How nice for you, I thought.
“Impressive,” Matt said again, as if he had limited vocabulary when it came to equestrian prowess.
My eyes strayed to a large whiteboard on the side wall, its tray filled with erasers and thick markers in as many colors as the ribbons Lorna had won. I could tell she had left real science and engineering far behind. The board was filled with organizational charts, budget items with dollar amounts, timelines, and acronyms for funding sponsors. My eyes landed on DoD. Leave it to the Department of Defense to use a lowercase O, so that every scientist had to tell her or his editors it wasn’t a typo. DOE, DARPA, NRC. The Department of Energy, Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, Nuclear Regulatory Commission. A few nongovernment names, some of which were pharmaceutical companies I recognized, were on the board also, with question marks next to them. Not committed, I assumed. There wasn’t an equation or a force diagram in sight.
“Interesting that you didn’t choose horse-raising as a career,” Matt said.
I wondered if horses were actually raised, like children, or chickens and sheep. My mind wandered in search of a more appropriate word, but neither Matt nor Lorna seemed hampered by the word choice. Lorna told us how her father, a rancher, had convinced her that the best strategy was for her to get an education in a field where she could make enough money to afford the luxury of competitive riding.
“No money in these competitions?” Matt asked, glancing at the showcase, as if to ask the worth of dozens of satiny ribbons.
Lorna shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, almost losing her scarf/shawl. “Not much, at least not in the local shows. There’s decent money in the bigger jumping competitions, sometimes as much as a hundred thousand dollars, but that would be split up among the top placings. Canada has a famous event, maybe close to a half million in prizes, but on the average it’s much less than that. Most people are in it for the sport.” She smiled, leaned forward, sharing a secret. “Well, for ego, too, I admit. You’re always competing for points, which you accumulate toward yearend awards, at a big ceremony.” Lorna opened her arms wide, to signify how big, again almost losing her wrap.
Matt nodded, relaxed. I knew he was gearing up, letting Lorna get comfortable. “But you have to make a living somehow,” he said, giving a palms-up. Compatriots, both just doing a job. I sat in my navy blue business casual, waiting for a piece of the action. So far, I hadn’t done much but smile and nod in appropriate places.
“Right,” Lorna said, “so, I came East to study engineering.”
“East from … ?” Matt asked.
“Galveston,” Lorna said, raising the hairs on the back of my head. I wished I knew the distance from Galveston to Houston. In a state the size of Texas, it might be the same as Revere to Portland, Maine, but, still, here was another Texan in Revere. Lorna seemed to enjoy giving her bio. “I majored in chemistry at BU, got involved in materials research when I came here to Charger Street as a summer intern. I came back after I graduated, and I’ve been here ever since. Do I have to tell you how many years?” This last was said in a coy, flirting way that did not become her.
Matt smiled and gave a page of his notebook a casual flip. “Do you know a Nina Martin?”
I smiled, recognizing Matt’s style—chat for a few minutes, let them direct the conversation, then hit them with a quick yes-or-no, black-or-white, do-you-or-don’t-you question.
Lorna seemed as taken aback as he’d intended. She cleared her throat and then frowned, as if in confusion, but to my mind, it was a cover-up in advance of a lie.
“Nina … Martin? No.” Lorna might have been trying to pronounce a foreign phrase. She licked her lips, rubbed her forehead. Matt kept his eyes locked on her. She fumbled with paper clips in a bowl on her desk. “Oh, wait, I did see something on the news. The woman they found in the marsh?”
Matt nodded. I knew he wouldn’t say anything just yet. From the interview handbook, I imagined: Create an awkward silence, hope the suspect will fill it. Not that Lorna Frederick was an official suspect, except for all the connections I’d made on my computer-generated star.
Lorna obliged with stuttering remarks. “Terrible thing. Poor woman.” She shook her head in tsk-tsk sympathy. “What makes you ask if I knew her? Is that what brings you here?”
“Do you have any connections with the buckyball team in Houston?” The Don’t Answer Her Question; Ask Another One trick, a polite form of “I’ll ask the questions here.” I was proud of Matt’s glib mention of nanotechnology.