Authors: Maggie Toussaint
Once they were through, I exited the SUV, grabbed another shovel, and hurried over to the gaping hole. “I can replant the tree, right?”
She looked down her aristocratic nose at me. Not an easy feat for someone four inches shorter than me. “And you are?”
Dr. Bergeron’s acid tone made me wish I’d stayed put in Wayne’s Jeep. “I’m the one who found the body, Baxley Powell. These plants are my responsibility.”
“Miss Powell, this location is off-limits to civilians until we release it.”
Her scolding voice angered me. I pointed to where the
Podocarpus
lay on its side. “I have three-hundred dollars invested in this tree. It is a perfect-size match to the one on the south end of the house. If I lose this one, I have to replace them both. I can’t afford a six-hundred-dollar loss on this job. Surely you can allow some flexibility.”
She flashed me a tight smile. “I appreciate you have a job to do. So do I. But the scene is off-limits.”
“What about the tree?” My voice squeaked. I winced. “Is it off-limits, too?”
She marched over and inspected the root ball. She poked and prodded for a bit, then she stood. “You can store the tree off-site temporarily.”
If looks could fry, I’d have cooked her goose permanently. Worse, I hated being indebted to this woman. Her demeanor did not inspire teamwork. I didn’t have a wheelbarrow with me. I couldn’t drive my truck across the newly installed sod. All I could do was drag the large tree back to my truck and take it home with me. I latched onto the trunk of the tree and pulled. It budged slightly.
Gritting my teeth, I tugged harder. My eyes filled with tears. I mentally called Gail Bergeron every name in the book. Anger fueled my steps. Then the sheriff and Bo Seavey helped me drag it and load it into my truck. Chivalry wasn’t dead. Not by a long shot.
“That woman could use a lesson in diplomacy,” I muttered after we finished loading the plant.
Bo Seavey patted my shoulder, light glinting off his horn-rimmed glasses. “I call her the Ice Queen, dear. She spews out frost everywhere she goes.”
“Play nice, Bo. Gail’s got you in her sights,” the sheriff warned.
“What did you ever do to her?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” He shambled off.
I was thunderstruck by the force of his lie. He was hiding something from me, and possibly from the sheriff. What had he done to the state archaeologist? What would we do for a coroner if she got him fired?
I turned to the sheriff. “I can go now, right?”
He nodded. “Don’t leave town. And, babe?”
“What?” Unbidden sympathy welled up for the Ice Queen. I was dog-tired of being called babe as well. How many times had I corrected Wayne?
His dark brown eyes heated. “Wear your hair down more often. I like it this way.” His voice roughened. “You look sexy.”
“Get a life!” I stomped to the cab of my truck and roared out of there.
When I left Mallow, soaking in the bathtub until Larissa’s school bus came sounded like a grand idea, but having downtime right now might backfire. I didn’t want to think about the dead woman at Carolina Byrd’s estate or about the questionable wisdom of subjecting myself to Wayne’s company.
I shuddered. I’d be better off staying busy.
Lucky for me there was a dynamite diversion taking place in town right now. A protest rally. A big-city stunt, the likes of which had never been seen in conservative Sinclair County. People would be talking about this for years. I wanted to see it, too.
Miles ticked by on the twenty-minute drive across the county. Chances were high there’d be a crowd gathered. I’d have to be careful to keep my senses buffered.
I could do careful. Heck after the day I’d had, I could do anything.
Cars and people dotted the streets of Marion as if it was parade day and everyone wanted a front-row seat. Folks hurried down the narrow sidewalks. Anticipation sparkled and shimmered in the air.
I parked on Drake’s Way, which ran perpendicular to Main Street, and hoofed it to the rally. As I neared the two-story courthouse, I noticed the American flag hanging limply against the side of the flagpole. Too damp to fly. I sympathized.
Charlotte stood at the ready, camera around her neck, notepad in her hand. I stopped beside her on the narrow sidewalk. “Come to watch the fun?”
“Yeah.”
An older woman I didn’t know sat on the concrete bench pounding on a small drum. My parents’ friend and car mechanic, Bob Brown, also known as Running Wolf, chanted foreign-sounding words as he paced, placard in hand. His sign read “Equal rights for Native Americans.” Running Wolf’s fringed trousers and feathered breastplate left no doubt as to his ancestral heritage. His wife, Earlene, who was known as Gentle Dove, limped a few paces behind him. Beads, shells, and feathers adorned her soft leather shift. Her sign read “Honor our dead.” Another aging warrior carried two signs: “Stop the Madness” and “We were here first.”
I glanced down the street at the casually garbed onlookers. There must be close to a hundred people out here along with both of the city’s police officers. A giant crowd by Sinclair County standards. More than one of them held their cell phones out and appeared to be photographing the event.
I whispered into Charlotte’s ear. “What have you done?”
“Cracked open the second biggest story of my career, that’s what.” Her short brown hair puffed out around her moon-shaped face, cemented in place with what had to be a whole can of hair spray.
Tears sprang to my eyes at the too-sweet scent. The constant beating of the drum pulsed into my thoughts. “I dunno, Char, this doesn’t feel good.”
Her plump hands fluttered through the air, the glare off her chunky watch crystal nearly blinding me. “Don’t go all sensitive on me. WAGN is coming any minute now to interview me, the woman who broke the story on the historical remains. They’re going to love the protest rally.” She shot me a hundred-watt smile. “I’m going to be famous.”
She’d dressed for fame in a chartreuse pantsuit and a shimmery yellow top. A triple row of coordinating polished stones adorned the neckline of her plus-sized frame. She’d drawn in cheekbones and eyebrows with a deft hand, concealing most of her freckles. Even her narrow glasses sparkled.
“I hope you get what you want.” My nerves jittered as if another nasty storm was approaching. Charlotte’s career was on the rise, but the more features she wrote, the more dramatic her writing style became.
Had I contributed to today’s lunacy by withholding details of my vision from her? I believed the bones weren’t American Indian. My vision had shown people wearing Colonial garb. I couldn’t very well tell Charlotte that fact without breaking my promise to Wayne that I’d keep my mouth shut.
Worries ricocheted through my head. This protest could blow up in everyone’s faces. Would Charlotte’s career crash and burn when the remains were positively identified? Would my parents’ friends get hurt or jailed by overzealous law enforcement officers?
Gentle Dove caught my eye and waved. I waved back, realizing she limped more than usual today. She and her husband had foresworn moccasins for thick-soled athletic footwear, while their companions sported native footwear. Good for Gentle Dove and Running Wolf. For standing and walking, cushy sneakers were the only way to go.
This morning I’d dressed in my standard outfit of jeans, faded tie-dyed tee, and ball cap. Instead of my still damp work boots, I’d changed into my running shoes. My brown hair was tucked up in its usual ponytail. I’d skipped the makeup step, not that I fooled with that much anyway. Next to Charlotte’s peacock plumage, I was a plain sparrow. Which was just how I liked it. Charlotte craved the spotlight. Not me. I’d rather be invisible, a chameleon.
A white TV van pulled up. Two cameramen spilled out, panning the protesters, the cops, and the onlookers. My friend shot forward to intercept the sleek and beautiful talking head, Barbie something-or-other. “Yoo-hoo! I’m Charlotte Ambrose, the reporter who broke this fascinating story.”
The slender beauty offered Charlotte a limp handshake and quickly withdrew her hand. “Babs Lawrence.” The cameramen circled like grinning piranhas. One of them nodded toward the granite courthouse sign. “Over there, Babs.”
Babs obediently trotted across the browned lawn, a mean feat in her spiky heels and the heel-sucking sand of coastal Georgia. Bright lights illuminated her face, and the camera rolled. Babs gave a succinct account of Charlotte’s newspaper article. When she stopped speaking, the cameras panned over to the protestors, who chanted all the louder.
Charlotte elbowed me in the side. “Isn’t this grand? Who’d’a thunk we’d get TV cameras here in Marion?”
“Who’d’a thunk.” The sense of dread was growing in my gut. Electricity snapped in the air. Protestors chanted and marched. Cameras rolled. More people stopped to watch. My skin tingled. Dread skittered across my nerves. It was only a matter of time until lightning arced out of the primordial stew.
Don’t let it hit me. Or Charlotte.
Babs waved Charlotte over. “Miss Ambrose, what can you add to the story?”
Charlotte’s head jerked back slightly, as if she weren’t prepared for questions. She covered her lapse with a thoughtful glance to her notepad. “It is believed the bones are from several individuals. Preliminary reports from the coroner indicate one body was an adult female, and at least one other was a child.”
Babs nodded encouragingly. Charlotte continued, “The state archaeologist is here examining the remains. She should issue a statement very soon about her official findings.”
Babs stifled a yawn, as if this news was dull as a mud puddle. Without warning, Charlotte pointed me out. “My friend Baxley Powell found the bones.”
The cameras panned over to where I stood under the shade of the Highlander oak, the oldest tree in the county. Babs scurried to my side, a story hound fast on the scent. “What can you tell you us about the remains?”
I wanted to make the sign of a cross to ward her away. I shot Charlotte a lethal look. No way was I telling this Teflon bimbo anything. “No comment.”
“Were you alone when you made the chilling discovery?” Babs asked.
“No comment.”
“How many bodies did you dig up?”
“No comment.”
“Do you have any idea who the dead are?”
I must have hesitated before I spoke again. “No comment.”
Babs made the cut sign to her camera guy. She whispered to me, her breath a tepid confection of breath mints. “Look, I can’t air this if you don’t give me something.”
As if I cared about my television debut. I shrugged. “Air the clip with Charlotte.”
A bald-headed guy with dark glasses darted from the TV van, hurried to Babs’ side, and spoke to her in confidence. Babs motioned the camera on again, and bright lights blinded me. The urge to hide was overwhelming. I angled my face down so that my ball cap shielded my eyes from the glare.
“Sources close to this investigation tell us you unearthed another body hours ago.” Babs licked her chops. “What can you tell us about this amazing coincidence? Do you have a divining rod for the dead?”
Charlotte gasped from behind the cameras. I couldn’t worry about her feelings right now. I had a bona fide crisis on my hands.
Seconds ticked off my life clock. Babs’ spur-of-the-moment question hit very close to home. I had to be careful here or these bright lights would bedevil me for a long time. I didn’t want that.
Instinct took over. I tensed in an athletic crouch, ready to take on a fight, ready to run like hell. Either option would invite more scrutiny. My brain churned like my stomach.
What could I do?
I could accommodate the reporter, hoping my extrasensory abilities would encourage her to dismiss me as the flake of the day. I could say nothing and invite more speculation. Or I could remember that I hoped to be paid for my police consulting work.
I leaned close to her mike. “No comment.”
Larissa trotted off the school bus and ran straight into my arms. “You okay? Something felt different about today.”
I ruffled her hair, hugging her close. She pulsed with youthful vitality and concern. More than anything, I wanted to have a quiet evening at home with my daughter. She shouldn’t be subjected to the things I’d seen and done. “I’m fine. There was a little hiccup at my work today, and I took care of it. But I’m sure it wasn’t as fun as fourth grade. Tell me about your day?”
Larissa beamed and grabbed my hand as we walked up the grassy drive. “The new boy ate lunch with me. Both of us like to draw and build tree forts. Can I invite him over to play on Saturday?”
I inhaled a satisfied breath. This was more wholesome than talking about dead bodies. “As long as it’s okay with his parents. You have their number?”
Her face fell. “Do you have to call them? Can’t he just come over? He said it was okay, that he could ride his bike over.”
Alarms sounded in my head. I didn’t want anyone’s kid riding their bike on the highway. People drove too fast on that road. It was too dangerous. “Yes, I have to do that. We could pick him up right after I take care of Hobo on Saturday.”
“He can stay all day?” At my nod, she whooped and skipped ahead. “I’ll ask him for the phone number at school tomorrow. He’s gonna love Muffin.”
While macaroni and cheese baked in the oven, I helped Larissa with her homework. All in all, just another quiet evening at home. Until Charlotte arrived still brightly decked out in fluorescent green and yellow.
My bubble of normality burst. I could divert the intrusion of current events by hustling my best friend out, but that would alert Larissa. She’d hear about the body tomorrow anyway. If there was one thing you could be certain of in Sinclair County, it was the viral transmission of news like this. Every kid on the bus would be infected with the story.
At least we’d had a few hours of normality.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Charlotte bustled in the back door and saw us sitting at the kitchen table. “How’s my favorite kid?”
“I hate social studies, Aunt Charlotte.” Larissa glanced up from her essay. Stud Muffin lifted his furry Shih-poo head from Larissa’s lap, saw it was Charlotte, and settled back down for another snooze.