Page 57 of Insidious Threats
Leona continued, “Sasha and Ellie are up our way for work, so they stopped here to see Chuck. But I told them that unless I’m mistaken, he’s moved on. So I thought this collection of artistic geniuses and reprobate drinkers might be able to shed some light.”
“Don’t forget Clark—there’s a failed writer here, too,” Barnaby cracked.
“Good point. Didn’t mean to overlook our resident Hemingway. Anyway, can you gentlemen help these ladies while I settle their bill?”
The men exchanged glances. Sasha wasn’t sure exactly what wordless communication was passing back and forth, but she suspected they were trying to decide how much to say. Ordinarily, she’d draw them into conversation and let them dribble out information piecemeal without realizing they’d done it. But, tonight, she didn’t have that kind of time. And, to be frank, she didn’t have the patience.
“Leona, before you run my card, buy a round of whatever these guys are drinking.”
A chorus of cheers went up, drawing the ire of the chess couple. Leona smirked at Sasha to let her know she saw what Sasha was doing. That was fine by Sasha, she wasn’t trying to be subtle. She was trying to be efficient. She gestured for Ellie to sit on the unoccupied sofa, then she perched alongside her. She leaned forward so the heat from the flames in the fireplace could warm her hands and scanned the circle of men.
Clark, the hapless writer, met her gaze levelly and held it. He had something to say.
So she didn’t look away as she said, “We met Vern at the river. He said he’d heard Ellie’s dad may have gone to Stratford, in Ontario. Did any of you hear the same?”
Clark shook his head but didn’t speak.
Barnaby volunteered, “Chuck mentioned wanting to check it out. The town has a reputation for being a haven for artists, not unlike this place. But I didn’t get the sense that he planned to go any time soon. For one thing, he complained about the coldhere.Why go to Canada in the dead of winter if you don’t like the cold?”
It was a valid point.
“Indeed,” a smooth, melodic voice chimed in. “I’m certain he’s not in Stratford.”
Sasha craned her neck to see the speaker. It was the guy in the velvet armchair. He wore a paisley-patterned silk cravat and had on little wire-rimmed glasses that reflected the flames. He had his legs crossed, and one loafer dangled from his heel as he swung his foot back and forth. She knew she shouldn’t stereotype, but this guy looked like the sort of person Cinco would’ve been comfortable socializing with.
“Why are you so sure?” Ellie piped up.
“He mentioned visiting, yes, but he planned to go while the Shakespeare Festival was running, which is from April to October—decidedly not in January. He said his wife is an aficionada of the Bard so he’d like to take her along.”
Yeah, this dude was definitely Cinco’s kind. They were two peas in a pod.
Ellie nodded. “Mom is a Shakespeare fan,” she confirmed.
“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Sasha asked.
Leona returned, trailed by a teenager bearing a large round tray laden with drinks. “That’s Fig.”
“Fig?” Sasha echoed.
“Fitzgerald Isaac Grant,” the man sniffed. “Which has resulted in my being saddled with the ridiculous moniker ‘Fig.’”
She was beginning to realize that Cinco might not have introduced himself as Chuck. “What should I call you?”
He gave a sigh of resignation. “You might as well call me Fig. Everyone else does.”
“Okay … Fig. If Mr. Prescott didn’t go to Canada, do you have any idea where hedidgo?”
Fig sucked in his cheeks. “Until tonight, I would have guessed back to Pittsburgh. I know he was meeting his wife in Manhattan for New Year’s Eve. He’d planned to return here afterward, but I assumed his plans changed and he realized he missed his home.” He turned his searching gaze on Ellie. “But the fact that you two are here from Pittsburgh suggests he did not. I don’t know where else he would have gone. Maybe he stayed in Manhattan?”
“He never showed up. My mom went up to NYC, but Dad was a no-show,” Ellie explained.
The air took on an electric charge. The men around the fire put down their drinks and sat up straighter.
“He’s missing?” Barnaby asked.
“Apparently,” Sasha answered. “Can we go back through the weeks leading up to New Year’s Eve? When’s the last time anyone remembers definitely seeing him?”
Several of the men began to talk at once. Others chimed in to contradict them. Ellie made a small, frustrated sound in the back of her throat.
