They were both great people, and Vickie wanted them to get together. She wasn’t matchmaking; if they happened to like each other, that would be great. If not, it was just a dinner with friends.
Vickie’s pretense to have Roxanne join them at dinner was that she was worried; Alex had taken quite a beating when he’d gone down. Vickie had said that she was afraid that she’d be ridiculously emotional, embarrassing everyone, if they were alone.
Dumb excuse, yes. And Roxanne had finally accused her point-blank of trying to set her up.
“You are playing matchmaker,” Roxanne said. “Never a good thing.”
“No, not usually a good thing,” Vickie had corrected.
But Roxanne had laughed. “Let’s do it. My last affair fell apart quickly enough. Hot and heavy—and over in the two seconds we realized I love a good art show and he loves watching sports in his boxers and guzzling beer. I mean, lots of guys do that, but not twenty-four hours a day or every single second out of work! I don’t seem to choose well—maybe you choosing for me will be the right thing. How could meeting this guy be anything worse than what happened before?”
Roxanne had been—for a brief time—growing heavily involved with an old boyfriend of Vickie’s, but in the rising intensity of the case just solved, she’d not only been seriously injured, but forced to rethink where she wanted to be in a relationship.
And yes, Vickie wanted to set her up with Alex.
But now, of course, the guy wasn’t there.
Vickie dialed his number again. No answer.
“Maybe he knew I was coming,” Roxanne said. “That could scare a guy away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vickie said. “You’re beautiful.” Her friend was beautiful: blonde, trim, with a great smile. She just didn’t have luck with men. Vickie continued. “I know he wants to see me. I’ve been working on all kinds of things having to do with his assault. I was tracing that rhyme that was left written on his chest—and now, the same rhyme that was left on the other victims of this attacker, as well.”
“Of course you have,” Roxanne murmured. She was a visual artist, filled with all kinds of insight and art appreciation, but she was nowhere near as fond of history as either Vickie or Alex.
“Bear with me,” Vickie said. “That saying that was written on him—it goes back—way back. I don’t believe there were really any kind of Satanists running around when the whole thing started. I found reference to a man named Ezekiel Martin, who had studied to be a Puritan minister. He was never ordained, but he practiced his own brand of religion and managed to take a slew of people with him west into the woods to form a new colony and sect—one that he ruled through preaching a different higher power—that, apparently, being Satan.
“In truth, he seemingly followed a young woman named Missy Prior, who had left of her own accord, being against the repression of the society. Anyway, Ezekiel had a thing for Missy—but she didn’t have a thing for him. He managed to blame her for every ill that befell his community. He claimed to have found those words written in the ground near where Missy Prior lived, and that Missy was trying to conjure Satan, and that Satan came to him at night and claimed that Ezekiel would have Missy Prior. Naturally, he saw himself as Satan’s representative. Satan in the flesh until Satan should appear... His personal religion afforded him lots of benefits.”
“Wow—and yuck! Even way back, people were going on icky ‘I’m close to God so I get to have all the sex’ trips, huh?”
“I’m still trying to find more on Ezekiel Martin,” Vickie said.
“Isn’t Alex a history professor?”
“Exactly. He’s in a guest position, or whatever they call it right now—and he loves Harvard, so he’s hoping to stay on.”
“And I’m sure he’s researching all this himself.”
“He is, but that’s also why he’s anxious to meet with me. Compare notes.”
Their waitress came by, a pretty, gamine-faced young woman with dark brown hair.
“You still waiting for your friend?” she asked.
“We’re going to give him a few more minutes,” Vickie said.
“Is it that fellow you’ve met here before?”
Vickie looked at her with surprise, and then realized that the young woman usually wore her hair down, and that—yes, of course—she’d had her several times as a server at the coffee shop.
“Yes, I’m waiting on Alex,” she said.
The girl smiled cheerfully. “He was here last night. I’m sure he’ll be along.”
“There—she’s sure Alex will be along,” Roxanne said.
“He was here last night?” Vickie asked.
“Yes, he’s always in when the Dearborn duo are playing. He loves them,” the waitress said. “I’ll keep my eye out!” she promised as she moved on.
“Thanks,” Vickie said. She’d been with Alex when he’d come to see the Dearborn brother-and-sister performers before. They were talented guitarists and played folk music, ballads and covers of Simon and Garfunkel tunes, John Denver, Carole King and more.
She’d heard that the pair were twins; if so, they were fraternal. He was blond with soft brown eyes; she had extremely dark hair and smoke-gray eyes. They were an attractive pair, and they definitely seemed to have a casual, easy way with a crowd.
“I just wish that he’d answer his phone,” Vickie said.
“Vickie!”
For a moment, her heart jumped. But it wasn’t Alex calling her. She looked through the milling guests in the coffee shop and saw Professor Milton Hanson, one of Alex’s closest associates. He knew Vickie’s father, though was more of an associate than a friend.
Actually, her dad didn’t like him very much.
“Who is that? Cool-looking guy, distinguished...dignified.”
He was “smarmy,” according to her dad. A little too good-looking. A little too close to some of his students.
“Hello, young lady. How are you?” he asked, stopping by the table. He had an attractive woman on his arm; she offered Vickie a big smile.
“Professor Hanson,” she said, introducing him to Roxanne. He, in turn, introduced his lady friend.
“I wanted to come by to check out this café,” Hanson said. “Our mutual friend, Alex Maple, loves this place. But there’s no music.”
“Yes, Alex loves it,” Vickie agreed. “But the music is on Saturday nights.”
Roxanne opened her mouth; she was clearly about to say that they were waiting for Alex.
Vickie kicked her under the table. A little tiny squeak escaped her.
“Saturday night. I’ll have to come then. Well, nice to see you!” Hanson said, and he moved on.
“Hey! That hurt,” Roxanne said.
“Sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell him we were waiting for Alex now?” Roxanne asked.
“I don’t know.”
“He’s still here somewhere,” Roxanne said. “We could find him.”
“No, I just don’t feel comfortable asking him about Alex.”
“Okay. But Alex isn’t here. So, seriously, maybe something just came up,” Roxanne said. “Let’s face it. Not that I blame you—I mean, you were kidnapped and nearly killed recently—but you’re overly suspicious of the world. I’m overly suspicious, too, since that wasn’t such a great time for me, either. And I’m your basic coward, so that adds to me doubting everything. But honestly—aren’t you getting a little carried away, being so worried just because Alex didn’t show up for dinner? Maybe his sister was sick, or maybe he had to rush his dog to the emergency vet or something. Things do happen.”
“But someone like Alex, Roxanne, he would let me know. You know, maybe I am being ridiculous. I just can’t believe he’d be so rude.”
“I’m sorry, Vickie. I love you—you really are the best friend and most courteous human being—but maybe his emergency was just more important than you.”
“I hope that’s true,” Vickie murmured.
Just as Roxanne spoke, Vickie’s phone rang. It was Griffin.
“Hey! How’s it going? I wish I could have joined you,” Vickie said.
“Dinner didn’t happen. Barnes was dropping me off at the restaurant when someone called in an attack down the street from where we were—we heard it on the scanner. Anyway, to make a long story short, I gave chase, caught the guy—and he took some kind of a suicide pill,” Griffin told her.