her occasional nightmares.
Aubrey Belleau affected the kind of neatly trimmed beard once known as a Van Dyke. His dark blond hair was swept back from an exceptionally high forehead. Under level brows, big eyes of the clearest, cleanest blue, like the high sky on a cloudless summer’s day, regarded her intently. He wore a fawn-colored blazer. A silk foulard swirled at the open collar of his black shirt. A gold stickpin gleamed within its folds, topped by a tiny insignia resembling the Masonic all-seeing eye. Although she had never inquired, she assumed he held membership in a local lodge.
Although his size was not apparent on the monitor screen, Dr. Aubrey Belleau could have been classified as a dwarf, since his height did not exceed four feet, even with lifts in his shoes.
“Hello, Aubrey,” Honoré said into the mouthpiece. “You’re up early—or staying up very late.”
The man showed the edges of his teeth in a perfunctory smile. He wore a headset identical to Honoré’s. “It’s worth losing a bit of sleep so I may see and speak with you, darlin’ Honoré.” He emphasized the last syllable of her name, drawing it out like taffy so it sounded like “Honor-raaaay.”
“You didn’t make a satellite call at this hour just so you could get a peep at me, Aubrey.”
His eyes widened in mock hurt. “Would it be so bad if I had?”
Honoré sighed. “The last I heard, you had just exchanged vows with Mrs. Aubrey Belleau…version three point oh.”
“Your information is out of date, darlin’. My divorce from that soddin’ cow became final last month.”
Honoré smiled slightly at his use of vulgar slang. Despite his name, Belleau had been born in England fifty-three years before and she had never heard him so much as whisper a word of French, even to order wine.
“Aubrey, I’m very busy.”
He uttered a short, barking laugh. “I know. I arranged the whole Discovery Channel special, of course.”
“Of course,” she said patronizingly. “You’re a grand arranger.”
“Ain’t I just. Well, now I’m arranging something else.”
“What might that be?”
“The museum and the board of department directors at the school of Anthropology all agree you’re the best candidate—no, strike that. You’re the only candidate to carry through with this.”
Trying to soften the sharp edge of impatience in her voice, she said, “I’m waiting, Aubrey.”
Belleau paused. She didn’t know if he was doing so for dramatic effect or if it was due to a transmission lag in the wireless transmission. “Tell me…what do you know of Cryptozoica?”
Honoré did not respond immediately. Wonder and conjecture wheeled through her mind as she flipped through her mental Rolodex. “Do you mean that fraudulent ecotourism business a year or so back?”
“I do. And it was a bit over two years ago.”
“I really don’t know anything specific about it,” she stated. “I do remember several universities were solicited to fund a scientific research station on an island somewhere in the South Seas. It all turned out to be some sort of elaborate con perpetrated by an American multimillionaire, didn’t it? Howard somebody.”
“Howard Philips Flitcroft,” Belleau said.
“Right. A typical blustering Yank showman. Far too much money and too few brains as a balance.”
“Perhaps. But Flitcroft didn’t perpetrate a fraud. If anything, he was the victim.”
“As I recall, there were hucksters pushing a fantasy about an island spa where the rich received longevity therapies…it was supposed to be populated by prehistoric survivors and in return for outrageous fees, the hucksters would schedule and arrange scientific tours.”
“It all depends upon your definition of outrageous fees, I suppose,” replied Belleau indifferently. “Thirty-five thousand pounds doesn’t seem too outrageous in exchange for observing and perhaps interacting with actual dinosaurs.”
“True enough,” she said dismissively.
Aubrey Belleau affected the kind of neatly trimmed beard once known as a Van Dyke. His dark blond hair was swept back from an exceptionally high forehead. Under level brows, big eyes of the clearest, cleanest blue, like the high sky on a cloudless summer’s day, regarded her intently. He wore a fawn-colored blazer. A silk foulard swirled at the open collar of his black shirt. A gold stickpin gleamed within its folds, topped by a tiny insignia resembling the Masonic all-seeing eye. Although she had never inquired, she assumed he held membership in a local lodge.
Although his size was not apparent on the monitor screen, Dr. Aubrey Belleau could have been classified as a dwarf, since his height did not exceed four feet, even with lifts in his shoes.
“Hello, Aubrey,” Honoré said into the mouthpiece. “You’re up early—or staying up very late.”
The man showed the edges of his teeth in a perfunctory smile. He wore a headset identical to Honoré’s. “It’s worth losing a bit of sleep so I may see and speak with you, darlin’ Honoré.” He emphasized the last syllable of her name, drawing it out like taffy so it sounded like “Honor-raaaay.”
“You didn’t make a satellite call at this hour just so you could get a peep at me, Aubrey.”
His eyes widened in mock hurt. “Would it be so bad if I had?”
Honoré sighed. “The last I heard, you had just exchanged vows with Mrs. Aubrey Belleau…version three point oh.”
“Your information is out of date, darlin’. My divorce from that soddin’ cow became final last month.”
Honoré smiled slightly at his use of vulgar slang. Despite his name, Belleau had been born in England fifty-three years before and she had never heard him so much as whisper a word of French, even to order wine.
“Aubrey, I’m very busy.”
He uttered a short, barking laugh. “I know. I arranged the whole Discovery Channel special, of course.”
“Of course,” she said patronizingly. “You’re a grand arranger.”
“Ain’t I just. Well, now I’m arranging something else.”
“What might that be?”
“The museum and the board of department directors at the school of Anthropology all agree you’re the best candidate—no, strike that. You’re the only candidate to carry through with this.”
Trying to soften the sharp edge of impatience in her voice, she said, “I’m waiting, Aubrey.”
Belleau paused. She didn’t know if he was doing so for dramatic effect or if it was due to a transmission lag in the wireless transmission. “Tell me…what do you know of Cryptozoica?”
Honoré did not respond immediately. Wonder and conjecture wheeled through her mind as she flipped through her mental Rolodex. “Do you mean that fraudulent ecotourism business a year or so back?”
“I do. And it was a bit over two years ago.”
“I really don’t know anything specific about it,” she stated. “I do remember several universities were solicited to fund a scientific research station on an island somewhere in the South Seas. It all turned out to be some sort of elaborate con perpetrated by an American multimillionaire, didn’t it? Howard somebody.”
“Howard Philips Flitcroft,” Belleau said.
“Right. A typical blustering Yank showman. Far too much money and too few brains as a balance.”
“Perhaps. But Flitcroft didn’t perpetrate a fraud. If anything, he was the victim.”
“As I recall, there were hucksters pushing a fantasy about an island spa where the rich received longevity therapies…it was supposed to be populated by prehistoric survivors and in return for outrageous fees, the hucksters would schedule and arrange scientific tours.”
“It all depends upon your definition of outrageous fees, I suppose,” replied Belleau indifferently. “Thirty-five thousand pounds doesn’t seem too outrageous in exchange for observing and perhaps interacting with actual dinosaurs.”
“True enough,” she said dismissively.
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