Driving home in a dreamy daze of future culinary masterpieces that would keep her mind occupied through the coming months of her pregnancy, Millie suddenly felt something inside her shift. Why the sensation filled her with a blind panic she had no idea, but she left the car in the drive with the keys still in the ignition, desperate to get inside the house, examine herself, see what had happened.
Blood! Nor had the bleeding stopped, though she wasn’t hemorrhaging.
Her diary! Where was her diary? Hands hardly able to get the little book out of her purse, she finally located Dr. Solomon’s phone number and called him.
“Don’t move around, just sit and wait for the ambulance,” he said. “I’d rather have you in the hospital, where I can do all the tests and investigate better.”
“Should I phone my husband?” she asked, face wet with tears. “Dr. James Hunter. I’ve miscarried, haven’t I?”
“Or spontaneously aborted, you’re so early. However, the fetus might still be hanging in there, Millie. Let’s see first, huh? Call your husband, but stay cheerful. Okay?”
Oh, it had been such a delightful morning! She was with child, she had made a good friend to whom she could relate, and she’d learned the scientific principles behind cooking. She had seemed to hover on two separate planes simultaneously, one a place of food, the other filled with visions of a beautiful, warm brown child with weirdly colored eyes.
Now she felt as if she would never want to eat again, and the beautiful, warm brown child was no more.
That same morning had seen a conference between C.U.P. Head Scholar Geoffrey Chaucer Millstone, Dr. Jim Hunter, Max and Davina Tunbull, and the hired publicist, Pamela Devane.
“I suggest a really big university function on Pub Day,” said Pamela, leaning back in her chair and crossing a pair of splendid legs. “Is that possible, Chauce?” she asked the Head Scholar, whom she cowed effortlessly. Putty in her hands.
“A cocktail party, not a stuffy dinner,” she was saying, “a function hosted, if possible, by the President of Chubb himself. Mawson MacIntosh is always news. About a hundred-fifty people, in a room large enough to permit TV camera crews and journalists of all descriptions to roam about without crowding the venue or the guests. Any suggestions?”
The Head Scholar thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’d recommend the rare book museum,” he said. “It’s an architectural wonder of the world, inside even more than outside. With the glass stack rising through all that white marble floor, it’s spectacular. The floor is tiered, which should give the visual media a wonderful canvas, and we can confine it to as much or as little of the floor area as you want, Pamela. We use velvet ropes to fence portions off.”
“No chance of Ivy Hall?” she asked.
Dr. Millstone shuddered. “After the death of Head Scholar Tinkerman there, President MacIntosh would never agree.”
“Pity, but fair enough.” Pamela lit a cigarette in a long jade holder. “The rare book museum it is, then. May I see it?”
“Chauce and I will take you after the meeting,” Jim Hunter said. “It’s only a short walk away.”
“Good.” She emitted a noise that bore some resemblance to a purr, “Publisher’s Weekly is usually fairly kind, but the Kirkus Review is tougher, so rave reviews from both got A Helical God off to a flying start. Jim, the Smithsonian wants you to give an hour’s lecture to a selected audience during our time in Washington D.C.— a rare honor. The university radio stations — there are dozens and dozens of them — are agog, so are the TV breakfast shows.” She grimaced. “That means early starts in the morning, like five a.m. Before the hotels serve breakfast. You will have to eat whatever the station lays on, usually not much.”
“I don’t want to do this tour,” Jim muttered.
“It’s hell, but obligatory hell. At least you won’t be alone, you’ll have Millie and me,” said Pamela complacently.
“I can’t be sure Millie will come,” he said.
Miss Devane sat up straight. “What do you mean? She has to.”
“Why?” Jim asked, blankly.
“She’s of interest. You know black and white — prejudice — your experiences along the way. Yours is an extraordinary story, Jim, and Millie is amazing. She looks like a movie star.”
For once Davina listened without saying a word, astonished at the gall of this relative stranger — she actually tried to push Jim Hunter around! So far he was taking it, but for how long?
“There is another matter,” Pamela announced, discarding her cigarette. “The tetrodotoxin murders. You’ll be asked about them as well, Jim. So will Millie.”