Burial Ground (23 page)

“Yeah.”

I told him goodbye and called Chloe Messner.

“Tooth? Oh, that one. Well, I’m not supposed to comment on ongoing investigations but seeing as how you got me into this, I guess I can say that the tooth is definitely not from Joseph Dupont’s mouth.”

“I’d figured that out.”

“The filling is a material that hasn’t been used for twenty or thirty years. The tooth is yellowed, completely different wear pattern than Joseph Dupont’s premolars. I think it’s been lying around somewhere for a long time.”

“Like in a grave?”

“Very possibly.”

I thanked her and went home. I fed a grateful Digger, showered, and then fell into bed.

I should have slept, but for a long time images of the river kept swirling through my head. I was in a whirlpool, spinning around, and every time I passed the shore I reached out for help. But the only person on the shore was Carter Wascom and he was staring down at me with a perplexed look, as if he couldn’t make up his mind.

When I opened my eyes it was dark outside. I tried to move but I felt drugged. Finally, the heaviness of sleep fell away and I sat up on the side of the bed. Digger was nuzzling my leg, telling me he was ready for his supper.

I fed him and, resigned, took out a TV dinner for myself. I’d already fixed a glass of iced tea when it occurred to me to check my answering machine in the study. Sure enough, the red light was blinking.

“
Alan, I’m calling at five-eighteen on Friday
.” I went on alert: It was Pepper’s voice. “
Your secretary said you were at home. I came by, but nobody answered the door…
” Hesitation. “
Give me a call, will you? I
’
ll be at home
…” She gave her number and I fumbled for a pencil to write it down. “I
just heard on the news: They caught Ben
.”

I was still standing by the phone, trying to digest the information, when I heard Digger barking. I went out to the living room and saw a blurred form through the opaque glass of the front door. Too big for a woman, so who could it be?

I slid back the dead bolt and edged the door open.

“Freddie,” I said, nonplussed.

“Alan.” Freddie St. Ambrose beamed back at me from the front porch, his round face all smiles. “I hope I’m not bothering you, but I thought I’d drop by on the way home. Working a little late tonight, you know.”

“Of course.” I swung the door open and stood aside. I’d known Freddie for eight or nine years but the closest we’d ever been socially was my turning down his offer of a drink at the country club when he’d had some particularly slimy scheme to propose.

“Thank you.” He danced in, surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his girth. I took in the silk tie, blazer, and lizard-skin shoes.

“Nice costume,” I said.

“Now, Alan, that’s no way to greet a guest.” He laid his umbrella in the corner, then eyed my living room. “Nice home you have, Al. I’ve heard about it, and I’m glad to finally get to see it. Your family digs, right? Nice. Very nice. A little like a museum, but…” He shrugged. “To each his own, I always say.”

“What’s on your mind, Freddie?”

“May I sit down?” He reached down, felt the sofa, and took a seat. Digger advanced on him with a growl. “That goddamn dog better not bite,” he warned.

“He won’t,” I said. “Unless I tell him, or you keep cussing him.”

Freddie gulped and rubbed a hand over his dark beard. “I should tell you I’m allergic to animals.”

“Digger’s allergic to some humans. Look, Freddie, say your piece. And I better tell you right now, I know you called Ghecko and tried to stir him up about our project”

Freddie drew back, offended. “Al, I did no such thing and I very much resent the implication. You know how Ghecko is, always scared of his shadow. Actually”—he leaned forward now—”it’s sort of about that I came here tonight.”

“About what?”

“Ghecko. And your new friend.”

“My friend?”

“That woman, for God’s sake, do I have to spell it all out?”

I sat down across from him. “What about her?”

“She’s trouble, Al. Like I’ve been trying to tell you from the first. We really need to stand together on this.”

“My supper’s waiting, Freddie.”

He sniffed. “Yes, I thought I smelled something burning. Look, I’m trying to tell you, Al: she’s doing a double-cross.”

I felt my skin tingle.

“How do you figure that?” I demanded.

“I thought I’d get your attention. Listen, Al, you and she, you aren’t, well…?” He made a crude gesture with his finger and fist.

“Get on with it, or I’ll call the dog.”

“All right, all right.” He sat up straight, looking put upon. “Did you know she’d called Ghecko today to talk about getting an archaeological permit?”

“For where?”

“Are you sure you want to know? You haven’t been very collegial lately.”

I stared back at him, then I looked over at Digger, lying in the hallway with his muzzle on his paws.

Freddie sighed. “Angola. She wants to do a survey at Angola.”

“The prison?”

“None other.”

“It’s already been studied,” I said. “Ford, Kniffen, Haag, the work at Bloodhound Hill …”

“But not a complete survey, Al. Those were just known sites. She wants to try to locate historic Tunica sites that haven’t been found yet.”

The tingling spread.

“That’s no crime,” I said. “Besides, the state prison isn’t going to give anybody permission. They’re still hostile up there because the original treasure was found by one of their guards and they figure he got screwed out of it.”

“Before now, that was the case. But there’s a new warden, Levi Goodeau. Bit of a liberal. She’s already called him and he thinks it’s a good idea. She’s also talked to the Tunicas.”

“
What?
” My voice sounded shrill even to me.

“That’s right.” Freddie rubbed his plump hands together. “And she’s done a little digging in the archives. Land records, you know?”

“Land records?”

“Sure. At the State Land Office on Third Street. Doesn’t take long. You mean she hasn’t told you about this?”

“You mean she’s told
you!
” I countered.

“Of course not. She talked to Ghecko, laid it all out for him. I just happened to go to lunch with him today and he babbled, as we both know he’s inclined to do.”

I could see it now, Ghecko wringing his hands and explaining to a grave-faced Freddie that he had misgivings, but that, as State Archaeologist, he couldn’t play favorites, no cause to deny her a permit, etc. Then, having thought it over, the Echo had called me to spill the same news so I wouldn’t get mad if I heard it from Freddie first. Only I hadn’t returned his call…

I took a deep breath. “Well, she and I aren’t partners. She has a right to do her own research.”

“Of
course
she does. Free country and all that. That’s what I like about you, Al: You’re such an idealist. You’ll still be talking about intellectual freedom when you’re sitting on the curb, begging for handouts.”

“Get out of here, Freddie.”

The fat man rose slowly. “I just hope you remember I was the one who brought this to your attention. And that I was also the one who proposed that we nip this thing in the bud at the very first.”

“I’ll remember,” I said, opening the door for him.

He turned to consider the room a final time. “You know, Al, you really do have some nice furniture here. That Queen Anne sofa, for instance. I bet you don’t even know what it’s worth. If you ever get short of money, I’ll take it off your hands. Top dollar. Might even bid on the house and furnishings
in toto
.”

“Don’t call me Al,” I said, and shut the door after him.

Digger gave a growl of good riddance and I reached down and scratched him between the ears. “I know, fella. He hits me the same way.”

I went back to the study and stared down at the number I’d scribbled on my pad. Was Freddie telling the truth? Was Pepper in the process of pulling a double-cross, lining up a project that would capitalize on whatever she found as part of her work with me? Had I been a sucker to listen to her at all? I hesitated, then punched in the number and waited. After two rings I heard her voice.

“It’s me,” I said.

“Alan. Are you all right?”

“Fine. I’ve been asleep.”
And you
, I thought,
have probably been down to Ghecko’s again, sweet-talking the poor bastard
.

“Look, you got the message about Ben? They caught him. He’s in jail in St. Francisville.”

“You heard this on the news?”

“Yes. I caught a television flash. Alan, is everything all right? Your voice sounds funny.”

“Where are you?”

There was the briefest hesitation.

“I’m at home.”

“We need to talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“I like to look somebody in the eye when I talk to them.”

“That’s old-fashioned of you. Look, if there’s something the matter, I wish you’d tell me.”

“I think we ought to meet,” I said. “Name a place.”

A sigh. “This
does
sound serious. Well, I guess I could come to your place. Or we could meet at my office.”

“What about your place?”

More hesitation. “Oh, well, I don’t know …”

“Give me the address. That way you won’t have to set foot out.”

“That’s not a problem. Really, I mean, there’s no need—”

“The address?”

When she spoke again her voice was almost too low to be heard. “I’m in University Acres. Really, Alan, we could go to your office, it’s closer for both of us and—”

“What Street?”

“Oxford.”

“Number?”

She gave a number, then: “You’ll have to go behind the house. It’s an apartment.”

“I’ll find it.”

It took ten minutes to get there. It was one of the city’s oldest subdivisions, located on the south side of the university on what used to one of the plantations that stretched along an old route called the Highland Road, and which was now one of the city’s main thoroughfares.

Lots of my schoolmates had lived in this subdivision and even Sam MacGregor had lived here in the days when he’d taught me my first anthropology courses. Despite new cars in the driveways, it still struck me as a sleepy place, with spreading oaks and sedate old homes built for professors and lawyers.

I found the address without any trouble. It was a 1930s-style bungalow with brick pillars, a screened-in front porch, and a Dodge Caravan in the driveway. I stopped at the curb and got out. She’d said behind the house.

I looked down the drive and saw the garage with a second story and a flight of steps leading up.

My God, no wonder she’d been hesitant.
The immaculately dressed P. E. Courtney lived in a garage apartment
.

I hesitated, then started past the van. When I got to the foot of the steps I saw her standing at the top, looking down. This time there were no designer jeans, just a pair of faded cutoffs and a T-shirt.

All at once I felt out of place, like I’d caught her on the examining table in her doctor’s office.

“Hi,” she said as I reached the top. She held out a hand and I took it, surprised at how small it suddenly seemed.

“Look,” I said. “I was just trying to save you trouble. I …”

“Doesn’t matter.” She shrugged and opened a screen door. “You’re here now. Anyway, why should it matter?”

She held the door for me and I walked into a tiny living room with oak floorboards and an acoustic tile ceiling. There was a metal bookcase in one corner and a small TV on a crate against one wall. A couple of cardboard boxes showed that she hadn’t finished unpacking.

“Sit down.” She pointed to a sofa with a blanket over it to cover the holes. “Can I offer you something to drink? Tea or coffee?”

“No. Thanks.” I sat down and felt the springs give.

“You expected something a little more upscale,” she said. “Well, I had to make a decision about where to put my money. I decided it was better to have an office and a decent-looking car. After all, you don’t usually take your clients home.”

“No,” I said.

“A physics professor rents this to me,” she said. “He has a couple of kids. Nice kids, actually. And it isn’t so much different from what I’ve been used to as a graduate student.”

I nodded, trying to get my thoughts together. All at once my anger at her melted away.

“But something’s bothering you,” she said, sitting down across from me in a canvas basket chair. “Or you wouldn’t have come here.”

“You’ve been trying to get a permit from Ghecko,” I blurted. “You’ve been trying to put together some kind of deal to do work at Angola and probably some other places.”

Her brows edged up fractionally. For the first time I realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses.