"No good.” John told him about two telephone calls he'd made to Los Angeles. He'd spoken to Valerie Kaufman, Tremaine's editor at Javelin Press, and to Talia Lundquist, his agent. Both said they didn't have copies of the manuscript and hadn't ever seen it. More than that, neither of them knew exactly what was in it.
John shook his head. “Do you buy that? Javelin was paying him half a million bucks without knowing what the book was about?"
"I don't think it's that unusual, John, especially with a celebrity author."
"You're kidding. Is that the way it is when you write something?"
Gideon laughed. Having published one extremely esoteric graduate textbook and several dozen scholarly articles and monographs, he knew little about half-million-dollar advances. Or any other kind of advances.
"Not in my kind of writing,” he said. “The American Journal of Physical Anthropology lures its contributors with glory, not gold. And I have to send in detailed abstracts first. But I'd think someone like Tremaine would be in a different league. Anything he wrote would be as near to a guaranteed best-seller as you could come."
"Yeah. Well, Javelin knows it's about the expedition and that there's some sensational stuff that hasn't ever come out before.” He took out his notebook and flipped it open. “'Dissension and jealousy among crew, open conflict…'” He glanced up. “'…and murder.’”
Gideon put down his fork. “Murder? So they do know-"
John shook his head. “All they know is that there was a murder. That was all he told them."
Not who had been murdered, or by whom, or how, or why. Those little matters he'd preferred to keep to himself. But it had been enough for Javelin. Now, of course, with Tremaine dead-sensationally dead-they were desperate for a copy themselves.
"There has to be one somewhere,” Gideon said. “I can't believe he wouldn't have a backup copy."
"If he did, no one's seen it. From what I hear he was a little paranoid about copies."
There was an agitated barrage of knocks on the door. “Inspector! Inspector!"
John looked at Gideon. “Jesus, what now?"
"It sounds like Elliott Fisk,” Gideon said.
It was. “I want to report a crime,” the dentist blurted as John yanked the door open.
"What happened?"
"My diary's been stolen! Well, not my diary, my journal. Well, not my journal-"
John stepped back from the door. “Why don't you come in and sit down, Dr. Fisk?"
"I don't want to sit down,” Fisk said petulantly, but he came in anyway and took the chair John had been using to prop up his feet. He glanced at Gideon and looked with distaste at the half-eaten lunches. “I want you to do something,” he told John. “It was my uncle's journal."
"Your uncle was Steven Fisk?” John turned the other chair backwards and sat down, forearms crossed on top of the back.
"Yes, of course."
"And this was a personal journal he kept?"
"Yes, yes, of course.” He was wiggling with impatience. “At the time of the expedition. It went to my father with his belongings when he died. My father was his brother."
"Uh-huh. What makes you think it was stolen?"
"I don't think it was stolen; it was stolen. A blue, diary-type notebook. I had it with me in the dining room this morning when I was having breakfast with the others. I left it on my chair when I went to get Professor Tremaine. That was when…” His eyelids flickered. “Well, you remember."
John nodded.
"When I realized I'd left it and came back later it wasn't there."
"Did you check with-"
"I checked with the help. They hadn't seen it. And with the others. They all claimed they hadn't seen it."
"Are you sure you had it with you? Did you look in your room?"
"I had it with me. I brought it for the session we were supposed to have.” He shook his head decisively. “Oh, it was stolen, all right."
"Uh-huh. Who would want to steal your uncle's journal?"
"Shirley Yount,” Elliott replied promptly.
"And just why would Shirley Yount want to do that, sir?"
"Don't patronize me, Inspector,” Fisk snapped.
"Sorry,” John said amiably. “Why do you think she took it? And I'm not an inspector."
"Because she was afraid of what was in it, naturally. She's afraid my uncle told the truth about her unspeakable sister. And he did. Oh, he certainly did."
"Her sister was Jocelyn Yount? Steven's fiancee?"
John knew more than he was telling Fisk; he just liked to hear things more than once. Gideon had already told him about the angry exchange he'd walked in on between Fisk and Shirley Yount the day before.
"Yes, and she was like a stone around his neck. Steve deserved better than her. He was a brilliant student.” Behind his beard, pale lips stretched in a catty smile. “Which Tremaine realized only too well. Steve did all the work, and the great Tremaine did all the publishing-with no credit, of course. That's all in the journal too. Oh, yes. With verification. You should have seen Tremaine's face-"
"What's this got to do with Shirley Yount, Dr. Fisk?"
Fisk bridled at being interrupted. “I was about to tell you before you got me off the track. Her sister was a tart. Can I be any plainer than that?"
"Did you know Jocelyn Yount yourself, Doctor?"
"Well, no, I didn't actually know her. But it's all in the journal."
"And you think Shirley stole it to protect the memory of her sister?"
Fisk turned to Gideon with a little moue of exasperation. At least, Gideon thought it was a moue. “Didn't I just say that?"
"I suppose you did,” John said with a quiet smile. “How would she know what was in the journal?"
"Everyone knew. I told them about it yesterday afternoon. It came up during the meeting."
"If they knew about it, and if they were with you in the dining room this morning-they were, weren't they…?"
"Yes," Fisk said with an imploring look heavenward. “My God, how many times do I have to repeat this? I wish you'd write it down if you can't remember."
"Then how do you know it was Shirley?” John said in the same calm voice. “Why not one of the others?"
Gideon marveled at his equanimity. John did not have a quick temper, exactly, but neither was he the most restrained of men, at least not in the many heated, arm-waving discussions he had had with Gideon over the years. This was business, though, and that clearly made it different. Besides, John had spent over an hour with Dr. Wu that morning; Elliott Fisk was child's play in comparison.
All the same, Gideon thought, if it were me I would have kicked the guy by now.
"It was Shirley Yount,” Fisk maintained. “Now are you going to do something about it, or are we going to sit here talking about it all day?"
"We'll do something about it, sir. I appreciate your telling me about it. I'll be in touch."
Fisk looked at Gideon again. “I gather I'm being dismissed."
John laughed good-naturedly and opened the door for him, then came back and picked up the last of the chicken pieces.
"John,” Gideon said. “I think you're actually mellowing."
"That's the way they teach us to do it at the academy.” He gnawed contentedly at the wing bone, searching out and finding the last resistant scraps of meat with his teeth. He was sitting on the base of his spine, with his feet back up on the other chair. “But inside I'm a mass of seething tensions."
"I can see that. It's terrifying.” Gideon finished the last of the salmon, slid the plate away, and popped up the lid on his coffee. “Do you think someone really stole his journal?"
"Someone, yeah. Maybe even Shirley, But not to protect her sister's memory. “I can't see that. Why should she care what Steve Fisk wrote in his journal all that time ago?” With the nail of a pinky he went after a shred of chicken between his lower incisors. “Why should anyone, for that matter?"
"I don't know. I'm betting it's got something to do with the murder, though."