“Regan, what are you saying?” Nora asked quietly.

“I guess I’m hoping that something in those Greek papers will jump out at me.”

Nora hesitated. “I’ve always taught you to trust your instincts, but after the way that psychic reacted to you yesterday—Regan, she was afraid for you.”

“Mom, that woman is a quack. You know what she’s doing today?” Regan did not wait for an answer. “Running a scarf-tying session. Give me a break. The next thing you know she’ll be selling crystal balls with the Queen Guinevere logo. I bet she just needed a free ride across the Pond.” Regan scooped up blueberry-muffin crumbs from Luke’s plate and dropped them into her mouth.

Nora handed her a napkin as Regan got up and walked over to the phone. “Besides,” she added quietly, “even though we weren’t close, I wish I had made more of an effort with Athena ...”

Chapter 35

OXFORD

CARRYING A PIPING-HOT cup of tea, Nigel Livingston walked down the drab hallway of the police station in Oxford, heading for the last door on the left, his office. My home away from home, he mused, with pictures of his wife and daughter adorning his massive desk. He quickened his pace when he heard his phone ringing, causing the steaming brew to spill over onto his stubby fingers. “Oh, buggers,” he muttered angrily as the tea dripped down the side of the cup and splashed onto the gray tile floor.

The call was from Regan Reilly. “Just a second, Miss Reilly.” With the receiver in one hand, Livingston circled his desk and sat down on his swivel chair. The file on the Popolous case was open on his desk. The first faxes from Greece had just arrived. He had spread them all out, anxious to read the new material as well as go over his notes, when he had gone for the cup of tea.

On the other end, Regan held out her cup as Luke freshened it with the last few drops of coffee in the pot. “Thanks, Lukey.”

“Beg your pardon?” Nigel asked.

“Oh, sorry,” Regan replied. “I’m calling from my parents’ room. They’re heading home from a trip to Europe and coincidentally were booked on this same crossing.”

“Didn’t I hear your mother is a mystery writer?”

“Yes. And by the way, I haven’t told Lady Exner she’s on board. She’s rather anxious for my mother to write the story of her life. She can be quite determined.”

“I understand,” Livingston replied as he remembered the discussion he’d had yesterday with Philip Whitcomb and his fiancee. “Has Lady Exner expressed any concern for Miss Atwater’s condition?”