Authors: Beverly Connor
“That’s interesting. Eda Mae probably lived around here. I don’t suppose you know a family name?”
“No, I sure don’t. Her story wasn’t as well known as the Bell witch. I guess that’s because somebody like Andrew Jackson never ran across her. It was one of those stories told to kids to scare them, like Raw Head and Bloody Bones.”
“Yeah, I know Raw Head and Bloody Bones,” said Lindsay. “My grandmother used to try to keep me out of the attic with them.”
“Never really worked, did it?” Mrs. Laurens put the bowl under the mixer and turned it on.
“No. The attic was far too attractive.”
* * *
When Lindsay entered her room, she heard the whirring sounds of Claire’s hard disk. Claire was sitting on her mattress, hunched over her laptop, pecking away on the keys.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she said without looking up. “I have some things I want you to look at.”
“Sure. I have something for you, too.” Lindsay gave her the copy of the 1785 letter about Michael Ellis ordering a pewter plaque from a metalsmith. “I thought we might be able to run this down. The metalsmith got his lead from somewhere. Maybe he made coffins, too.”
Claire examined the letter, drawing circles around several words. “Michael Ellis. We have another name we can investigate.” She looked up from the page. “Can the origin of the lead from the coffins be traced to the source of the metal?”
“As in a spectrographic or chemical analysis?” Lindsay asked. “I don’t know. We’ll find out.”
“There was a lead mine in Bumpass Cove in 1770. That’s in the northeast corner of the state.” Claire dug among the papers scattered around her bed and came up with a stapled copy of a journal article. “Here it is. It was owned by a William Colyer. Lead from the mines was used to make bullets for the Revolutionary War. The references say the ore was so rich they could smelt it over an open fire. Wouldn’t it be great if we could match up the lead from the coffins to that mine?”
“Yes, it would. If not from some physical analysis, perhaps from documentation. Mrs. McBride is trying to run down descendants of Hope Foute. We’re hoping that maybe other volumes of her diary survived.” Lindsay took a pen and wrote a name on the edge of the article. “Here’s my Gopher password if you’d like to do some research on the Web.”
“Great.” Claire looked at her watch. “If I can make it across the hall without getting caught by the cleaning police, I’ll try to get in the storeroom to do some research.”
Lindsay considered going downstairs to help with the cleaning, but lay across her bed instead, to read what Claire had done so far.
It was after midnight before Lindsay heard the house settle down to sleep. Claire came back from her Internet research with a handful of printouts and went directly to bed. Drew dragged herself in, looking completely worn out. Lindsay tried to work up some feelings of guilt for not helping out, but to no avail. She felt none. “The house looks good,” she said. “Lewis ought to feel right at home.”
“I hope this Tidwell thing isn’t going to hang over me while he’s here.”
“As far as I can see, there’s no real evidence that there ever were any documents. And everyone, from the doctor to the sheriff to the woman’s family, believes she had a heart attack. I wouldn’t worry.”
Drew stopped. “The family believes she had a heart attack?” She looked over at Claire sleeping and lowered her voice. “Then, why all this fuss?”
“They’re saying perhaps you kept her out all day, knowing that the stress on her might bring on a heart attack, and maybe it was intentional. They know it’s a stretch. As to the missing documents, apparently she told them over the years she had some valuable documents of a surprising nature. When she died and no documents were found, they were disappointed. If I were you, I would try not to worry about it.”
“God, I’m tired. Archaeology is a lot easier than cleaning. I guess that’s why I became one. Eric, my husband, got the deposition put off. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that on top of everything else.”
Lindsay reached over to turn out her light. Before she switched it off, she saw that Claire wasn’t asleep. She was looking at her with an unfathomable expression. Lindsay switched off the light.
Chapter 22
Lewis’ History Lesson
LINDSAY GLANCED UP just as the shiny black Porsche stopped on the dirt road near where they were working.
“Who the heck is that?” asked Joel.
“Not a process server, for sure,” said Adam.
They were excavating Feature 3, examining and recording the rocks, watching for gravestones. So far, they had found none. Marina had dug up the flowers that were in the path of the excavation of what they hoped was the second lead coffin. She had put the daffodil bulbs and antique roses in the buckets normally used in carting dirt to the screens to be sifted for artifacts.
The driver got out of the car and walked toward the group, who stood motionless, watching him cross the grassy divide. He took off his sunglasses as he approached and slid them into the front pocket of his light gray silk shirt. He held a large manila envelope under his arm and stopped at the edge of their excavation. He was impressive, as usual.
“This is Francisco Lewis,” said Lindsay by way of introduction.
“Oh,” said Drew, brushing the dirt off her shorts and smoothing down her hair. “I wasn’t expecting you until later. I’m Drew Van Horne.”
How like Lewis
, thought Lindsay,
to keep people off guard
.
“Hi, Drew,” he responded. “Fortunately, I was able to get away early.”
As Drew tugged at her clothes, arranging herself to be presentable—a common reflex—Lindsay realized that Lewis lacked those nervous habits that betray a person’s insecurity. That subtle sign of confidence, combined with the impact of his expensive clothes, gave Lewis a commanding air. Nevertheless, she was glad to see him, which had not always been her reaction to his presence.
Lindsay introduced all the crew: Marina, holding the buckets of plants; Joel, just rising from a group of stones; Adam, making a cross section of the berm surrounding the feature; Bill and Sharon, finishing up the house near Feature 3. The others, Claire, Powell, Dillon, Kelsey, Byron, and Erin came over from their tasks to meet Francisco Lewis—the man of the hour.
“I’m happy to meet all of you,” he said, repeating each of their names as they were introduced. Lindsay knew he would remember all of them. “Drew has told me good things about her crew.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lindsay happened to catch sight of Claire raising her chin slightly. With someone like Claire, Lewis’s compliment must have had a sting to it. However much Claire liked Drew, Drew was gone most of the time, leaving Claire to handle things every day—never mind how she handled them. She was the one who normally managed the crew.
Drew dropped her shovel. “Let me show you to the house.”
“As I am early, I have a little company business with Lindsay.” He took the envelope and opened it. “We’re building a museum for the ship we excavated. Lindsay told you about the ship, didn’t she?” He didn’t wait for an answer, immediately turning his attention to Lindsay. “I have something to show you. The sculptor finished the facial reconstruction of the crew members we excavated.” He pulled out several eight-by-ten color photographs.
“Wow.” Lindsay stepped to get a closer look. “I have dirt on my hands. You’ll have to show them to me.”
One by one, he showed her each of the photos of the busts of the crew of the
Estrella de España
, a Spanish galleon that she and Lewis had had a hand in excavating off the coast of Georgia. The others gathered around to look at the lifelike reconstructions. They were fascinating to the crew, but to Lindsay they were mesmerizing. She recognized them—she had touched their bones and had told their stories from them.
“I’m thinking about a wax component to the museum.” Lewis’s voice brought her out of her trance.
“Wax?”
“You know that idea you had about building a replica of a galleon?”
Lindsay nodded.
“We may not be able to do that right now, but I was thinking about doing smaller sections of a ship as an environment for wax figures representing the crew we excavated—as though they were performing the work they did on the ship.”
“I like that,” said Lindsay.
“We need to discuss a couple of things so I can tell the builders.” Lewis turned to Drew and the crew. “Let me get this business out of the way, and this evening we’ll all go out to a restaurant. It’s on me. Pick one you like.”
With that, he turned back to his car. Lindsay followed, wiping her hands on a handkerchief from her back pocket. “I need to change. I’m too dirty to get in your car.”
“It’s all right.” He took a stadium blanket from the trunk and put it over the tan leather seats, and Lindsay climbed in.
“Can I put in for a Porsche in my next contract?”
“Sure. You want that instead of a salary?” He started the car and drove up to the house. “I thought I did that quite well. I think I have a knack for stealth.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I needed to speak with you alone without arousing suspicion. I wanted to show you the photos of the reconstructions anyway, so I pretended that’s what I needed to talk about.”
“Oh, no. You mean you really aren’t going to do wax figures?”
“Yes, we are. I’ve already decided that, and got the ball rolling on it. But that’s not something I’d need to consult you about.”
“Lewis . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He pulled in beside Lindsay’s SUV, cut the engine, and shifted in the seat facing her. “How’s your new vehicle doing?”
“Great. Runs like the old one.”
“And you?”
Other than being terrified all the time and hallucinating . . .
“I’m doing fine, too.”
“That’s good. I told the detective to call you. I knew you wouldn’t call him. It’s not like you to go into this avoidance pattern you’ve been in.”
“So, you took control.” Lindsay could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.
“You can take control any time.” His dark eyes bore into hers as if he were issuing a challenge. She was silent. He continued after a moment. “So tell me what you’ve found out.”
“I’ve talked with the sheriff, the family, Miss Tidwell’s doctor, people who knew her, and Drew. No one but the Tidwells is suspicious of her death. Although they don’t know what kind of documents are missing, her family insists she possessed valuable papers that were going to make them rich.”
“Drew is in the clear, then?”
“Most likely. However . . .”
“However, what?”
“What aren’t you telling me, Lewis?”
Lewis paused for only a moment. “Keith would have just brushed the whole thing off were it not that Drew is a fairly well known appraiser of historical documents . . . and her husband’s a collector.”
“What? And you didn’t see fit to give me that information?”
“I didn’t want to color your opinion.”
“It would have changed how I approached Drew.”
“Does it matter that much?”
“Yes. You thought it did, too, or you would have told me right off. Miss Tidwell’s family were allowed only a glimpse of the alleged documents. She wouldn’t show them to anyone, even her family. However, she probably would show them to an appraiser. She may have even told Drew that her family didn’t know what she had.”
Lewis closed his eyes tightly and made a face. “Damn, you’re right.”
“I would be more suspicious about her death, too, with what I know now.”
“How’s that?”
“If Drew—or anyone—stole the papers, the thief might think it was necessary to kill her to keep her from discovering the theft and filing a charge. If you’re an appraiser and a professional archaeologist, your reputation is very important—important enough for some people to kill for.”
“So, now you suspect Drew?”
“Not really, but I have to consider it. Her husband’s a collector, you said? The things Miss Tidwell had may have proved too tempting for a collector who knew their value. Do you know what specifically he collects?”
“You suspect her husband, too?”
“Theoretically.”
“He specializes in post-revolutionary documents. Will you continue on, then?”
“I don’t really want to.” Lindsay thought of the Tidwells . . . and Erin. The stolen property, if it was stolen, was theirs and they had counted on having it. They had asked her to look into it and she had agreed. “But, yes, I will.”
“Good.” He grasped her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Be discreet.”
“Of course.”
“Now, I need to know a little about Tennessee history—I’ll be asked questions.”
“By whom?”
“The media. This find of the lead coffins is too important to go unnoticed, particularly with all the commotion that NASA and the other technical experts will bring, and I need to be able to converse intelligently about the cultural context, the historical significance, that sort of thing. I know the Native American history up to de Soto and the other explorers, so you can skip that part.”
“Lewis, you’re the limit. Are you asking me to give you a quick history lesson?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Please.”
“Very well. Where do I start? Okay. Here’s a concept to hang your hat on. The single most important thing that shaped the history of this whole region was the struggle between cultures over possession of the land and resources. The Indians had it, the settlers wanted it. By the way, the name
Tennessee
comes from the principal Cherokee town,
Tanasi
.”
“So,
Tanasi
converted into southern drawl became
Tennessee
.”
Lindsay rolled her eyes. “Another interesting tidbit is the name of this cove. John came to see me, and he called this Dogwood Cove. Dogwood in Cherokee is:
ka-nv-si-ta
. He believes that
Knave’s Seat
is a corruption of that. I tend to agree.”
“Sounds reasonable. Knave’s Seat is a little hard on the tongue.”
“History. Okay. Before the 1600s, Tennessee was occupied by Indians. At first, a few French and English fur traders arrived to establish posts for trading with the Indians—food, guns, blankets, axes, and such—for fur. Animal fur was the big lure and by the 1700s the good hunting brought more long hunters.”