it was something big.”
Pruett donned his mask of inscrutability as he listened. That was de rigueur for him during interviews. I’d also used that technique during my military days because people often searched for facial clues and tailored their account to suit perceived biases. Wing Pruett’s face was impossible to read. After Babette finished, he made notes and turned my way.
“Tell me everything Magdalen said, verbatim if you can. We’ll discuss impressions afterward.”
There wasn’t much to tell. I repeated Magdalen’s story, particularly her advice to research Oscar Wilde before our next meeting, and the sense I got that she might be in peril.
“She didn’t say that outright. Just spoke of the urgency of time.”
“She’s fairly old, isn’t she?” Pruett asked. “Maybe she was just being practical.”
Babette refilled her mug and edged into the conversation. “Hell, Wing, they’re all in that eternal waiting room. Every one of them.” She snapped her fingers. “Magdalen could pop off just like that and no one would be the wiser.”
I couldn’t dispute her logic, but some inner voice told me there was more to it. Much more. “Let’s assume Magdalen told the truth,” I said. “An unpublished manuscript by Oscar Wilde would be worth millions. Just think of it. People have killed for far less.”
Pruett looked up. “I managed to do some research on this, and it was quite enlightening.”
“Wow,” Babette said. “That was quick. I’m surprised you had the time.”
His lips twitched in a semi-smile. That in itself was a dead giveaway. Pruett typically delegated research chores to one of the many eager interns who swarmed his office. They tended to be young, J-school graduates with stars in their eyes. The overwhelmingly female gaggle also boasted good looks and an unsettling hero worship of one Wing Pruett.
“What did you find?” I said. “The suspense is killing us.”
He bent over his briefcase, playing for time. After retrieving his glasses, Pruett tapped the screen of his iPad and shared the news.
“Okay. Bear in mind that all this is purely speculative. Oscar Wilde died young, as you know. Only forty-six.” He shook his head. “What a waste. Anyway, he did marry at least once and produced several offspring, but there’s a catch.”
Babette clutched Clara’s collar so tightly the poor dog yelped. “Come on,” Babette said. “Spit it out. We’re dying here.”
Pruett and I locked eyes. I knew what he was going to say because I too had done some research. Any reasonably intelligent being with a computer could gather rudimentary information on an historical figure. Wilde’s fame had grown in the past few years as new generations learned to appreciate his genius and old taboos were discarded.
Pruett adjusted his glasses. “First the bad news. No record of Oscar Wilde having any progeny outside of marriage. It’s surprising that he had any at all. As you probably know, he wasn’t inclined that way.”
Babette leaped up. “You mean she lied? All that hooey about being his granddaughter was a lie?”
Pruett held up his hand. “There was something else. Something that requires more investigation. In his last years in France, Wilde used the pseudonym Sebastian Melmoth on occasion.”
My pal’s mouth dropped. The optics weren’t flattering; she bore an uncanny resemblance to a gaffed fish hanging on the docks. “Don’t assume anything from that,” Pruett said. “Again, I repeat, there was no mention of any other offspring.”
Words of caution failed to dampen Babette’s spirits. Now that she had a ray of hope, she plunged headlong into the breach while I considered the pros and cons of the issue. Magdalen probably was misguided. That was far kinder than the other terms—delusional, senile, or lying. Still…Wilde’s passions swayed with the wind, especially during his final years. He even pursued religious conversion, which might argue for a return to a more conventional relationship with a woman. Suppose he produced a child along with an undiscovered manuscript? Stranger things have happened.
“Where do we go from here?” Babette asked. “I can’t face those ladies if we don’t do something. Anything.”
They both looked my way, waiting for me to weigh in. After all, Magdalen Melmoth was my project. Mine and my dogs’. I refused to abandon or dismiss her without listening to the rest of her story. Pruett might beg off, but I would not.
“We’re scheduled to go back next week.” I turned toward Pruett. “Will you join us?”
The gleam in his eyes said it all. “Just try to keep me away.”
Chapter 4
I spent the balance of the week working hard, filling orders for customers and toying with some new designs. My mother-daughter belts were big sellers at the various dog and horse shows and were even stocked in a number of high-end boutiques. Booming sales were a balm to my soul, but I couldn’t dispel my anxiety over Magdalen Melmoth. I simply couldn’t. Research only heightened my concern. The Internet teemed with sites dedicated to Oscar Wilde, but none of them hinted at any Melmoth offspring or rumors of undiscovered manuscripts. I chuckled every time I recalled one of Wilde’s bon mots: Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken. Had my new friend decided to claim her heritage, or was she merely living a dream?
Pruett joined me that next Wednesday on our trek to the Falls. He insisted on driving his Porsche Macan, even though it was a tight fit with two large dogs stuffed into the back seat. I didn’t even try to resist. Better to fire up his luxury SUV for that journey than my Suburban. That old soldier had crossed the 200,000-mile mark some time ago, and I dreaded the expense and bother of ever replacing it. Pruett, on the other hand, tired of his vehicles after a year or two and automatically discarded them. It was probably a cautionary tale for other aspects of his personal life as well. I knew for a fact that he never remained in a relationship longer than two years, so my option would soon be up for renewal.
“You look nifty, Persephone.” He twirled me around, admiring my choice of garb. I am certainly no fashion plate, but on occasion I can up my game. A cashmere twinset, new jeans, and freshly polished boots were my idea of haute couture. Not exactly Vogue, but apparently, he approved. Pruett had a keen sense of fashion. He wore a handsome tweed blazer, a white turtleneck, and khaki cords that raised all manner of licentious thoughts in my mind. With sublime effort I restrained myself from losing control and jumping his bones.
“I did a bit more digging,” he said. “Spoke to a professor at GW who specializes in Wilde. Wrote a book about him too.”
“What did she say?”
He neatly evaded the trap and tweaked my chin in the bargain. “Just so happens this professor is male, Ms. Smarty-Pants. Bruce Douglas, professor of English literature at George Washington University. We were roommates at Johns Hopkins a hundred years ago.”
Pruett enjoyed flaunting his age and superior wisdom. In actuality, he was only thirty-six, four years my senior, and as for wisdom—I could match him every time with life experience.
“So, what did your old roomie have to say?” I asked.
“I had to be cagey,” Pruett said.
