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"I thought you'd like to know that we've done some preliminary work on that note."
"And?"
"And, we haven't come up with anything."
Eva nodded, her expression impassive. "I see."
"The other day, I asked if you could think of anyone who might send you a message like that."
"Yes. And I told you I couldn't. If you came all this distance to ask me the same question again, Mr. O'Neil—"
"Do you have any enemies, Mrs. Winthrop?"
"Enemies?"
Did her tone suddenly reflect the same tension Conor saw in her eyes?
"No," she said quickly. Too quickly, Conor thought. "Why would I have enemies?"
"Well, you're CEO of Papillon Cosmetics."
Eva smiled for the first time. "Yes. And its founder and president."
"Surely, you've made enemies on the way up."
"I suppose I have, but if you're going to ask me if somebody I fired or somebody I bought out could have sent me that note, I'd have to tell you it's impossible." She smiled again. "None of them is literate enough to quote a philosopher."
Conor laughed. "Sometimes, people can surprise you."
"People never surprise me," she said flatly. She looked pointedly at the clock, then turned and made her way to the door of the library. "Now, if that's all, Mr. O'Neil, I'm afraid I really must—"
"What about your daughter, Mrs. Winthrop?"
Eva swung towards him, but not before he saw her shoulders stiffen.
"What about her?"
"I understand that she lives in Europe."
"Yes."
"In France."
"Yes."
"And that she has, for several years."
"Yes," Eva said again.
Did she think this was going to be a game of Twenty Questions? The woman's tone was as unyielding as her posture.
"Are you suggesting that my daughter had something to do with that note?"
Conor shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not suggesting anything, Mrs. Winthrop, not yet, anyway. I'm just trying to get a handle on things."
"Of course." Eva cleared her throat, glanced at her watch, then took her hand from the doorknob. "I'm going to be late for my dinner engagement."
"Just a few more minutes and I'll be out of your way, I promise."
