Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel (9 page)

"What is it you want?" asked Lindsay as gently as she
could.

"I want you to find out who killed my mother. Every-
one's saying it was Daddy, but I know it wasn't. He's not a
murderer. He wouldn't have done it. I want you to find out
who did. I know my grandparents think it was him, but I
know it wasn't. He loved Mother."

"I'm not a detective."

"You've solved crimes. I've read about them."

Lindsay winced. "This is an open case handled by Dover
County. Specifically, it's Sheriff Irene Varnadore's case."

Monica frowned. "Irene's all right. At least she isn't
going to hang it on Daddy, unless someone makes her."

"I really can't do anything while the authorities are
investigating. Besides, I've already spent my expertise by
examining the remains. That's about all I can do."

"You won't help me?"

"I have no authority."

Monica looked at Lindsay's bookshelves, as if searching
for an argument among the books and journals. "I don't
know what to do," she said finally.

"They won't arrest your father unless they find a lot of
evidence pointing toward him," Lindsay said.

"You don't understand. It's what people think that's important. I don't want them to think Daddy did it. And if he's the
only suspect, then the police won't look for anyone else."

"Who do you think did it?"

Monica's face brightened, as though the asking of the
question meant Lindsay would reconsider, then her shoulders sagged. "I don't have any idea. I've thought about it a
lot-when she disappeared and now. I've listed all her
friends. I've tried to think about who didn't like her, but
everybody liked Mother."

Lindsay felt the temptation, like prickly sensations in
her brain. Then the image of Derrick, looking disapprovingly, intruded into her mind. Derrick's over, she thought.

"You'll consider, then?" Monica's voice brought Lindsay out of her reverie.

"Do you know Will Patterson?"

Monica slumped farther in her chair. "He thinks Daddy
did it."

"But you know him. He's been working on your
mother's case for a long time. It was he who brought me in.
Whatever he thinks of your father, I believe he wants to
find out who killed your mother. Besides, it's my understanding he and your dad used to be friends."

"A long time ago. Mother and Will were still pretty good
friends when she died. They were engaged once, you know."

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah. Gran and Grampa didn't want Mother to marry
him. They had Daddy picked out for her."

"How did Will feel about that?"

"You don't think Will did it-after all that time? Surely
not." Monica shook her head. "That was in high school.
Both of them got over it."

"What about Irene Varnadore?" asked Lindsay.

"She didn't like Mother. You know how it is. Mother was
the prom queen, got a Ph.D. and Daddy. Irene was jealous,
but I can't imagine her murdering Mother." Monica shook
her head. "Everyone who knew Mother-her friends and
family-they all loved her. A stranger did this. Maybe if the
police looked for, you know, similar murders, they would
see that some serial killer did it."

"Is that what you believe?" Lindsay asked, and Monica
nodded. "Was it a coincidence that the stranger buried the
body on your father's family land?"

Monica was taken aback for a moment. "The killer
could've stalked her. He could have known about Daddy's
land."

"What about the other relatives? Your father's people?"

"Now there's a thought. Georgina didn't like Daddy
either-they're cousins. Georgina's a secretary here at
UGA. Daddy's brother is mad at Daddy, because of the
land. And there's another cousin. All of them are fighting
over Daddy's property. They could have done something to
Mother to get back at him."

Lindsay was unable to simply say no to Monica. "I'll
tell you what. I'll ask someone if they've searched the
records for similar patterns, and I'll talk with Will Patterson. That's all I can do right now."

"Thank you, Dr. Chamberlain. Maybe something will
come of that." Monica stood up and held out her hand.
Lindsay shook it and ushered her out the door.

Sally had arrived and had commandeered Brandon.
They were busy looking over her grandfather's crates for
stencils and other markings, copying them down.

Lindsay turned her attention to the crates. It seemed
impossible that her grandfather would forget about having
stored five crates of artifacts. She tried to remember the
times when he was in his workshop. It wasn't often. He
always said he wanted to retire and be a cabinetmaker, but
he never did. His love of archaeology was too deep. She
tried to remember the building behind the workshop. All
she remembered was the kudzu.

"This is the crate opened by your father," said Sally. "He
re-nailed it. Do you want to start with it?"

"Yes. What we'll do is unpack and record everything.
Brandon, get a camera from the main office and photograph
each artifact. We can do a more thorough cataloging later."

"I'll use mine. It's an old-fashioned 35 millimeter and
takes great pictures," said Brandon, fishing in his backpack.

They moved the crate close to a table and Sally pried it
open. Sitting amid shredded paper and old newspaper
packing material was a large, cord-marked ceramic jar
with a globular body and two ceramic strap handles on a
tapered neck.

"This is really nice," said Sally.

"What kind is it?" asked Brandon

"I don't know," Sally said, looking at Lindsay.

"It looks like a Fort Ancient jar."

"Fort Ancient?" asked Brandon.

"Late prehistoric culture in Kentucky," said Lindsay.

"Kentucky?" Sally asked. "I thought these were from
Georgia."

"This one isn't," said Lindsay. "The only reason that we
thought it might be from Georgia was that the stenciling on
one of the crates seemed to indicate it."

Brandon snapped a picture of it and Sally wrote a
description on an item list.

"If you find any notes or papers, be sure to handle them
with care. By this time I'm sure they will be brittle and fragile. Put the newspapers in a box carefully and let Greg
take care of them when he comes in," Lindsay told them.

They found two more ceramic pots and a cache of triangular projectile points. The next crate contained two
chipped stone maces, a pair of yellow pine figurines of a
seated man and woman, five engraved conch shell gorgets,
and three tetrapod bottles-all Mississippian and all, Lindsay believed, from Kentucky.

"Where are the newspapers from?" she asked Sally.

Sally carefully took one of the old packing papers from
the box and looked at the masthead. "One says: Macon
Telegraph, June 18, 1935." She picked up another one.
"This one's from the Kentucky Herald, August 5, 1934."

"Let's get the others unpacked and recorded," said Lindsay uneasily.

The next crate had similar Mississippian artifacts. The
fourth contained hundreds of smaller items: copper
bracelets, clay platform pipes, ceremonial knives, chipped
stone hoes, stone celts, engraved stone tablets, mica and
copper crescent headdresses, numerous ground stone gorgets, and a large, beautiful shiny mica cutout of a hand with
an eye etched in the center.

"Wow," said Brandon. "Nice. I'm doing my honors
paper on Mississippian eye motifs. I'd like to use a photograph of this." Sally held it for him and he took several pictures, having Sally turn it one way and another.

"Don't use up all the film on this one piece," said Lindsay.

Brandon grinned and patted his backpack. "I've got
plenty of film."

"What's your paper about, exactly?" asked Sally.

"Some articles say that the hand-eye motif may symbolize the holding of a crystal in the hand to foretell the future,
the way some southeastern Indians did. I'm hypothesizing
that the crystal was a kind of primitive remote sensing, like
finding where game is located." Brandon eyed the mica as though wondering if he had taken enough photographs.
"Anyway, I'm comparing the onset, frequency, and disappearance of the motifs in the archaeological record with
weather patterns of that time. I know that's the hard part,
and I don't know if I can find that data, but I think it's a
neat idea."

"It is a neat idea," said Sally. "I'd like to see what you
come up with."

"You might check with Ronan in Geography and Hoff-
stedder in Botany," said Lindsay.

"Great. Thanks, Dr. Chamberlain."

"What's this?" Sally held up what looked like a paddle
with animal teeth at one end.

"It's a cut animal jaw. It's thought that it was inserted
into the mouth of a skull, something to do with burial practice," said Lindsay absently. "All these are Adena artifacts,
also, I think, from Kentucky."

"These are really valuable, aren't they?" said Brandon,
"and they're in such good condition."

"Yes, they are," said Lindsay. She noted that neither
Brandon nor Sally asked why the artifacts had been stored
by her grandfather all those years ago.

It was getting late in the day. Brandon kept checking his
watch and Lindsay was tired. She decided to wait until
tomorrow to open the last crate. She locked the storage
room and sent the students home.

"Is your brother going to stay a few days with you?"
asked Sally as she helped Lindsay clean up.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I'll put this box of old newspapers in my workspace,"
said Sally.

Lindsay nodded in agreement.

"He's a great-looking guy," Sally said.

"I've always thought so."

"I don't suppose he's talked about me?"

Lindsay smiled. "Well, he did say you're a nice kid."

"Kid? He said I'm a nice kid?" She stopped and turned
to Lindsay, her arms around the box full of old newspapers.

"Well, he is thirty-six," said Lindsay.

"That's not old," Sally answered.

"No, but how old are you?"

"Twenty-one-and a half. I'm not all that much younger
than you."

"He thinks I'm a kid, too."

"How long do you think he'll stay?"

"I hope it's a while. I don't know when he has to get
back to his job."

Sally put the box on the shelf next to her lab space.
"What does he do?" she shouted across the room.

Lindsay didn't answer until Sally returned. "He's a
smokejumper."

"A smokejumper? What's that?" Sally threaded her
arms through her backpack and strapped her bicycle helmet
on her head.

"He helps put out large forest fires, in remote locations.
The firefighters parachute in with their equipment. It saves a
lot of time."

"Wow. It sounds dangerous."

"It is.,,

"Who does he work for? I mean, fires happen all over."

"The U.S. Forest Service."

"Interesting guy."

"I'll tell him you said so. You can go on home, Sally.
Thanks a lot for your help."

"Sure. See you tomorrow. By the way, some guy came
by to see you. He didn't leave a name. Said he'd be back."

"Do you know who it was?"

Sally shook her head. Her bike was parked just inside
the door against the wall. Lindsay held the door open for
her as she walked it outside and closed the door behind her. The lab was quiet. Everyone had gone home. Lindsay went
back to her office and sat down at her desk. She stared at
the photograph of her grandfather standing in front of the
platform mound at Macon. Large tears filled her eyes and
spilled down her cheeks.

LINDSAY DID NOT hear the lab door open. Sinjin's
sudden appearance made her jump.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Sinjin said. His cleanshaven face from that morning now had the beginnings of a
shadow on his jaw. He had removed his tie and his white
shirt was open at the neck, sleeves rolled up. He looked
tired. Sinjin drew up a chair and sat down across from her.
He could see she had been crying. "You all right? Did you
hear from Derrick or something?"

Lindsay shook her head. "The crates . .

"Was everything broken? I tried to be careful."

"No, everything was in great shape." Lindsay sniffed,
took a Kleenex from her drawer, wiped her eyes, and blew
her nose.

"What about them? You aren't getting sentimental about
Papaw are you?" He said it as if he couldn't imagine it. "I
know you and he..."

Lindsay shook her head. "The artifacts are in excellent,
mint condition. Nothing broken or damaged. They're from at
least three cultures: Fort Ancient, Mississippian, and Adena."

"Fort Ancient? Isn't that Kentucky?"

Lindsay nodded.

"I still don't understand what the problem is."

"The artifacts are from different sites and different
times. There are no sacks of pot sherds, or broken arrow heads, nothing that is not well-preserved and whole."

"What does that mean?"

Lindsay shrugged. "It looks like looters' stash. In one
crate alone I counted about $25,000 worth of artifacts on
today's market. I don't know what price they would have
fetched in the thirties."

Sinjin whistled. "You mean I was hauling something
that valuable-that's what, five crates? That's potentially
$125,000 worth of stuff. Where is it now?"

"I locked it in the storage room."

"Why didn't you lock the door to the basement? Anyone
could have walked in."

"I forgot."

"Jesus, Lindsay."

"You don't understand," she said, tears threatening to
spill over again. "What were they doing hidden away in
Papaw's shed? What was he doing with them? And what
were they doing in crates labeled Ocmulgee Old Fields?"

"Are you afraid he was involved in black-marketing
artifacts?"

Lindsay shook her head vigorously. "He couldn't have
been."

"But you think he might have been."

Lindsay bowed her head and looked at her hands resting
on her grandfather's desk, absently tracing her fingers on
the scratches made by countless artifacts that had been
examined on its surface. "I don't know," she said.