Lessons in Chemistry(122)

At the mention of Calvin’s name, she felt her chest tighten.

“Strange about Evans, isn’t it?” Wilson said. “No one seems to have any idea what became of his work.”

His casual words hit her like a cyclone. She pulled out a stool and sat down, watching as he poked around the lab like an archeologist, examining a tiny corner of this or that as if it might lead to something much bigger below.

“I know you’ve already made your position clear,” he continued, “but I thought you’d be interested to know we plan to upgrade a lot of the equipment.” He pointed to a shelf where an out-of-date distillation apparatus sat unused. As he raised his arm, a shiny cuff link peeked out from under his suit sleeve. “Like that, for instance. That thing looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.”

But Elizabeth had no reaction. She’d turned to stone.



* * *



—

When Calvin was ten, he’d written about a tall, rich-looking man with shiny cuff links who’d arrived at the boys home in a fancy limo. He seemed to think it was because of this man that the home was given new science books. But instead of being glad for the reading material, Calvin was devastated. I’m here even though I should not be, he’d scrawled. And I will never ever forgive that man, him. Never. Not as long as I live.

“Mr. Wilson,” she said, her voice wooden. “You say your foundation only funds secular projects. Would that include education?”

“Education? Well yes, of course,” he said. “We support several universities—”

“No, I mean, have you ever supplied a school with textbooks—”

“On occasion, but—”

“What about an orphanage?”

Wilson stopped short, surprised. His eyes darted to Parker.

In her mind, Elizabeth saw Calvin’s letter to Wakely. I HATE MY FATHER. I HOPE HE’S DEAD.

“A Catholic boys home,” she clarified.

Again, Wilson looked to Parker.

“In Sioux City, Iowa.”

A thick silence fell, interrupted only by the sudden whoosh of an exhaust fan.



* * *



—

Elizabeth stared at Wilson, her face unfriendly.

It suddenly seemed clear: the job they were offering her was a ruse. They were there for one reason and one reason only: to claim Calvin’s work.

The boxes. They knew about them. Maybe Frask had told them; maybe they’d made an educated guess. In any case, Wilson and Parker had bought Hastings; legally, Calvin’s work belonged to them. They were plying her with compliments and promises, hoping that would be enough to coax the boxes out of the woodwork. But if that didn’t work, they still had one last card left to play.

Calvin Evans had a blood relative.



* * *



—

“Wilson,” Parker said, her voice trembling. “Would you mind? I’d like to speak with Miss Zott alone.”

“No,” Elizabeth said sharply. “I have questions; I want the truth—”

Parker looked at Wilson, her face deflated. “It’s all right, Wilson. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”



* * *



—

As the door latched closed, Elizabeth turned on Avery Parker. “I know what’s going on here,” she said. “I know why you asked me here today.”

“We asked you here to offer you a job,” Parker said. “That was our only goal. We’re longtime admirers of your work.”

Elizabeth searched the woman’s face for signs of deceit. “Look,” she said in a calmer voice. “I don’t have an issue with you. It’s Wilson. How long have you known him?”

“We’ve worked together for nearly thirty years, so I’d say I know him very well.”

“Does he have children?”

She gave Elizabeth a peculiar look. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” she said. “But no.”

“You’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure. He’s my lawyer—this is my foundation, Miss Zott, but he’s the face of it.”

“And why is that?” Elizabeth pressed.

Avery Parker looked at her, unblinking. “I’m amazed you have to ask. I may have considerable assets, but like most women in the world, my hands are tied. I can’t even write a check unless Wilson cosigns.”

“How can that be? It’s the Parker Foundation,” Elizabeth pointed out. “Not the Wilson Foundation.”

Parker snorted. “Yes, a foundation I inherited with the proviso that my husband make all the financial decisions. As I was unmarried at the time, the board appointed Wilson as trustee. As I’m still unmarried, Wilson continues to hold the reins. You’re not the only one who’s fought a losing battle, Miss Zott,” she said as she stood up, tugging hard on her suit jacket. “Although I’m lucky: Wilson’s a decent man.”



* * *



—

She turned and walked away as Elizabeth asked another question, but instead of responding, Avery Parker ignored her. What had she been thinking? Elizabeth Zott was not interested in returning to Hastings, and maybe, based on her pointed questions about Wilson—not to mention all the other issues—it would be better for all if she did not. Distracted, Avery reached up and touched her finger to her cheap daisy brooch. What a foolish woman she’d been. Buying Hastings, coming here, meeting Zott. Yes, she’d always been fascinated by Zott and her research—she’d once dreamed of becoming a scientist herself. But instead, she’d been raised to be one thing and one thing only: nice. Unfortunately, according to both her parents and the Catholic Church, she’d failed at that, too.