“No, I have a suspicious nature too, but I think we’re in the minority,” she said. “Most proud Caerphilly residents are probably wondering what took him so long.”
“So what do you think he's up to?”
She pondered for a few moments.
“Securing his legacy, perhaps?”
“He's got his foundation for that.”
“Maybe he's decided he wants a more tangible legacy,” she said.
“He could endow a building someplace,” I suggested. “The college is always looking for people willing to buy it a building.”
“Yes, but so many people have buildings. He's a big name— maybe he wants something bigger. The Montgomery Blake Zoological Park. The existing zoo isn’t that large, of course, but he could be hoping to buy up some of the surrounding land and expand it.”
“Yeah, that sounds like his style,” I agreed. “Of course, that's assuming Patrick Lanahan was cool with turning his creation into Blake's legacy. What if he wasn’t?”
“That might be something Chief Burke would find interesting,” she said, with her usual enigmatic smile. Then she glanced at the screen and frowned slightly. “Then again, you do have to feel sorry for Blake. Losing his only son to cancer, and then his only grandson to that tragic accident.”
I glanced back at the screen myself. The Anthony Blake Memorial Fellowship was given each year to the most deserving graduate student in zoology, conservation, or wildlife studies at Virginia Tech, where Blake himself had received his doctorate. Okay, so maybe he really was a zoologist, though I wouldn’t take it as gospel till I’d checked with someone at Virginia Tech.
I skimmed the paragraphs on eligibility for his scholarship and how to apply, but the last paragraph seemed more relevant. Blake had created the scholarship after Anthony, the grandson, died in a car accident a few days before he was due to receive his Ph.D. in wildlife management from Virginia Tech.
“Only grandson or only grandchild?” I asked aloud. “Blake could be the old-fashioned kind of guy who wouldn’t care nearly as much about descendants who can’t perpetuate the family name.”
“Possibly,” Ms. Ellie said, chuckling. “But apparently the boy was his only grandchild as well.”
“And how do you happen to know so much about Montgomery Blake?” I asked, raising one eyebrow at her.
“I have a suspicious nature, remember?” she said, returning my raised eyebrow. “I did my homework. Looked him up when he came to town.”
Was she implying I had been remiss in not doing the same?
“I only found out yesterday he was here, when he showed up on our doorstep,” I said, trying not to sound too defensive. “The move and all. How long has he been around?”
“About a week, that I know of. He's installed down at the Caerphilly Inn.”
“Damn,” I said. “If he’d just given Patrick what he's been spending on his hotel, the zoo would probably be out of debt by now.”
“Are you finished with that?” Ms. Ellie said, gesturing at the computer.
“I will be after I see what I can find about Anthony Blake's tragic death.”
“You won’t find anything about that online,” she told me. “It was fifteen years ago. I’ve got printouts from the microfilm. Why not come look at them, and give poor Mr. Hughes a chance to track his stock portfolio?”
I collected my printouts, yielded my seat to the impatient senior citizen, and followed Ms. Ellie through the door marked “Staff Only.”
Her office was a stark contrast to the serene order that reigned out in the public areas of the library, and also a testament to the amount of work needed to create that order. The shelves were overflowing with books, catalogs, magazines, and stacks of paper, all bulging with bookmarks and paper clips. I removed a stack of magazines from her guest chair—recent issues of Booklist and Library Journal—and sat down. Ms. Ellie studied the chaos on her desk for a few moments, then unerringly pulled a manila folder out of one stack of papers and handed it to me.
I flipped the folder open. At the front, I found printouts of many of the pages I’d just scanned on Blake's Web site, followed by printouts or photocopies of a number of articles about him. ATime magazine profile. A Wall Street Journal feature. Several OpEd pieces on environmental issues that he’d had published in the Washington Post. Nothing particularly new or enlightening.
Toward the back, I found two printouts that were obviously taken from microfilm. Both were from the Collegiate Times, Virginia Tech's student-run newspaper. The first was a short news article about the tragic accident in which the driver, Anthony M. Blake, had died at the scene. Two other students, passengers in Blake's car, had been seriously injured. Henry C. Carfield and James P. Lanahan.