Lindy’s penchant for outdoor dining wanes for no one, so when Mother insisted we get together for cocktails on the boat on my return from D.C., he was happy to oblige. It was New Year’s Eve, it was an oddly warm 55 degrees outside, and we have outdoor heaters. There was no stopping the man.
“What can I get you, Mom?” he asked Bitsy.
“Vodka, neat. Now, my dear daughter, tell me everything.”
Ah, neat. Her order made it clear: She meant business. Lindy pulled out the Skye Vodka and a charcuterie plate, thus making this an official cocktail hour. Apparently, he was prepared.
I wasn’t sure if she was more interested in the DNA results or how Jim at Quantico looked, of course. She had always seen us ending up together but he’s way too insular for me. Rather than revisit that can of worms, I skirted that question completely.
“Inconclusive,” I said, reaching for a piece of ring bologna.
Mother sipped deeply, then sat up straight. “And that means?”
“Statistically speaking, it’s a black hole. We have no clue as to who this person – or people, for that matter – could be, so without some sort of context, we can’t draw any solid conclusions. We don’t even know what databases to search. It’s as if you’re comparing sand particles … or something equally as small. The likelihood there is a relationship between particles from one side of a beach to the other, where trillions of others lie in between, is extremely low.”
I put my feet up as Lindy poured my wine, waiting for Mother to digest the information. “Sorry, I’m sure that wasn’t what you were hoping to hear.”
Mother leaned forward on her elbows and sipped her drink. “Oh … I don’t know about that.” She popped a piece of Havarti cheese in her mouth and chewed contemplatively. “What you’re saying is that it’s unlikely to ever be solved? Unless a real investigator, one that is bankrolled, takes this on as a real case and ushers it through to the end, this will remain something that will just exist as a mystery that none of us can understand?”
I nodded. “Most likely, yes. It’s not a small thing.”
Bitsy nodded. “And you aren’t planning to pursue it?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not qualified. There would have to be a real private investigator.”
She smiled. “Interesting.”
Lindy grinned. “Mother … what is on your mind?”
She smiled again. “Oh nothing. Nothing at all.”
She sipped her drink. “Are you really going ahead with that magazine? You know, with Carson?”
Lindy nodded. “Yep, meeting about it tomorrow actually. I think we’re going to bring John McHenry in to do most of the writing. People seem to like him around here, and he needs a job since he left the Dispatch. Carson said the kid was in a bit of debt as a result, but I think he’s going to take care of it for him.”
“Interesting,” Bitsy said again, looking in my direction.
I finished my wine and laughed. “What?”
“Nothing,” Bitsy said. “Nothing at all.”
She raised her glass and stood. “Happy new year, friends! And, Lindy, be a dear and get me into that meeting tomorrow.”
Gunnar Olafsson