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me.
    “Michael, darling!” she gushed as she seized my arm. “I’m so glad you weren’t scared away after the O’Halloran fiasco.”
    “On the contrary. I wanted to see how
you
were doing.”
    “Oh, bosh. I’m fine. Major catastrophes I can handle; it’s the paper cuts that get me down.”
    “I know this place can provide plenty of those, but you’re doing a great job. Mind if I take another peek at the Follis collection?”
    “Go for it!” she urged, drawing close enough for me to detect the scent of cinnamon in her hair. “Are the books of any real value?”
    “Hard to say until I’m able to dig into the rest of the boxes. From what I’ve seen so far, however, it’s promising.”
    Her nostrils flared a little and she tightened the grip on my arm. “How promising? The Center is six months behind in rent and the bank is threatening to call our loan if we don’t start reducing the principal. Simply paying interest isn’t cutting it anymore.”
    I furrowed my brow just enough to show my hesitancy at guessing, followed by my normally tried-and-true stall tactics.
    “Yesterday I noticed a religious tract by the Protestant Archbishop of Armagh, dated 1631, and a nice work by Edmund Burke. Then there was a charming
Darby O’Gill and the Good People
that included an inscription by the author, Herminie Templeton Kavanagh. It was the McClure Company edition dated 1903, making it a true first and not the Reilly and Lee reprint…”
    Natalie’s eyes glazed over—a common occurrence among listeners when I start prattling about rare books or rugby union football—but when her fingernails began to draw blood from my arm I cut to the chase and gave her what she wanted to hear: “If there is more such gold in the other boxes, I can see my appraisal going into six figures.”
    That stopped the glazing.
    “You’ll think this blasphemous, Michael, but I intend to recommend that the board sell the collection if fund-raising doesn’t improve.”
    I winced. “God, don’t even think it. It’s not necessary if the bank considers the books sufficient collateral.”
    She regarded me with a narrow smile before purring, “Then I presume your valuation will be generous.”
    The air got cooler as I realized my mistake in prematurely suggesting a figure. It didn’t matter whether I’d mentioned hundreds of thousands of dollars or twenty-five. It was foolish and unethical to set a client’s expectations without having done a complete evaluation of the stock.
    I began to retract my earlier statement as to the presumed value, but Natalie wasn’t listening. She had something else on her mind now.
    Releasing my arm, she turned to her daughter. “Honey, could you give Mr. Bevan and me a few minutes?”
    The girl rose, performed what seemed to be a curtsy in my direction, and drifted from the boardroom.
    “I’m really worried about her,” Natalie confided when we were alone. “She’s become so withdrawn. She seems to enjoy only being around older people. And that caterwauling! The episode before poor O’Halloran died was just one example.”
    “Don’t you think you’re being too critical? I find it refreshing that a girl her age respects the elderly. Plus, Claire certainly has a remarkable voice.”
    “Bullshit. It’s creepy the way she hangs around the dying. Crooning them on their way to eternity! She never sang so much as a nursery rhyme until six months ago.”
    “Have you taken her to a doctor?”
    “If you’re referring to a shrink, I did. He said it’s an adolescent phase she’s going through.”
    “He’s probably right, Natalie. We were all a mess at that age.”
    “This is different. I don’t recognize my child. Despite her isolation, I don’t even think she’s unhappy. But something has poisoned her soul.”
    Natalie was prone to saying things like this—a dark power always lurking about, waiting to strike when one is happiest. It comes with red hair, I suppose.
    “Has anything happened to