Maya Mound Mayhem (A Logan Dickerson Cozy Mystery Book 3) (4 page)

Chapter
Nine

When Miss Vivee
found out that I had to go back to Gainesville she was livid. She didn’t like
that that “Dadgum copper,” as she called him, was summoning me like I was “some
common criminal.”

When I told her I
had to make a statement, “Just to rule me out,” I’d told her, it upset her even
more.

I guess she forgot
that she was suspicious of me, too.

“I’m going to
Gainesville with you,” she said. “And I’ll call Mac. He’ll come, too. He’s a
doctor, he’ll know what to do.”

Why she thought
Mac could help because he was a physician was a mystery to me. But so was most
of Miss Vivee’s reasoning.

“You can’t go,
Miss Vivee,” I said. “I stay in a camper and there isn’t enough room.” I shook
my head. “I can’t sleep in the bed with you and Mac.”

“Who says we’d
sleep together? Stop talking crazy. We’ll get a room,” she said and looked at
me. “Separate room for Mac. At a hotel.” She nodded her head like it was final.
“Someone has to be there to protect you from those vultures.”

I’m guessing in
this case “those vultures” were the police officers. I wondered who was going
to protect me from her.

I knew there was
no talking her out of something that she had decided to do. And her daughters,
Brie and Renmar couldn’t convince her otherwise either. Bay was definitely no
help. He was always cheering her on with her antics because he felt it helped
her keep her independence. He felt that people pushed the elderly around.
Treated them like children. Even thought his mother treated Miss Vivee like
that.

So it looked like
it was a road trip for the three of us.

Wouldn’t be the
first one. That had been to a strip bar. Hopefully, this trip would be much less
eventful.

“When you get
there, I don’t want you to talk. Don’t say a word,” she said. It was early the
next morning when we left for Gainesville. I had tossed and turned all night.
Definitely not looking forward to going into a police station.

“I have to give a
statement,” I said and glanced over at her. “It kind of defeats the whole
purpose of me being there if I don’t talk.”

“Well don’t sign
anything. Right, Mac?” she turned her neck but she was too short to see over
her seat to the back where Mac sat.

“That’s right,
Vivee.”

“And if you feel
like they’re backing you into a corner, or asking you things you don’t want to
talk about, you ask for a lawyer.” She looked at me. “You know any good
lawyers? I hear they’re very expensive.”

“My uncle and
brother are lawyers.”

“Well, you’d
better leave me their numbers before you go in. In case I have to call them. I
brought my American Express Blue in case I have to bail you out.”

“You know Miss
Vivee, you aren’t helping me to stay calm.”

“I’m just trying
to help you stay on your toes.” She pointed her finger at me. “No unnecessary
talking. Don’t let your mouth talk you into trouble that my American Express
Blue and your uncle can’t get you out of.”

“And my brother.
Remember he’s a lawyer too.”

“If he’s anything
like you,” she said. “You might be better off with a public defender.”

I just shook my
head.

“So tell me about
the body,” Miss Vivee.

I hadn’t yet told
her the story of my “find.”

So I gave her a
detailed description of how I found it. I told her how there was a bunch of coffee
colored goo all around and how brittle the bones were. And how I knew that that
the skeletal remains weren’t very old because of the dental work.

“Mid 1800s,” Mac
said.

“What you say,
Mac?” Miss Vivee said.

“That’s when they
started using fillings in teeth instead of extracting them.”

“So you think the
body is that old,” Miss Vivee asked. Her face in a frown. “Because if it is,
Logan couldn’t have done it.”

“Do you want me to
be the murderer?”

“I only meant,
dear,” she said emphasizing the “dear.” “That you wouldn’t need us to solve it
if it was that old. That’s all.”

“Sounds like
someone tried to get rid of the body,” Mac said. “I’d say it was a few weeks
old from what Logan says. If whoever did it put something on it to help it
decompose, it could be a week old. Probably no more than three weeks old.”

“Used something to
help with decomposition?” I looked at Mac through my review mirror. “You think
that’s what happened?”

“It’s possible,”
he said. “That would cause the goo, as you called it, and the brittle looking
bones.”

“I hadn’t thought
of that,” I said focusing my eyes back on the road. “Some kind of acid, huh?”

“No. An acid would’ve
destroyed everything. There wouldn’t have been any bones left. Something like
sodium hydroxide would make the remains look like what you described.”

“See.” Miss Vivee
hit my arm. “Told you Mac being a doctor would help,” Miss Vivee said quite
pleased with herself.

Chapter
Ten

When we got into
Gainesville we checked into a Marriott. Miss Vivee always wanted the best. We
got a room together. Double beds. And Miss Vivee made Mac get an adjourning
room. Then we piled back into my car and went to see the detective.

When we walked
into the police station a wash of butterflies started to flutter in my stomach.
I was feeling hot and my throat seemed to be closing up. I dreaded, for a
reason I just couldn’t understand because I hadn’t done anything, going in to
see that man.

I checked in at
the desk. Pulled an ID out of my knapsack at their request and then took a seat
to wait for the detective to come out.

“You’re looking
piqued,” Miss Vivee said. She took my hand and held it. Mac gave me a smile. I
swiped at a bead of sweat that was threatening to roll down my temple.

Why was I nervous?

People came in and
out of the small lobby of the police department in a steady stream. Locals
coming in to make reports, to visit people in jail. It was so busy. I tried to
people-watch to take my mind off of meeting with the two-named detective.

One woman caught
my eye.

She looked
familiar but I couldn’t place her. She was tall, and thin, blonde. Dressed in a
suit. More sophisticated looking than the others I’d seen come in. She just
didn’t seem to fit in as the usual customer. She seemed more at ease among the
police officers. Her clothes, shoes and purse were expensive. But even so, she
still she looked distressed.

 When “Charlie
Cecil” finally came out, he nodded at the blonde and called my name. Miss Vivee
rose from her seat almost before I could. I had to tell her to sit back down.
That she couldn’t go in. That didn’t sit too well with her.

The detective
ushered me into a small room off the main hallway. The beige and cream colored
painted walls had seen better days. They were scuffed and peeling. It was
gloomy in the room, the old fluorescent light casting a harsh, yellowish glow. He
gestured me toward the scratched, wooden table that sat in the center of the
space, and pointed to one of the two old, metal chairs.

“Have a seat,” he
said. “I’ll be right back.” And at that he left. Closed the door behind him. I
wondered if he had locked it. I was tempted to get up and check it, but I
wasn’t sure if my knees could carry me that far.

This was going to
be much harder than I ever could’ve imagined.

After Detective
Davis left I started feeling paranoid. I didn’t know if he and his cohorts were
watching me on some hidden camera. Trying to gage my guilt. To see my reaction
to being locked up. My eyes scanned the room for a camera. I didn’t see one,
but if they were watching me to test my calmness, I’d have failed miserably.

I bit my bottom
lip, my thumbnail, twirled my hair and let out all kinds of moans and groans.
All signs of the nervous agitation of a person with something to hide.

It seemed that I
sat in that tiny room – it felt like it was the size of a phone booth – for a
long time. The longer I sat, the more I believed the walls were closing in on
me. I stared at the door.

What is he doing
out there?

I pulled my iPhone
out of my knapsack and tried to play on it to keep my mind occupied, but I
couldn’t get a signal. That was their doing as well, I was sure. I laid it on
the table and then I stared at it.

When the detective
finally opened the door to come in, it startled me and I nearly jumped out of
my seat. I did knock my phone on the floor. I could have sworn that I saw a
small smile cross his face.

He sat down in the
chair opposite me as I leaned over to fetch my phone. He had a small notebook,
the kind Miss Vivee uses on her “investigations,” and a manila folder. He
placed them both on the table. He sat back, folded his arms but didn’t say one
word. Not for a long while.

I thought I was
going to throw up. I could picture the projectile all over his nice white shirt
. . .

“We’re going to
help out the FBI a little and take statements from a few of the people that
worked at Track Rock Gap,” he said not looking up at me. He seemed to be
studying his notes. “I’ll take your statement,” he paused and decided to
acknowledge me sitting there. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Sure,” I said and
tried to keep the shakiness I was feeling out of my voice. “That’s why I’m
here.” I gave a weak smile. It was the best I could do.

He tossed the
notebook down on the table. Folded his hand and leaned into me. “I heard you
were trying to hide the bones that you found.”

Just right off the
bat he was hitting me with that crazy story. Geesh.

“I wasn’t  . . .
hiding . . .” I closed my eyes to collect my thoughts. “Anything,” I finished
my sentence. “I-I . . . was  . . . I was,” I stumbled over my words trying to
find the right ones to say.

“Hiding?” he
offered.

He looked at me
expectantly and I didn’t want to say anything until I felt I could stop
stuttering. And when I didn’t say anything neither did he. He just let that
silence hang in the air.

That silence became
nerve wrecking.

I guess that’s
what he intended for it to be.

After a while, he picked
up his notebook and started flipping back and forth between the pages.

I crossed my legs.
Uncrossed them. Folded my hands in my lap. Crossed my legs again, this time to
the other side. Then scratched the back of neck. The ticking of the wall clock
was the only sound in the room and it was grating on my nerves.

Geesh.

“I heard about
you,” he said finally.

What the hey? He
speaks and that’s what he has to say? He heard about me? What is that supposed
to mean?

After he spoke he
opened up the manila folder. There were pictures of the skeleton I’d found. He
took them and placed them out on the table like cards.

“Everywhere you go
people turn up dead.”

“Excuse me?” I said,
eyes wide in astonishment.

I wasn’t sure what
this man was getting at. I didn’t know if I should take offense to his
statement or not. I mean I am an archaeologist. I do upturn dead people for a
living.

Maybe that’s what
he meant.

But then again,
those dead people are usually at least a thousand years old.

“Look,” I said. “I
had nothing to do with this. This person,” I pointed to one of the pictures, “was
long dead before I got here.”

“Seems like you
have a knack for being around murders.”

Oh my gosh!
Why does he keep
saying stuff like that?

He was staring at
me. A stern, unrelenting look on his face.

Am I in trouble?
Because I reported a dead body.

I started to
fidget in my seat.

Maybe he thinks I
ran after I reported the body. That’s why I’d gone to Yasamee.

I had run to hide
out in Yasamee before . . .

I watched him
flipping through his notes and rubbing his hand over his forehead. He licked
his lips and tapped his pen on the table.

Maybe he’s the
killer,
I thought. The last two murders I’d been privy to ended up being committed by
the law enforcement officer.

He certainly looks
capable.

I narrowed my eyes
and stared at him.

“Is something
wrong, Dr. Dickerson?” he asked looking at me like he was amused.

I blinked my eyes
and licked my lips. “No. Nothing’s wrong,” I replied. “Just trying to think why
you’d think I’d know something about this.”

He slowly nodded
his head as if he was taking in my question, but he said nothing. All of this
silent “interrogation” was killing me.

Say something.

I tried to take in
even breaths to calm my hammering heart and skittering nerves, but it wasn’t
working.

Under my shirt a
bead of sweat started to roll down my back. I folded my hands and rested them
on the desk trying to appear calm. But my leg under the table was shaking a
mile a minute.

“So tell me
exactly what happened,” he finally said.

And I did. The
talking helped with my nerves so I spoke fast and furiously. Not even taking
time to swallow or draw in a breath. I wanted to finish and leave.

But while I spoke,
it seemed as if I built up some courage. So I decided, in between sentences, to
man up. He wasn’t in charge of anything. The FBI was. And he was just trying to
scare me. I knew that I hadn’t done anything. And he could prove that I had.

Although I do know
that sometimes they manufacture evidence. Just like Riley Sinclair thought I
was doing when I was inside that mound with those bones.

When I finished I
looked at him. I nodded to indicate that I’d told all I knew. Then I decided
that I had a question of my own.

“Do you know who
he is?” I asked.

He looked at me
surprised. “No. Not yet.” He cocked his head to the side. “I heard that you
gave some identifying information. Do you have any idea who he is?”

“No,” I said and
nothing else. I could play his game.

“Do you have any
idea how he died?”

“Other than being
murdered. And being soaked in something to get rid of the evidence. No. I
couldn’t say how he died.”

He tilted his head
to the other side, sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and stared at me.

Oh no. We’re not
starting that again.

I stood up. I put
my knapsack over my head and adjusted it across my shoulder. “Do you know when
I’ll be able to get back to my dig?” I asked.

He looked up at
me. “No.”

I tilted my head
to match his and said, “Guess I’ll just have to contact the FBI. Like you said,
they’re the ones in charge.”

I headed for the
door. Head held high. Thank goodness my gelatin knees didn’t let me down.