Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 04 - Miami Mummies (13 page)

Roger prairie-dogged next to me then we stepped up to the surface in time to watch Senator Harry Grant extend his skinny silk-suited legs from the car. He reached in and assisted a redhead in an Yves Saint Laurent burgundy pantsuit. I heard Roger gasp. He was at my elbow so I elbowed him. The redhead was a real looker but Roger could have been subtle.

A third passenger slithered from the limo.

It was the guy who’d mugged me in the airport. Now I knew why he looked familiar. I recognized him from the news. It was the Senator’s son and lobbyist from hell, Gary Grant.

Roger marched to the limo and got right to the point. “This site is protected. Off limits!”

The Senator snorted and looked above Roger’s head as if he were a child to be ignored. He extended his hand to me oozing charm. It didn’t work. “This is my right hand.”

“Of course it is.”

He nodded to the redhead. “I mean this lady is my right hand. Mace Kelly, meet Wendy Darlin.” Her hand looked clean so I shook it.

Gary Grant came from behind his father, his index finger waving like a weapon. He poked Roger in the chest. “Keep your nose out of this Jolley or you will find yourself barred from digging so much as a pail of sand on the beach.”

Roger ignored Gary and came back at the Senator. “It’s no secret you’ve been trying to swap your Everglades land for a downtown parcel. This is not the piece for a trade. Don’t even think about it.” Roger closed the inches between them.

The Senator brought his hand up to his nose in a protective gesture. Was he afraid Roger was going to bite off his patrician proboscis?

Mace cast a disgusted look at Grant. It appeared she wasn’t exactly a fan of her boss.

A white Mercedes pulled to the curb. Tippy Henman. Perfect timing. Wearing knee-high tan leather boots and a white mini-skirted suit, she stomped toward our group, her sky-blue colored contacts fixed on the Senator. “Get off my land, you carpetbagger!”

Senator Grant lowered his voice but I was close enough to hear. “Today it may be yours, Ms. Henman, but tomorrow the state will file for possession of this historic site. And then who knows? I might decide to erect a tot lot over that pit.”

Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Detective Farley Stranger leaning against a Crown Vic parked at the curb. You’d think with this crowd someone would have thought to bring refreshments. I was thirsty and killer-hungry.

A dozen dark dudes headed our way, a thundercloud of angry tribal force. Every eye was fixed on Senator Grant. The scene was starting to look like
West Side Story.
The Sharks and the Jets and now… the Semaphores.

“I repeat. Get the hell out of here, Senator!” Tippy was jumping up and down her tiny boots springing off the ground in a princess hissy fit. “Out! Out!”

A silver-haired Native American stood front and center of the Semaphore entourage. “Silence!” He caught Tippy in an icy-black glower. “Have respect for the spirits of those who rest here.”

He cut his eyes from person to person. “I know who all of you are. Not one of you has a right to be here. I will allow the scientist to stay. We will believe in the truth he seeks. His spirit is pure.”

A gnarled finger came from his sleeve and pointed at me. “And this woman I know to be truthful. I have seen her on that early Sunday morning TV magazine,
Miami Nice
. We hold her to her promise that nothing will be disturbed. If the scientist finds an ancestor in this ground we will declare it sacred and seal this hole for eternity. The rest of you must leave now.”

He took a menacing step toward Tippy. “You have spilled the blood of my blood.”

“It was self-defense!” She hid behind me.

Stranger trotted toward us ready to protect his favorite murder suspect and, if he had to, her real estate broker. He stopped dead in his Don Johnson tracks when Silver Hair held his hand in a “stop” position.

The tribal leader’s face reminded me of Hic when he passed, tired, weary, and ready to go. Silver Hair’s voice was heavy with misery. “Running Water was my only son. He had a bad temper, but a good Semaphore heart and would not have hurt you. You will pay for taking his life.” I felt the threat slice through me and stab Tippy.

A shiny army-green Jeep pulled onto the site. It was jacked up at least a foot over its Big Foot tires and could have been the personal wheels of the Incredible Hulk. Half a dozen braves stepped from the vehicle armed with shovels. One young brave stepped forward swinging a flat spade. “We have come to protect our ancestors’ burial grounds no matter the cost in lives.”

The backup braves formed a tool-armed line behind their leader and stomped to the edge of the pit glaring at Roger and me. This version of whack-a-mole could end up with his and her concussions. I shot a pleading look at the chief.

“You will
all
leave now,” Silver Hair commanded, his tone said
do not cross me
. The new arrivals studied Silver Hair and lowered their shovels. He was clearly the boss of them… for now.

“Except for the promise giver and the scientist. No one else is permitted.” He turned to Roger, the frown between his brows deep as an axe blow. “You and the Wendy woman will explore this burial ground alone. If we observe anyone assisting you, we will declare this site sacred to our tribe and protect it with our lives. You have until tomorrow to prove this site should not be sacred to the Semaphores.”

His point was sharp and well taken. Roger and I would finish the job alone, together, tonight.

Tippy’s hands gripped the back of my arms.

Silver Hair’s eyes grew to knife slits. “Small woman your time will come.”

Gary Grant slipped a wink at Tippy. I caught it like one would catch a gnat in your mouth while speaking. It surprised the heck out of me. She released her grip and ran stumbling to her Mercedes, gunned the engine, and squealed from the curb.

The Senator stood red-faced, goggled-eyed, and pissed. It was evident he wasn’t used to being ordered around. Why didn’t he call for protection? Was he afraid of the publicity surrounding the bad blood with the Semaphore tribe, or was the land swap so slimy a deal it couldn’t stand the light of day?

Mace Kelly eased next to me. “Watch out for Grant. He’s dangerous,” she whispered. “I’ll explain later.”

The Senator and his son stomped back to the limo with Mace wiggle-waggling behind.

Head erect, the chief strode into a beam of sunlight and disappeared. The young braves grabbed their shovels, boarded their high-riding green machine and bounced along the rocky site taking the curb as if on a moonwalk.

I looked around for Stranger but he’d vanished. Probably stalking Tippy.

Roger and I were alone except for the invisible spiders dancing on my neck.

I shrieked. Real, not metaphorical, spiders were on my neck. I swatted at them frantically.

Roger casually brushed them to the ground. “No problem. They’re harmless daddy-long-legs.”

No problem if you don’t have arachnophobia, which I don’t of course. But the disgusting eight-legged monsters do give me the heebie-jeebies.

He struck a standing version of Rodin’s
The Thinker
pose. “I probably can free the mummy enough to examine it, at least partially. It’s about twenty-five feet down, wedged in a curious airless pocket. I’m certain it will be destroyed in minutes if exposed to this humidity.”

“How about calling your archaeology buddies?”

“They can’t help. I don’t have a permit for this dig. They could get in big trouble. Plus, a few members of the Society would love to crucify me if they found out what I’m doing. I don’t like working without a permit, but I must. Tippy, Senator Grant, and the Semaphores all have different plans for this land. I want to protect history. I have to inspect the mummy so I can formulate a plan to accomplish my goal.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“See what you can find at Walgreens that I could use as tools to free the mummy without damaging it. I’ll stand guard, actually sit guard, on the melon until you get back.”

He gave me a peck on the check for luck. I loped the two blocks to the traffic light by Walgreens. I ignored the
Don’t Walk
command and dashed across the street weaving among a host of drivers who displayed their wrath with horns and hand signals. The door to the drugstore whooshed open.

I ran down the nail and eye care aisle plucking tweezers, eyebrow brushes, and an assortment of nail files. I hit the hair products aisle and threw assorted metal combs, picks, soft brushes, and a cordless hair dryer in the carry basket. At the toy aisle I grabbed a couple of pails and two plastic shovels. The hardware section yielded a screwdriver, a box of heavy-duty clear trash bags, and three battery-operated lanterns. At the register I found cheap one-size-fits-all raincoats. I took two in day-glow pink. I was out in less than ten minutes and back to Roger in another five with a similar harrowing experience bucking the
Don’t Walk
admonition.

I handed Roger the bags and said through sheepdog panting, “Are you sure we can’t call for help? Manpower, Inc? Merry Maids? Anybody?”

He stood, sending the melon rolling. “The Semaphore chief gave us our marching orders. We must do this alone or face them.”

Armed with the Walgreens bags Roger headed into the pit. I repositioned the melon and was just about to get ostrich-egg-sitting comfortable when a dark gray Audi bounced over the curb onto the lot. Senator Grant was behind the wheel and Mace Kelly sat in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead. He had returned in his personal car instead of the publically recognizable limo. I felt a bribe in the air.

Roger dropped the bags and joined me watching the Audi come to a stop about ten feet away. Grant left the engine running. Maybe it was going to be a drive-by bribe. He slid from behind the wheel and stepped between the front of his car and a broken section of cinderblock wall. He curled his finger in a come-here motion to Roger.

Mace stretched a long muscular leg out the passenger door and was about to completely alight when the driverless car lurched throwing her out the door.

The Audi rolled forward. The bumper knocked the senator down and then sent him headfirst into the wall with a bursting cantaloupe pop. He dropped to the ground, his head leaving a red smear on the cinderblock. The car continued advancing until the wall stopped it with the right front wheel resting in the middle of Grant’s back. The crunching had been his bones. His eyes were big as golf balls and his tongue poked out of his mouth. Senator Harry Grant would bribe no more.

The momentum of the car knocked Mace to the ground, the side of her leg a swirl of blood.

“Is he okay? Is he okay?” she screamed scrambling to her feet and backing away from the splat that had been one of Florida’s most notorious legislators.

I remembered Roger’s reaction to blood and spun around. He had already passed out and was buckling at the knees. I caught him and lowered him to the ground before he hit his noggin.

A thud came from behind me. Mace had collapsed in a heap.

One dead. Two down. Time to call nine-one-one. My hand was shaking so badly I couldn’t get it into my pocket. I swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths; I had to get myself under control. I finally got my phone out of my pocket and with much difficulty dialed nine-one-one.

I spoke distinctly into the phone. The operator was as dumb as Squire’s bag of hammers. What didn’t she understand? A senator had been run over by his own car. Wait, it had to be me. I slowed down and tried again. This time she understood me.

She asked, “Is the victim in pain?”

“I’d ask him but I can’t see his mouth. We could use the full contingent including HAZMAT, we’re talking politician’s blood no telling what contaminants we’ve got here. Send the police, the medical examiner, and an EMT truck loaded with smelling salts. I have two who have passed out and I’m not so sure about me.”

I glanced at Mace. She’d fallen in a stylish TV-scene swoon. She’d probably look stylish slopping hogs. Well, Mace would have to take care of Mace. I had Roger to tend to.

His eyes were still closed. I sat on the ground and eased his head into my lap, stroking it gently. He came around with a lurch then turned and retched in the sand. Darn good thing neither of us had eaten all day.

A yellow Ferrari tried to mount the curb but got hung up on its low frame. Gary Grant leaped out and ran to the smush that had been his father. He staggered and fell over backward, feet in the air.

EMS wailed onto the lot in a combo fire truck-ambulance. Three police cars howled in, skidding to a stop fifty feet from the Senator’s car. The poor mummy was probably frightened back into eternity.

I escorted Roger to edge of the pit. He sat on the watermelon and I stood over him, holding his head against my thigh.

When I turned my attention away from Roger, I saw Mace had been revived and was sobbing in the back of a cop car. An officer, notebook in hand, struggled to question her. She looked up, caught my eye, and flagged me. I shook my head.

Detective Farley Stranger tramped toward Roger and me. He was chewing on a lollipop stick and wearing the same grease-stained sport coat. He jumped at me, accusations written all over his chubby face. “Well
Ms. Darlin
, another unusual death?”

I ground my teeth. “I had nothing to do with this. Is that a lollipop? What happened to the gummy bears?”

He pulled it from his mouth. It was a gummy bear on a stick. “Want to give me your version of how a senator ends up being run over by his own car?”

So I made a mistake when I hard-timed this guy about calling me
Ms.
instead of
Miss
and I couldn’t blame him for hard-timing me back. I shouldn’t have pissed off an overworked cop but now he’d pissed me off. And enough was enough.

I poked my finger in his chest. “Listen, buddy boy, you don’t get to talk to us like this. We’re witnesses, not suspects. There’s no
our version
about it. Show some respect or I’ll beef you out to the chief. That means the Miami PD Chief of Police whose wife is a close friend of mine. And the chief himself is very grateful for the deal I got them on their home.” I put my thumb and fingertips together and turned them upward under his nose. “Capisce?”