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He looked up at the short spikes on her head. “I quite like what you’ve done. Those bits of blue and pink . . .”
When she felt her face heat up, she turned away, pretending to concentrate on the missing journal that Albert’s attorney had overnighted to her, as though she was suddenly worried about losing her place. It wasn’t all that long ago that Lazlo had come to work for the Fargos full-time as a cryptographer and researcher. Looking back, she realized that she, a workaholic, and Lazlo, a recovering alcoholic, had done a fairly good job of tolerating each other’s presence.
Somewhere along the way, she’d lightened up, and he’d sobered up.
Of course, it wasn’t long after that they’d discovered they actually worked well together. She liked his dry sense of humor, and he liked her work ethic. More importantly, they both liked the Fargos. That, in her mind, made for a good professional relationship.
Lately, though, she was starting to discover that there was more to Lazlo than met the eye. He’d taken the time to learn about her late husband, an Air Force test pilot. He knew she liked Pink Lady apples over Fuji. And when the going got tough, and she was deep into research and tempted to raid the pantry upstairs for a quick snack instead of a meal, he took to the kitchen, his intent to make sure she ate right.
He wasn’t the best chef in the world, but he’d bought a Hungarian cookbook, and his attempts to make goulash, stuffed cabbage rolls, and paprika chicken with dumplings were endearing, even if the dishes were a bit overcooked.
She stole a glance in his direction, grateful to see he wasn’t looking at her, and hoping he didn’t notice her embarrassment. He did, however, notice her sudden attention.
“You know you want to,” he said, without looking up from the pages on his desk.
Shocked speechless, Selma wondered for a moment if he’d been reading her mind instead of his copy of the Viscount’s journal. This time there was no hiding the color flooding to her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, trying to focus on the book.
“Ringing the Fargos,” he replied, giving a pointed look at the phone. “While I’m quite sure they’ll rin
g if they need something, you’ve been staring at the same page in that journal for the last several minutes. It’s clear you won’t be able to concentrate until you pick up the phone.” He looked over at her, seemed to do a double take. “You’re not coming down with a fever, are you?”
He reached over and touched her forehead, his skin cool against hers. “You do feel a bit warm.”
“I’m fine,” she said, scooting her chair back to put some much needed distance between them. Slipping a piece of paper into the journal to mark her place, she picked up the receiver, punching the speed dial for Sam’s phone. Nothing. Not even a beep. She hit the hook flash, trying for a dial tone. “I don’t think it’s working.”
Lazlo picked up the phone on his desk, got the same result. “I daresay, that explains why we haven’t heard from them. I’ll call the phone company and get a technician out here.”
The relief she felt—knowing there was a reasonable explanation—disappeared when they discovered that their cell phones weren’t working, either.
Lazlo was staring at his iPhone screen, waiting for it to reboot. “Quite coincidental, wouldn’t you say?”
“Suspicious, is more like it,” she said, turning to the computer and realizing the internet was down. “If it was just the landline and internet, I could almost believe it’s bad phone lines. But cell phones, too?”
“You don’t think someone hacked the Fargo accounts?”
“Let’s hope not,” she said. But after a quick trip to their closest neighbor to make a call, unsuccessfully, to the Fargos, then trying to get a technician out to fix the lines, there was no question about it. Someone had not only closed all the Fargo accounts, they were denying them access.
She called the bank next and discovered that those accounts had been frozen as well.
As much as Selma worried about the Fargos being out there without any money or way to contact them, she knew that her employers were resourceful. The Fargos would discover a way to get in touch. Of that, she had no doubt. And when they did, they’d be expecting answers to the history of the Gray Ghost. What she needed to do was finish her research, but when she sat down to read the stolen journal, she discovered her bookmark had slipped out. “What else can go wrong?” she said, turning the pages.
“Allow me,” Lazlo said, taking the journal from her, quickly finding her place.
49
JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
I awoke to splitting pain in my head and the vague sensation that I was being watched. I cracked open one eye, moonlight surrounding me, as I tried to recall how it was I’d ended up on the ground behind some tavern next to a rubbish heap.
A voice from above startled me. I looked up, seeing nothing but the silhouette of something large and round. A cow with wings. No, a man with his hands on his hips.
In the dim light coming from an open door, I realized it was a barkeep, staring down at me, a stern expression on his face . . .
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