Chapter Fourteen

At dinner I was seated between Richard and my dad, facing Richard’s parents across the table.

The evening had begun with strained introductions, with Richard’s burly, sandy-haired father loudly announcing that he was “James Muir, but please call me Jim,” while Richard’s mother, Fiona, had stared pointedly at my dad’s ponytail and casual attire.

For my father’s sake, I was glad to see that Kurt had opted for light-gray trousers and a cerulean-blue sweater over a pale-yellow shirt, especially since Richard was dressed more formally than usual, in gray slacks and a navy linen jacket over an ivory shirt. His father was even more severely attired in a charcoal-gray pinstriped suit, white button-down shirt, and a tie.

With his short hair and pewter-framed glasses, Jim Muir looked every inch the investment banker that Richard had informed me he was. He could pose for an advertisement featuring a successful businessman, I thought, especially with his wife by his side. A slender woman whose head barely reached her husband’s shoulder, Fiona Muir was the picture of understated elegance in her midnight-blue silk sheath, navy pumps, and draped silver rope necklaces.

Richard looked nothing like his dad, which didn’t surprise me, since I knew from old photos that he bore a striking resemblance to Fiona’s uncle—the man who’d once owned his house, Paul Dassin.

Fiona, still eyeing my parents with barely concealed disapproval, didn’t meet my gaze. In fact, since our introduction, which had offered all the warmth of a plunge into a frozen pond, she’d studiously ignored me. But her rose-tinted lips did twitch upward when she turned to her left to address my aunt. “Lydia, I do hope we’ll have a chance to get to know one another better. Richard has mentioned you quite often. As did Uncle Paul.”

Aunt Lydia’s appearance and demeanor are obviously more to Fiona’s taste, I thought as I leaned into Richard and whispered, “How did it go earlier today?”

“As expected,” he said under his breath. “Meaning that we’ve almost reached critical mass and an explosion is imminent.”

Kurt took a silver basket filled with rolls from the hands of a young woman dressed in a traditional black-and-white maid’s uniform. “I’m so delighted that you could all join me tonight, but please, relax. No one needs to stand on ceremony in my house. With that said, I’ll start the bread around.” Kurt handed his basket to my father, while the maid passed another to Aunt Lydia.

“Is this Haviland?” Fiona Muir held up a bread plate. The china was so fine that I could see her fingers outlined behind the plate by the light from the chandelier.

“No, Limoges. Early nineteenth century. I do have some Haviland at my townhouse, but I picked up this set in France a few years ago.” Kurt flashed one of his brilliant, toothy smiles. “I thought this particular pattern matched this residence better.”

“Indeed,” said Richard’s mother, laying down the plate as Aunt Lydia handed her one of the bread baskets. “By the way, Kurt, I want to apologize for not realizing that my uncle had a foster son, but honestly, he never mentioned it.” She passed the bread, as well as a butter dish, directly to her husband. “No thanks, I never eat bread. So many carbs.”

Taking the other basket from my mom, Richard plucked out two rolls and placed them on his bread plate.

“Not to worry, Fiona.” Kurt slid a pat of butter onto his plate. “I fled Paul’s house rather unceremoniously at age eighteen. Since I never contacted him after that, I certainly don’t blame him for neglecting to mention my existence to his family.”

“I just feel bad that you didn’t inherit any mementos or anything from Uncle Paul,” Fiona said, before taking a sip of her lemon-infused water. “If you’d like, I could send you something …”

“No, no.” Kurt waved aside her suggestion as if it were a gnat. “I don’t need more things. Just getting to know you and Jim, along with Richard, is gift enough.”

Fiona narrowed her gray eyes and stared at him over the rim of her crystal goblet.

She isn’t stupid, I thought. She’s a bit skeptical of Kurt’s effusive gallantry. As well she should be, judging by the cutting looks he’s been casting her and her husband.

Fiona turned her attention to my mother. “I understand that you have two children, Mrs. Webber?”

My mom swallowed the last bit of her roll before answering. “Please call me Debbie. And yes. You’ve met Amy, of course, and then there’s our son, Scott. He’s two years younger than Amy and is a computer security specialist.”

“Really?” Jim Muir looked up from his plate. “Following in the old man’s footsteps. That’s nice.”

I wasn’t surprised by his interest in this conversation. He’d quizzed my dad about his job within minutes of meeting him and had also shown at least a modicum of interest in my mom’s scientific career.

“Not exactly,” Dad said. “I’m a programmer. He’s in cybersecurity. Somewhat different.”

“Still, both respectable fields and similar enough that you can probably talk shop. It must be gratifying to have that connection.” Jim Muir dabbed a trace of butter from his lips with his linen napkin.

Richard’s extra roll tumbled onto the white linen tablecloth as his hand came down hard on the edge of the plate.

“Of course, Richard has achieved great success in his field.” Kurt leaned to one side, allowing the maid to ladle soup from a tureen into his bowl.

“Yes, you must be very proud,” my mom said.

Fiona Muir cast a quick glance at her husband. “We’re definitely pleased that he finally has a steady income. I mean, the teaching thing is nice. Before … well, you know how unpredictable the arts can be.” She looked up at the maid, who was hovering at her shoulder. “Is there any cream or butter in the soup?”

The maid dipped her ladle into the tureen. “Yes, ma’am, It’s cream of broccoli.”

Fiona laid her hand over her empty bowl. “Then never mind.”

Richard’s spoon tapped against his plate. I didn’t dare look at him.

“Being a creative person can mean feast or famine, I suppose.” My mom narrowed her brown eyes as she stared at Fiona. “But Richard has achieved quite a bit of fame, from what I understand. Based on some videos Amy has shared with us, I can certainly see why.”

Richard offered my mom a warm smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Webber.”

“It’s only the truth. Isn’t it, Nick?”

“It certainly is,” my dad replied. “Frankly, I was amazed. No way could I ever make my body do anything like that.”

“And his choreography is so brilliant too,” Aunt Lydia said.

“That’s all very well, I suppose,” Jim Muir said, after polishing off a spoonful of soup. “But you know it’s not a career that lasts forever. The body will give out eventually, and then where are you? I suppose one can always continue to teach, although that by itself seems hardly lucrative enough to support oneself, much less a family.”

Richard coughed so hard that he had to press his napkin to his lips. “Hot spot,” he said, as Aunt Lydia and Mom eyed him with concern.

I swirled my spoon through my soup and fixed my gaze on his parents. “Have you ever seen Richard dance?”

Fiona twisted one strand of her long silver necklace around her hand. “When he was younger. Not lately.”

“I never have,” Jim said, digging back into his soup. “Not really into that sort of thing.”

“How curious.” Kurt tipped his shaggy white head to one side as he examined Richard’s parents. “I would have thought you’d want to celebrate his work, splendid as it is.”

Jim waved his spoon through the air as he pushed away his now empty bowl. “I’d have fallen asleep anyway. Always do at those artsy things.”

“Well, except at the opera, dear.” Fiona’s overly bright voice was rimmed with anxiety. She looked over at my parents with a smile as brittle as dried leaves. “We went once, but Jim couldn’t make it past the first act. Too much yelling, he said.”

My parents shared a conspiratorial glance.

They’ll have so much to talk about later. I straightened in my chair and gazed directly at Richard’s parents. “Allow me to say that you’ve missed out.”

Jim and Fiona Muir’s gazes both snapped to me. I took a deep breath before continuing. “I was fortunate enough to see Richard dance one of his own pieces not long ago, and it was absolutely one of the most amazing evenings of my life. So I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t have attended every one of his performances that you possibly could. Frankly, I find that extremely odd.”

My aunt’s sharp intake of breath was matched by my mom’s short burst of laughter as Richard’s hand slid over to my lap to grasp my clenched fingers.

“Amy’s one of my biggest fans,” he said, giving his parents a look that dared them to say anything more.

“No doubt,” murmured Fiona, while Jim looked me over as if he couldn’t decide whether I was stupid or simply rude.

“Ah, here comes the main course,” Kurt said as the maid and a male waiter entered the room bearing trays. “Perhaps you’ll eat something now, Fiona? It’s trout, so I promise—no carbs.”

My mother buried her face in her napkin to muffle her giggles.

“Just watch out for the bones,” my dad said, shooting me a grin.

“Thank you, I’m sure I can manage.” Fiona lifted her fork with a great show of dignity.

We somehow managed to make it through the main course without incident, but as the maid cleared away the dinner plates, Fiona mentioned something about being grateful that at least we hadn’t been pestered at dinner by “that awful cat.”

Aunt Lydia tapped her buffed fingernails against the tablecloth. “Oh now, I may not have any pets, but even I think Loie is adorable.”

“My wife doesn’t believe in keeping animals in the house,” Jim said. “I can’t really argue with her about that.”

Dad glanced at Richard. “So you never had a pet growing up?”

“No.” Richard crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his parents. “It wasn’t allowed.”

“What a shame,” my mom said. “We always had a dog or a cat, or both, didn’t we, Amy?”

“Yeah, and Scott’s fish. He went crazy over fish for a while. We had two enormous aquariums in the basement. One saltwater and one fresh.”

“Then there were your hamsters,” Dad said. “What were their names?”

“Cathy and Heathcliff,” I said. “I was a very literary child,” I added, meeting Kurt’s amused gaze.

“And did they yearn for the freedom of the moors?” he asked, with a lift of his bushy white eyebrows.

“More like the wilds of the carpeting,” I said, raising my wine glass in a little salute.

“Did you always want to be a librarian, Amy?” Fiona asked after a brief moment of silence.

“No, I started out in art history. That was my undergraduate major. But when I decided to go to graduate school, I switched gears and got a library science degree. It seemed more marketable, for one thing.”

“Definitely a plus,” Jim said.

I ignored him. “And I’ve always loved books and reading, so it was a natural fit.”

Fiona examined my face with the first hint of interest she’d shown in me all evening. “Do you enjoy it? I would think so. It sounds like such a nice, quiet profession.”

I opened my mouth and shut it again, unsure how to respond.

“Amy is the director of the local public library,” Richard said. “As I think I have mentioned numerous times. Her job isn’t really that peaceful or relaxing. She has to manage the building, the staff and volunteers, and the budget, among other things. As well as assist a wide variety of patrons, including some challenging individuals. It can be quite stressful and demanding.”

“Is that right?” His mother wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips.

“It’s a respectable profession, at least,” Jim Muir said, his pale-blue gaze raking over me and his son.

Richard tapped his dessert spoon against the table. “Unlike mine?”

“Well …” Jim tipped up the front legs of his chair and leaned back. “You know how I feel about that.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “I certainly do.”

Fiona toyed with the edge of her napkin. “Now, Jim, not at dinner.”

My dad made a great show of patting his stomach. “Such an excellent meal, Kurt. Please thank your chef.”

Kurt smiled. “You’re quite welcome, Nick. I’ll be sure to convey your compliments to her.”

Fiona Muir was still studying me. I squirmed until Richard draped his arm around my shoulders.

“Speaking of research, and in keeping with all the news about that poor folklorist,” Fiona said, turning to Aunt Lydia. “Did you know that Uncle Paul planned to write a book about the mountain lights, focusing on the disappearance of those two unfortunate young ladies? I remember him talking about it during one of my visits. I used to try to get to see him at least two or three times a year. He often talked with me about his writing, although he only mentioned that particular book project once. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about that for years. Not until the recent news brought it to mind.”

“No, I never heard him mention it,” Aunt Lydia said.

“Neither did I, but I suppose it might have been after I moved out.” Kurt pushed his chair away from the table and stretched out his long legs.

“Yes, it was late in his life. He’d collected quite a bit of research on the topic, but for some reason he abandoned that book. Or at least I never found any evidence of it when we went through his papers after his death. Of course, I know Richard uncovered some additional materials in the attic during renovations, so perhaps some evidence still exists, although I doubt it’s anything more than notes. Not enough to complete the book, I’m sure.” Fiona met Kurt’s inquisitive gaze with a lift of her sharp chin. “But Paul talked about the concept extensively during one of our visits. He was over eighty at that point, so perhaps he eventually realized that he no longer had the energy to pursue something that complex. It was too bad, because it sounded fascinating when he discussed it with me. That was not long before the one time we took Richard to visit him.”

Richard lifted his arm off my shoulder and stretched it across the back of my chair. “Right, I only met him once, when I was four. I didn’t spend a lot of time with him.”

“Just long enough for him to leave all that money for your dance training,” Jim Muir muttered, before taking another gulp from his wine glass.

I shot him a sharp look, but he was too focused on his drink to notice.

“What was his take on the mystery?” Richard asked.

Fiona shrugged her slender shoulders. “Naturally, he didn’t believe in fairy creatures or any of that nonsense. He was a journalist by training, so he was a stickler for the facts,” she added, addressing my parents.

Dad leaned forward. “Did he think the girls just ran off, or was there more to it?”

I could practically hear the gears clicking in his head. Give my dad a puzzle and he’d jump in to solve it. I smiled as I studied his eager face. Like father, like daughter. “Some people claim the Frye girl ran away to escape her parents’ plan to marry her to an unwelcome suitor,” I said.

Fiona’s cool gaze flickered over my face. “Yes, that was the angle Uncle Paul was pursuing. But he also felt there was more to the story than the tale of two runaways. His other theory would’ve been the premise of his book, from what I gathered.”

“Really? What did he think happened to the girls?” Aunt Lydia asked.

“Oh,” Fiona said, waving her hand in a flourish worthy of a queen, “he thought they were murdered.”