Ghosts of Columbia by L.E. Modesitt Jr. Page A

took the wrapped book. “I appreciate your kindness in returning the book.” He gestured toward the sofa and chairs. “At least sit down for a bit. You don’t have to run off immediately, do you?”
    “No. I would have returned the book sooner, but I had to take a short trip yesterday—I do some consulting in addition to teaching. I did not think it would have been appropriate to descend on you Thursday night.” I took the couch, since it was lower and left them in the more comfortable superior position.
    The couple sat across on a set of wooden Dutch colonial chairs on each side of the copper-bound table.
    “Could you tell us anything else about … about …”
    “Perhaps a little,” I offered over his hesitation. “I was leaving my office that night when I felt something strange, and I thought I saw a ghost. I heard, I think, the word ‘no’ whispered, and then her ghost was gone.” I shrugged. “I do not know if that is much help. I cannot say I knew your mother well, except that once or twice she and I and others shared a luncheon.” I frowned. “Do you not have a brother? Is he not well, or his business …?”
    “Frederick.” Alfred glanced at Kristen. “I suppose it’s no great secret. He is—was—in the electronics import business in San Francisco. He liked to import the latest Bajan designs. The last time he went to Los Angeles … he did not come back. He was imprisoned for some form of export violation.”
    “When did this occur?” Despite my best resolve to appear disinterested, my eyes scanned the room, and I noted absently that the white enamel of the windowsills had begun to chip and appeared soiled. No, Miranda had not been Dutch.
    “Almost a year ago. It was September 17. I remember because it was the day after Mother’s anniversary.”
    “That must have been doubly painful for her.”
    “It was,” said Kristen.
    “The entire episode does not sound …” I shrugged. “Your mother struck me as a careful person. Was not your brother much like her?”
    “Rick? Of course. I mean, he did have some wild ideas about electronics, but he knew what sold, and Rick was very careful. It’s some sort of excuse, something.”
    “It doesn’t make sense,” added Kristen. “Rick reported everything.”
    “He was almost paranoid about being careful,” confirmed Alfred.
    “These are strange times. I would never have thought of a murder here.” I shook my head. “That makes no sense, either.”
    “A jealous lover—or would-be lover, do you think?” asked Kristen, looking intently at me.
    “Kristen …” muttered Alfred.
    “One never knows, lady. But in response to the question you never asked, I was widowed several years ago. Currently I am attached to Doktor duBoise, and she is the only one with whom I have been, shall we say, intimate.”
    Alfred blushed, and Kristen nodded.
    “How did Doktor duBoise and Mother Miller get along?”
    “They were professional colleagues, but not friends. They seemed friendly.”
    “Were there … other men?” asked Kristen.
    I liked the young lady’s directness, and I answered directly. “I know Professor Miller had luncheon occasionally with Professor Branston-Hay, but I was led to understand that such was merely friendship. He is a Babbage type and, I think, thoroughly devoted to his wife, or as devoted as any Babbage type might be to mere flesh and blood. There are few unattached men here in Vanderbraak Centre,” I added.
    “So Mother wrote,” commented Alfred.
    “But it makes no sense,” protested Kristen. “No one had any reason to kill her, not that the watch or anyone we’ve talked to can discover. She was lonely, but not totally alone. She could be a shade self-pitying—”
    “Kristen …” murmured Alfred.
    She glanced at him. “Mother Miller is dead, and I loved her, but there’s not much point in sugarcoating her character. She was raised to be wealthy, and that all came apart when your father died. She worked hard,