Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📕

before his friend had willed him a fortune, Evarts couldn’t understand people who felt that anyone with more had injured them in some fashion.

Evarts led Ashley to the center of the grand hall. An unobstructed view of the California coastline was the most impressive aspect of the elongated room. Douglass had designed the rear patio like a negative edge pool so that the ground seemed to fall away from the house cantilevered over the sheer cliff. Ashley gulped at the vista.

“This is beautiful. You are a lucky man.”

“Yes, very lucky, indeed.”

Evarts checked Ashley’s expression, but he appeared not to notice the mockery.

“Do you drink?” Evarts asked.

“I love a good red wine.”

Evarts wanted to say, what a shame, I’m afraid we have only swill. He restrained himself. “Excellent. I’ll show you the rest of the house, then we’ll return to watch the sunset with a glass of wine. Let me show you one of the finest private libraries in the country.”

Evarts directed Ashley to the library, which ran almost the entire length of the north wing. The beautiful room held over six thousand books, some rare volumes and many first editions signed by famous authors. Evarts loved the library almost as much as the scenic hall and patio. He liked to pick books at random, then drop into one of the comfortable club chairs to read. He knew Abe Douglass had held and read the same books, and he felt that when he was in the room, he honored his good friend’s memory. His inheritance included all of the books except for Douglass’s extensive Lincoln collection. That he had willed to Baldwin. The Lincoln materials remained hidden away in a secret vault behind one of the bookcases. Evarts had no intention of showing that to Ashley, so instead, he led him over to two shelves filled with various editions of Baldwin’s books.

“That is quite a life’s work,” Ashley sniffed. “You should be proud of your wife’s accomplishments.”

“Since she’s only thirty-eight, that’s hardly her life’s work. Just a prelude. And what made you think I wasn’t proud of her? Why else would I have brought you over here?”

Ashley appeared taken aback. “Excuse me. Poor choice of words.”

Evarts doubted that was the case. He bet Ashley assumed that he was an uneducated cop, intimidated by a nationally renowned academic from a famous family that stretched back to the Revolution. Evarts never let it be known that he and Baldwin were distantly related through a family thread that went back to the same Founding Father.

Ashley’s admission of poor word choice amused Evarts. One of many things he had learned from his author wife was that good communication required choosing the right words. No wonder Ashley needed help getting published. Evarts reminded himself to harness his competitive nature. There was nothing to be gained by needling Ashley. He smiled. Of course, putting down the pompous twit did bring him satisfaction.

“That’s okay. I do it all the time. Drives Trish nuts. Shall we find ourselves a good red wine?”

“Lead on.” Again, he hadn’t noticed the mockery.

The Douglass home had come equipped with an extensive wine cellar that Evarts had barely dented since inheriting the estate. He preferred whiskey. Earlier, he had selected an assortment of middling wines and placed them on a mesquite cantina in the great hall. After he allowed Ashley to select a bottle from the reds and whites, they took seats in easy chairs facing the outdoors. Evarts slid open one set of stacking glass doors so they could feel and hear the rain splash against the tiled patio. After they had engaged in a few minutes of dull conversation, Baldwin informed them that dinner was ready.

Evarts closed the door, and they moved to the dining area, located at the kitchen end of the room. When they hosted an event, the dining table was either removed or pushed against the wall to hold appetizers. Baldwin came into the hall from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three prefilled soup bowls.

“I hope you like crème of asparagus soup,” Baldwin said, nodding toward the rain outside. “Seemed like the right weather for a hot starter.”

“I am sure I will love it,” Ashley said. “Where would you like me to sit?”

“At the head of the table,” she answered. “Greg and I sit opposite each other.”

Ashley took his seat, preening like he was the guest of honor. After Baldwin served the soup, she and Evarts took their customary seats. Evarts normally disliked soup made entirely of vegetables, but his wife’s crème of asparagus soup was an exception.

After cooing over the soup, Ashley said, “Patricia, I assumed my invite had something to do with the weather.”

“It does,” Patricia said. “It reminded me of your journal article about the great flood, so I thought we could have an interesting dinner discussion. About weather, of all things.”

“Indeed. And you need a refresher before traipsing up to Sacramento.”

“You know about that?” she asked.

“As coauthor of the piece, I’ve been asked to consult for the commission.” He smiled, exceptionally pleased with himself. “I hope this dinner is a prelude to an offer to ride up together.”

Evarts stifled a laugh, but Baldwin put a stop to his merriment with a two-fingered motion toward the kitchen. “Greg, help me bring in the main course.”

Ashley started to rise, but Evarts waved him back into his seat. “Stay and enjoy the wine, Jon. We can handle three plates.”

Once they were out of earshot, Baldwin said, “You swine. You’re enjoying this.”

“Indeed.” He couldn’t help himself.

“Six hours alone in the car with that man. If you say one word, I’ll flirt the entire way.”

Evarts chuckled. “Mum’s the word.”

She laughed. “That’s three words. Damn it, you’ll rue this day.”

Evarts leaned against the kitchen counter. “Seriously, this could be good for you.”

“How?”

“Let him do the talking. He can’t resist pontificating. Defer to him as the expert on flooding. The governor’s office is looking for cover, and Ashley can keep you from being the designated scapegoat.”

“You’re suggesting I set him up?