Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (top romance novels txt) 📗

sound system, he would yawn theatrically. Their tastes, childhoods, and chosen professions could not have been more dissimilar, yet they meshed as comfortably as peanut butter and jelly.

“This article?” Evarts asked. “Did you learn anything?”

Good question. She thought about it. “Just the superficial stuff. I was more concerned with the narrative flow and grammar. But I did learn a little. In 1862, sixty-five days of rain fell in the western United States. It hit California, Oregon, and Nevada. California got the brunt of it. Between November 9, 1861, and January 14, 1862, seventy-two inches of rain fell on San Francisco. Sixty-six fell in Los Angeles. Almost a third of the state was under water, roads impassable, telegraphs down, rivers overflowed, hundreds of people died, and hundreds of thousands of livestock drowned. Sacramento remained under water for six months, and the government had to move to San Francisco.”

“A freak event?”

“No. At least Professor Ashley doesn’t think so. Not a one-off. Geological evidence shows that a flood of that magnitude hits California every hundred years or so.”

She followed Evarts’s glance out the kitchen window.

He asked, “Could that be what’s happening now?”

“How should I know?”

“You’re the published expert, aren’t you?” He smiled to show he wasn’t serious.

“Yeah … except I just conveyed my entire knowledge of the subject.”

“Surely there was more in that journal article.”

“I didn’t retain much because it wasn’t my specialty.” She put her coffee cup on the counter. “I’d better reread it. It would be embarrassing if someone quoted my own words at me, and I didn’t recognize them.”

She headed toward her office. At the door, she paused and glanced back at him with a naughty glint.

“Let me know when you’re out of the shower,” she said.

“Posthaste,” he answered as he gulped down his coffee.

Over her shoulder, she added, “No rush. I have a ten-thousand-word article to read. Oh, and one more thing, I was thinking about a dinner guest tonight?”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Professor Ashley,” she said, disappearing around the corner.

Chapter 3

Evarts answered the buzz from the call box at the gate and opened the front door before their guest arrived. Professor Ashley was not a friend, but they had met several times at city and UCSB functions. In his early fifties, he had only recently become an associate professor, in part because of the coauthored article in the California Historical Society Quarterly.

“Hello, professor,” Evarts said, extending his hand. “Trish is in the kitchen putting final touches on our meal.”

“Really?” After a perfunctory handshake, the professor surveyed the expensively furnished entrance hall. “I would have thought a lavish house such as this included servants.”

Evarts remembered why he disliked the man. “Not on weekends. We like our privacy. Besides, you’ll find Trish an excellent cook.”

Ashley asked, “How about during the week? Do you have many servants?”

Was he rude to everyone, or just the wealthy? “A maid and a gardener.” Evarts waved him toward the kitchen. “This way.”

As Evarts led the way, he could feel Ashley examining every little detail of their home. The pudgy, bespectacled man wore corduroy slacks, lace-up suede chukka boots, a washed-out madras shirt, and a muddy-colored sports coat festooned with leather elbow patches. His loose and overly long graying hair made him look like a relic of the sixties. Evarts guessed that, although he affected the outward signs of intellectual elitism, Ashley envied their display of wealth. Evarts felt certain he didn’t appreciate the irony.

Baldwin heard them and turned from her preparations to greet their guest. “Jonathan, I’m glad you could make it.”

Her hands were wet, so she put the heel of each palm on his shoulders, and they kissed air in the proximity of their cheeks. Evarts thought this a silly European artifice. At university functions, he had received disconcerted looks when he intercepted the ritual by extending a hand that kept the other party at a distance.

“You look lovely,” Ashley said. “I have never been invited to your home before. It is beautiful.”

Evarts referred to an insult surrounded by compliments as a bullshit sandwich. It was going to be a long night. A knowing glance from Baldwin reminded him to behave. Not a problem. He could put up with the pompous ass for the evening. Besides, Baldwin had prepared chicken piccata, one of his favorite meals.

“Did you know Abe Douglass?” Evarts asked.

“I did,” Ashley said. “A fine man.”

“Then you must have attended one of his charity events here.”

For the briefest moment, Ashley showed embarrassment, but he recovered quickly.

“Never had the pleasure,” Ashley said. “I was sorry to see him go before I could get to know him better.”

Evarts would behave, but that didn’t preclude him from throwing a zinger now and again. Douglass’s countless charity events were egalitarian affairs. Anyone who could contribute to an interesting evening would find an invitation in the mail. The only sin in Douglass’s world was being a bore.

“We kept the house pretty much as he decorated it,” Evarts said. “Would you like to see the rest?”

“Indeed.”

Evarts led him through the butler’s pantry to the grand hall. Indeed, my ass, he thought. Who uses a word like that? No one at the police station, that’s for sure. He told himself to quit being critical. Evarts embodied two things Ashley probably disliked: wealth and law enforcement. Bias against the police didn’t bother him. It came with the job. Punk surfers shied away, and many of Baldwin’s academic friends remained aloof. The envy of his wealth was more difficult to accept. He’d grown up with parents who lived on a strict budget, so he still felt middle-class, even though his wants and wishes were no longer constrained by money. By day, he dealt with local powerbrokers, and by night, he frequently socialized with the moneyed class. Still, he didn’t understand the envy. When he was young, and later as a cop, he had never begrudged the lifestyle of prosperous locals. Douglass was a retired black multimillionaire who had made his money in the heyday of the Southern California aerospace industry. Even