Saturday, March 1, 2025. Afternoon rain. Conference open to public for the final day.

Still wrapping my head around what happened yesterday morning—Bobby's been very quiet, and even Harry quit his country boy act for the duration.

The children know what happened, but I'm not sure they completely understand. Randall tried to frame what he saw in Star Trek terms—he said to Bobby, "I guess the Klingon proverb is right? 'Revenge is a dish best served cold'?"

No "annotations" from Bobby this time—he told Rand, "Revenge is a dish best not served at all. It's never worth it. Remember that."

Olivia has said nothing, but I know she is thinking of Madame, of her maman and Marcel Pepin—I've seen that look before, where she shrinks in on herself and her eyes turn inward. We're keeping her close.

And Bobby? I know his look, too—but is he thinking of Nicole and her syringe of potassium chloride and Bernard Freemont's body on the courthouse stairs? Or of the terrible revenge he was almost goaded into by Mark Ford Brady?

He'll tell me soon, once he gets it straight in his head.

Bobby and Dr. Howland had a busy afternoon in their booth—they put on a good show for their readers, but at the end of the day she packed up and told us she wasn't feeling well and heading home early.

I recognized the look in her eyes, too—the same hundred-yard-stare Bobby had when Dec was led in handcuffs from the interrogation room.

Jeffrey Copeland surprised me—he could have gloated after his reveal, but he didn't—Dad would have said he had the mickey taken out of him. Next time we saw him he was having a heart-to-heart with Henry and Madison, then introduced them to his Aunt Danielle. When he saw us in the hall, he apologized again for his behavior.

We saw Henry once more—he told us his grandfather returned to their suite without touching breakfast, had Viktor pack for him and drive him home, all without a word—then he and Madison were gone, too.

Then today something special happened.

Bobby and I were alone in the booth talking to people who had shown up with public admission—Harry took the kids back to Barnes & Noble to cheer up Min by buying her another Thurber book and calling it a St. Patrick's Day gift—and Randall a Star Trek reference book. Zes paused in his networking a few times to speak to us—seems his publicity efforts have not been in vain, because several war historians—Bobby let slip to me afterward who they were—approached our booth to discuss Bruno's journal.

How Bobby loves when they ask about Bruno!—although there's still that look of pain in missing him, too. Funny, I never thought I could read someone else's heart as well as I could Joe's—maybe because I began to feel Bobby's sorrows long ago...

About three o'clock, before closing ceremonies, Bobby had a lull—then a young man stepped up, early 30s, thin-faced with dark thick hair and a scruff of beard—nervous, almost shy. I thought Min had memorable eyes, but this guy's—intense, grey, so familiar it wasn't just Bobby who recognized him. I knew immediately he'd had something to do with Major Case.

He had a worn copy of The Refuge, and held it out hesitantly—said he knew Bobby was promoting Bruno's story, but that he'd really enjoyed The Refuge and would it be at all possible...

Bobby gave him one of his beautiful smiles, the kind that makes my heart ache—how did I ever let him run off to Albany thirteen years ago? "I know you, don't I?" he said, reaching for the book.

"I'm sure you don't remember me," the guy said, extending his hand—reminded me of Randall. "My name's Robert Clark, but you knew me as–"

I made him then, the same time as Bobby, who practically jumped out of his chair. "Robbie Bishop! So good to see you again! Alex, you remember–"

Oh, I did! The little boy harassed academically by his father—when all he wanted was to play a game of baseball now and again rather than do math, and was denied that—and how gentle Bobby was with him.

He didn't look like that careworn, suicidal child anymore—not just older, but happier, a big grin on his face that we'd remembered him. Living with relatives after his father's arrest looked like it had worked out for the best. I shook hands with him, too—I hope I sounded as happy as I felt.

Robbie—Robert— said he'd seen Bobby's name in one of the newspaper ads for the event. "I brought the book with me just in case—in case you were the Robert Goren who talked to me so kindly...well, about my dad and how I felt about–"

He was still a little self-conscious—Bobby deflected him, asked him where he was living and how he was doing—turns out he's in the North Adams area, still close by the Clarks who raised him—stayed in the math field as a statistician for the Massachusetts Department of Education.

"You still follow baseball?" Bobby asked him finally, and Robbie's face glowed.

"I coach Little League, Mr. Goren. I love it."

We talked a good half hour before Robbie had to leave—I couldn't help compare him to Henry and Jeffrey, both, until this week, trapped in their pasts.

Bobby's always talked about making a difference. Long after Robbie Bishop—Robert Clark—left, Bobby was walking on air.

Me, too.