After Glow

Chapter 12

The secretary of the Old Frequency City College Alumni Association called just before lunch. Lydia put aside the schedule of group tours that she was slated to escort through the museum that week and reached for the phone.

"This is Jan Ross," a perky voice said on the other end of the line. "I understand you've been trying to get in touch with me?"

"Yes, thank you so much for returning my call." Lydia quickly opened her top desk drawer and took out the copy of the newspaper story she had found inside Lawrence Maltby's milk carton. "I'm trying to get some information about a former student. His name is Troy Burgis. According to a newspaper account that I came across, he disappeared in the course of an unauthorized trip into the catacombs about fifteen years ago."

"I see. I don't recall the name but unfortunately there have been a few such incidents over the years. The college does its best to protect the students but you know how it is. Sometimes the fraternities get carried away with their initiation rites or a group of young people get drunk and decide to go underground through a hole-in-the-wall. Accidents happen."

"I understand. Is there any way I can get more information on this particular student?"

"I can look him up in the yearbook, if you like," Jan Ross offered.

"I would really appreciate that."

"Hang on."

Alumni associations, Lydia thought, best investigators in the world. You could hide from your family, friends, tax collectors, and creditors but you could not escape the long reach of your alumni association.

She tapped her pen anxiously against the edge of her desk. She did not know what she hoped to discover about Troy Burgis. She knew only that she had to try to find out why Maltby had gone to the trouble of concealing the article in a trapped milk carton.

She heard movement, the squeak of a desk chair, and then the sound of pages being turned.

"Yes, here he is," Jan Ross said a moment later. "There's not much information, though, just his name and major and favorite extracurricular activity."

"Is there a photo?"

"No, just a blank square and a note that says photo not available."

Damn. Then again, what good would a photo have done her? Lydia thought. It would have been fifteen years old and besides, Burgis was dead.

"What subject was he majoring in?" she asked.

"Para-archaeology."

"I guess that figures, given his interest in the catacombs. What about extracurricular activities?"

"One. Music. It says here that he formed his own band that played at an off-campus club. The members included Jason Clark, Norman Fairbanks, and Andrea Preston."

Lydia paused in the act of taking down notes. "Clark and Fairbanks were with Burgis when he disappeared. Any chance you could put me in touch with either of them? I'd really like to talk to Andrea Preston, too, if possible."

"I'll see what I can do, but it will take me some time to pull the contact information and then I'll have to get in touch with each of them first to see if they wish to speak with you. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. Please tell them that I'm only interested in Burgis." She cast around for another question that the alumni secretary could answer. "Does the yearbook give the names of the academics who were in the Department of Para-archaeology there at the time?"

"No, but I've got that information on file. Just a sec."

Jan Ross came back on the line a short time later.

"Looks like it was a small department in those days," she said. "There were only two full professors, a couple of assistant profs, and four instructors."

Lydia tightened her grip on the pen. "Can you read me the names?"

Ever helpful, Jan Ross read the short list of the members of the department. When she was finished, Lydia thanked her and hung up the phone.

She sat there for a long time, contemplating the one name that she had underlined very heavily: Dr. Lawrence W. Maltby.

It was Melanie who spotted The Dress.

Melanie had, in fact, taken charge of the entire shopping expedition when she had deduced that Lydia was incapable of focusing on the problem.

Lydia knew that finding the right gown was important but she could not seem to concentrate on the business of finding it. She kept getting distracted by memories of Jack's comments concerning the dangers of Council challenges and the risks involved in being an unmarried Guild boss.

"If I don't keep an eye on you you'll end up with another dull business suit and a pair of low-heeled pumps," Melanie declared when they got into a cab outside of Shrimpton's that afternoon.

Lydia did not argue the point. She settled in beside Melanie and closed the door. "It was very nice of Shrimp to let both of us leave the office early so that I could shop."

"Nice, my sweet patoot. He practically begged me to take you shopping after I pointed out the advantages."

Lydia frowned. "What advantages?"

"Are you kidding?" Melanie chuckled. "This is going to be one of the best things that's ever happened to Shrimp and he knows it. Just wait until the newspapers find out that the new Guild boss's Mystery Mistress works for none other than Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors. Folks will be lined up around the block outside our tacky little museum to get a look at you."

"Oh, jeez, Mel." Lydia was appalled. "This is a nightmare. I've become a museum attraction."

"You're going to be an even bigger draw for us than the dreamstone jar," Melanie said with great satisfaction.

"Oh, jeez, Mel."

Melanie's brows jumped together in sudden concern. "You don't look too good. You're not going to faint or anything, are you?"

"I am not going to faint." Lydia paused, considering the matter. "But I might be sick."

"Mother of pearl." Melanie's eyes got huge. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"No," Lydia said flatly. "That is absolutely impossible." I think. "We've been very careful." Most of the time.

"Too bad. A pregnant Mystery Mistress would have been an incredible attraction for Shrimpton's"

"Since when did you become so concerned with the financial future of Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors?"

"A woman has to think about her career."

"Got news for you, Mel, a position at Shrimpton's is a job, not a career." Lydia broke off as the cab turned the corner into an exclusive shopping district. "Where are we going?"

"Designs by Finella," Melanie announced with relish. "I've read about it for years in the fashion and style magazines. The wealthiest, most important women in town shop there."

"Good grief, I know I need a nice dress but there's no reason for us to go to the most expensive shop in town."

"Will you please calm down? You're not going to pay for it, remember? You said that Emmett told you that the Guild is picking up the tab for the gown."

Lydia fell back on the argument she had attempted to use when she'd had this conversation with Emmett. "It's the principle of the thing."

"Listen to me, friend." Melanie turned partway around in the seat, rested her arm along the back, and gave Lydia a ferociously intense stare. "Here's the only principle you need to keep in mind: This is your big chance to really stick it to the Cadence Guild. You know you've been wanting to get revenge against ghost-hunters ever since that disaster in the catacombs seven months ago. What better way to do that than to send them a huge bill for a fabulous ball gown and all the accessories?"

"Hmm." Jolted out of her dark musings, Lydia contemplated that logic. "You know, you've got a point. I hadn't looked at it quite like that."

Melanie relaxed against the seat. "Revenge is sweet, ain't it?"

At Designs by Finella, Melanie had to do some fast talking to get the attention of one of the elegant saleswomen.

"My friend will be attending the Restoration Ball," she said with a grand air. "We want a very special gown suitable for the occasion. Mr. Emmett London will be her escort for the evening. You do know who Mr. London is, don't you?"

The woman's eyes widened in shock and then lit with interest.

"The new head of the Cadence Guild? Yes, of course. I read all about him in the newspapers." The saleswoman flicked a quick, speculative glance at Lydia. "I heard that he had a companion, but I was under the impression that the relationship was a very private matter. I didn't realize that he took her out in public."

Lydia's temper flared. She bared her teeth in a steely smile. "Figured he was keeping me stashed away in a secret love nest? Don't believe everything you read in the tabloids, lady."

The saleswoman turned red. "I assure you I never meant to imply—"

Melanie waded in smoothly. "Shall we get busy looking at some gowns? By the way, Mr. London wishes the bill to be sent directly to him at Guild headquarters. You can call his office for confirmation."

The saleswoman pulled herself together immediately. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Mrs. Davies." She snapped her fingers for an assistant. "The private viewing salon, Jennifer."

"Private viewing salon?" Lydia grimaced. "Sounds like a funeral parlor."

She and Melanie were ushered into a mirrored room, seated on pink velvet chairs, and served delicately scented rez-tea in dainty cups.

One spectacular gown after another was brought out for inspection. Each dress was nothing short of a work of art and each seemed more beautiful and more expensive than the last.

Her temper cooled and Lydia returned to her brooding thoughts. It really wasn't fair, she reflected. Under any other circumstances, she could have enjoyed herself enormously. After all, what were the odds that she would ever again get an opportunity to shop for the ultimate ball gown and accessories?

But the potential pleasures of the experience were buried beneath the weight of a sense of impending doom. Her intuition was kicking in and she knew better than to ignore it.

Melanie had no such nagging doubts to distract her, however. She took on the responsibility of selecting the right dress with great zest, turning thumbs down on one gown after another.

Too boring. Too beige. Too ordinary. Too much lace. Too much skirt.

At one point the assistant produced a shimmering, sparkling silver lame number. The sight of it glittering there in front of her brought Lydia out of her dour reverie.

"That's rather nice," she said.

"Are you out of your mind?" Melanie made a face. "I could carry it off but you would look like a high-class hooker in that thing."

"Oh."

The next offering was pink.

Melanie lost her patience. She scowled at Mrs. Davies and the assistant. "I thought I had made it clear that Miss Smith will be attending the Restoration Ball with one of the most powerful men in the city. She needs to look exotic and mysterious and elegant. Do you see where I'm going here?"

"Hmm." The saleswoman hesitated and then motioned to the assistant. "Bring in Midnight, Jennifer."

"Yes, ma'am."

Jennifer disappeared for a moment. When she returned she carried what appeared to be a shapeless length of fluid fabric in a shade of blue that was so dark it was almost black.

"This gown is not one of Finella's own designs," Mrs. Davies said hesitantly. "That is why I haven't shown it to you until now. The majority of our most important clients insist on wearing only creations designed by Finella herself. She is, of course, a goddess in the world of couture."

Melanie frowned at the limp material. "Who designed this one?"

"Finella's new apprentice, Charles, a gifted young man whom she feels has great potential. It will require a certain degree of daring to wear this gown to the Restoration Ball, however, precisely because it is not a Finella original. Most of the other women will be in dresses created by her or one of the handful of other exclusive designers in Cadence."

Melanie narrowed her eyes and tapped one toe. "I see what you mean. Going to the ball in a dress by an unknown designer is risky but it could turn out to be a brilliant move if the gown works." She motioned to Lydia. "Try it on. What have we got to lose?"

Lydia eyed the unprepossessing material draped over the assistant's arm. "Are you sure?"

"Let's get you into it and see what we've got."

Lydia peeled off her business suit, stepped out of her pumps, and allowed the assistant to pour the midnight blue gown over her head.

When it was properly fastened, the assistant stepped back.

"Yes." Melanie got to her feet and walked in a circle around Lydia. "Oh, my, yes, indeed. This is the one."

Lydia turned to study her reflection. For the space of a couple of heartbeats she did not recognize the woman in the mirror. Then it hit her that she was looking at herself and for the first time that day, her attention was riveted on the project at hand.

"Good heavens," she whispered. "I feel like Amberella in this gown. All I need is a couple of wicked stepsisters and a fairy godmother and I'll be all set."

"Don't know about the wicked stepsisters," Melanie said, "but you've got me for a fairy godmother."

Lydia grinned at her in the mirror. "It doesn't get any better than that in my neighborhood."

Midnight was stunningly simple in design, a narrow column of fine, liquid material that discreetly hugged her slender frame. It was cut demurely high in front and plunged deeply at the back. Long, slim sleeves fell to her wrists. The hemline hit at her ankles. A cleverly designed opening trimmed with a dashing ruffle made movement possible. The overall effect was sophisticated, exotic, and mysterious.

She caught sight of the saleswoman's face in the mirror. Act as though you buy clothes like this all the time, she told herself.

"It'll do," she said crisply to Mrs. Davies. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."

"My pleasure." Mrs. Davies was clearly as surprised as everyone else in the room by the effect of the gown, although she struggled to conceal her reaction. "It is absolutely perfect for you and for the occasion, Miss Smith." She flapped a hand at the assistant. "Jennifer, go get Charles. I want him to see this."

A moment later a slender young man with delicate features and dark, curly hair appeared. He hovered shyly in the entrance.

"You sent for me, Mrs. Davies?"

"Miss Smith will be attending the Restoration Ball with Mr. Emmett London, the new head of the Cadence Guild. She will wear your Midnight." Mrs. Davies gestured toward Lydia. "I thought you would like to personally oversee whatever minor alterations are needed."

Astonishment and then joyous wonder transformed Charles's finely boned face. "My Midnight will be going to the Restoration Ball with Mr. London?"

Lydia smiled at his expression. "Well, it won't be going alone. I'll be inside your beautiful gown, Charles, but I'll try not to detract from it too much."

Charles blushed furiously. His smile lit up the room. "I don't know what to say. Thank you, Miss Smith."

"I'm the one who should be thanking you," Lydia said sincerely. "Left to my own devices I might have ended up looking like a high-class hooker."

Charles glanced at the row of rejected gowns and raised one brow. "The silver lame?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Don't worry," Melanie said. "I would never have let her buy that one. Anyone can see it would have been all wrong for her. Now, then, let's talk about accessories. I'm thinking gold. What do you think, Charles?"

"Yes." He nodded approvingly. "Nothing else but gold and not a great deal of it."

"And my amber, of course." Lydia glanced at her bracelet.

"No," Charles said with absolute conviction. "No amber. Just gold."

"He's right," Mrs. Davies said. "You must limit the accessories to gold. Anything else will interfere with the statement that the gown makes."

"Carry your amber in your purse," Melanie advised quickly when she saw Lydia open her mouth to argue. "You don't want to ruin Charles's creation, do you?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Relax, you're going to be stunning," Melanie said.

"Don't get too excited," Lydia warned. "I clean up okay but I don't do stunning."

"You will do stunning in my Midnight," Charles said very quietly.

An hour later, laden with shopping bags, Lydia and Melanie exited the boutique.

They ran smack into a throng of reporters. Cameras popped and flashed. Microphones were thrust forward. The questions came fast and furious.

"Which one of you is London's Mystery Mistress?"

"Is it true London is going to take you to the Restoration Ball tomorrow night?"

"Where did you two meet?"

"How long have you been seeing each other?"

Lydia froze.

Melanie, however, was unfazed. "Don't look at me," she said to the hungry crowd. "I'm not your mystery woman." She waved gracefully in Lydia's direction. "Allow me to present Lydia Smith, Mr. London's date for the Restoration Ball."

The gaggle of reporters and cameras swerved toward Lydia and the questions rained down upon her head with the force of hailstones.

"… How would you describe your relationship with London?" a female reporter with short blond hair demanded.

"Tell us what it's like to date the boss of the Guild," gushed another woman.

"According to my sources you aren't from a Guild family," someone else called out. "Does that mean that marriage is out of the question?"

The word marriage pierced the spell of immobility that had gripped Lydia. Pull yourself together, she thought. Think of this group of reporters as one giant illusion trap that has to be untangled before it explodes into a full-blown alien nightmare.

Melanie grabbed her arm and started to drag her toward a cab. "Miss Smith doesn't have any comment for you."

"Oh, yes, she does." Lydia dug in her heels, forcing Melanie to come to a halt. She drew herself up to her full height and gave the cluster of journalists her most sparkling smile. "As a matter of fact, Miss Smith has a very important comment for the media."