The Conspiracy Club by Jonathan Kellerman

others followed suit.
    Even Tina Balleron looked subdued. “I suppose I’ve learned something,” she said. “And for that, I thank you, Dr. Jeremy Carrier.”
    An awkward moment. Jeremy didn’t know what to say.
    Edgar Marquis said, “Will anyone be offended if I call for the goose wing?”
    “Knock yourself out, Eddie,” said Harrison Maynard. “I’m calling for champagne.”
     
     
    This time, a toast.
    Clean, dry
Möet & Chandon
bubbled in the repousse goblets, the chill seeping through the glass insets, frosting the silver.
    The wine fizzed in Jeremy’s cheap flute. He took hold of the glass and raised it as Arthur toasted.
    “To our articulate guest.”
    The others repeated it.
    Five smiles. Real smiles, pure welcome.
    The evening had gone well.
    Jeremy had
done
well. He was sure of it.
    He sipped his champagne, thought he’d never tasted anything quite so wonderful.
    Never before had he felt so
accepted
.
     
17
     
    M ore small talk and sacher torte and cognac finished him off.
    Arthur Chess said, “My friends, we’d best be going.” He got up from the table, and Jeremy staggered as he did the same.
    Tina Balleron touched his elbow.
    He mumbled, “I’m okay.”
    She said, “I’m sure you are,” but she kept her fingers on his sleeve until he stood. It was well into the morning, but the others remained in their seats. Jeremy circulated the table, shaking hands, offering thanks. Arthur came up to him, escorted him out. As though Jeremy had lingered too long on the pleasantries.
    Genevieve was just outside the door with their coats, and, as Jeremy passed under the capstone, he glanced back at the triplet of C’s carved into the wood.
    The black Lincoln was waiting at the curb, engine running, and Genevieve stayed with them, sticking especially close to Jeremy.
    Once again, he felt like a child. Cosseted. Not an unpleasant feeling. He allowed Genevieve to open his door. She waited until he’d latched his seat belt, waved, closed the door, and stepped back into darkness.
     
     
    The rain had let up, replaced by a soupy fog that smelled of old wool. Jeremy was in no condition to drive, wondered about Arthur. Arthur sat upright, both hands on the wheel. Looked fine.
    The Lincoln pulled away from the curb and glided.
    “Arthur, what does CCC stand for?”
    Arthur’s hesitation lasted long enough to make an impression. “Just a little joke. Are you comfortable?”
    “Very.”
    “Good.”
    “Fine cuisine, no?”
    “Excellent.”
    Arthur smiled.
     
     
    He drove without comment as Jeremy alternated between nodding off and springing awake. Cracking the window a couple of inches helped a bit, and by the time they approached the hospital, Jeremy’s brain had settled, and his breathing was slow and easy.
    Arthur reached the doctors’ parking lot and drove through the nearly empty tier to Jeremy’s car.
    “I do hope you had a good time,” said Arthur.
    “It was great, thanks. Your friends are interesting.”
    Arthur didn’t answer.
    “They seem,” said Jeremy, “to have lived full lives.”
    Pause. “They have.”
    “How often do you meet?”
    Another pause, longer. “Irregularly.” Arthur touched his bow tie, flicked a button, and unlocked Jeremy’s door. Avoiding eye contact, he pulled out his pocket watch and consulted the dial.
    Curt dismissal.
    Jeremy said, “An interesting bunch.”
    Arthur clicked the watch shut and stared straight ahead.
    What had become of Arthur’s amiability? Jeremy had found the old man’s gregariousness off-putting, but now — maddeningly — he missed it.
    He wondered if he’d given his little performance undue credit. Had his discourse been too long-winded? Boring? Offensive, in some way?
    Did I screw up, somehow?
    Why should I care?
    Unable to summon up apathy; he hoped he hadn’t blundered. The Lincoln idled, and Arthur stared out the windshield.
    Jeremy opened his door, gave Arthur one more chance.
    The warmth of being part of something lingered in