Catching the Wind(3)

Lady Ricker was an American citizen who’d married into a wealthy upper-class British family before the war, becoming the wife of an astute Member of Parliament, and according to a memorandum in one of the files, she’d admitted to being sympathetic to the Nazi cause. The British government suspected that her ladyship had assisted the Nazis during World War II, but so far, Quenby hadn’t been able to find any documents with solid proof that she’d operated as an Abwehr spy.

She’d located the obituary for Lady Ricker in the Kent and Sussex Courier. February 8, 1953. Lady Ricker was survived by a son and daughter at the time, but Louise McMann was the only child who remained now. Since Mrs. McMann refused to answer questions, Quenby would contact Lady Ricker’s grandchildren to request an interview.

Not that Mrs. McMann wanted the world to know her mother might have participated in German espionage, but she’d thought the woman might be willing to share her family’s perspective in the article, even if it was to declare Lady Ricker innocent of the accusations. Or perhaps give a reason as to why Lady Ricker had betrayed her country.

If Lady Ricker was innocent, Quenby would write a story about the difficulty deciphering who was innocent and who was guilty of espionage during World War II. An article about trust and deception and witch hunts—today and in the past—sparked by fear. Chandler might ax her story even before Evan Graham, the owner of World News Syndicate, saw it, but it would be the truth.

She took a long sip of the milky tea she’d brewed an hour ago. In her mind, journalism was a science that educated society about both past and present in hopes of bettering it, keeping people accountable for their actions and informing them about the past so they wouldn’t repeat mistakes. In the mind of Mr. Graham, it was more about keeping a dying industry alive and, of course, selling papers. If people stopped paying for news—online or off—Quenby wouldn’t have a job.

As president of World News Syndicate, Mr. Graham wasn’t afraid of a little conflict. Or a lawsuit. His family had been in the business of news for more than sixty years.

A breeze blew through the park below her flat, curling the fog into strange shapes over the pond’s surface. Then a ray of light pierced through it, a spotlight on nature’s stage.

Cue the actors—otherwise known as mallards—along with the pods of water lilies that had tucked themselves away for the night. In another half hour, she figured, the curtain would rise on them all, and she’d have to make her way to the office for her own performance during their team’s Friday morning editorial meeting.

Right now, she had about as much clarity as the foggy park below. Without the help of Lady Ricker’s descendants, there would be no story. And Chandler might unravel in front of the whole team if Quenby didn’t have at least a lead.

Her mobile phone rang, and she glanced down to check the number, but there was no ID. Perhaps Mrs. McMann wanted to talk after all.

Quenby rotated her mug so it aligned perfectly along the table’s dark oak before answering the call. “Hello?”

“My name is Lucas Hough,” the caller explained. “I’m looking for Miss Vaughn.”

Standing, she stepped toward the window. “How can I help you, Mr. Hough?”

“Is this Quenby Vaughn?”

“It is.”

“I’m a solicitor in London.”

Her heart felt as if it skipped a beat or two. Had Louise already contacted her lawyer?

“I have a client who would like to meet with you.”

She leaned against the table, the fog-infused shapes over the park shifting below her. “Why does your client want to meet?”

He chuckled, a low, amused sound that startled her. Was he laughing at her?

“I don’t find any humor in that question.”

“My apologies,” he replied. “Most people would inquire as to who wanted to meet with them before they asked about details.”

She glanced at the microwave clock. The editorial meeting started in an hour. “I believe I can decipher both the who and why in one shot.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Hough said. “My client is Daniel Knight.”

He said Daniel Knight like she should know the name, but she didn’t recall contacting anyone with the last name of Knight for any of her recent articles.

“You still haven’t explained why your client wants to meet with me.”

“Mr. Knight would like to hire you.”

She reached for her mug but didn’t take a sip. “He wants me to write a story?”

“No,” Mr. Hough said. “He wants you to find someone.”

She sighed. “Then your client should hire a detective.”

“He already has, but none of the investigators were able to find this person for him.”

Her mug clasped in her hand, she moved down the narrow hallway, into her bedroom. A stray pair of jeans hung off the side of a woven basket at the end of her bed, and she stuffed them back inside. Laundry would be the first order of business over the weekend. “I’m a writer, Mr. Hough. I find people so I can tell their stories.”

“This story is quite remarkable, but Mr. Knight wants to hire you as a researcher instead of a reporter.”

She set her mug on top of a book on her nightstand and pulled a pair of clean jeans and a white blouse from the wardrobe, spreading her clothes across the end of the bed. Then she arranged her slippers neatly underneath.