“There’s always someone from the past,” Simon said.
“Yes,” Lyra said. She studied the newspaper clippings on the satin quilt. “Always.”
“But in this case the two individuals from Raina’s past—Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock—are both dead,” Luther said.
“Lost at sea is not always the same as dead,” Simon said.
Lyra looked at Luther. “I hate to admit it, but he’s right.”
“I am deeply humbled by your generous acknowledgment of the possibility that I might have a legitimate point to make,” Simon said.
“Are you always this annoying, Mr. Cage?” Lyra asked.
“One does the best one can,” Simon said.
“It’s a wonder your best hasn’t led people to suggest you take a long walk off a short pier.”
Simon adjusted his glasses. “Actually, I frequently get that suggestion.”
“No kidding,” Lyra said.
Luther cleared his throat. “I suggest that we get back to the subject of Raina. Simon, what did you pick up from those clippings?”
Simon shot Lyra a quick, wary glance. She knew he did not want to say whatever he was about to say in front of her, but he had no choice. Luther was waiting.
“There’s a lot of heat,” Simon said. “Most of it is old, but there’s a fresh layer. Very fresh. I think it’s safe to say that Miss Kirk handled these clippings briefly this morning.”
“What kind of emotion?” Luther asked.
Lyra could barely contain her curiosity. She suddenly had a million questions for Simon Cage, but it was clear this was not the time to ask them.
“Fear is the oldest emotion on these clippings,” Simon said, speaking carefully. “The fresh stuff is mostly rage.”
Lyra glanced at the clippings. “We need to know more about the Whitlocks.”
“Irene Ward might be able to help,” Luther said. “Several of her stories have gone national. She knows people, and she’s got connections on the East Coast. I’ll ask her to make some calls, talk to people who work in the morgues.”
“Morgues?” Lyra asked.
“Newspaper morgues,” Simon explained patiently. “It’s where they store the papers and the notes the reporters made when they covered the stories.”
“Yes,” Lyra said, striving for patience. “I am aware of the purpose of newspaper morgues.” She turned to Luther. “I will make those calls.”
Simon shook his head. “Won’t work. The clips and notes in a newspaper morgue are considered proprietary information. The person in charge of the files is unlikely to be helpful to an unknown private investigator who calls up out of the blue from the other side of thecountry. A professional journalist with good contacts stands a much better chance of getting useful information from a morgue clerk.”
Lyra tried not to grit her teeth. “Oh.”
Luther headed for the door. Lyra and Simon followed. At the bottom of the stairs Lyra remembered the notepad next to the phone on the kitchen wall.
“Hang on,” she said. “I want to check one thing.”
The men watched her walk quickly across the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. After a moment they followed, stopping in the doorway.
“What are you looking for?” Simon asked.
“I don’t think these are doodles,” Lyra said. “Raina was a professionally trained secretary in New York. She knows shorthand. She uses it routinely to keep her investigative notes. We need to find someone who can translate these squiggles for us.”
She started to tear off the top page of the notepad but changed her mind and took the whole pad instead. There might be earlier entries that could prove helpful.
