The Loudoun Legacy

While Sybil prepared tea, I relaxed in her cozy sitting room mesmerized by her eclectic collection of memorabilia, from dowsing rods propped on dusty shelves to cat skeletons inhabiting a glass bookcase. The ebb and flow of a computer screen saver confirmed that sorcery and fuzzy telepathic communications are outmoded by today’s smart electronic networks.

Sybil came through the doorway bearing a silver tray laden with a steaming teapot, tempting cakes, and dainty bone china teacups. She poured me a cup of fragrant Earl Grey and proffered sweets I could not refuse, then eased into a chair. “Now tell me, what brings you here?”

“It’s not your walk-in theory, but something more immediate. When I was working on the Hill, I was privy to several papers about your role in helping our government foil foreign conspiracies.”

Her cool eyes burrowed into mine. “And?”
“I believe I’m a pawn in one of the plots.”

The muscles in her jaw slackened and the corners of her prim mouth turned upward. “Senator Shellenberger’s prize gift.”

“I was set up?”

“For good reason. I received a psychic impression that terrorists wanted to establish a base in the Virginia countryside…”

“Terrorists!” I nearly dropped the expensive teacup.

“… and their first contact would be with a realty company. The Select Committee on Intelligence asked Sheila to screen Cameron’s clients. After keying in on several in search of large, isolated properties, they needed the bait, an unsuspecting, yet trustworthy, agent. Your career in the arts would deflect suspicion. Best of all, you weren’t aware that your security upgrade was already approved, so that knowledge wouldn’t hamper your treatment of the clients.”
“Then the Cameron Agency is…”

“Oh, it’s perfectly legitimate with an impeccable reputation. Sheila is the part-owner, but she is also the widow of a CIA operative who lost his life in the Mid East. Because of her determination to revenge his death, she turned over part of her office to the other ‘company.’”

“You mean ‘The Company’ in the sense that people refer to the CIA?”

“I do. Now I must make another point clear: Burke Cameron is not Sheila’s son, not a relative in the remotest sense. He’s simply one of the best agents around. He also was enthusiastic about utilizing your services.”

Sybil laughed aloud at my expression and popped a morsel of cake into her mouth. “I’ll have to tell Sheila that her flair for dramatics worked. She dabbles in amateur theatrics when she’s not amassing a small fortune from her company’s sales and polishing Pohick’s silver. Oh yes,” this to my incredulous stare. “She really is on the Altar Guild. That was key to waylaying you.”
“Please explain.”

“Senator Shellenberger knew you’d be heading down Route One to the Interstate. It was simply a matter of keeping you in sight until you could be stopped ‘accidentally’ and permanently. The bad weather was a plus.”

“That explains what happened to my car, but what about Martin?”

“You’re catching on. Another agent doing his duty under the cloak he most enjoys as an antique car buff. But he didn’t repair your car. That was done by the ‘company’ mechanics, minor expenses in the scheme of things, as is your ‘company’ car, which is equipped with hi-tech surveillance equipment.”

“And the story about Burke being a prodigal son, that was pure nonsense, I gather?”

“You fell for it, like the rest of the Cameron Realty staff. There had to be some explanation for placing a stranger in a prominent position. One of the lighter moments was a dramatic scene Sheila staged so Burke could convince the staff he’s slightly mad.”

“That must have been the time he screamed at a new hire and frightened her away. It certainly made an impression on Janel. Nothing surprises me now, not even the murder.”

Sheila nodded. “That was unexpected, an early show of strength.”

Without asking, I sensed that she knew every detail. “Was Bunny in on the plot?”

“No, she simply knew too much and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Or married the wrong man.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I may be off base, but I believe that her second husband was my first client, Justin Elmont, and that he attacked her. But that’s not his real name.

“And your reasoning…?”

“He’s not in any data base I’ve consulted and his initials are the same as the man she married four months ago, Jerry Ewing. Then he leaped at the chance to buy the Davis house even though it didn’t meet his original criteria. Also, Elmont and Ewing are both bald. Now that I know Bunny’s husband was after the rumored fortune, it’s too great a coincidence to ignore.”

“Knowledge can be dangerous, but your reasoning is valid.”

“What else can you tell me.”

“Sheila and Burke, as you know him, have explained a few facts, but most of it comes directly from my contacts in the ether.” Sybil passed her hand through the air in a mystical swoop, then reached for the teapot and offered me a refill.

I glanced at my watch. “Thanks, but I’m meeting Burke in a few hours and would like to check out something beforehand.”

Sybil gave me a hard look. “Don’t place yourself in more danger.”

Airily, I said, “I doubt there’s any danger in this project.” I felt certain that the poem had nothing to do with terrorism, only with the solution to the Davis fortune, the reason Justin Elmont wanted Grigsby’s house so badly. Sybil’s tiger cat, curled up contentedly on the window sill, twitched his ears in alarm when that thought surfaced, as if he, too, could read minds.

We rose in unison. “If you must get on with it, then I can’t stop you,” Sybil said.

Her cat bounded off the sill. As I stooped to stoke him, he arched against my leg. Did he share psychic powers with his mistress?

2007 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary by Email.