Deeper Than the Grave (5 page)

Chapter Nine

I put my hands in the air so fast I almost fell over.

The woman came striding toward me—tall, purposeful, her shearling coat pulled tight around a sturdy figure. She stopped fifteen feet from me, the shotgun swung into firing position, the butt tight against her shoulder. I saw it was a twelve-gauge, and whether it was loaded with cartridges or slugs, it could cut me in half before I could take a step.

“Stand up!” she said. “Real slow.”

I did as I was told. An ice-gray braid fell over her shoulder, and her eyes flashed pale blue. Despite her tanned skin, I could see spots of color riding high on her cheekbones, and her mouth was a flat line in a square, tightly set jaw.

I kept my hands high. “I'm not a thief. And I'm not armed either. So if you could just put down the shotgun—”

“I'll put it down when I'm good and ready. Who are you?”

I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “Tai Randolph. Richard asked me to help with the search.”

“What search? Where's Richard?”

“He's with my boyfriend—”

“Your boyfriend is tromping around too? This is private property, girl, and what you're doing is trespassing. Didn't you see the POSTED signs?”

She was angry, but calm. I relaxed a little. Itchy trigger fingers made for deadly trouble, but there was nothing itchy about this woman.

I lowered my hands a smidgen. “First of all, my boyfriend is a highly trained security operative, so to say that he's ‘tromping around' is highly inaccurate. Second, Richard called me and asked me to come. So if you don't like that, your problem is with Richard, not me.”

She kept the shotgun leveled at my head. “You always talk back to someone holding you at gunpoint?”

“Unfortunately, yes. It's a character flaw. But I only do it when I'm not really worried about getting shot. And I'm not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not doing anything worth shooting me over. And you don't strike me as a woman who wastes ammunition, Mrs. Amberdecker.”

She scowled, then lowered the gun. “Put your hands down, you look ridiculous. Where's Richard?”

“Back at the chapel. There was a tornado—”

“Don't you think I know that? Damn thing came through like a freight train. Did it hit the chapel?”

“The roof lost a few tiles, but Richard said he can fix it.”

She huffed in relief. She came forward, the wet leaves crunching underneath her boots. Her expression was still hard, but curious. Matter-of-fact instead of angry. She hadn't released the gun, though, so I kept my hands where she could see them.

“Then what did Richard call you for?” she said.

“The chapel may be fine, but your great-great-grandfather's tomb isn't.”

She froze. “How bad?”

“Bad enough that Richard's got me out here looking for bones. One of which I've just found, by the way.”

“What? Where?”

I pointed with the toe of my shoe. She followed with her eyes, but didn't turn her head or gasp or even act startled. She just stared at the skull the same way she'd stared at me.

“I think they found the coffin too,” I said. “We'll know when we get back to the chapel. Richard wanted to get the remains located as soon as possible. He knew you'd want that too, so he called me.”

She shook the rain from her eyes, squinted at me. “You're Dexter's girl, aren't you?”

“Yes. His niece.”

“I remember. Your uncle helped us bury Braxton the first time we found him.” She nodded toward the skull. “Where's the rest of him?”

“I don't know.”

She knelt and examined the skull, her shotgun butt-first on the ground beside her. She looked up at the sound of voices behind me, then footsteps. Trey and Richard coming up the path. She hoisted the gun and went to meet them.

Richard hurried over at a jog. “Rose! Where have you been? I was two seconds from calling the police!”

“Goddamn coyote got one of the new kids—I heard it bleating and screaming all the way from the kitchen. So I tracked the varmint down and blew it to kingdom come. Then the damn twister came through and I had to lay low in the culvert over by the south field. And now I come back to this mess.”

Trey came forward—cautiously, deliberately—a borrowed rain slicker dripping water on his shoes. He directed a top-to-bottom assessment Rose's way, then mine. Only when he was satisfied that the situation wasn't about to erupt in gunplay did he speak.

“You said you found the skull?”

I nodded toward the tree. “Underneath the leaves. I haven't had a chance to look around anywhere else, but…”

“But?”

I knelt at the base of the tree. “A skull wouldn't set off the metal detector, not by itself. There's something else down there.”

Richard came over and stood at my shoulder. “Probably one of the buttons.”

“This was too big for a button.”

I moved my fingers through the detritus around the skull, suppressing a quirk of disgust. It was just leaf mold, I told myself, rainwater and mulch. And the bones were just ossified calcium, one hundred and fifty years old. But there was something about this skull, something…not right.

Trey crouched beside me, pushing back the black plastic hood of his rain gear to take a closer look. He pointed at a tangle of roots. “Is that what set off the detector?”

I followed his index finger, dug my own fingers into the leafy muck until they brushed something hard. I wiped the leaves and dirt away, then bent closer. And then I got a chill. It was a piece of metal, rusted and mud-choked. And it had no business being where it was.

I stood up, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Looks like you need to call the police after all.”

Rose frowned. “Why?”

“Because that's not your great-great-grandfather's skull.”

“How do you know?”

I pointed. “Because there's no way Braxton Amberdecker was buried with a NASCAR belt buckle.”

Chapter Ten

The interior of the chapel would have been a welcome spot in the summer—a cool place of stone and shadow—but this winter's day, with rain slashing against the window, it was dreary and depressing. It seemed designed to be intentionally dark, with only three windows, all of them stained-glass pieces at the front of the church. There was no electricity; we had to make do with the guttering light of paraffin candles.

Trey and I were the only occupants at the moment. Richard's crew had been sent home for the day, leaving Richard behind to assist the sheriff's deputies, who were treating the area like a crime scene, not an archaeological artifact recovery. Not that there was much difference in my book—both prioritized procedure, preservation, and hasty meticulousness—but I was sure there would be quibbles.

Trey paced in front of the windows, his footsteps echoing, leather against slate. He'd converted one end of the front bench into a makeshift office, covering it in papers bearing his meticulous notes in the margins, his research into resilient security systems. He'd tried to explain. He'd talked of tolerance fluctuations via design parameters, redundancy and diversity, reactive versus proactive control. Now he was trying to have a conversation with his boss, but the connection was spotty, and he kept repeating himself.

His voice held a twinge of frustration. “No, I did not find the body, Tai did.”

“It wasn't a body,” I said, “it was a skull.”

Trey ignored my protests. He moved back and forth in front of the stained glass. The windows faced east, and during most mornings, the first light of day would have illuminated the reds and golds and blues, firing them into life. But this morning left them as dull and washed out as the rain itself.

The centerpiece was a cross—not a crucifix, that was too gory and idolatrous for sensible Baptist tastes. White lilies and red roses entwined in profusion around the border, a rising sun piercing the horizon behind it. The other panels told a familiar New Testament story, the Parable of the Prodigal Son, writ large in two scenes—the first, the prideful richly dressed son setting out on his own, leaving his wounded father and stoic dutiful brother behind. The second, the same son's weeping return to his father's welcoming embrace. The dutiful son was missing in the second image. Probably off grumbling and pouting, I decided, as older know-it-all siblings were wont to do. Only the father, welcoming the boy with open arms, forgiving him, preparing the feast. I couldn't help but wonder what that kind of love felt like, that kind of acceptance…

I shook my head clear. This wasn't my personal saga. This was another family's story, and I could not trespass.

The colors of all three were clear and clean, in stark contrast to the drippy cramped chapel, with its creaky benches and moist cloistered air. I ran a finger along the glass—it was smooth, covered by only a light layer of dust. And then I understood. The windows were new, unlike the rest of the chapel. Not original, a reproduction. I peered at the writing underneath, an inscription in Latin that was a separate window in its own right, making four overall. I didn't know Latin, but I did catch a familiar
Domini
in the phrasing. I got a pen and scribbled the sentence down on the back of my hand.

Trey remained engrossed in his phone conversation. “They
did
call in an archaeological team, but until the authorities release the scene…No, I don't know. I won't know until we've completed our interviews. We're waiting on the detective.” He checked his watch. “At least four hours, that's my best guess. Because it's a crime scene now, and…Marisa? Are you still there?”

I sympathized with his frustration. Already behind schedule, he was trapped in the Kennesaw boondocks until he was officially interviewed—yet again—about a suspicious incident involving me—yet again.

Trey shook his head. “Because it's clearly not a historical interment. Because the skull was…” He lowered the phone. “Tai, what was the word?”

“Grotty.”

“Not your word, their word.”

“Putrescent.”

“Putrescent,” Trey repeated. “Which means it's now a suspicious death investigation. Because we're witnesses. No, not like that. Nonetheless.”

He listened while Marisa continued her diatribe. She was a woman like a Valkyrie, with platinum hair and an imposing figure that reminded me of the prow of a ship, and she had Agendas. But Trey was patient, I had to give him that. Outside I heard the grind and pop of tires on gravel. A new car arriving. I crossed my fingers that it was our highly awaited detective.

Trey resumed pacing. “I saw Mrs. Amberdecker, but haven't spoken with her. Tai talked to her. Briefly. She was held at gunpoint, equally briefly. No, Mrs. Amberdecker had the gun on Tai. A twelve-gauge shotgun…No, I can't say I've ever contemplated such.”

He slid a glance my way, and I was surprised to see a sparkle in his eyes. I smiled and held up a middle finger.
For the Boss Lady
, I mouthed.

He looked away quickly. “What was that? Oh. Certainly. I'll finish up tonight. Of course. Goodbye.”

He returned his phone to his jacket pocket. With a roof over his head, he was in a better mood. In fact, he was in a damn fine mood considering.

“Marisa giving you trouble?” I said.

He shook his head. “No. She is a bit…baffled, however. She says you're cursed. Her word. She says I should get a voodoo charm to protect myself.”

“She's so sweet.” I sat on the bench and patted the hard wood. “Sit.”

“I'd rather—”

“Sit.”

He sat. The rain-spackled Armani was a little worse for wear, but Trey himself was cool and collected. Not a single hint of hypervigilant paranoia, powder-keg frustration, or control freak shutdown. His expression was placid, no sign of the worrywart wrinkle between his eyes.

I frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Because we're trapped in the hinterlands, waiting on cops to quiz us. Because there have been shotguns and tornadoes and grumpy old men, and there's no good cell phone coverage and Marisa is annoyed and—oh, yeah—there's this
skull
. And you have yet to deliver a single grumpy I-told-you-so speech about any of it.”

“Why would I? You were asked to help, and you said yes. The complications arising from that decision were entirely unforeseeable.”

“So that's what annoys you? When I get into trouble that I should have seen coming?

“It's not about predictability, per se. It's…” He glanced over my shoulder to the front door. “Never mind. The detective is here.”

Chapter Eleven

Trey stood, buttoning his jacket as he did. I stood too, and the slab of a front door creaked open and a woman bustled inside. She tussled with her umbrella at the threshold, muttering under her breath for a full thirty seconds before giving up and abandoning it on the flagstone path outside. She stamped the water from her feet, then pulled back her rain hood. A cloud of dark brown ringlets fell to her shoulders, kinking and frizzing around her hairline. She smiled—lots of white teeth, like a toothpaste ad—but I couldn't stop staring at her rain boots. Bright purple. With flagrant daisies.

“Tai Randolph?” she said.

I looked up quickly. “That's me.”

“Detective Anita Perez, Cobb County Police.”

Her voice wasn't Southern. There was a lilt there I couldn't place, a singsong rhythm she was trying to cover with a crisp official tone. Her skin was the color of honey, her dark eyes thick-lashed without a lick of mascara. She was plain, but it was a carefully orchestrated plain, designed to conceal as much as any makeup.

She unbuttoned her rain racket. “Heard you found a skull?”

“That I did.”

“Care to tell me the story?”

And so I did. She listened without interrupting, her field-issue recorder clicking away while I talked. She took notes too, little jottings in a notebook, almost afterthoughts. Trey waited in the background—poised, alert, a black-and-white silhouette against the muted splendor of the stained glass.

“And that was the only body part you found?” she said.

“Yes. I stopped looking when Mrs. Amberdecker showed up locked and loaded.”

“How about any of the other artifacts?”

“None that belonged to the private. Here's the list.” I pulled out Uncle Dexter's tally sheet and handed it to her. “There were some personal items, buttons, and a CSA belt buckle, but my Uncle Dexter provided the flags, a Confederate Stars and Bars and a state flag of Georgia. Those were replicas, but the personal artifacts were real.”

She examined the list. “Nobody found any of this?”

I looked at Trey—he'd been in charge of the master tally—but he shook his head. Perez's eyes tracked the items. She looked at lists the same way Trey did, as if feeding data directly into her brain, and her lips moved slightly as she added up figures in her head.

“This stuff is antique, right?” She ran her tongue behind her front teeth, calculating. “How much money are we talking here?”

“I'd have to do a little research to let you know the range. Depends on the condition, provenance, all that.”

“Were they worth enough to rob a grave?”

I saw what she was getting at. If there had been nothing in the coffin but dusty old bones, there would be nothing to find in the field but the same, and the metal detector would have been useless.

“I suppose so. But that would have been unlikely.”

“Why is that?”

“Because they buried him in a mausoleum, an aboveground tomb, and until that tornado ripped it open, the thing was sealed shut.” I looked at Trey. “Didn't you tell me that one of Richard's men found the coffin?”

Trey nodded. “That was the report, yes. I didn't get a chance to confirm, however.”

Perez didn't say anything. She was keeping some information in her back pocket, I could tell. That was how the game worked. I'd been on the suspect side of the table enough times to recognize that particular play.

“Any idea who our non-historical bones belong to?” I said.

She wiped water from her nose. “That's exactly what I was going to ask you.”

“I'm not the one who can help you, Detective. I'm assuming you've asked Richard and Rose this question.”

She shook her head. “I like to talk to whoever discovered the body first.”

“Not a body. Just a skull.” I pointed at the tally sheet. “And a non-CSA belt buckle. But where there's a belt, there's usually pants, and where there's pants, there's usually a wallet. Did you find one?”

She stared at me for two seconds, then smiled. “My job is to wait for the ME to finish his report. Until then, nobody touches a thing. Not even if that skull had a damn driver's license between its teeth. Because…” She looked at my chest, frowned. “Is that a Confederate flag on your shirt?”

I looked down. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” I pointed to the words underneath. “That's my shop. Dexter's Guns and More. Currently the ‘more' part means Civil War gear, both authentic and replica, including—”

“Key rings? Like this one?”

She pulled out her cell phone and showed me a photo of a grimy hunk of metal. Despite the bad lighting, I could make out the familiar crossed bars of the Confederate Battle Flag, etched in the blacksmithed iron. I felt my heart skip faster.

Perez peered at me, her eyes narrowed. “You recognize it?”

“I do.”

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a similar one, only instead of being clogged with gore, mine was polished by constant handling, dinged on the edges. I handed it to her.

She held it side by side with her photograph. “Do you still sell these?”

“They've never been for sale. My uncle made it for me, as a gift.”

She examined it closer. “Do you mind if I borrow it?”

“Actually—”

“I'll keep it safe. I need to do a comparison, that's all.”

“With the one you found on the body, right?”

Her expression gave nothing away. “I can't discuss specifics. But I'll give it right back as soon as I've got some photos. I promise.”

Suddenly, the door to the church flew open. It was an entrance so abrupt it startled even Trey, who immediately went into a defensive stance, slipping one hand under his jacket. I put a hand on his shoulder as a woman stomped down the aisle, her eyes blazing under a khaki slouch hat, her boots echoing against the stone floor. Unlike the uniformed police officers hurrying behind her, she wore sturdy jeans tucked into a pair of high mud boots, a dirt-stained corduroy jacket, and thick oilskin gloves.

She ripped off her hat. “Who the hell authorized this?”

Perez rounded on her. “Excuse me?”

The woman flung a hand toward the door. “Do your people know anything about in situ preservation? Shovel-testing? Subsurface reconstruction? The archaeological record of this land is an artifact in its own right, and until I get my team together, you are under direction of the Department of Natural Resources to cease and desist the disturbance of this previously filed archaeological dig site.”

Perez listened to this spiel with patience. So did Trey. His hand no longer hovered near the hem of his jacket, but he stayed in neutral stance, eyes keen, utterly fascinated.

Perez looked straight at the woman. “You're Rose's daughter. Evie Amberdecker.”

Evie's eyes flashed. “
Doctor
Evie Amberdecker.”

“Did your mother call you?”

She folded her arms. “No. The state archaeologist did.”

Perez nodded. “Right. I've already talked to him too. I promised he'd hear from me again as soon as the ME finished his report as per Georgia Code Section 45-16-24 which states that any law enforcement agency notified of the discovery or disturbance, destruction, defacing, mutilation, removal, or exposure of interred human remains shall immediately report such notification to the coroner or medical examiner of the county where the human remains are located, who shall determine whether investigation of the death is required.”

Evie looked askance. “Don't quote the law at me, I know it backwards and forwards.”

“Then you know that since the ME has said that yes, indeed, an investigation is required, that's
my
scene out there, not yours, not your family's. Mine.” She still had the dazzling toothpaste-ad smile on her face. “Now stick that in your dig site and shovel-test it.”

“You can't—”

“I can. I did. And if you or any of your people interfere, I will clap you in handcuffs and haul you to jail and charge you with violation of said Georgia code plus interfering with an ongoing investigation. So put away the trowel, Dr. Amberdecker, and go get some coffee. You're gonna be sitting this one out.”

Evie flushed crimson, and I could have sworn I hear a sound like a kettle whistling. She glared at me, glared at Trey, then turned on her heel and stomped out.

Perez pulled out a radio. “Hey Jim, it's Anita. If Little Miss Thang tries to cross the tape, throw her in a squad car, won't you? You're a peach.” Then she turned back to Trey and me. “Don't go anywhere. I'll have this key ring back in a second.”

She squeaked out of the church, her galoshes flopping with each step. Trey watched her go. I watched him just as carefully, but he no longer seemed likely to shoot up the vestibule, so I relaxed. “Your thoughts?”

“I think this situation just became even more complicated.”

“I think the same. Luckily, that's not my problem. My problem is that Uncle Dexter is apparently connected to that grotty skull.” I stood. “Perez said there was coffee. I'm going to get some. Wash it down with a nicotine patch and some more suckers. You want to stay here, or come with?”

He reached for his umbrella.