And why was the discovery of the Venus relegated to a paragraph or two, and not even named in the foreword? Had Karoly found her after the book had gone to print? Possibly. Did he plan a second book all about her? Probably. Still, there were questions.
And finally, were there just too many coincidences? Karoly had accidentally found Piper's paper, and he had then just as accidentally found the diaries, and then, my goodness!, up pops the Venus. Maybe, horrible thought though it was, the story was just too pat, the two explanations way too consistent, as if they'd been rehearsed over and over. Maybe Diana was right. There could be something wrong here. Some additional research of my own was required. I picked up the phone.
"Hi, Frank," I said, once I was connected by a receptionist that sounded to be five years old. "It's Lara."
"Lara!" he said. "Hello." He sounded a little diffident, shall we say, hardly surprising given I'd propositioned him rather loudly and inappropriately that night in the bar. I could hardly believe I'd done it, and couldn't even think about it without turning pink with embarrassment.
"I called to apologize for the other night. I didn't get a chance to do so at the funeral. I don't know what got into me. I don't normally drink like that, nor act like that. It's just that I've recently ended a relationship of several years, and I suppose I wasn't really myself. It's been tough," I added. Now I'd see if this blatant and only marginally truthful appeal for pity would work.
"Oh, dear!" he said. "That's really too bad."
"I was hoping you'd let me take you to lunch somewhere hideously expensive to make up for it," I said.
He laughed. "Of course you can."
"How about today?" I said.
"I think that would be fine. Give me a sec to check my calendar." There was a brief pause, then, "Sure, where and when?"
"Bistro 990 at one?"
"That ought to do it," he said. "Make up for the other night, I mean. As long as you don't proposition me again."
There was no question I'd be paying for my evening of indiscretion for a long time. "I promise," I said. "See you at one."
I insisted we have a very fine bottle of wine, and carefully sipped mine as he quaffed his with enthusiasm.
"I'm reading Karoly's book," I said. "I'm enjoying it. I expect given all the hoopla over the Venus it will do very well. It's gorgeous, by the way. The illustrations, the photographs, the cover, everything. It's really well done."
"Thanks. I'm happy," he said. "Initial sales are fine. The chains are starting to pick it up which is good. We'll see how it goes on the reorders. It's got everything, though. A twenty-five thousand-year-old Venus, an author the TV cameras love and women reporters swoon over, and a real-life mystery solved. The diaries themselves almost don't matter. Please don't tell anyone I said that, especially Karoly. You won't, will you?" he said, taking another gulp of wine.
"Given what you have on me, it would be rather silly of me to tell your secrets, wouldn't it?" I said.
He smiled. "Thanks for reminding me. A case of this wine and you will be forgiven forever. Just kidding! Actually, you weren't that bad, and I was an eligible bachelor when you last saw me. It was long after college that I was prepared to accept where my true, urn, inclinations lay. I was rather flattered. I even gave your offer due consideration."
"You're being very kind. The book must have been astronomically expensive to produce. Very fancy paper, lots of design work."
"It was. I was afraid we wouldn't even be considered for it, that the Cottingham and Karoly would go to one of the big art or university presses, but Courtney Cottingham put in some money, which helped. Karoly talked her into it, silver-tongued bastard that he is. He could talk the birds out of the trees, that guy."
"I heard from him yesterday," I said. "Did you give him my phone number?" Okay, so that question wasn't part of the research, but I had to know.
"How could I do that?" he said. "I don't know what it is."
"I was surprised he called, because he obviously didn't know me that evening at the Cottingham."
"You mentioned that in the bar. More than once. I reminded him about you, that you'd been an item and so on, when I talked to him the next day. I'm glad he called you."
Ouch, I thought. Sometimes it's better not to know, as I'd had reason to say on this subject more than once. I hadn't really believed that glasses story, but still… "So Karoly just walked into your office with the manuscript in his briefcase?"
"Pretty much," he replied. "He didn't have an agent or anything. He was just shopping it around. At the time, he hadn't acquired the Venus, so I guess there wasn't much interest in it. There are lots of Victorian travel books, and unless there's a special hook, like King Tut's tomb or something, they don't elicit much interest. If it hadn't been Karoly, I wouldn't have paid much attention to it. I mean, we at Kalman and Horst try to publish books by Canadians, on subjects of interest to Canadians. Naturally, we were quietly going broke doing so. Karoly might qualify, but the book in and of itself might not have. But you know how persuasive Karoly can be. He said he'd do something that would make the book sell, and by George, he has. He may have single-handedly saved our bacon."
"Did you actually get to see the diaries themselves? That would have been exciting, at least for someone like me who likes old stuff."
"I didn't see the originals. Karoly now has them in a vault somewhere, and he will probably donate them to the Cottingham. I expect he's just waiting until he's made enough money that the charitable tax receipt will be worth something to him. I saw copies, though. All handwritten, of course, and the sketches Karoly talks about are there, no question about it. I've seen the Piper presentation at the London club, too. Also a copy. The original is still in the Bramley Museum. Karoly is trying to see if the Bramley might consider sending the diaries to the Cottingham, either as a temporary exhibit, or better still, on permanent loan—unless he can convince the Bramley to sell them, and sweet-talk some old dear into paying for them. Speaking of Karoly," he went on. "I got the distinct impression in the bar that night that the Dovercourt Divas were not entirely enamored of our Karoly. That wouldn't be the case, would it?"
"I don't know," I said, shrugging my shoulders. Who was pumping whom here? "I think he loved and left a lot of us, so there might be some residual resentment. It would be odd if we weren't pretty much over it by now." If Frank Kalman thought he was going to get information out of me, he was mistaken. I was the one asking the questions. Obviously he didn't know he was dealing with the Dea Muta.
"What was that business with Anna, though?" I said. "All that 'how could you?' stuff. What was that about?"
"That was unpleasant, wasn't it?" he said. "I have no idea."
"But she seemed to be looking right at the group you were in: Karoly, you, Courtney Cottingham, Woodward Watson."
"I suppose it looked that way. From where I was standing it was difficult to tell. I can only speak for myself, but I can't think what it would be that would make her direct that comment to me. One hates to speak ill of the dead," he said, "but one cannot help but feel Anna was a little, shall we say, unhinged. Didn't someone tell me she had that condition where you can't leave home? What's it called?"
"Agoraphobia," I said.
"Right. They'd declared her an unfit mother, too, hadn't they? Taken her kids away from her? I can't take too seriously anything she might say."
"I guess," I said. "Too bad about what happened to her."
"Terrible," he agreed. "Very sad. Are the Dovercourt Divas planning another get-together?"
"I haven't heard of any plans," I said.