An instant later he realized that by dying, Pat Malone had caused the maximum amount of trouble imaginable. The tabloid reporters would start grinding out ghost and murder stories, forgetting the time capsule, and even the other papers would dutifully report it, and overshadow the reunion story, because death is more interesting than anything else.
"Don't worry," said Geoff, misinterpreting his stricken look. "It was a heart attack. I don't believe he suffered."
"Too bad," growled Mistral.
"And the hotel manager said that we could go ahead with the day's activities as planned. He has called the sheriff and the medical people, but he thought you might want to make the announcement to the reunion group."
Ruben Mistral reached an instant decision. "Why?" he said. "It had nothing to do with us."
"I'm sorry?" said Geoff, expressing not regret but total confusion.
"We all thought Pat Malone was dead, right? So we didn't mention him in the press releases or the brochures. The press never knew about him at all. So why bring him up now? It will only distract them from the real story. I'll tell the others privately in a few minutes, and instruct them not to discuss it with anyone." Somewhere deep in his consciousness, Bunzie was deploring the unfortunate necessity of having to behave this way, but after all, he told himself, the Lanthanides who are still alive could use the money.
"Are the boats here yet?" he asked.
Geoff glanced at his watch. "They should be. Shall I go and check?"
Mistral nodded. "I'll start herding the group down toward the lake, before any of them can spot an ambulance or a cop. Once we get them out in the boats, everything will be-" He broke off suddenly as a sandy-haired young man in jeans emerged from the conference room. "Not leaving, are you?" he asked heartily.
"No," said Jay Omega. "I just wondered where Marion was. Excuse me."
While Sarah Ashley explained terms like "bidding floor" to the more conscientious journalists, the Lanthanides were chatting together, waiting to be summoned for the boat trip. Brendan Surn and Lorien, who had arrived late, helped themselves to coffee and doughnuts and then joined the group in the front row. Jim and Barbara Conyers came up to join them, exchanging pleasantries with Angela Arbroath and passing around pictures of the grandchildren.
"I think he was hoping they'd have pointed ears," joked Barbara. "The three-year-old can already say the whole thing: Space, the final frontier…"
Erik Giles consulted his watch. "It's nearly ten. I wonder what happened to Marion. She's going to miss the boat if she isn't careful."
"She came and got us about twenty minutes ago," said Lorien Williams. "Isn't she back yet?"
"She'll turn up," said George Woodard, who was bored by the troubles of others. "Do you think they'll provide us with Drama-mine for the boat ride?"
Angela Arbroath smiled. "I don't think there will be much turbulence in shallow water, George. But you might want to stop drinking coffee. There's no place to pee in an open boat."
"Where is Pat Malone?" asked Barbara Conyers.
"Maybe he overslept," said Woodard. "He was always completely irresponsible. I, for one, won't miss him."
"I will," said Angela. "I forgot to ask if he's still married."
Brendan Surn smiled and patted her arm. "Wouldn't you rather have Pete Deddingfield?" he asked playfully.
"I'm sure she would," said Lorien hastily. "What a guy!" She didn't want to have to explain again who was dead and who wasn't to Brendan Surn.
Ruben Mistral emerged from the crowd of reporters just then, looking grave. "Before we head down to the boats, I need a word with you," he said, pitching his voice to a discreet undertone. "What's wrong?" gasped Angela, taking a mental tally of who was present.
Mistral looked faintly disapproving, as if he were anticipating hysterics. "Just a little bad news," he murmured. "But the important thing is that we must not discuss this with any of the media people present."
"Who died?" asked Jim Conyers.
Mistral winced at the plain speaking. "It's Pat Malone, I'm afraid. He wasn't looking too well last night. Heart attack, I imagine. It's something we have to face when we get to be our age. But you know how reporters are. We wouldn't want to distract them from the real story, would we?" He looked sharply at George Woodard, traditionally the weak link in the chain. "After all, if we make a fuss, it could diminish the importance and the monetary value of our time capsule. Not to mention the possibility of our being detained by the police for questioning."
The Lanthanides looked at each other nervously. Finally Jim Conyers said, "I don't see any harm in keeping quiet about this for the time being. It isn't obstructing justice to refrain from mentioning a death to a bunch of reporters and book editors."
"Exactly!" nodded Mistral, visibly relieved.
"None of their business," said George Woodard.
Angela Arbroath was pale, and her eyes were red-rimmed. "I suppose you know best," she murmured. "But it was natural causes?"
"Sure," said Mistral. "What else could it be?"
"Marion, what are you doing in here?"
When Marion hadn't reappeared at the briefing, Jay Omega had gone in search of her. He had checked the coffee shop and the lobby without success, and finally he decided to look in the room to see if she had been taken ill. As he made his way along the second-floor hallway toward their room he had noticed an open door, and when he glanced inside he saw Marion Farley, gazing out the window at the barren expanse of red clay between the pine-topped slopes. She did not turn to face him until he had repeated the question.
When Marion stood up, he could see that she looked ill.
"Are you all right?"
She pointed toward the bathroom. "Pat Malone," she said grimly. "He's dead again."
He looked in the direction she pointed, and for the first time he noticed the blue-robed body sprawled partly inside the bathroom. Jay looked from Marion to the corpse and back again, half expecting everyone to burst out laughing and say "Gotcha!," but the look on Marion's face was solemn and strained, and he was forced to believe that it was true. As he came toward her, he became aware of the smell, and this convinced him beyond any doubt that there had indeed been a death.
"What happened?"
Marion shrugged. "He was like this when I found him. I checked to make sure that he was dead-no pulse-and other than that, I left him alone. The maid was with me when I found him, and she saw to it that the authorities were called. I'm sorry I didn't come back, but I couldn't leave him. I kept thinking to myself, This guy wrote River of Neptune. I know that doesn't make him anything extraordinary, but-well, to me it does. I'm an English professor. I'm a fan." There was a catch in her voice. "I even wanted to get his autograph."
Jay put his arms around her. "Far be it from me to talk you out of revering writers," said the author of Bimbos of the Death Sun. "But there really isn't anything that you can do here."
"I know, Jay. I said I would stay until someone came for the body, though. You understand, don't you?"
Jay sat down in the armchair by the window and motioned for her to sit on the bed. "I'll keep you company," he said. "We'll make it a two-person wake. It's too bad about the old fellow. I think he was looking forward to this. Wonder where he's been all these years."
"I wonder who he's been all these years," said Marion. She told Jay about the medicine bottle issued to someone other than Pat Malone.
Jay looked puzzled. "An alias? That seems strange. I wonder how the police are going to notify his next of kin."
Marion looked sadly at the crumpled figure in the doorway. "I wonder if he has any," she said.