Chapter 4

      I spent the balance of the week working hard, filling orders for customers and toying with some new designs. My mother-daughter belts were big sellers at the various dog and horse shows and were even stocked in a number of high-end boutiques. Booming sales were a balm to my soul, but I couldn’t dispel my anxiety over Magdalen Melmoth. I simply couldn’t. Research only heightened my concern. The Internet teemed with sites dedicated to Oscar Wilde, but none of them hinted at any Melmoth offspring or rumors of undiscovered manuscripts. I chuckled every time I recalled one of Wilde’s bon mots: Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken. Had my new friend decided to claim her heritage, or was she merely living a dream?

      Pruett joined me that next Wednesday on our trek to the Falls. He insisted on driving his Porsche Macan, even though it was a tight fit with two large dogs stuffed into the back seat. I didn’t even try to resist. Better to fire up his luxury SUV for that journey than my Suburban. That old soldier had crossed the 200,000-mile mark some time ago, and I dreaded the expense and bother of ever replacing it. Pruett, on the other hand, tired of his vehicles after a year or two and automatically discarded them. It was probably a cautionary tale for other aspects of his personal life as well. I knew for a fact that he never remained in a relationship longer than two years, so my option would soon be up for renewal.

      “You look nifty, Persephone.” He twirled me around, admiring my choice of garb. I am certainly no fashion plate, but on occasion I can up my game. A cashmere twinset, new jeans, and freshly polished boots were my idea of haute couture. Not exactly Vogue, but apparently, he approved. Pruett had a keen sense of fashion. He wore a handsome tweed blazer, a white turtleneck, and khaki cords that raised all manner of licentious thoughts in my mind. With sublime effort I restrained myself from losing control and jumping his bones.

      “I did a bit more digging,” he said. “Spoke to a professor at GW who specializes in Wilde. Wrote a book about him too.”

      “What did she say?”

      He neatly evaded the trap and tweaked my chin in the bargain. “Just so happens this professor is male, Ms. Smarty-Pants. Bruce Douglas, professor of English literature at George Washington University. We were roommates at Johns Hopkins a hundred years ago.”

      Pruett enjoyed flaunting his age and superior wisdom. In actuality, he was only thirty-six, four years my senior, and as for wisdom—I could match him every time with life experience.

      “So, what did your old roomie have to say?” I asked.

      “I had to be cagey,” Pruett said. “Couldn’t let him get on the scent or we’d have a howling mob of academics storming the old age home.”

      I nodded, awaiting the bombshell I knew was coming.

      “Okay, the Goose said…

      “Goose?”

      “Goosey Brucey—his nickname. Anyway, he said that, if verified, an undiscovered manuscript by Oscar Wilde would fetch seven figures at least, especially if it was a novel.”

      That made sense. Wilde was a prolific writer of poems, essays, and plays, but he had produced only one novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Any addition to that legacy would ignite the literary world. I tried to tamp down the excitement building within me. After all, the musings of an elderly lady might be no more than wishful thinking. My task was to join Poe and Keats in supporting Magdalen. Therapy Dog guidelines specified that spreading comfort and joy was our primary objective. I resolved to do just that.

      “Earth to Perri. Wake up!” Pruett gently nudged me as we neared the gates of the Falls. “Dreaming about me, were you?”

      I lowered my sunglasses and stared at him. “Not likely. Why dream when you’re sitting right next to me?”

      Pruett shook his head and chuckled. “Always one up on me, aren’t you? You keep me on my toes.” He pulled into a visitors’ spot and scanned the area. I could tell that, like me, he was pleasantly surprised. On the surface, the Falls was everything an upscale housing complex should be.

      “Not bad,” he said. “I expected something from “The Fall of the House of Usher,” or Bleak House.”

      “Feeling literary, are you? I adore Poe, gloomy as he was, but Charles Dickens bores me silly. Very overrated in my opinion. Right down there with Melville and Thomas Hardy.”

      Pruett stared at me for a moment before responding. “You are really something, Ms. Perri. So very practical and self-sufficient, but amazingly well versed in the classics. Wow!”

      How typical of him to assume that only an Ivy League graduate could be erudite. Pruett was an alumnus of Columbia’s graduate program while I scraped and saved to make it through state universities. That didn’t make me a second-class citizen or automatically make him a scholar. I was saved from embarrassment by the timely arrival of Babette and Clara.

      “Hey, you two,” my pal sang out. “No hanky-panky in front of the old folks.”

      Pruett sprang out of his Porsche and opened the back hatch for my dogs. “Wouldn’t think of it, ma’am. Best behavior.”

      I assumed we needed some special permission to bring in a guest, but when that guest was famous the rules apparently didn’t apply. Nurse Carole Ross was absent, but we were immediately greeted by Dr. Fergueson and a distinguished-looking man wearing a stethoscope whose name plate read “Jethro Tully, MD.”

      “What a treat,” the administrator said, extending her hand. “You are Wing Pruett, are you not?”

      “Guilty,” Pruett said.

      Dr. Tully moved closer and stood toe to toe with Pruett. They were similar in size, age, and build, although the good doctor wore his light brown hair in an almost military cut. His features were regular with the exception of slightly protuberant green eyes. The overall affect was not unpleasant.

      “Not doing an exposé, I hope,” he said. His manner was jocular but guarded.

      Pruett did his innocent act. “Absolutely not. My fiancée invited me to watch therapy dogs in action and I couldn’t resist.”

      I heard Babette gasp and felt myself flush. Fiancée indeed! Why delude myself—it meant nothing. Pruett used any tactic necessary when he was on the scent of a story. He’d thrown me under the bus before, so this was nothing new.

      Meanwhile, Babette sidled up to Dr. Tully and gave him the big-eyed look. “Are you here all the time, Doctor?” She had a particular fascination for medical men, although in a pinch any presentable male was fair game.

      Tully smiled down at her. “My specialty is gerontology, so I’m sort of the go-to doctor here.”

      “Ooh. Lucky patients.” Babette had once been a cheerleader and still incorporated some of those moves into her everyday life. Thankfully, she no longer used pom-poms, although it wouldn’t have surprised me if they reappeared. Age was no barrier to Babette’s romantic adventures. She looked far younger than her years and maintained a strict regimen of facials, diet, and exercise to stay that way.

      Jethro Tully lowered his voice when