The Prodigal Son. Colleen McCullough

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      “Calm down, cuz, of course it’s hypothesis. We’ll cross the bridges as we come to them, but it never hurts to be fully prepared. I can already note that Dr. Millicent Hunter informed the Medical Examiner and the police that she found six hundred milligrams of tetrodotoxin missing from her laboratory refrigerator—what else could she have done? The substance wasn’t named, though it bore a generic poisons sticker—that really is suspicious, Patsy. She’s sure nothing else went missing—hang on.” Carmine slid out of the booth. “I’ll be back in a minute—and lunch is on me.”

      Patrick watched his cousin say something to Luigi, who pushed a phone across the counter. Carmine made a couple of calls, the second one the longer of the two, then returned.

      “Nothing else is missing, even sterile water. The substance in question was coded—no indication of its real identity.”

      “So she can’t be blamed? Ought it to have been locked up?”

      “Given that she locked her lab door even if she was only going to the bathroom, Judge Thwaites would probably rule that the circumstances of Millie’s research routine made locking it up unnecessary, given its anonymity. A white powder in a glass ampoule—it could be anything from cocaine to flour. Honest, Patsy, Millie’s okay.”

      Carmine gave his cousin a look that held as much love as exasperation; one’s children caused torments and apprehensions just not possible in any lesser beings. Patrick was caught in the web of his fear for this most worrisome daughter.

      “You know, I don’t label my stuff poison,” Patrick said.

      “You don’t have to. Your lab is off limits to those who don’t have clearance, especially now there’s a viewing room two floors up for identification,” Carmine said comfortably. “All it took was the installation of an elevator shaft between your floor and ours.”

      “I keep all the known poisons in a safe, of course,” Patrick went on, grappling the problem like a dog an old and meatless bone. “Trouble is, there are so many toxic ways to die, from Drano to household bleach. It used to be much easier when people just used rat or wasp poison—Carmine, don’t let life hurt my Millie yet again!”

      “I’ll give it my best shot, I promise. How long have they been together now?”

      “Eighteen years last September. They’re thirty-two.”

      “What drew them together, Patsy?”

      “I asked Millie that a long time ago, before they went to Columbia. All she said was that their eyes met.”

      “Doesn’t happen that way for many.”

      “Never did for me.” Patrick sounded desolate.

      “Nor me, though I did love the color of Desdemona’s eyes. Like pack ice, that eerie blue.”

      “I deemed them cold. That was why I disliked her.”

      “We do go on the eyes, Patsy, no argument there.”

      Patrick put his hand over Carmine’s on the table. “But not for a long time now, cuz. She’s a great woman, your wife.”

      Carmine changed the subject. “M.M. whispered to me that the Chubb University Press expects Jim Hunter’s new book to be a popular bestseller. It’s about the hand of God in our design for life—I didn’t really get it, but M.M. says that anyone who reads the book will. He read it in manuscript and he’s wild about it. Lucky for Jim that Don Carter lasted as Head Scholar of C.U.P. through to the end of the publication process. Tom Tinkerman, the new Head Scholar, is not a Jim Hunter fan—too Christian in the orthodox sense, brands Jim an atheist.”

      A look of horror flashed into Patrick’s eyes. “Carmine, no! Tell me things are going to continue to go well for Jim! He and Millie need to start a family soon, and they’re counting on extra income from book royalties—Don Carter gave him a generous contract, from what Jim said to me.”

      “And Tinkerman can’t tinker with that, Patsy. I think M.M. is more concerned with making sure C.U.P. throws its weight behind Jim’s book,” Carmine said, wondering if there was anything that wouldn’t alarm Patsy when it came to Millie.

      “Tinkerman is a sanctimonious pedant!” Patrick snapped. “Why the hell did the Chubb Board of Governors give him the Head Scholar’s job? He’s not equipped for it, Jim says.”

      “From what M.M. told me, blame the Parsons. Man, that crew! I well remember them from the Hug case.”

      “And I,” Patrick said, sounding grim.

      “They have this collection of European art, reputedly the biggest and best in America,” said Carmine. “The head of the family bequeathed the collection to Chubb along with many millions in endowments, but he didn’t put a delivery date on the art collection. The surviving Parsons decided to keep the art. M.M. didn’t push, hoping that when they did deliver, they’d donate a gallery to hold the collection. Until the banker guy with the wrong last name had one drink too many at the last Parson meeting with M.M., and told him they figured they could hang on to the paintings for another fifty years.” The broad, handsome face broke into smiles; Carmine’s amber eyes glowed. “M.M. got his dander up—a very dangerous state of affairs.”

      “Jesus!” Patrick’s breath escaped in a hiss. “Did the banker guy fancy suicide, or something?”

      “Must have. M.M. announced that he’d sue very publicly unless the entire collection down to the last Leonardo cartoon was delivered to Chubb’s Curator of Art within a month. The Parsons were fucked, and knew it. Their revenge on M.M.? A new Head Scholar named Thomas Tarleton Tinkerman.”

      “And here was I thinking federal politics were dirty!” said Patrick, grinning. “Still, not a victory for the Chubb University Press. Or Jim.”

      “Care to bet how long Tinkerman lasts as Head Scholar? Not many moons beyond the receipt of the last Parson painting.”

      “But too long for Jim,” Patrick said gloomily, “unless he can hold off on publishing.”

      “I don’t pretend to be an expert on C.U.P., cuz, but I do not think that’s possible,” Carmine said, voice gentle. “Once a book’s in print, it takes up a lot of space. They ship it out.”

      “I don’t think I’ll go on Saturday night.”

      “Patsy, you have to go! Desdemona and I can’t wave all the flags for Jim,” Carmine said sternly. “What would Millie say if you and her mom weren’t there?”

      “Pah!” The fresh, fair face screwed up in disgust. “Millie and Jim are the only reason I will be there, that’s for sure. It seems wrong to give a banquet in honor of someone whom not a soul wanted in the position—even, now you tell me, M.M. Though I guess the Parsons will be there to cheer for Tinkerman.”

      “Bound to be.”

      “At least it’s the relative comfort of black tie,” Patrick said, looking evil. “You won’t have to wear your dress uniform, just your academic robes.”

      “You’ll be in the same boat, Patsy—academic robes.”

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