“It shook her up. But I didn’t get the chance to take advantage of that. This older guy stepped in and hauled her off. That was the last shot I got at her.” Megan shrugged. “Another reason to blow out of there early.”
She squinted at him. “We’d already met Nikki’s grandfather.”
“Walter G.?”
Megan nodded. “But the guy who showed up to rescue her — she called him Grandpa, too. What gives with that?” Before he could make a comment, she hurried on. “Yeah, of course she has two sets of grandparents. But now that I come to think of it, I’ve never seen nor heard of anybody but the Callivant side — and I looked in all the same books you did.”
“You’d have to look farther afield than that,” Leif said, “if it’s who I think it is. This guy. Balding, iron-gray hair, built like a football player gone to seed?”
Giving him a suspicious glance, Megan nodded. “Sounds like you know him.”
“As it happens, I do. That gentleman is her great-grandfather, Clyde Finch. He’s the head of security for the Callivant clan.”
“He looks only a little older than Walter G.”
“Less than twenty years older, as a matter of fact. Clyde was divorced and came to live in the Callivant compound with his sixteen-year-old daughter Marcia when he took the job as head of security. Less than a year later Walter G. Callivant married Marcia Finch. It was a big, but well-hushed, scandal. Walter G. was all of nineteen at the time, and Marcia was barely seventeen.”
“Nnggggyuck!” Megan said in disgust. “Marriage at that age! She was only as old as we are! What was that all about?”
Leif shrugged. “I can think of at least two reasons, one of them being undying love at first sight. As for the other major possibility — well, the math supports it.”
She gave him another look. “I can only imagine.” Then she looked thoughtful. “We really don’t see much of Grandma Callivant in the popular press, do we?”
“Only photographed in carefully controlled family gatherings,” Leif said.
“Sounds like that happens to a lot of Callivant women.” Megan sounded grim. “What have they got in that compound, a harem?”
“Find out, in Secrets of the Rich and Well-Guarded!” Leif replied in his best holo-announcer’s voice. “Speaking of well-guarded, you might enjoy this historical footnote. Can you name the first cop on the scene in Priscilla Hadding’s death?”
“Was that in the Herzen book?” Megan asked. “I didn’t read that one.”
“You didn’t miss much,” Leif said. “But the fact was mentioned in passing. The cop, by the way, was a fellow called Clyde Finch.”
Megan’s eyebrows rose. “As someone in Matt’s ill-fated sim might say, ‘Is this a clue?’”
The Washington weather was no longer icy. It had gone back to the usual winter standard — mild, gray, and damp — when Matt set off for school the next morning. Even though Bradford Academy was far away from Foggy Bottom, wisps of the gray stuff floated past the windows of the autobus Matt rode on the way to class.
Matt’s morning turned out to be equally gray. The problems that had haunted him lately had eaten into his study time. He was completely unprepared for the chemistry pop quiz. And he’d barely skimmed the reading for English — which showed all too obviously in class discussion. All in all, his morning’s academic performance would have won him an Oscar for the role of Least Prepared Student of the Year.
As soon as he finished eating lunch, Matt headed outside. The weather hadn’t improved any, but he found himself in need of some fresh air.
Matt was standing in the parking lot, looking up at the cloudy sky and thinking that he ought to hit the library before the afternoon nailed him, too, when Andy Moore appeared at his elbow.
“Hunter, you sly devil, you,” Andy said in admiring tones. “You didn’t tell us you’d made a new conquest.”
“What are you talking about?” Matt snapped, not in the mood for his friend’s clowning.
“Your new girlfriend stopped by in her car.” Andy jerked his head in the direction of the street, where a small knot of guys clustered around a gleaming double-parked car. “She specifically asked for Matt Hunter — hey! I heard her!” he protested as Matt swung on him.
“If this is some stupid prank—” Matt began as he headed for the group, Andy trailing behind.
“If it is, it’s not one of mine,” Andy assured him. “I just wish I’d thought of it,” he added in an undertone.
Gritting his teeth, Matt reached the group around the car. Then he saw why so many people were there, gawking. It was a brand-new bronze Dodge concept car, one that looked as if it had just rolled out of the pages of the latest car netzine. Half of the guys were checking out the car. The rest were staring in disbelief at the driver.
She wore a denim jacket, the kind that came lined with an old horse blanket. Matt could tell, because it was way too large on her, and she’d rolled back the sleeves. A bilious green scarf was wound around her neck and up to her chin, and the hat she wore defied all attempts at classification. It was hand-knitted and shapeless, covering all of her hair. The color was somewhere between brown and orange, and the knitter had tried to end up with a flower at the top, but had failed and turned it into a sort of blobby pom-pom.
In spite of the clouds the girl wore sunglasses. Matt’s grandmother once had a pair like them — they were built to go on over regular eyeglasses, and they hid the top third of her face as effectively as a mask.
Matt looked hard at what little of the girl’s face that remained uncovered, trying to find some feature he could recognize. Do I know anybody who’d rig themselves out like this for a gag? he wondered. Megan? Maj Greene? Who’d put them up to it? Andy swears this isn’t one of his gigs. Who else? Leif? Nah, not his style.
Unable to come up with an answer, and positive this was about to blow up in his face, Matt pushed forward. “I’m Matt Hunter,” he said. “Who are you?”
The girl didn’t answer, but for a brief second, she raised the sunglasses from her face. Behind the big, clumsy lenses were a pair of beautiful eyes so blue they were almost violet.
Matt remembered Leif describing eyes like that — and on whom. Without another word, he got into the car.
Nikki Callivant started the engine and pulled away down the street. “It seems I need to talk to you,” she said in a toneless voice.
“Not for too long, I hope,” Matt said, glancing at his watch. “I need to be back in class in about twenty minutes.”
“Is there someplace nearby where we can stop?”
“Rock Creek Park isn’t too far away,” Matt replied. “We could probably find a place to pull up and not even have to leave the car.”
She nodded and began steering the car, following Matt’s directions.
“I guess I have to congratulate you on your — um — disguise,” Matt said as they parked.
“It’s something my mother taught me. It distracts people from noticing one’s face — especially the press. Your hat can never be too ugly.” She gave him a smug smile. “I picked this stuff up at a resale shop.”
Matt glanced again at her crowning glory. “I hope they — er — fumigated it before they put it out for sale.”
Instantly Nikki tore off the knitted monstrosity. Her light-brown hair flew around her face, and the sunglasses tumbled into her lap.
“Well, there was an honest reaction, at least,” Matt said. “What do you need to speak to me about?”
“I met a friend of yours last night,” the girl replied. “She said you were in trouble with my family. Something about a mystery — and an old family problem.”
“Please understand, I didn’t set out to get in trouble with your family,” Matt began. “Nor did any of my friends. We were just playing a game. This fellow developed a new mystery sim, but he based it on an old case.”