Saving Cecil (3 page)

I took a deep breath. “You're right, and to answer your question, I have no idea how old he is. He looked fairly fit. I'm trying to chalk this unfortunate event up to … I don't know, bad karma or something because the thing is, I can't let him or the past distract me right now. I might not have money riding on this job, but it means so much to me to be a part of this new energy revolution in North Carolina. To be part of seeing that it's done right.”

“As you know, Bud, the shale in the Cumnock Formation isn't like the Marcellus that lies under most of Pennsylvania. The Marcellus shale lies tens of thousands of feet below the water table. The Cumnock is just a few thousand feet below it and like one of my old professors used to say, ‘You can make all the hydrologic models in the lab you want to, but groundwater has a mind of its own. It goes where it wants to go.'”

“Plus,” I added, wiggling up from his lap. “Lots of people are becoming very rich. Some even millionaires. Jobs are being created and even though this economic boom only effects the energy sector of North Carolina's economy, like you always say, it spreads. I like being part of something good … ”

“That's all well and good,” Bud interrupted. “Just remember, even though you aren't having to do the wedding planning, there are decisions to be made.”

“Yes, yes, I'll remember.” Bud rolled his eyes but I continued, “And, don't
you
forget, I'm still working on that Smithsonian project. I'm leaving bright and early tomorrow morning to drive up there and you said Tulip could hang out with you.”

“I haven't forgotten,” Bud said, rising to the sound of the timer to pull my cornbread from the oven. “While we eat you can tell me how you happened to find the hunting accident victim, then I'll see to it you get to bed early. I'll even tuck you in myself.”

THREE

Next morning, before I
could pull my Jeep out of the drive, my daughter, Henri, pulled in behind me. “Hi, Mom,” she said, riding my window glass with her elbows as I powered it down. “I'm glad I caught you! Have you chosen your outfit for the wedding yet?”

Good grief
. “Henri. The wedding is still weeks away, child. I have plenty of time.”

“Just as I suspected,” Henri snipped through pursed lips. “Stay right there.”

Onl
y because you're
blocking me in
. I blew out a frustrated breath and watched her trot back to her Tahoe and scramble around in the backseat. She returned with yet m
ore magazine pictures. These had been placed neatly in a manila folder.

“Let me guess, wedding gowns?” I batted my eyelashes. “You shouldn't have gone to such trouble, precious.”

“It's no trouble, Mom … ”

“No, I mean it. You shouldn't have. You do still have a life of your own, don't you? Why aren't you with some wonderful man right now? You should be trying to find a husband and have a wedding of your own. Do you even have a date for this weekend? You and Will are entirely too twirled up about this wedding.”

“It's Thursday morning, Mom,” Henri replied primly. “Kind of an early start for the weekend and don't you worry about my love life, I've got that covered.”

“Yeah, that was a bit over the top … ” Me worrying about Henri's love life would be akin to Madonna's mother worrying about hers.

“Well, now you're just being catty,” Henri snapped. “Besides, I've got my work cut out for me, two photo shoots this week and a large wedding and all the parties leading up to it next week. Now. Back to
your
wedding, your gown, as you put it.”

“Henri, I don't have time right—”

“Actually there should be no gown,” she interrupted.

“Huh?”

“I don't think a gown is appropriate for a second wedding to the same man. Besides, you've fiddle-farted around for a year and now it's too late to order one. So, when you get time this evening in your hotel room, look at these couture suits. There are some elegant ones in satins and silks, and some with beautiful beadwork too. And, just so you know, I've looked into availability and any of these will have to be ordered too. They just don't take as long as a gown. Then there are the alterations … ”

Why hadn't I planned this driveway as a half circle?

“And by the way,” she continued, “there are only five weeks left before the wedding, so keep that in mind when you order. Anyway, I highlighted the suits that you can see in person in several shops in the DC area.” She dropped the folder in my lap. “See how lucky you are to have me to make sure you end up with something nice … and appropriate?”

“Yep. I'm lucky there,” I said, pulling forward in the drive just enough to make backing around her car possible. I gave her a cheery wave from the street and headed for Washington.

Entering the Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue was just as impressive this time as it was when I was here several months ago. I'd been contracted by Martin Marietta to coordinate their part of a project they were participating in with the Smithsonian Museum and they'd insisted I stay here. Since they were paying the bill, I didn't quibble. Their executive in charge of the project, the man who had hired me, was a rock hound. He said I'd be impressed with the variety of marble used in the hotel.

I was. The floor, as well as the massive Doric columns in the main lobby—they had to be at least twenty feet tall—were made of beautiful golden Italian marble. Rich tones of olive and gold on the walls and in the scattered Persian carpets enhanced the natural beauty of the stone. Lacy parlor palms in sculptured pots softened the area and gave it a timeless feel.

As I waited for the desk clerk to check me in and took in the warm ambiance of the room, I couldn't help but imagine some prehistoric sea where calcium carbonate had accumulated over millions of years into a deposit hundreds of feet thick. The amount of heat and pressure required to turn it and the component of iron oxide that gave it its distinctive color into marble was mind boggling. “Welcome back to the Willard, Ms. Cooper. Is this a pleasure trip or will you be working with the Smithsonian again?”

“Working, Mr. Hansby,” I said, reading his name tag. “And thank you for remembering me.”

“Please let me know when you're ready, and I'll call you a cab.”

“Thanks, but it's such a beautiful day, I believe I'll walk. Besides I've been cooped up in the car for hours and the exercise will do me good.”

“Very good, ma'am,” said Mr. Hansby, with a polite nod of his head.

My walk was invigorating. There's no way to go to our nation's capitol and not feel the beauty and majesty of the place. I felt honored just to be here. That I was in charge of coordinating part of a major exhibit for the world-renowned museum was pretty heady stuff. I made my way west on Pennsylvania until I hit 15th Street. I enjoyed the gardens and fountains of the Elipse as I made my way to Jefferson Street and decided, once there, to use the museum's impressive main entrance. Besides, I just love that elephant.

Hanging a quick right at the Hall of Dinosaurs, I pulled my temporary staff pass from my purse. I showed it to the guard, then hung it around my neck. The hall was closed—curtained off until the big unveiling—while the new exhibit was being constructed. It would open again in a few months with a gala event complete with movie stars as well as corporate and political bigwigs.

The exhibit, entitled
Fossils as a Natural Resource
, would focus on five natural resources: coal, diatomaceous earth, oil-impregnated sandstone, fossiliferous limestone, and phosphate. Composed prim
arily of fossils, they are widely used in our everyday life. A large pylon of each, twelve-feet tall by ten-feet wide by two-feet thick, would be on display, along with a wide variety of the products derived from it. For instance, items like toothpaste and Tums can't be produced without limestone. Sadly, most folks don't know that.

Each of the pylons was to appear as though taken straight from the earth so visitors could view them in their natural state. Unfortunately, when it came to fossiliferous limestone, there was a problem. It didn't exist in beds that thick in the quarries owned by the company that had donated the stone and hired me to oversee the project.

Creating a pylon that
looked
like it did called for some imaginative engineering on my part—not to mention a pavement splitter, a garden hose, and a trowel—but it had been fun.

When I didn't see the project engineer I'd met on an earlier trip, I asked a friendly young man in a Smithsonian uniform where he might be. He stopped stirring the contents of a five-gallon bucket and
offered to take me to his boss.

We found him behind the twelve-foot-tall skeleton of Tyrannosaurus Rex, leaning over a set of blueprints entitled:
Smithsonian Institute after Cleo Cooper
. That might be a small thing to some people, but for me, it was a big thrill. When I leaned over his shoulder, casting a shadow on his work, he turned with a smile and told me I was just in time to see the first pieces of the pylon go up...if the cement matched.

It didn't. But, after several trial runs, adding larger and larger lumps of the original stone to the cement mix, we finally got it right. We were standing back from the pylon, watching, as the next section was hoisted into place, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to greet a familiar face. “Dr. Watson, I presume,” I said, laughing at the same tired old line he'd probably heard a million times since he'd been awarded his PhD at Brigham Young back in the early 80s.

“I'd heard a rumor you'd be here for the construction of your baby. I'm glad to see it was true,” said Dr. Jonathan Byron Watson. He'd been a visiting fellow in the Paleontology Department at UNC when I was there working on my master's thesis in sedimentary petrology. His office was next door to mine and we'd become friends. Now he was on staff at the Smithsonian and was one of the leading paleoentomologists in the world, specializing in insects of the Triassic Period.

After catching Dr. Watson up on the other projects I was currently engaged in, including my impending nuptials, I said, “So, tell me, Watson,”—that's what everyone called him—”what are you up to these days?”

“Ah, better to show you, my child,” he said, his pale blue eyes twinkling. I joined him in the elevator, then followed his sturdy form through a labyrinth of halls until we reached his lab. He wasn't a terribly tall man—probably five-feet-ten—but despite his age, which had to be pushing hard at seventy, he was still powerfully built.

“Check out this lovely little number,” he said, as he pulled open a narrow drawer in a specimen chest that reached from floor to ceiling. He couldn't have been prouder if he were introducing his own child.

“Oh, man,” I said, bending over to look at the perfect impression of a mayfly in a hand-sized slab of red clay. The insect was so complete that I could make out the exact shape of its lacy wings, even to the venation. “That's a beauty. Obviously found in a red bed, but where exactly? Or, don't you want to say?”

“Oh, I don't mind saying because you'll find out soon enough,” Watson said. “Of course, I'd like you to keep this to yourself, but this little fellow is going to be the subject of my latest publication. I'm basing my reputation on it being a new species within the order Ephemeroptera. Look at the size of the back wings as compared to those of the present day.”

“Ah,” I said. “They're larger, aren't they?”

“Yes,” Watson said. “Today's mayflies have small back wings while mayflies of the Paleozoic sported back wings as large as their forewings. This guy's were somewhere in between, plus the venation was way more complex. Moreover, the only mayfly that has mouthparts similar to my specimen is an African species—which makes sense, of course, since North Carolina and Africa were connected up until the late Triassic when seafloor spreading began.”

“Oh, so you found this in one of the red beds in North Carolina. Is that why you're telling me—because I'm likely to see you tromping around in the woods down there anyway?”

“
Actually, I'll be in the Durham sub-basin area, to the north from where you said you were, in the Sanford sub-basin. The reason I told you is because we go way back and I knew you'd appreciate how significant this little mayfly could be to me and my career.”

“Aw, thanks, Watson. I'm very happy for you.”

“My dear, compared to me, you're still a teenager. You have no idea how much it means, but sadly, one day you'll find out.”

“How's that?”

“One day, you'll find that advancing age makes people view you differently. They take you less seriously. It's almost like you start becoming invisible. No matter that it should be the other way around.” Watson sighed. “That's just our modern culture, I guess.”

“I guess,” I agreed. “But like you said, this discovery will give new life to you and your career.” I looked at my watch. “Let me get back to my project. Then tonight, let's go someplace nice for dinner to celebrate your new species.”

Watson bent close to my shoulder. His voice took on a serious tone and he said, “Again, this is for your ears only, Cleo, but I believe this little guy may be a transitional fossil.”

“Wow,” I breathed. “That's some heady stuff.”

“So true, my dear. Anything that helps an old educator such as myself make a controversial concept like evolution easier for the common man to understand is a God-send. It increases the hope that one day we'll all be able to relate to one another and thereby have a more peaceful world.”

Back at the Willard late that same evening, I was all tucked in bed and ready to sleep. Unfortunately, my brain had other ideas. I was so wired from stimulating discussions on evolution and missing links that sleep was proving to be an impossible task.

D
inner at a popular upscale restaurant in town where the project engineer and his wife had connections and managed to finagle a reservation was sumptuous. They'd joined me and Watson and his wife and we'd all made a merry old time of it. Still, with a full day planned for tomorrow, including finishing the pylon, a little shopping, and the four-hour drive back home, I needed to get some rest. Then I remembered the folder of wedding suits Henri had given me. That ought to knock the excitement right out of anybody.

Thumbing through the stack of magnificent yet tasteful suits, Henri's idea of how I should look on my wedding day came through loud and clear. My eyes crossed and next thing I knew, I was answering the courtesy wake-up call I'd requested.

Friday morning flew by at the Smithsonian; however, a few problems with the pylon, calling for additional sizing of several of the top segments, prolonged my departure. It was after lunch before the last piece was cemented into place, so after saying my goodbyes I nixed my little shopping excursion and headed back to the Willard to check out. Just as I crossed Connecticut, however, a compulsion overcame me and I turned up the street, my thought being just to window shop at a few of the luxury boutiques. Then, one I recognized from Henri's folder caught my eye.

The store, specializing in couture fashion, was so enticing I was lured inside. Once there, I moved from one spectacular garment to another, farther and farther back into the store until I noticed the bridal section. Dutifully, I strolled over to look at their “appropriate” wedding suits. A beautiful sales attendant, late-fifties with her silvery blond hair swept up in an elegant French twist, approached me. “May I offer Madam assistance?” Her accent was as French as her do.