“And what do you think?” Matt asked.
“I don’t like either extreme. Enough strange, sad, and stupid things happen to any family over generations. When the family is famous, the media tends to play up those events. On the other hand, rich families can afford the kind of lawyers who lay down a smoke screen as a matter of course. And a lot of police forces aren’t exactly gung-ho about investigating prominent pillars of the local community.”
“What did Walter G. have to say?”
“When the cops finally talked to him — he was in a private hospital for shock or a hangover or something — Walter G. wasn’t very helpful. He said he and Silly made out a little — they were a semicouple, as I recall — then they split up, and young master Callivant drove home.”
“He didn’t take Silly — the girl — home first?” Matt felt silly, using that upper-crust nickname. And he couldn’t believe that any boy would leave a girl stranded at a party, no matter how ritzy.
“Apparently, she wanted to stay.” Leif turned to his friend with an odd expression on his face. “You’ve never been to that kind of party — and you should probably be glad. The rich really are different, in one way especially. They’re very fond of getting their own way. The two kids may have had an argument, and one or the other went storming off. It could even have happened the way young Callivant told it. The girl could have dismissed him. ‘Run along, now. I’ve got other fish to fry.’”
“You make it sound—so unpleasant,” Matt couldn’t help saying.
“I told you,” Leif said, his mocking smile completely gone. “Being rich is no bowl of cherries.”
He lounged back on his uncomfortable-looking seat. “So, now that you’ve gotten some of the gory details — and a whole lot of conjecture — what are you going to do with the information?”
Now it was Matt’s turn to shrug. “I have no idea,” he confessed. He held up his hand. “No. One thing I do know. I won’t be detecting very much in that sim, unless the player who’s been snooping around confesses to Ed Saunders.”
“I hope you’re not holding your breath on that possibility,” Leif told him. “Otherwise, you’ll end up looking like this.” He frowned for a moment in thought, then his face turned bright blue. It was one of the joys of being on the Net — virtual special effects on command.
“You don’t think the hacking will stop?” Matt asked.
“Oh, it may stop,” Leif replied. “But I can’t see anyone admitting to it. After seeing what happened to your pal Saunders, do you think these guys are going to nominate themselves as targets for the Callivant lawyers’ brigade?”
Leif had almost forgotten Matt’s visit as he wrestled with the intricacies of tying a black silk bow tie. The Delmarva Club was strictly old-fashioned. Formal events meant black tie and tuxedo — even if it was an event for the “young people.”
Looking in his mirror, Leif had to smile. He looked good in a monkey suit — although, he also had to admit, that was true enough for most males. His formal suit had been hand-tailored to make the most of his slim frame, and the red hair above his slightly sharp features glowed like a flame. The effect was that of a very well-dressed fox.
Leif bared his teeth at his reflection as the internal phone system sounded. It was the doorman, reporting that his ride had arrived.
Arriving downstairs from the penthouse, Leif stood for a second in disbelief. His pal Charlie Dysart had gone all-out for tonight’s little excursion. The car was a classic, a beautiful vintage Dodge gleaming as if it had just come out of the showroom.
“Charlie, you’ve definitely outdone yourself,” Leif said, shaking his head. “I know your dad collects cars, but how did you—”
“What Father doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” replied young Dysart, in a rig even more resplendent than Leif’s. His dark hair was slicked back in the manner of some long-forgotten flatfilm personality. “At least it won’t hurt until he happens to check the odometer on this baby.”
The trip from Washington to the Wilmington suburb of Haddington was about ninety miles. Yeah, that would put a sizable change on the mint car’s mileage.
Leif got in. “By the way,” Charlie said as they pulled away, “did I mention that you’re paying for the gas?”
The winding country road made for a welcome relief from the interstate, where Charlie Dysart had done everything but play bumper cars with his father’s valuable collector’s item. Leif hoped he hadn’t sweat through his tux.
The Dysarts were an old-money family who had invested well. Their family fortune had recently enlarged nicely, thanks to Leif’s father. They spent their time on charity, hobbies, counting their money, and — in Charlie’s case — being outrageous.
That was part of the reason Charlie’d invited Leif along for this road trip. The Delmarva Club was a fortress for the old, privileged families of Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia, as the club name suggested. Members’ families were expected to have fought prominently at least in the Civil War, if not in the Revolution. It was not a place where the firstborn son of an immigrant billionaire would be warmly welcomed.
Before his exciting ride, Leif had expected the evening to be deadly dull. Still, if Charlie wanted to rile the old-line members, the least Leif could do was go along with the plan.
Charlie had finally slowed down on the pitch-black country lane. Leif could barely make out the fieldstone wall to one side. Then, suddenly, he spotted light ahead, streaming through a pair of open iron gates. Charlie piloted the Dodge into a turn.
Gravel crunched under their wheels as they moved toward a pillared house that would have made a perfect set for a Civil War movie. They swept round a circular drive, where Charlie turned the car over to a valet parking attendent.
A moment later, they were inside the house, and sober-faced servants removed their overcoats as Charlie produced his invitation. Then they were heading into a ballroom.
The glittering crystal chandeliers were from another age, contrasting with the slightly shabby carpeting — typical of any WASP enclave — and the sedate clothing of the Delmarva Club’s younger generation.
There was a band that managed to make any music it played seem twenty years older than it really was. And through some subtle magic — Leif’s father called it “the cursed Society Beat”—there was no way to dance to the tunes.
The refreshments were, in finest Anglo-Saxon tradition, tasteless and also nonalcoholic. Leif was sure there was some spot outside, away from the eyes of the chaperones, where discreet hip flasks appeared.
Those chaperones, by the way, were congregated against the rear wall of the large room, looking about as bored as Leif felt — except for one older woman. She stood ramrod stiff, her short white hair in striking contrast to the black dress she wore. Her eyes seemed to glitter as she greedily took in the sight of the dancing teenagers.
Charlie Dysart followed Leif’s gaze. “Creepy, huh? That’s old Felicia Hadding. The town’s named after her family. For more than forty years, they tell me, she’s turned up at every youth party. Always the same. Dressed in black, and ready to jump on anyone who does anything out of line.”
Leif stood very still as a couple of other facts came swimming up from his memory — bits of the long-ago case that he hadn’t told Matt. Priscilla Hadding had died on a back-country road in the society hamlet of Haddington, Delaware. And her mother had been a widow named Felicia Hadding.
“Any reason for that?” Leif asked through suddenly dry lips.
Charlie shrugged. “She lost her pride and joy in some accident after a party. I don’t know why she doesn’t join one of those groups against drunk drivers instead of ruining everyone’s fun.”