Zinnia by Jayne Castle Page A

that characterized much of the rest of the Chastain gene pool.
    Orrin ripped off his glasses and tossed them carelessly onto the desk. “What in five hells are you talking about?”
    â€œYou were dealing with that antiquarian book dealer, Morris Fenwick, who was murdered last night. You have no interest in rare books in general, so you must have been after the Chastain journal.”
    â€œThat’s a goddamned lie.”
    â€œI found your name and private phone number in Fenwick’s address file last night.”
    Orrin’s jaw clenched. “You went through a dead man’s address files?”
    â€œI had a little time to kill while my companion and I waited for the cops. Don’t worry, I removed the card with your phone number on it.”
    Orrin’s face reddened with anger. “You’re a disgrace to your name.”
    â€œI believe you’ve mentioned that once or twice.”
    Nick’s young unwed mother, Sally, had made certain that her son carried his father’s name. That fact was a festering sore in the sides of the legitimate Chastains. They saw it as a blatantly encroaching move on Sally’s part, an attempt to try to grab a share of the Chastain fortune.
    Gruff, taciturn, good-hearted Andy Aoki had raised Nick after Sally’s car had plunged off a jungle mountain road. Andy had owned the tavern in Port LaConner where Sally had worked. She had left her infant son with Andy the day she headed for Serendipity to find out what had happened to Bartholomew Chastain. She had never returned.
    Nick had grown up in the tavern. He had learned a lot from Andy including how to stop a bar brawl, how to survive in the jungle, and the elements of honor and self-control.
    Andy was the only parent Nick had ever known. When he was thirteen he had told him that he wanted to change his last name to Aoki.
    Andy gave him a long thoughtful look and then slowly shook his head. “Your mama wanted you to be a Chastain, son. And so did your pa. You need to honor their memory by respecting that.”
    â€œI’d rather honor you,” Nick said, meaning every word.
    Andy’s eyes lit with a rare warmth. “You’ve already given me more than you’ll ever know, son. It’s enough. Keep your name.”
    Andy had died a little more than three years ago, a casualty of the Western Islands Action. He had been shot dead by one of the invading pirates while defending his tavern. At the time, Nick had been deep in the jungles together with Lucas Trent and Rafe Stone-braker, hunting more of the invaders.
    Andy had died behind his cash register. The rifle at his side had been fired until it was empty. Nick had managed to shove his grief into a dark corner of his mind but he doubted if it would ever disappear entirely.
    After he had tracked down Andy’s killer, Nick hadfinally gotten around to sorting through the contents of the cluttered storeroom behind the tavern. The old storage shed had been crammed with memories of a life that had spanned eighty-one years. Nick had found faded photos of Andy’s long-dead wife, records of his early jelly-ice prospecting trips, business receipts, copies of Nick’s school records, and childhood artwork.
    He also found the small metal box that had belonged to his mother. The discovery had come as a stunning surprise. Andy had told him that all of her possessions had been destroyed in a fire that had consumed her house around the time of her death. But before she had left on the fatal trip to Serendipity, Sally had apparently hidden the metal box in Andy’s back room without telling him what she had done.
    Inside the box Nick had found only one item, the last letter that Bartholomew Chastain had written to Sally before he set out on the Third Expedition.
    Nick still couldn’t decide which irritated his Chastain relatives more, Sally’s defiant attempt to force them to acknowledge her son, or the fact that he had made