They took their leave.
“Fascinating,” Pendergast said as they left the building. “But singularly unilluminating.”
“So how was it made?” Coldmoon asked.
But Pendergast, lost in thought, didn’t answer.
25
FRANCIS WELLSTONE JR. SAT in a rear corner banquette of Lafitte’s restaurant—one of Savannah’s most historic eateries, situated just off Warren Square. He always ate lunch promptly at noon, and when he was on assignment, he usually ate out and was careful to make his meals brisk, without wine or cocktails, and solus. Writing and researching were hard work. A freelancer such as himself had no boss to motivate him, no one checking up on his whereabouts, and it was all too easy to have a few martinis and let the afternoon and evening slide away. He’d seen it happen many times to other writers, and he was determined it would never happen to him.
As luck would have it, the ma?tre d’ at Lafitte’s was a voracious reader of nonfiction and happened to recognize Wellstone. While he hated to admit it to himself, this was tremendously gratifying. With great ceremony, the man ushered Wellstone to a prize table, and then—unexpectedly—returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Wellstone was about to refuse it until he noticed it was a Beaucastel: a princely gift, and one of his favorite reds of the Rh?ne Valley. Under the circumstances, there was no choice but to have one glass. One. It might well be gauche for him to take the rest of the bottle with him, but it would be even more gauche for the restaurant manager to repossess it. So he’d still be able to do a full afternoon’s work, then reward himself with the rest of the bottle after a light dinner.
But it hadn’t worked out that way. The sommelier, after uncorking the wine, immediately decanted it. So much for taking home the rest of the bottle. But the wine was excellent: earthy, almost leathery. As he was looking over the menu, Wellstone found that not only had he finished the glass, but a second had been poured for him. What the heck—he could take an afternoon off. He ordered an appetizer of escargots à la Bordelaise and then, feeling expansive, Lafitte’s famous oysters Rockefeller. But by the time he’d finished the two courses, and three glasses of wine, an uncomfortable satiety, combined with a dismaying lunchtime buzz, made him feel both guilty and discomposed. Not a good idea, after all.
What was he doing here, anyway? The book was almost finished, and it was an excellent piece of reportage. He had more than enough extra material to put together a prologue and an epilogue. Christ, the book was already a scathing indictment of paranormal charlatanism, and he really didn’t need a final exposé to cap it.
He’d spent—wasted—nearly five days already. Even this unexpected vampire story, which had materialized out of the blue, wasn’t worth the candle. He might be deluding himself that this was a good investment of his time. Learning that his old nemesis Barclay Betts would be filming a documentary here had no doubt goaded him on—that, and Betts’s damnable libel suit against him. He shouldn’t have allowed that to cloud his judgment. He was meeting with Daisy later this afternoon; he would find out if she had anything solid and incriminating on Betts, and if not, he might just wrap this up, call it quits, and head north to Boston to put the final touches on the manuscript before turning it in to his publisher.
As he’d been musing, he noticed the sommelier had crept up and refilled his glass. Well, he didn’t have to drink it.
At that moment, the restaurant’s front door opened and he saw none other than Barclay Betts stroll in, followed by his cinematographer and half a dozen or so hangers-on. Bloody hell. Wellstone reached for the dessert menu as a shield, but realized it had already been taken away when he’d ordered an espresso. He’d drain that and be gone.
He raised the fresh glass of wine to his lips.
Betts’s loud voice and braying laugh were disturbing the restrained atmosphere of the restaurant. Heads turned as the party made its progress. As it did so, Wellstone realized that the only tables capable of supporting such a large group were the banquettes along the back wall—and the only free one was directly next to his.
He half stood, preparing to raise his hand and ask a waiter to forget the espresso and bring his check instead, but at that moment—just as one waiter was seating Betts & Co. with a cacophony of scraping and tinkling—his own waiter, accompanied by the ma?tre d’， approached, carrying something on a platter beneath a domed silver lid.
They slipped it in front of him and, before Wellstone could protest, the ma?tre d’ whisked off the lid to reveal a white ramekin with a jiggly yellow mass spreading out above it like a miniature mushroom cloud.