Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Natalie glanced up after reading the announcement aloud from the screen of her computer. “That’s it. That’s all it says.”
Lionel huffed. “Shoddy reporting. What rag of a paper is this?”
“The Yale Daily News,” Natalie answered, hoping that response would knock some of the wind out of his sails.
She was rewarded as Lionel paused.
“Well, they are students. Still learning their craft, aren’t they? Where else? Find more press,” he demanded.
She let out a sigh and continued to scroll. “There’s a follow-up from after the memorial service. But it’s from the Yale Daily News again, so you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Not necessarily. I’d like to hear it.”
A memorial service for Professor Emeritus Lionel Graves was held at Battell Chapel on Saturday.
“No mention of the number of attendees? Or whom was in attendance?” he asked.
“Nope.”
He scowled. “Keep looking.”
Natalie found a mention in the Yale alumni newsletter, and an obituary in a local New Haven newspaper, but both contained the same information. The bare minimum.
Finally, she leaned back from the computer. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else.”
Besides, she had other things to do besides search for printed praise to feed Lionel’s bruised ego. Things like ordering stock and paying bills. Things that kept her business operating in the black and a roof over her head.
Lionel shook his head. “I mourn for the future of journalism, Miss Chase.”
“You know, you can call me Natalie.”
“Yes, I know. I could. I choose not to.”
All righty.
Flipping the lid closed on her laptop, she stood from the stool behind the shop counter.
“Where are you going?” He frowned, something he seemed to do more and more.
“I have work.”
“Work? What work? And what about the work you’re doing for me?”
Was she really going to have to explain to this self-proclaimed genius with his advanced degrees the concept of working to make money to live?
“Sorry. I’m clocked out for the day, boss.” She spun on her heel and was about to make a dramatic exit. Or at least move into the meeting room where she had to set up for the book club meeting, when he said one word that stopped her.
“Wait.”
Not expecting much, she turned slowly back to face him. “Yes?”
“I’m not opposed to negotiating terms.”
“The terms of my employment, you mean?”
“No. Of our partnership,” he said.
This was new. Both the word partnership and his tone.
“Go on,” she said, curious.
“I was writing my next book when I supposedly died…”
Natalie smothered a groan. “Will you stop with that, please? I read you the death announcements. You’re dead.”
“Again, it could all be part of a very elaborate dream. Although I would hope my subconscious would have written better post-mortem articles. But let’s proceed on the assumption that I am dead.”
“Yes, let’s,” she agreed.
“My next book is nearly ready to be published. With your help, I could finish it. You could send it to my publisher.”
“And how in the world would that work? I just call up your publisher and say, ‘Hey there, I was talking to Lionel’s ghost’…”
“No, you say that you and I had been talking extensively since we met in Salem—”
“Argued, you mean. Publicly.”
“—and we agreed to partner on my current project,” he continued.
“Again, you very publicly ridiculed me. No one would believe we’re partnering on anything.”
“Indeed. I was harsh. Which is why, in our scenario, I called you to apologize. We struck up a camaraderie. I agreed to mentor you. That’s when I asked you if you’d like to intern for me. Work with me on my current project.”
Of course in this scenario he was the mentor and she the intern. But aside from that, she saw some real problems with this plan.
She shook her head. “Won’t work.”
“Why ever not?”
“No phone records of our supposed calls.”
“Not a problem. I only use WhatsApp. No records.”
“You use WhatsApp?” She frowned. “Really? You’re serious?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re so…”
“Old?”
“You said it, not me.”
“If you’re going to call me old you might as well call me frugal as well. I daresay, though rude, both might be accurate. I connect to the campus WiFi and make my calls through the app. No monthly plan fees or contracts necessary.”
She was still frowning, still speechless, as she digested this information.
“Come, come, Miss Chase. Don’t tell me you’re a luddite.”
She shook her head. “I’m not.”
Although, admittedly, she might be a fool for paying so much for her cell phone plan.
However, phone records were not her only objection. “There’s another problem with your plan.”
“Do tell.”
“How will I get your work? Am I supposed to break into your old apartment and steal your research notes and your computer?”
He smiled, which turned into a deep chuckle. “Miss Chase, have you never heard of the cloud? Everything, notes, research, manuscripts, is stored online where I can log in and access it from anywhere.”
Crud. He might be correct. She was a luddite. She’d never even considered that. “Okay, fine. So I’m not as tech savvy as I should be.”
“It’s quite all right. I find your provincial ways quite charming. And perfectly fitting given you chose to be a purveyor of bound books.”
Was that a compliment? From the Nasty Professor? Dammit. She didn’t want him to start being nice now. It would make it harder to say no.
“I’m sorry. I just don’t see how I’ll have time to add finishing your book to my To Do list. There are only so many hours in the day and—”
“I’m willing to sweeten the deal, as they say.”
It was one surprise after another with this man. And dammit again, she was intrigued. She needed to hear what he had to say. “Go on.”
“I’ve been looking over your collection of ephemera. At least, what was visibly laid out on the tables in the adjoining room there,” he began.
The Mudd and Axtell papers they’d found. Interesting…
“I’m willing to admit there is some information contained within compelling enough to perhaps support, in a limited way, your claim that I might have underestimated the Mudd family’s influence as founders.”
It was convoluted and non-committal. But his long-winded statement, when distilled down to its core essence, was saying she was right and he and his research were wrong.
“Thank you,” she said with satisfaction. “And as much as I appreciate it, it still doesn’t change my answer.”
“What if I were to publish the new findings?”
“You mean like a reprint of your Founding Families book?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous. The publisher would never agree to that.”
And with that Professor Rude was back...
“I was thinking more like an article. A follow up containing recent findings. Published in one of the more respected journals.”
“With the byline reading the ghost of Lionel Graves? Who’s going to believe that?”
“Again, as my new partner, you would have knowledge of and access to my unpublished articles.”
“You’re putting great faith in my acting and lying ability.” She hated to tell him, both sucked.
“No. I’m putting faith in academia. The historical community and their thirst for knowledge. So, Natalie, do we have a deal?”
“To be clear, I help you finish your book and submit it to your publisher and in exchange you’ll print a retraction—”
“Update. Based on newly uncovered research.”
“Fine, an update to the Founding Families book?”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.” He stood waiting.
She could feel the anticipation radiating off him. And although she wasn’t lying because she really didn’t have time to do the work necessary to finish this man’s book, the promise of justice—for her and for the Mudd family—was too great to pass up.
“All right,” she said on an exhale.
“Excellent.” He flashed yellow teeth and a sinister smile and she had to wonder how much she was going to regret this.