Ghosts of Columbia by L.E. Modesitt Jr.

thirty pages of the Edelson text, but it was too journalistic, sacrificing accuracy to a golly-whiz crusading spirit. After discarding Edelson, I wandered back to the kitchen, made iced tea, and finally walked back out to the veranda, moving my chair into the shade by the dining room windows.
    The Davies text wasn’t much better. While the environmental science was good, he didn’t understand even basic Columbian politics. After forty pages, I set it aside and got more tea. Then I just sat and enjoyed the view and the scent of the fallen leaves, listening to their rustling as the light wind occasionally picked them up and restacked them.
    The more I learned about Miranda’s murder, the stranger it seemed. Why would anyone murder Miranda? There could be reasons to murder Llysette, me, probably Gregor Martin, certainly Gerald Branston-Hay, and those reasons didn’t count normal jealousy, either personal or professional. It was also clear that vanBecton intended to set me up to discredit the president in the undeclared struggle between the Speaker and the president. That meant trouble and more trouble, unless I could come up with a solution fairly soon.
    Could vanBecton have had Miranda murdered, just to set me up? It was possible, but who did the actual deed? I shivered. Who was on whose payroll, and why? I knew the dangers of being on Ralston’s “payroll,” although I’d never received a cent directly, just an early retirement indirectly arranged. I doubted vanBecton had known all the details—until now, when his agents certainly could have found enough to point indirectly at my involvement with the Presidential Palace. There was nothing on paper, but both vanBecton and Ralston were old enough hands to know that by the time you had real evidence, it was too late. That was my problem—if Ralston or vanBecton wanted me framed for something or out of the way, by the time I could prove it, someone would be digging my grave and Father Esterhoos would be saying the eulogy.
    After a deep breath, I drank the last of the iced tea as the sun dropped into the branches of the apple tree halfway down the lawn.
    After a light supper in the kitchen—cold leftover veal pie—I drove the steamer down Emmen Lane, out to the bungalow owned by Miranda Miller, noting the lights in the window. The curtains were white sheers, not the white lace of New Bruges. I pulled into the paved area beside the house next to the steamer that had been Miranda’s. Knocking on the door, the wrapped book in hand, I waited until the young, clean-shaven man I had seen at the memorial service opened the door.
    “Doktor Miller? I’m Johan Eschbach. I teach in the Natural Resources Department. I saw you at the service, and I wanted to return this.” I held up the package. “I would have just left it, but since you were here, I didn’t want to slink away and leave you with something else to worry about.”
    “Please come in, is it … Professor?” He stepped back.
    “Technically, Doktor or Professor, but …” I slipped into the small foyer, but waited for an invitation to go farther.
    “I’m Alfred.” He turned to a young woman in slacks and a cardigan sweater over a synthetic silk blouse. “This is my wife, Kristen.”
    “Pleased to meet you.” I bowed. “I wish it were under other circumstances.”
    “So do we,” she answered in a calm but strong voice.
    “You are Miranda’s younger son?” I asked, again lifting my package as if unclear what to do with it.
    “The medical doctor,” he acknowledged with a brief grin that faded almost immediately.
    “She was proud of you,” I said. After a brief pause, I added, “But I am wasting your time, and I had just meant to drop this off.”
    “What is it?” asked Kristen Miller.
    “It is a book she had suggested I read, that I might find interesting. Something called Seeing Beyond the Veil.”
    “Mother—she was always looking for something beyond.” Young Alfred shook his head as he