Authors: Beverly Connor
Lindsay went out to the hallway and sat on the steps. Claire followed and stood behind her, leaning against the wall. He was playing “In My Room.”
“He gets very loud. I hate loud music, but that one’s kind of nice. I do like some guitar music,” said Claire, defending her musical taste.
“That’s not just a guitar he’s playing. It’s a Fender Telecaster.”
“What’s that?”
“A very famous electric guitar designed by Leo Fender. In the early fifties he designed the Telecaster, and later made improvements with the Fender Stratocaster—though not everyone would agree the Stratocaster was better.”
“Analogous to a Stradivarius, then?”
“Well . . . not as expensive or as old, but a fine instrument nonetheless. My brother has a Danny Gatton Signature Fender Telecaster. It sounds as if Dillon likes Danny Gatton, too. He’s playing several pieces from his CDs.”
“Who’s Danny Gatton?”
“According to my brother, he was the greatest guitar player in the world.”
“Was he?”
Lindsay nodded, rocking back and forth. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Is Dillon good? Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell.”
“Pretty good. Not as good as his guitar, but don’t tell him I said so.”
“So, he’s not as good as this Gatton fellow?”
“Not even close. But don’t tell him I said that, either. I think I’ll go downstairs. Want to come?”
Claire shook her head. “No. If we’re getting more money, I think I’ll work on what to do with it.”
Lindsay descended the stairs into an impromptu party of a kind she’d been to many times before, but never at this site—the crew letting loose after a hard day at digging.
Dillon moved out to the porch with his guitar. Its cord snaked through the front window where the boards had been removed. On the porch someone had supplied a tub of ice filled with bottles of beer. Lindsay took one and opened it with the bottle opener tethered by a string to the handle of the tub. She took several gulps. It was ice cold and sent chills down her body.
The advantage of having a party in the middle of the woods is no neighbors to be disturbed by boisterous behavior. The voices and music were loud, possibly from relief—like an inrush of helium into everyone’s spirits, causing them to rise upward in joyful, chaotic racket. Adam and Joel accompanied Dillon on the guitar by beating out the rhythm of the music on various surfaces.
The porch chairs were taken by Erin and Marina. Lindsay sat on the steps with her back against a post, feeling the sound of the music vibrating through the wood, and watching some of the crew dancing to Dillon’s rendition of “Elmira St. Boogie.” Sharon and Bill were doing a respectable variation of the Mamba. Kelsey, with her exposed midriff rippling under her short T-shirt, and Powell swayed and rocked in their own freestyle.
With a bottle of beer in their hands, Drew Van Horne and Francisco Lewis looked like kindred spirits, leaning against the open door frame. Each dressed more like old-style aristocratic archaeologists—with their neatly pressed khakis, leather belts, crisp tucked-in shirts, and styled hair—than the working-in-the-dirt variety. What surprised Lindsay was the deferential manner in which Drew interacted with Lewis. Occasionally, above the din, Lindsay heard a twitter of girlish giggling—Drew laughing at some Cisco cleverness.
Dillon played “Proud Mary,” and Adam abandoned his upturned bucket and pulled a protesting Erin out of her chair. Lindsay felt a hand on her shoulder and warm breath in her ear.
“Show them how it’s done,” said Lewis, and he pulled her to her feet.
It had been a while since Lindsay had danced—at the
Estrella
site, with Lewis on the barge, if she remembered right. John didn’t dance, and she hadn’t danced with Derrick in what seemed like years.
Why not
, she thought. As she and Lewis danced, she realized she missed it. Not the demanding competition that she and Derrick used to be involved in, but the melody of movement. It was like riding a horse—the metamorphosis from being who you are to the thing you are doing, going to a place where there are no problems.
“Wow,” shouted Adam over the music. “You’ve done this before.”
“A little,” Lindsay shouted back.
Lindsay saw Drew through the window talking on the phone, holding one hand over her free ear. She wondered how Drew heard anything at all, with the noise. She only took notice because, before Drew turned her back, her face was contorted in anger.
Dillon played “Popcorn,” not a tune often danced to. Sharon and Bill dropped out. Kelsey and Powell stopped. Kelsey started again, trying to get with the rhythm. Lindsay—and Lewis, too, if the truth were told—understood both the science and art of dancing. They could make the steps, turns, and spins flow easily with the music. To Lindsay there was a little science in all art. Beyond possessing a body of knowledge, art can be expressed by the physics of movement or color, the chemistry of paint, or the mathematics of music. All great artists are conscious or unconscious scientists, just as there is a little art in all science, as witnessed by any elegant research design or creative hypothesis. Whoever first put the arts and sciences in the same college probably understood that, too.
As Lindsay and Lewis danced, she realized that there was medicine in dancing, too—a magic elixir to calm her tattered nerves and soothe her exhausted spirit. When they finished, Adam held out his hand to her.
“How ’bout it, Lindsay?”
They danced to a piece with a Spanish beat that Lindsay didn’t recognize. Afterward, she danced with Powell and with Lewis once more, stopping occasionally to take a swallow of warm beer. Once she caught a whiff of the unmistakable pungent odor of marijuana and looked around to see who was smoking. No one on the porch. Then the aroma was gone.
That’s when she saw Drew through the window, arguing with Erin in the living room. She couldn’t hear what Drew was saying, but she could see that Erin was in tears. So, Drew had found out who Erin was. Drew would fire her. Lindsay wished she wouldn’t. She pulled Lewis closer. After getting a quizzical smile from him, she whispered in his ear, asking him not to let Drew fire Erin.
“What are you talking about?” he shouted over the music.
Lindsay led Lewis off the porch, away from the intensity of the noise, and they stood eye to eye while she explained about Erin being the grandniece of Mary Susan Tidwell.
“And you knew about Erin?” Lewis asked.
“I only just learned about it. Erin’s a good kid and really wants to be an archaeologist, against the wishes of her mother.”
“She may want to quit after this,” said Lewis.
“Maybe. But let it be her decision.”
With the activity of the dancing, Lindsay hadn’t noticed the evening growing cool. Now shivering in the mountain breeze, she hugged her arms around her shoulders.
“This isn’t my site,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yes it is.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I probably don’t give you enough.”
“I have to keep up appearances. Why would I ask Drew to do me this favor?”
“Because it will look good in court. Erin’s family can’t really think Drew or anyone here killed their aunt if they’re willing to allow Erin to stay here. Besides, Erin is a descendant of the Gallowses. It would make good copy.”
“She is? I didn’t know that. You’re right. Good answers.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Lindsay looked beyond Lewis across the way to the site. A glow had caught her eye. “Oh, my God. The artifact tent. Is it on fire?”
Chapter 24
A Fire And A Warning
LINDSAY RAN TO her SUV, and Lewis followed, yelling to the others. Soon a parade of vehicles raced across the bridge and down the dirt road toward the site. She had no idea how they would put out the fire when they got there.
Water from the river, pumped by the flotation pumps . . . but they’re in the tent.
She turned onto the site, skirting the edge, heading toward the fire.
“It doesn’t look like the tent is burning.” Lewis had the door open before she came to a complete stop.
The fire was behind the tent, between it and the wooded area that bordered Little Branch Creek. Lindsay grabbed a flashlight, jumped out of the vehicle, and followed Lewis, the others close on their heels. The smell of gasoline and wood smoke stung her nose.
“It’s a bonfire,” said Adam. “Who the hell would do such a thing?”
Someone had piled dead wood behind the processing tent, doused it with gasoline, and set it ablaze.
“Why would someone do this?” Kelsey held her arms across her bare middle and edged closer to the fire.
They all stood for a moment under the starry sky and watched the flickering blaze, already beginning to die down.
“I don’t like this.” Sharon looked up at her husband, and he put his arm around her shoulders.
“Just some prank,” he muttered.
Lindsay shone the light around on the ground, looking for anything that might be a clue.
“What’s that?” Joel pointed toward the tent.
In the flickering light of the fire they saw that the visitors had spray-painted black capital letters across the back of the tent. “LEAVE THE DEAD ALONE!” it read.
“Well, shit,” said Byron. “First that little pissant reporter, and now this.”
“What should we do?” asked Marina. “Call the sheriff?”
“No.” Drew shook her head and turned to Lewis. “I think Bill’s right. It’s a prank. We’ve all had experiences at sites.”
“I’ll talk with the sheriff tomorrow.” Lewis brushed his hands together, as if the matter were done. “He’ll probably be more helpful if we don’t get him out of bed in the middle of the night. In the meantime, how about a couple of you guys staying in the tent tonight?”
“Come on, girls can stand guard duty, too,” said Kelsey. “I’ve stood guard over sites before.”
Lewis shrugged. “Whoever. Decide among yourselves. You have cell phones or something to keep in touch with the house?”
“Yeah,” said Byron. “We got walkie-talkies, too.”
Powell and Marina brought shovels from inside the tent. “Everything looks okay in there,” she said. “Maybe they just wanted to leave a message.”
They handed out the shovels and the crew shoveled dirt over the dying fire.
“So, how about it?” Lindsay heard Kelsey ask Powell. “You and me take the first watch?”
“They aren’t going to have their minds on guarding the artifacts,” Marina whispered to Lindsay.
“At least they’ll be awake if anything happens.”
“You all act like this kind of thing is common.” Erin stood by Lindsay, leaning on her shovel. With the fire out, the only light was Lindsay’s flashlight.
“Not common,” Lindsay told her as they made their way back to the cars. “Mostly, you have to guard sites from pothunters . . . people trying to steal artifacts. This is a little different. But don’t worry, in a few days there will be a whole passel of people here.”
“I may not be here.” Erin’s voice dropped. “Drew’s husband found out about me.”
“Do you want to stay?”
“If people won’t be mad at me.”
“Lewis can probably work something out. He’ll want local people working at the site now. It’ll make us less outsiders.”
The fire had effectively broken up the party. Sharon and Bill drove back to their motel. Kelsey ran upstairs to get clothes and blankets for her and Powell’s stay in the tent. Lindsay remained downstairs with Drew, Lewis, and Erin. Lewis had driven back with Drew, during which time he had made a pitch for Erin.
“Erin, you could have said something. This is like a family here, and you broke that bond,” Drew told her.
Lindsay raised her eyebrows at that, but said nothing. Hardly a family. Erin for her part, didn’t have anything to say, either. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t give Drew information on what her family was thinking. And defending herself at this point would only aggravate things.
“Good, it’s settled then. Erin will stay on, and we’ll put this behind us and work together on the upcoming project.”
Occasionally, Lindsay truly admired Lewis, the way he assumed agreement with his position. They went upstairs to bed. Lindsay was tired, but for the first time in a long time she felt safe. It was a relief to look forward to something besides getting through another day with a knot in her stomach.
Drew was already in the room changing into her nightshirt. From the rise and fall of her breathing, Claire appeared to already be sound asleep. Lindsay tiptoed in and changed her clothes. She’d be able to fall asleep quickly, too, she thought as her head hit the pillow.
When Lindsay awoke, Drew and Claire had already gone. She hurriedly put on her clothes and went down to the dining room. As she crossed the reception hall she heard Lewis in the living room talking on the phone to the sheriff. She peeked in just as he was hanging up.
“What did he say?”
“Essentially, that there was nothing he could do, though he was nice about it. He said he’d have a deputy put our road on his route. He also said that some people have pretty strong feelings about digging up graves.”
“I suppose since nothing was destroyed or stolen, the only crime was vandalism. Not really a priority.” The living room had been picked up from the party the evening before.
Probably Mrs. Laurens, bless her.
“I’ll get going on an article for the paper. Perhaps if people understand what we’re doing, we’ll get fewer protests like the one last night.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Do you think last night had anything to do with the reporter kid who was here yesterday?”
Lewis shrugged. “Feeling guilty?”
“No. But it did occur to me, he might want to retaliate somehow for the way I treated him.”
Lewis grinned. “Could be. As a rule, guys don’t like to be beat up by a girl.”
“I didn’t beat him up,” Lindsay protested. “Just roughed him up a bit.”
“Last night—before the fire—was quite enjoyable. You looked like you were having a good time, too.”
Lindsay looked out the window to avoid Lewis’s eyes. “I was. Things are getting better.”
“The sheriff told me about the stolen truck and the page out of the library book.”