82 Desire

me.”
    “Where can I find them?”
    “Also at United Oil. In the same department as Russell. And Edward’s there, too. My cousin, Edward Favret. They all play golf—they even go away on weekends together. Duck hunting and sailing and stuff. I just can’t imagine…”
    Fearing a session of tears and nose-blowing, Skip interrupted. “Okay. I’m sorry I had to probe, but… it was necessary.”
    “Meaning his body hasn’t turned up, and he’s not in a hospital.”
    Skip said, “Listen, thanks for your time,” and left.
    For friends, it looked like one-stop shopping. Except for the Cindy Lou episode, Bebe seemed to have called it—Russell sounded dull. He went to work and played golf with his work buddies. Yikes.
    She headed once more for the United Oil building.
    Though police officers usually manage to go anywhere they want, Skip found she couldn’t control every situation as thoroughly as she’d like. She asked for Cavignac first and was told his line was busy.
    Seaberry wasn’t in his office. That left Favret, whom she found in conference with his secretary about what refreshments to offer a police officer. There was another man in his office.
    Favret rose, the picture of Southern graciousness. Or Southern WASPishness, Skip thought, with slight disdain. Despite efforts to meditate, possibly find religion, and peel off prejudice like a potato skin, she found certain men a little too smooth.
    On the face of it, there was nothing wrong with Favret. He was well over six feet tall, and thin, built on elegant lines. His brown hair was streaked with blond, as if he’d graduated from Tulane last month instead of twenty years ago. He had a youthful, open look—even friendly. Skip didn’t trust him at all.
    The other man rose as well and stuck out his hand. “Douglas Seaberry.”
    “Bebe called us,” Favret explained. “She thought you’d like to see both of us.”
    Skip raised an eyebrow: Might as well go for broke. “She also mentioned a Beau Cavignac.”
    The two men exchanged glances. The secretary said, “Would you like some coffee?” and Seaberry said, “He asked us to make his apologies—he’s on a conference call.”
    Seaberry was darker than Favret, with graying hair, at the stage when a man is beginning to make the transition from youthful to distinguished—so easy for men, so difficult for women. He wore glasses, and he was also tall, yet not nearly so lanky as Favret. He probably worked out every day of his life. He smiled, showing teeth so perfect you almost wanted to get bitten. “Would you like to sit down?”
    She thought it was odd, his offering when it was Favret’s office.
    “Thank you, I’d prefer to talk to you one at a time.”
    Again they looked at each other and seemed to shrug slightly, almost in unison. She had the odd sense they’d just evaluated her and found her wanting, as if they’d agreed tacitly not to let her in their club. Seaberry looked at his watch. “Certainly. Edward, I have a lunch date in ten minutes. Would you mind if I took Detective Langdon back to my office?”
    “Of course not. Go right ahead.”
    Skip followed Seaberry to a large corner office, which told her more about both men and their relationship than half an hour in Favret’s office would have. On impulse, she said, “Are you Russell’s boss?”
    He sat down, lowering his head slightly, possibly meaning to seem modest. He picked up a pencil and tapped his desk with it. “Not for long. He’s headed for big things at United—real big things. And sooner rather than later.” He frowned. “Or at least he was. We’re worried sick about him. The crime in this town…”
    “Tell me about him, Mr. Seaberry.”
    “Could we … uh—anything we can do to help you guys?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I mean, can’t we offer a reward or something?”
    “Sure. You can do that. And you can help me out with information—if you hear from him, for instance, call me right away.”
    Seaberry nodded, looking slightly relieved, as if he’d seen his duty and he’d done it.
    “Now tell me about him.”
    “Russell? All-around good guy. Terrific sailor. Absolutely terrific. Loves to sail in a way that”—he stared past her for a moment, then pinned her with sharp brown eyes—”well, he loves the sea. He has a sort of spiritual feel for it.”
    Skip almost said what she thought—that “spiritual” was the last word she expected to hear in the halls of the United Oil Company.
    “I