Windswept (7 page)

She turned to look up into the square, bespectacled face of Horace Glover. The man had obviously been reading over her shoulder.

“Hello, Horace. How are you?” she said as nonchalantly as she could while she put the envelope under the others and gathered the bundle in her arms.

“Splendid!” Horace boomed. “Heard you received a grant to study those plantation papers you mentioned earlier. Congratulations!”

Barrett cringed inwardly. Horace’s manner of perpetually projecting his deep voice as though he were in front of an auditorium almost hurt her ears in an enclosed space like the mail room. What a contrast with the soft-spoken Mr. Jamison. Davis made you think your hearing was going while listening to Horace made you wish it were.

“Thank you,” she answered and maneuvered around his well-kept body toward the door. He must have just come from the gym and his well-known squash game; the scent of his after-shave was too strong to be hours old. Horace took care of himself, she’d agree there. For a man in his early fifties, he looked trim and fit. Too bad his mind wasn’t as clean as the rest of him.

“So, tell me,” he asked with an earnest expression on his face and a more modulated tone of voice, “is the collection as extensive as you thought it was? If I remember correctly, I wrote about a member of the Jamison family in one of my books on the war in Virginia. You know, I’m concentrating on the war along the Mississippi now, and I’m very interested in any correspondence or accounts of life along the river--military correspondence, or better yet, a diary. I’m available this summer if you need any help deciding what might be valuable.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and continued, “Or if you need help with anything else. I could still be a big help to your career, you know.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Barrett said, keeping her tone as noncommittal as possible. “Excuse me, Horace, I have an appointment and can’t stay to talk.” She walked out of the mail room and down the hall as quickly as she could without appearing to run, but she could feel his pale blue eyes boring into her back. She’d better head home. It would be just like Horace to trap her in her office to discuss the scope of the Windswept collection or his “. . . help with anything else.”

Damn! She thought she’d discouraged him on that particular idea. As for Windswept, how did he know about the grant already? She could only guess Horace had seen a copy of the draft memo she and the department chairman had sent to Houston. Like one of the generals he studied, he seemed to have spies everywhere. He’d probably charmed it out of one of the student helpers in the office.

But, what did he mean, “. . . as extensive as you thought it was?” She knew she’d never told anyone how truly rich the papers were. Horace must have just been “reconnoitering,” as he would call it in his military history jargon, scouting out the territory, testing her to see if there were any journals or letters worth “liberating” from Windswept.

Over her dead body. Conniving jerk.

She entered her office and closed the door behind her. She didn’t even turn on the light, just crammed the envelopes into her briefcase. After ever so quietly opening the door and peeking carefully up and down the hall--good, nobody there--she locked her office and walked quickly toward the back stairs.

As she made her way out of the building, she considered the situation with Horace. Why couldn’t the man have made some other conflict besides the American Civil War his specialty? There were lots of good wars to study--world wars, Napoleonic conflicts, Viet Nam--to name a few. Why did he switch this year from studying the war in the East to concentrate on the Mississippi campaigns, a decision putting both of them literally on the same ground?

Wait just a minute. When had he made the switch? When she joined the department three years ago, Horace had been a strictly Robert E. Lee-Stonewall Jackson-Ulysses S. Grant-William T. Sherman military historian, concentrating on the war in Virginia, Tennessee and Georgia.

Then, last summer, after their little contretemps over the “anything else,” he’d announced he was going to do some research in New Orleans. A couple of her colleagues had muttered suggestively about Horace finding “hot sources in the French Quarter.” She’d thought no more about him. But Edgar Jamison had called her in September to come to Windswept, and only after she had returned, all bubbly with anticipation, Horace had started talking about changing his theater of war.

What did Horace know about Windswept? He’d never mentioned it specifically by name, and Edgar had never mentioned him. Maybe he knew nothing except what he’d picked up on the department grapevine, and he’d decided to get back at her for her refusal to accept his “help.”

Or maybe she was so hyper she was jumping to conclusions, acting like a conspiracy theorist who saw plots behind every bookshelf. She thought she’d outgrown that character flaw.

Maybe his change of focus was just a coincidence. He was looking for a new topic to study and expanded on his existing knowledge base. He hadn’t produced a book in several years, come to think of it, and she didn’t remember announcements of any recent articles. Maybe he was looking for a topic to revitalize his juices--his historical juices, that is. Or did his other juices need a certain pill?

Or maybe she was letting her dislike of him color her judgment.

And, most of all, why was she worrying about the man at all? She had enough to think about without wasting time looking for answers to unimportant questions.

She crossed the parking lot, dumped her briefcase and bag in the back of her car, and drove home, running mentally through her to-do list and hoping she could make it through the exams by tomorrow. The sooner she finished her tasks, the sooner she could be in Houston and dive into the Windswept records.

***

By the fifteenth of May, Davis was beginning to feel like he was back in control of his life. His grandfather’s estate was proceeding toward probate, the investors for his latest project were enthusiastically coming on board, and his accountants and lawyers had established the grant for Barrett Browning.

She’d be here soon, and he wondered what his house would be like with her in it. He still felt uneasy about her being there. He hadn’t lived with a woman for a long time. He’d made up his mind he never would again. But he wouldn’t be “living with” Barrett, and she wasn’t a guest; she had her own work to do. He doubted he’d see her much. The thought caused him a pang of disappointment, but he ignored it to think of the bright side of his situation.

Lloyd had not bothered him further.

Best of all, he could leave for Washington and New York in two days, secure in the knowledge his associates and Peggy Murphy could handle whatever came up here.

He came back from lunch with plans for a productive afternoon ahead--until he walked into Peggy’s office. His middle-aged assistant was smiling like a school girl at the man who sprawled in the chair across the desk from her. Then Davis recognized the guy--his brother Bill. His too-good-looking-for-his-own-good younger brother who could charm the socks, and other pieces of clothing, off any woman alive. His profligate, irresponsible, unemployed, living-off-his-trust-fund brother.

Davis ground his teeth and shook his head. He had to get Bill out of his office quickly or see all his efficient plans shot to hell. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Bill turned and rose, an earnest expression on his face. “I really need to talk to you, Davis,” he said.

Davis grunted. He thought he had a pretty good idea what was coming. Bill looked like an eager puppy dog--which never boded well. Better to get it over with. “Come on in.”

He led the way into his office, and when they were seated, he asked, “What got you off the golf course?”

“I have an opportunity I think will interest you. I met a man named Bob Hochstapler at the Cooper’s cookout.” Bill proceeded to show him a brochure and lay out a proposal for a company in which he wanted to invest. “All I need from you is authorization to use some of my trust fund, maybe get an advance on my next quarterly payment. I never understood why Dad set up the fund this way, but since you’re the administrator, I need your blessing. What do you say?”

“You know why Dad made me administrator, Bill. First, you weren’t old enough at the time, and second, he didn’t think you were developing the proper business abilities.”

“I was only fourteen, for crying out loud. I’m twenty-eight now.”

“And the principal’s not yours until you’re thirty and you still haven’t exhibited the slightest bit of business acumen. My role as administrator is to save you from hare-brained schemes like this one. No, you can’t have the money. Hochstapler is as shifty as they come, and this company is a crock, which you would have found out if you had done some homework on it instead of listening to a siren song from a con man.” Davis was disgusted, but he wasn’t sure if his feelings were directed at Bill for falling for the scam or at himself for not stopping the tale the minute he heard Hochstapler’s name.

“But, Davis, I know this is a good deal. Look to the names of the people who are already investing.” He pulled a piece of paper out of the brochure and held it out to Davis.

Davis glanced briefly at the list and handed it back. “No, Bill, it’s not a good deal. The word’s all over town about what a shyster Hochstapler is. His list is as phony as he is. Did you try to call any of those people? Or do some research on Hochstapler himself? Don’t you ever learn?” Davis felt himself growing angry and put a damper on his emotions. Yelling at Bill never went anywhere; the words just slid off his brother’s expensively clothed back.

In the vague hope of reaching Bill’s tenuous common sense, he said instead, “Do you remember what happened the last time? How much money you lost? Remember what I said then? The only way you’re going to have any cash to invest in these idiotic deals is to stop living so high and save some. I can’t control the money you do receive once you have it, but I won’t give you a penny out of the trust principal or an advance on the next quarter. Now, get out of here. I have work to do.” Davis turned to the papers on his desk and pointedly ignored his younger brother.

Bill sputtered for a few minutes, but Davis, without raising his head, simply pointed his finger at the door. Bill left, and Davis looked after him for a few seconds. Bill had been the baby of the family, eight years younger than himself, four years younger than their sister. Their mother had spoiled him rotten.

Their father hadn’t, of course. The old man had done nothing except work himself to death, and he paid hardly any attention to any of his children, except when they didn’t meet his expectations to make something of themselves. And especially when they showed any signs of “weakness,” manifested in lower grades or failure to excel in extracurricular activities. Davis had not been surprised when his father’s will put him in charge of Bill’s trust fund. Dad had always complained about Bill’s lack of drive, ambition, and seriousness.

The result of their upbringing was clearly seen in the three of them. He and his sister were successful business people. They had majored in business subjects and both had MBAs. Dad had died when Bill was fourteen, and Mother had let her youngest do whatever he wanted, despite Davis’s arguments to the contrary. All Bill had from college was a useless liberal arts degree. Their mother claimed he had simply “not found himself yet.”

Well, Davis hoped Bill made the discovery before he reached thirty in two years when the trust fund principal would be turned over to him. Davis would give his brother hell if he squandered the large sum the way he did his quarterly allowance. He’d protect Bill all right, right into a decent job and a more sober outlook on life.

Davis shook his head at both of them, Bill for his naiveté and refusal to use common sense and himself for letting Bill sidetrack him from his work. He picked up the phone and got back to business.

Chapter Five

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

October 21, 1830

A blustery day with, thank goodness, a hint of autumn in the air after the oppressive heat of the summer.

I never realized how much work was required of a plantation mistress, especially for an establishment as large and thriving as Windswept. My summer revolved around the gardens, and I am pleased to write that our vegetable harvest has been outstanding. We are preparing the soil for the winter crop and Edgar has supervised the building of three brick pits with sloping windowed roofs to act as hot houses for out-of-season vegetables. Mother has sent me seeds for some of my favorites from Mobile and I bought more on our last trip to New Orleans. I can’t wait to plant them. Our herb garden was extremely prolific, and the kitchen and laundry have drying bundles of plants hanging from almost every inch of their ceilings.

I do wish some of our servants were as easy to train as the bean plants and squash vines. Annie, thank goodness, is a wonderful cook, knows her business and does it. But Bertha must be watched or we would never have a clean set of bedclothes to our name. And little Evelyn, who so begged to be allowed to help in the house, is downright lazy. I must speak to Edgar about putting her to work elsewhere.

Edgar. Every day I love him more deeply. He has been so busy after firing the overseer. The man, a holdover from his uncle, was cheating us! Unfortunately, the scoundrel ran off (some said to Texas) before E could summon the law. Good riddance! And good news today when E told me he had found a new overseer, one with excellent references. Now I may see more of my loving husband.

I hope so, as we have been married for over seven months and our family is not growing. E, the naughty man, said he was looking forward to “long winter nights” to do something about that very matter. Even though the subject was risqué, I couldn’t help laughing with him. In fact, we laugh together a great deal. Living with this man is downright pleasant.