Ashley wondered if indeed she could. “Not just reporters,” she said. “Photographers, magazine people, advertisers, eligible men, charities, nut cases.” Spies, thugs, lunatic lawyers from San Diego, Houston heiresses, New York newswomen. “It’s really been a zoo around here.”

“And you’re not interested in any of their offers?” Lillian Parker spoke as if she’d known Ashley for years.

“That’s right, I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not.”

She smiled. “Don’t get that hunted look, Ashley—may I call you Ashley?”

“Of course.”

“And I’m Lillian. I’m not here to try to extract an interview from you. My visit is strictly personal.”

Ashley picked up a pencil and held it between her forefingers, one on the tip, the other on the eraser. Now I’m fidgety.

“I’m here on behalf of J. Land Crockett.”

“Good God.” Ashley dropped the pencil.

“I beg your pardon.” Lillian took a few steps toward her. “Is something wrong?”

No, not at all, Ashley thought cynically. J. Land Crockett was only the chairman of the board of Crockett Industries and the father of Judith Land, who was the dead wife of Andrew Balaton, who was the father of Sarah Balaton, who was vice president of finance for Crockett Industries and, not at all incidentally, after the tiara and the choker. Which Barky had.

Why the hell should there be something wrong?

But she cleared her throat and shook her head, becoming disturbingly adept, she thought, at deceit. “I’m sorry—that’s just the last thing I expected you to say. We’re talking about J. Land Crockett, the billionaire?”

Again the direct gaze was in place. “Yes. I’ve been a personal friend of his for years—something very few people realize.”

“Not even Sybil Morgenstern?”

Lillian smiled. “Especially not Sybil. It’s common knowledge his daughter and I were friends, but Judith’s been dead for almost thirty years. It’s assumed I lost touch with Crockett. But he’s an elderly, sad and troubled man; I can’t abandon him. And when he asked me to talk with you, there was no way I could refuse.”

“What could he possibly want with me?” Ashley asked, but already she was guessing: the jewels, Barky, information.

“He’d like to learn more about the New England Oceanographic Institute.”

Har-di-har, Ashley thought. “I don’t understand.”

Lillian moved back to the wall of photographs and eyed one, in color, of dawn on the tidal flats. “The general public knows J. Land Crockett as a Texas oilman and a recluse. Indeed, he does have a ranch northwest of Houston and there’s no question he keeps largely to himself. But what most people don’t realize—and he’d like to keep it that way—is that he spends half the year on an island off the coast of Maine. He loves the ocean.”

Making no comment, Ashley listened with interest. What an incredible crock of bullshit Lillian Parker could come up with when she wanted to.

“It’s my understanding,” the savvy newswoman went on, “that he’s considering making a contribution to the institute’s work.”

“Terrific.” What else could she say?