Authors: Beverly Connor
“Lindsay Chamberlain. It’s good to finally meet you.” Drew put out a cigarette in a glass ashtray and held out her hand for Lindsay to walk over and take. “Marina told me how you intercepted that process server. I appreciate it. This Tidwell thing is such a nuisance.”
Marina sat opposite her, a counterpoint with worn cutoffs, a red Arizona T-shirt, and freshly washed dark brown hair slicked back and tucked behind her ears. Her freckled face broke into a sardonic smile. “He must have been good company.”
“I’ll bet,” said Drew. “What did the two of you manage to talk about?”
Lindsay grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it out to face the two of them. Claire took another one and sat beside Drew, eyeing the boxes of artifacts on the table.
“Chaos theory and dimensional physics. I’m afraid I didn’t acquit myself very well.”
Drew and Marina laughed. “What?”
“He likes listening to NPR and watching the Discovery Channel, and thought that as a scientist, I might know something. I think I disappointed him.”
“He mentioned me, I suppose?” Drew asked, lighting another cigarette and inhaling deeply.
“Only that if you turn yourself in to be served, everything could be sorted out quickly.”
Drew blew a puff of smoke. “Yeah, right.”
Lindsay took a card from her pocket and handed it to Claire. “He said if whoever took his truck would make an anonymous call and tell him where it is, he’d call it even.” Lindsay sincerely hoped that Claire hadn’t keyed it or knocked out a window.
Claire tossed the card on the table. “I’ll think about it.”
“You’d better call him,” said Drew. “I’d prefer not to give him reasons to come around here.”
Claire frowned, took the card, and slid it into the pocket of her shorts.
Lindsay stood. “I’m going to clean up before dinner.”
“Before you go, have a look at these artifacts from Feature 2.”
Drew handed Lindsay a box containing white sherds and stems from what looked like clay pipes.
Claire frowned. “There are no really diagnostic pieces.”
Marina sighed loudly and turned in her chair to face Claire. “Not only are they diagnostic, I’ll probably be able to tell who manufactured them.”
Lindsay picked out a sherd decorated with a lion design. “Then you know the dates?”
Marina nodded. “White clay smoking pipes are as good for dating a historic site as potsherds are in Indian sites. That one is between 1730 and 1770. This one . . .” She picked out a piece of broken pipe bowl with a different design. “This is probably somewhere between 1780 and 1820.”
“The Gallowses held the property from 1831 to 1869, is that right?” asked Lindsay.
“Yes.” Claire’s voice was a little too loud and Drew jumped. “Yes,” she said again, more quietly.
“There are other older artifacts,” said Marina. “Creamware . . .”
Claire’s chin jutted forward defiantly. “Everything in the documents suggests that the Gallowses were the first to build on the property.”
“What do you think, Lindsay?” Drew took another drag on her cigarette and watched Lindsay through narrowed eyes.
This isn’t a difficult problem, Lindsay thought. She felt as if she were somehow being tested—or Claire was. “Doesn’t one of the research questions concern the length of occupation?”
“Yes,” Claire answered. “We have documents that show the Gallowses built the farmstead.”
“And also artifacts that suggest it was occupied earlier. You have to deal with the conflicting data in some way.”
Claire sat stiff in her chair, glaring at Lindsay.
Why is she so angry?
Lindsay wondered. It occurred to her, as she looked at her white-knuckled hands gripping the sides of her seat, that Claire was also scared. Of what?
“What would you do?” asked Drew.
“What would I do?” Lindsay repeated. “I’m assuming funds are limited. You’ve got good horizontal excavation for each of the buildings.” She saw Claire relax ever so slightly. “Dig a few more deep vertical trenches. That should expose the occupation layers.”
My ARC 101 students could do this.
“I’m not going to change the design,” Claire snapped.
She’s scared of her judgment
, Lindsay realized as she watched Claire’s eyes dart toward Drew for confirmation.
Whether from inexperience or incompetence, Claire didn’t understand when an alteration in excavation procedure fell within the boundary of a research design and when it changed the design. Why, then, was she hired as site director and why was Drew deliberately putting Claire in the hot seat when she knew perfectly well how to proceed?
“Claire,” said Lindsay, “Adam isn’t even to the bottom of the trash pit he’s profiling in the trench. You can amend your excavation strategy without changing the research design.”
“Draw up some plans, Claire.” Drew smiled at Claire as if she were a child.
Lindsay had had enough of whatever game Drew was playing. She looked at her watch. “If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to get to the shower before dinner.”
Lindsay’s room was on the second floor. Because she was a late arrival and all the other bedrooms were full, she was given the tower room all to herself. No one had chosen it because it had no door. Lindsay had tacked up a curtain across the opening and rigged another one around the mattress on the floor. However, even with the unfinished dull wood floor and unpainted walls, she’d had worse accommodations on digs. In fact, there were times when a room like this would have been a luxury. But here—and now—the easy access to her place of sleep made her nervous.
She took her towel and washcloth from the wooden crate she’d made into a night stand and opened her suitcase to get fresh clothes. She frowned as she searched through the suitcase. She wasn’t sure, but she thought someone had rummaged through her clothes. Nothing overt was amiss, it just didn’t seem to be the way she’d left it. She made a quick search of the various pockets in the suitcase. Nothing missing. She collected her things and went to the bathroom, glad she had the foresight to keep her money hidden in her Explorer.
Erin was emerging from the bathroom. “Just in time,” she said, “but I’m afraid all the hot water’s gone.”
“That’s all right, cold water is good for the hair.”
The bathroom matched the rest of the house: old-fashioned and rundown. The toilet behind the door had been refurbished by adding a new seat. The pedestal sink was speckled with yellow paint from some long-ago attempt to brighten the walls, which had since been covered with a garish rose wallpaper. The tub was an antique, sitting off the floor on four clawed feet. At some point in its history, someone had added a spindly shower attachment that rose above a metal frame holding a curtain surrounding the tub.
Lindsay latched the door and glanced down at the keyhole below the brass knob, making sure the plug of putty still blocked the hole before she undressed and got into the shower. The water was ice cold, and the plumbing made sounds that she was sure were the source of the ghostly rumors. She washed and shampooed in record time. Covered in goose bumps, she dried, dressed, and was back in her room within ten minutes.
“Lindsay, can I come in?”
“Sure, Marina, I’m just hanging up my towel to dry.”
Marina entered through the curtains with a folder under her arm. She looked around at the bare room. “I see you got the executive suite.”
“It’s not too bad. I have a good view.” Lindsay gestured toward the window that looked out into the woods.
“I gather that you’ve not read the survey reports or the proposal. I thought you’d like to take a look. I appreciate your backing me up down there.”
Lindsay took the folder and flipped through the pages. “I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing.”
Marina looked around again as if perhaps a chair might have appeared. “Why don’t you get yourself one of the chairs from downstairs? It’s bad enough that you don’t have a door.”
“That’s all right. I just sit on the mattress. Tell me something. Claire seems out of her depth. Why is she site director?”
“Because Drew’s a softy. Claire washed out of the master’s program at South Carolina at the time that Drew had a temporary teaching position there. Drew said it was just because Claire doesn’t test well, that all she needs is a chance to show what she can do.”
“Is this Claire’s first site experience?”
“She’s done fieldwork. I think she wouldn’t be bad as one of the excavation supervisors. But a whole site’s too much for her abilities, and she substitutes bossiness for competence. I can’t tell you how many times she’s come into the artifact lab and tried to give me orders. She once came into the darkroom while I was developing. Today she tried to tell me I was wrong about the eighteenth- century artifacts—like she knows potsherds from turtle shells.” Marina shrugged. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, though I’m not sure why. No offense to you or the rest of the crew, but being a part of the field crew seems beneath you. That didn’t come out right. I mean, why aren’t you principal investigator at a site somewhere?”
“I’ve been recovering from an injury I received a couple of months ago. Francisco Lewis, my division head, thought this would be a vacation.”
“Why didn’t he send you to Club Med? This place sucks.”
“He thought that since I love the Smokies, this site would be perfect.”
“Claire’s been telling everyone you were put on leave because your work was suffering.”
“She’s saying what?
“Claire’s inclined to put her own twist on information. Most here don’t pay much attention to her. Which, I suppose, only adds to her frustration.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll have to tell her to stop spreading those rumors.” Lindsay looked through the papers again. “I appreciate these.”
“Sure. I didn’t think you had seen them. Eco Analysts did the initial survey work about four years ago. Then they went out of business. We used most of their data.” Marina looked at her watch. “It’s about time for dinner. Mrs. Laurens made a pot roast to die for.”
Lindsay laid the reports on her mattress and went with Marina downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs Broach Moore was serving Drew with papers.
Chapter 10
A Dinner Of Strained Nerves
DINNER WAS STRAINED that evening. Not that the presence of anxiety with the evening meal was a significant change. Every day at suppertime the twelve crew members, plus Mrs. Laurens and her husband, sat crammed together on a collection of scavenged mismatched chairs at the long makeshift table constructed by the crew. Normally, Claire sat at the end, engaging in what she termed
debriefing
, but what Lindsay called ambushing.
From her vantage point at the head of the table, Claire’s gaze would move from face to face, selecting her target for public rebuke over real or imagined mistakes—Erin for prying up and moving foundation stones in order to excavate under them, Kelsey for flirting, one of the twins, Dillon or Powell, for manhandling the equipment. Erin would grow red with embarrassment. Kelsey would tell Claire it was none of her business. Dillon would give her the finger.
Often the target was Joel, his brown straight hair hanging halfway in front of his glasses, sitting hunched over eating as she criticized him for his slowness. Joel was a careful excavator. His profiles were always smooth and straight. The artifacts he unearthed stood out clean and distinct against the brown soil. Joel never responded to Claire. Lindsay had thought him timid, but after talking with him on the site, she realized he simply loved excavating. Dealing with Claire was the cost of doing his job—the same way that divers occasionally have to deal with sharks.
Good excavation takes time, which is what Adam told Claire in Joel’s defense, often standing, leaning in her direction with the palms of his hands on the table. Claire’s response was her usual lecture on how they didn’t have the luxury of wasting time the way university archaeologists do. On the last remark, her gaze would invariably shift to Lindsay. Lindsay wondered where the barbs were directed before her arrival.
Only Byron and Trent were safe. Byron, not only because he was large, but also because he had the ability to cast her an insane scary glare from behind his long beard and hair. Trent, because, for some reason that escaped all of them, Claire appeared to be in love with the lanky, concave-chested addict.
Most mealtime interactions ended with a loud argument between Claire and Adam on how the site should be excavated. Lindsay wondered why everyone didn’t have ulcers. It was no wonder they had a high turnover of crew. If it weren’t for Mrs. Laurens’ good cooking, the meal wouldn’t be at all worthwhile.
This evening, Drew sat at the head of the table, Claire to her right. The reappearance of Broach Moore had cast a shadow over what everyone thought should have been a peaceful meal, with Drew present to control Claire. The crew stared at their plates, eating silently for the first five minutes.
“How did he know you were here?” Claire asked Drew, while staring at Lindsay.
“He probably came here looking for his truck, peeked in the window, and saw her,” said Adam.
Sharon, the peacemaker, spoke up in her soft voice before Adam and Claire could get started. “Bill and I ate at Ellie’s Diner for lunch. The waitress there said Alfred Tidwell’s lawyer was the only one he could find who would take the case.”
Though Sharon Kirkwood’s master’s was in history, her experience was in archaeology. She supervised the excavation of the house foundation. Bill, her clean-cut accountant husband, was taking vacation time as a volunteer. They stayed in a small motel on the outskirts of Kelley’s Chase.
Bill nodded in agreement with his wife. “She said the lawyer’s a shyster. The only reason he took the case was to milk Tidwell for what he can get. I imagine the company will supply you with a lawyer. After all, if you were to be found guilty of something, they could be held responsible, too.”
“I’m not guilty of anything,” said Drew.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you are, but . . .”
Trent fixed his bloodshot gaze on Lindsay. “It’s odd that the process server came back. Do you have any ideas why? You were with him.”