The Trouble with Tulip (26 page)

When their conversation was finished, Jo hung up the phone, dropped it into her bag, and slowed her jog to a walk. No need to be out of breath when she walked into the professor's office.

She reached the chemistry building first, so she went inside and slid the packet of photocopied papers under her former professor's door. The explanation she had given him over the telephone was that she'd found some old papers containing what looked like scientific formulas, but that she couldn't make heads or tails of the data; before she threw the papers out, she'd said, she just wanted to make sure they weren't important. He promised to get back to her on it by the end of the day.

Simply walking through the chemistry building brought back a rush of happy memories. The smell of formaldehyde was strong throughout the halls, reminding her of the years she spent here earning her degree. Though her major was home economics, Jo had minored in chemistry.

She exited from the other end of the building, and then it was just a little way farther to the history building. Jo didn't know Professor McMann, but she hoped to find him inside.

Unfortunately, his office door was closed with no light visible from underneath. Disappointed, she consulted the schedule taped to the wall, and saw he was teaching a history class at that moment in room 204. Glancing at her watch, Jo knew the hour would be up in just a few minutes. If she hurried, she might be able to collar him after class.

The classroom was easy enough to find, and she stood in the hall waiting for the bell, listening to him teach about Patrick Henry. He sounded younger than she expected, and once the bell rang and the students cleared out, she stepped into the room to see that he couldn't have been more than thirty or thirty-five at most. He was handsome in a quiet sort of way, with straight brown hair and frameless glasses. She tried not to smile when she noticed that there were leather patches on the elbows of his suit jacket. She supposed that with professors, that look never went out of style.

“Dr. McMann?” she asked, stepping toward the podium. He had been gathering together his papers, and he barely looked up as she approached. “Hello, my name is Jo Tulip. I wonder if I could speak with you for a minute.”

He tucked the papers under his arm and nodded.

“Problems with the assignment?” he asked.

“No,” she smiled, “I graduated a few years ago. Well, six years ago, to be exact. But thanks for the compliment.”

He adjusted his glasses and gave her a slight perusal. Then he smiled.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. “I'm afraid I have to be somewhere soon, but I do have a minute.”

“May I walk with you? We can talk as we go.”

Together, they left the classroom and then the building, walking side by side.

“I was given your name by Dean Pike in the art department,” Jo said. “I went to see him to ask about a particular painting, and he said you recently inquired about the same one.
The Nativity
by John Singleton Copley? I wondered where you had seen the print and why you were asking about it.”

He hesitated in his walking. Surprised, Jo hesitated as well, noting the strange look that came over his face.

“Why do you ask?” he said, lowering his voice and glancing one way and then the other.

“It's kind of a long story,” she said. “Do you mind telling me why you wanted to know about the painting?”

He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out.

“Not here,” he said finally. “Later.”

“Later?”

He ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a slow breath.

“I have to advise on a dissertation right now,” he said, glancing down at his watch. “Can you meet me in, say, an hour? How about over there. By the student union.”

Jo hesitated, wondering why he was being so weird. She knew he had to go, but she wondered if she could wait a whole hour to hear what he had to say!

“Sure,” she said finally. She really didn't have a choice. “Whatever you want.”

He nodded, looking into her eyes for the first time.

“I'm sorry, what was your name again?” he asked.

“Jo. Jo Tulip.”

He reached out a hand for a shake, his fingers lingering just a moment too long in hers. His deep brown eyes connected with hers, and Jo felt an instant attraction, like a spark flickering at the base of her neck.

“Jo,” he repeated. “Okay. I'll see you at the union at two o'clock.”

Simon slept on the couch until well after noon, finally awakening to the sound of Wiggles slamming some pots and pans around in the kitchen. Though Wiggles was, of course, always uncoordinated, Simon had a feeling he was being extra loud in an attempt to send a message.

Simon sat up and wiped his face with his hands, feeling about a hundred years old. Everything hurt, from the roots of his hair to the bottoms of his feet. He was wiped out—but at least the police had never shown up.

Slowly he stood and yawned, and then he made his way to the doorway of the kitchen, where Wiggles was busy trying to cook some eggs. He had spilled some of the egg mixture down the front of the pan, and now they were making smoke as they burned away in the flames of the burner.

“What's eating you?” Simon asked.

Wiggles gave him a dirty look and continued scraping the eggs in the pan.

“You are,” he said. “Our deal. You're supposed to do the dishes. Look at this mess.”

The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes. An inch-long brown roach scurried across the top.

“You're right. I'm sorry,” Simon said. He certainly didn't want to push his luck. The last thing he needed was to get kicked out. “I had a really late night last night. I'll do 'em as soon as I finish eating.”

“You bet you'll do 'em,” Wiggles said. “Or you're out of here for good.”

Simon nodded, knowing that Wiggles was near the boiling point. Over the years of visiting there, he had come to know the man pretty well—not to mention the time they had already spent sharing a cell. That taught you a lot about a person, for sure.

After changing his clothes, Simon returned to the kitchen, taking juice and a package of frozen sausage from the freezer. Silently, the men worked side by side to finish making breakfast. Simon fixed the sausage in the dirty microwave, and then he slipped some bread into the toaster.

Once the meal was on the table, they sat across from each other and ate, their smacks and burps the only sound in the room. When Simon was finished, he wiped his mouth and told his friend the eggs had been utterly delicious.

“Thanks,” Wiggles said begrudgingly, trying to pick a piece of sausage from the front of his shirt. “I try.”

“Remember the eggs in the joint?” Simon said, breaching their unspoken rule about not discussing their time in prison. “Did we ever figure out what made them so very, very yellow?”

Wiggles laughed, spewing juice down his chin.

“I don't think they was eggs at all,” he said, reaching for his napkin. “I think they was yellow-colored, egg-flavored slop.”

They shared a laugh, and it suddenly dawned on Simon that there were actually two people in this whole world he could count on: Wiggles and Edna.

Somehow, he just had to get her on the phone and find out what had happened after he left Friday night.

18

D
anny had a long break between appointments, so he was glad when Jo called and asked if there was any way he could come over to the campus.

“I'll be talking to Keith McMann, a history professor, at two o'clock,” she said, “and I'd love for you to be there. Looks like it might be important.”

Before leaving the studio, Danny called his mother, who answered in her usual cheery voice. She said she was just heading out the door to go to the Ladies League luncheon.

“I figured you would be,” Danny told her. “I wonder if you could do me a favor while you're there.”

“Sure, honey. What do you need?”

He walked to the fax machine and placed an enlargement of Simon's face into the tray.

“Soon as we hang up, I'm going to fax you a picture of a man. Would you mind discreetly showing it around to see if you can get any information on this guy?”

“What is he, wanted by the FBI?”

Danny forced a laugh, though for all he knew, the guy could be.

“It's a long story,” he said. “Jo got a job clearing out the belongings of that woman who died, Edna Pratt. We need to locate this man because we found some things we think belong to him.”

Well, it was a lie that wasn't really a lie. They did need to locate the man, and chances are the photos and the notebook were his—or at least were connected to him in some way.

“All right, but do it now,” she said. “As it is, I'm already a few minutes late.”

They hung up and Danny sent the fax. Then he gathered his things and told Tiffany he'd be back in time for the next appointment.

He couldn't find a parking place near the student union, so he ended up having to park in the far lot and then walk a bit to get there. By the time he arrived, Jo was sitting at one of the outside picnic tables with a man of about thirty, tall and handsome and exactly the kind of guy she usually went for. Add to that he was probably quite intelligent, and it was a double whammy. Jo always was a sucker for brains.

From a distance Danny could see her laugh and then absently slip a lock of hair behind one ear in that feminine way she had. He knew she wasn't consciously flirting, but suddenly a stab of something painful shot directly into his heart.

Danny had known he would have to give her time to get over Bradford before he brought up the subject of his own feelings for her. But never in his wildest dreams had it occurred to him that she might move on this quickly to someone new.

He approached the table, trying not to let his emotions show all over his face.

“Danny!” Jo said, giving him a smile as warm and genuine as the one she had given the professor. “We were just talking about you.”

“Oh?” Danny asked, introducing himself to the professor before taking a seat beside her.

“Keith heard your family perform at the town festival.”

Keith
. So already they were on a first-name basis.

“Regeneration, right?” the man said. “You guys are great.”

“Thank you.”

They talked for a bit about the group and their music, and Danny found himself calming down somewhat. At least the guy was friendly—and it didn't hurt that he was a fan.

“Anyway, Keith,” Jo said finally, “we didn't want to hold you up too long. We just wanted to find out about your interest in this painting.”

“Why do you want to know? If you don't mind my asking.”

“It's a long story,” Jo said casually. “We're putting someone's affairs in order, a woman who recently passed away. This was among her possessions, and we're just a bit confused by it. When we asked Dean Pike for more information, he said you were asking about the same picture recently. We figured there must be a connection, and that maybe you could shed some light on things for us.”

Jo pulled the print from her tote bag and set it on the table. McMann picked it up.

“Yes, that's the one,” he said, studying it.

“And you were asking about it because…” Danny prompted.

“I saw it and thought it was simply beautiful. I wanted to get a print of it for myself.”

Danny felt Jo kick him lightly under the table. Surely there was more to the story than that.

“Where did you see it?” Danny pressed.

“At a history lecture I was giving. It was on display there, and I thought it was magnificent.”

Danny wasn't sure what to ask next. The coincidence was just too great not to have more of a story behind it.

“A history lecture?” Jo said. “Where?”

“At a women's club.”