Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel (10 page)

"What are you going to do?"

"They will have to go back to where they belong. I just
don't know where that is. I just don't want people to think,
I mean ..." Lindsay couldn't finish.

"I see you're upset. Let me drive you home and I'll bring
you back tomorrow. I stopped by this Chinese place and got
us dinner. You can leave your Rover here can't you?"

Lindsay nodded.

They ate dinner at Lindsay's small oak dining table, which
sat by a large window with a view into the woods. Lindsay
had opened the window to let in the sounds-the cries of
raptors and songs of passerines, the tapping of woodpeckers, the rustling and chattering of squirrels, the wind in the
trees. Occasionally Lindsay had heard the distant yipping of
coyotes and wanted Sinjin to hear them, too. But he worked
in deeper woods than hers and had probably heard many
more animals than her tiny patch of wilderness had to offer.

As she ate, Lindsay wanted to talk about anything but
the artifacts. Sinjin didn't seem to want to talk about his
business in Atlanta, so they talked about the movies they
liked. Sinjin liked science fiction and hated musicals, Lindsay liked musicals and comedies, but not science fiction.
They both liked mysteries. It turned out that Double Indemnity was a favorite for both of them.

"Maybe we can check it out before you leave," said
Lindsay.

"Maybe so." He looked out the window. "There's still
some light left. How about I take Mandrake out for a while?"

"Sure. He hasn't been ridden this week. He'll enjoy it."

Lindsay watched them race across the pasture, then slow
and take a trail into the woods. Sinjin's presence filled a
deep yearning for a relationship with him that she had had
for a long time, but he seemed distracted, and she didn't
know how to ask him about anything personal.

Her thoughts drifted to Derrick, who was finishing his
doctorate in archaeology at the University of Kentucky.
She wondered if she should call and talk to him about the
artifacts. There was a time when she could talk to him
about anything; there was a time even before they started
dating that he was her best friend. Now she hesitated even to
call him about something that concerned both their fields.

This is silly, Lindsay thought. She went up to her room
and picked up the phone. A copy of the Athens Banner
Herald that she had meant to read was lying on the floor.
She picked it up and noticed a long article about Shirley
Foster in it as she listened to Derrick's phone ring. She was
about to hang up when he answered.

"Derrick?" she said. There was a moment's pause. She
could hear music in the background. "If this is a bad time, I
can call back." She tried to sound professional, as if this
were an archaeologist-to-archaeologist call. Which it was,
she told herself.

"Lindsay. How are you? You sound upset. Is everything
all right?"

Oh, no, she thought. She meant to sound so matter-offact. "No, well, yes, something has come up and I need to
talk to someone about it, but if you're busy ..."

"No. That's all right. What do you need?"

She began pouring out the story quickly because she
didn't want Derrick to think she was calling about something personal-something between them.

"Wow," he said when she was finished. "I know what
you must be thinking, but don't jump to any conclusions
about your grandfather. You don't know what the story is."

"It looks so suspicious," she said.

"Well, yeah, but I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation
for why thousands of dollars worth of artifacts were concealed under a mountain of kudzu on your family's property."

Lindsay felt herself relax. Derrick was sounding like the
old Derrick she knew.

"I was thinking of delivering them to the University of
Kentucky so the Office of State Archaeology could determine their disposition."

"I'd hold off on that for a little bit. Remember who's in
charge these days: Harold van Deevers."

"Not him?"

"Yep, the guy you humiliated at the last North American
Archaeology Conference."

"Well ... he had a decimal in the wrong place. If I hadn't
pointed it out, someone would have."

"Yes, but it was you, and it completely destroyed his
thesis."

"It wasn't a very good one anyway."

"No, but he doesn't like you at the moment, and being
the guy he is, he'd like to have the opportunity to put a pox
on you and your house."

"But Papaw was an important archaeologist in Kentucky."

"Yes, he was, and that and a quarter won't even get you
a cup of coffee anymore."

"What should I do?"

"Let me have a look at them. Can you store them?"

"Yes."

"I can't get away for a while, but as soon as I can, I'll
come and have a look, and we can decide something. In the
meantime, just forget about them. They've been lost for
sixty years; they can wait a little longer."

"Thank you, Derrick."

"Anytime, you know that."

Lindsay heard his door open in the background and a
female voice announce her presence. "It sounds like you
have company. I'd better let you go."

"I'll be in touch. Don't worry about the artifacts, or your
grandfather."

She replaced the phone in its cradle and sighed. That
wasn't what she wanted him to say. She wanted him to tell
her that he didn't have to go, that it was only some woman
selling magazines, and he could talk all night if that was
what she wanted. She didn't get to tell him that her brother
was visiting. She didn't get to tell him anything personal.

Lindsay picked up the newspaper and began to read the
article about Shirley Foster. Before she disappeared five years ago, Shirley had been at the university for fifteen
years and was a tenured professor. She had won awards for
her designs and taught courses in the history of textiles and
fabric design. She had just published a book called
Women's Work: Weaving, the Oldest Profession. She was
internationally known and a world traveler. Shirley Foster
also belonged to the Athens Council of the Arts and was an
expert on fine wines. She was survived by her husband,
Tom Foster, CEO of Glass Edifices; daughter Monica, 18;
son Jeffery, 10; parents Evelyn and Stewart Pryor; and a
brother, Chris Pryor.

Lindsay suddenly remembered that Eddie had found an
IUD during the examination. Yet Tom Foster was supposed
to be infertile. Had Shirley Foster been seeing someone?
Who? Lindsay wondered. She was brought out of her
thoughts by the sound of her front door opening and closing.

She hurried downstairs. "How was the ride?" she asked
as she walked into the entranceway and came face-to-face
with Tom Foster.

"I knocked," he said.

"I didn't hear it."

"I did knock. I don't go around breaking into people's
houses. I was about to call for you."

"Why didn't you call on the phone first?"

"I tried on the car phone on the way over. Your line was
busy." He waved a dismissing hand. "That's not what I
came to talk about."

"Why did you come?"

"I need to talk to you about Shirl."

"I was just going out on the porch to watch my brother
ride," Lindsay said, gesturing toward the door. Foster
grumbled impatiently but followed her out to the porch. She
scanned the pasture and woods for Sinjin but didn't see him.

"I know this is irregular."

"Yes, it is."

"It's about this ... investigation. I don't like what you
and Will are trying to do."

"I'm not trying to do anything. My involvement in the
investigation is over."

"I know Stewart and Evelyn came to see you." He didn't
mention Monica's visit, and neither did Lindsay. "What did
they want?"

"That is really not your concern."

"Not my concern! Dammit, can't you see what they're
trying to do?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"They want to get their hands on Shirl's money. Her
grandmother left her a bundle. They would like to get custody of Monica and Jeffery, too, but that'll stop when they
find out they're adopted."

"They showed me a picture...."

Tom laughed out loud. "Shirl got one of those things
they use in the movies, you know, to make actresses look
pregnant."

"Why?" asked Lindsay.

Tom shrugged. "You've got to understand Shirl and her
family. For all her accomplishments, and there were many,
she was terrified of disappointing her parents." Tom shook
his head. "When we were in school, all her mother had to
say was, `We know you won't disappoint us, dear,' and it
would send Shirl into a panic. I didn't understand it, never
did, still don't. Chris's the same way."

"I still don't understand why she was pretending she
was pregnant."

"She didn't want them to know the kids were adopted.
She was afraid they'd reject them. They had some rather
unkind things to say about a niece who was adopted. I think
Shirl enjoyed putting them on, too."

"But how did she pull it off? Surely she didn't wear that
thing every day, and she'd need several."

"We were out of the country in the months leading up to
both adoptions. Shirt spent a lot of time in Europe at various
universities, and I traveled a lot for business. That's the way
we'd do it. When I'd have to take a trip to several countries,
Shirl'd make plans to do research. Every few weeks we'd
meet in Paris or someplace." He sighed. "Those were good
times. Before she started running around with Will."

"What?"

Tom Foster grinned. "You didn't know that, did you?"

"No." She paused.

Foster stood there still grinning as though he had slipped
something over on her, and it annoyed her.

"But didn't her mother or anyone ask her questions
about her pregnancies?" Lindsay asked-to make him stop
smiling as much as out of curiosity.

"Humph. Her mother'd never talk to her about anything
like that. And as for friends, the close ones know. The others,
well, Shirl'd handle it. She was good at that." He was silent a
moment. He kicked an acorn from Lindsay's porch and
crushed another one under his foot. "I loved Shirl, but she
had her faults. I won't drag them out in the open on account
of Jeffery and Monica, but she was far from perfect."

"I still don't understand what you want from me, Mr.
Foster."

"I don't want you and Will Patterson trying to pin this
thing on me. People are talking and it's bad for business.
I've already lost two big orders."

"Didn't Will Patterson and you used to be friends?"

"In high school. We were kids then. Kids are stupid
sometimes."

"What happened?"

"We both fell in love with Shirl. That was all."

"And you won."

"With the help of her parents. I admit that, but she loved
me. We had good times."

"And bad?" asked Lindsay.

"The only bad times were brought on by Will Patterson.
Stupid drunk. Look at him-private detective, my ass. He
makes his living peeping through keyholes and taking pictures of people cheating on their spouses. He and Shirl
never did break it off completely. He'd come off a drunk,
Shirl'd feel sorry for him, and they'd go at it."

"I still don't understand why you think I have some role
in this."

"Will hired you. He said you were working on the case
and you had a good track record."

Lindsay raised her eyebrows, wondering why Will had
said such a thing or if Tom had misunderstood. "He hired
me to find where Shirley was buried." Lindsay sensed that
Tom Foster simply had some free-floating fear that she and
Patterson were plotting against him but he didn't know
how. As if Patterson by himself was weak, but teaming
with Lindsay made him stronger or more credible.

"Did you ask yourself how Will knew where she was
buried? I didn't even think she was dead. He didn't get any
anonymous call."

"Why were you so sure she wasn't dead?"

"Because the missing hundred thousand dollars never
turned up."

"A HUNDRED THOUSAND dollars?" Lindsay said, pronouncing each word to make sure she had heard correctly.

"Yeah, didn't you know about that?"

"No. There was no reason I should."

"When she disappeared, so did a hundred thousand dollars from her account. I figured it was some scheme she and
Will were up to."

"What kind of scheme did you have in mind?"

Tom shrugged. "I just thought they were planning to run
off together. When he didn't leave, I thought maybe she
wanted to start a new life somewhere. It's been done."

"What about her children?"

"As I said, it's been done."

"The hundred thousand dollars, was that her entire fortune?"

"No, but I figured she left the rest for the kids, you
know, to ease her conscience for leaving them."

"You thought she just walked away from her lifehaving two children, with a terminal degree in her field and
tenure? A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, but it
strikes me that someone from her social and income levels,
having left her credentials behind, would need more to start
a new life. Did you look for her?"