Site Unseen (8 page)

Tony stood a moment, taking it all in. "But if what you say is correct, this is a find of the utmost importance! A scientifically recovered site that is earlier than ... ?"

I couldn't conceal a wide grin. "You got it!"

My colleague's brow furrowed. "How come no one ever thought to look for it before? Why wasn't it known before this? I beg your pardon, Emma, but I do try to keep up on other aspects of the discipline outside my own--why haven't I heard about this?"

"Just one of those things," I said. "An accident of history. The settlement failed after less than a year--we both know how little can be left behind on a site after such a short duration--and naturally, better-known sites took precedence once they were found. There was a little interest in the site in the nineteenth century, with the colonial revival movement, but since no one knew precisely where it was, everyone tended to focus on the Revolutionary War history in the area. You see, there are so many points and coves along this river, it could have been anywhere. There has always a bit of local interest, and even Oscar--" But here I clammed up.

Tony pounced on my slip, however. "I've been meaning to ask you about that. Your grandfather, pardon me for asking, but he was
the
Oscar Fielding, wasn't he?"

I paused a little too long, phrasing a polite answer.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry," Tony said, but it was clear he was still curious. "Let me give you a hand with these tarps. You've got to get to the sheriff's department."

"Thanks, you're right. We'd better get going."

Since Tony drove his own car and Alan and Meg were following mine, I was left alone with my thoughts as I led the winding way back to Fordham, the county seat, and the sheriff's department after we closed up the site. The exterior had not changed since the first time I'd seen the chunky gothic building, about thirteen years ago, but the soot of the ages had been cleaned from the red sandstone recently and the building looked pretty spruce, comfortable and stolid, like a longtime citizen with old-fashioned values. Inside, more substantial changes had taken place, and recently too. I remembered that the interior had been a dim cave of old linoleum and cobwebs when I'd seen it years ago. Now, however, the lighting was new and bright, the floors had been replaced with, well, cleaner, uncracked linoleum--it wouldn't have made sense to put carpet in, I supposed. There was a nice little waiting area, with a rubber tree, even, off to one side.

After I gave my name to a deputy at the desk, Tony and I sat on a chrome and faux leather couch waiting for my turn in the sheriff's department. Alan sat across from us, trying to avoid my glance while watching but not daring to follow Meg as she poked around the corridors. Just as I was casting about for some reason to call her back, a gangly deputy politely asked her to stay in the area. I was just wondering what sort of chitchat one made with eminent colleagues and students while in the sheriff's department, when a curious distraction presented itself.

We didn't even need to strain to hear what was transpiring. Two voices were coming down the hallway; a man's voice, low tones and moderately paced, frequently interrupted by an insistent woman's, or what I assumed was a woman's because of its higher pitch. That second one was an odd voice, not exactly whiny but sounding like machinery that's been left in the rain; grating, rusting, resentful. Before I even realized I was eavesdropping, I was fascinated by that voice, wheedling but at the same time shot through with the
threat of too much interest, curiosity that boded no good for anyone under her scrutiny. It took me a moment to get the hang of her accent underneath the oddness of her voice. I noticed that Tony's brow was furrowed, Alan wasn't paying attention, and Meg just looked plain delighted.

"--but those bruises were classic defensive wounds," the woman's voice persisted, and I realized with growing horror that I was listening to an addict's pleading, though I didn't know what the source of that desperation could be.

The man's voice responded firmly: I recognized it as belonging to the sheriff. "Yes, defensive wounds from the fight earlier in the evening--"

"They might indicate that it was no accident he ended up in the water--"

"But there's no way of telling when the two incidents were less than twenty-four hours apart and there's clear tissue alteration due to the period of immersion, and--Terry, are you listening?--even if we were inclined to fly in all the face of this evidence and suggest foul play, our best suspect was also our guest in lockup number two last night. Can't really argue with that now, can we? Occam's razor, Terry."

The woman's response was indiscernible and unhappy, but I caught the last few words. "--watch out you don't cut yourself with it, smartypants."

"Do you know what I think?" said the sheriff.

There was no answer and the sheriff continued.

"I think that you're stretching some fairly dubious possibilities into something they're not because you're
bored.
Don't worry, I'm still looking into it all, but in the meantime, do a crossword puzzle, for Pete's sake. Don't go looking for trouble."

"Huh!"

"Can it, Terry," Stannard said patiently.

The footsteps grew louder and suddenly the speakers turned the corner toward us. Dave Stannard was walking with a woman, and her appearance took me aback. She was a wizened little stump in a stained white lab coat. God help
me, she looked like an evil gnome, with a tight bun of coarse black and gray hair. She was worrying an unlit, unfiltered Camel cigarette in one clawlike hand, and she had another tucked behind her ear, both apparently ready and waiting to have the life sucked out of them at the earliest opportunity.

"Dr. Fielding." The sheriff stopped in front of us. "Nice to see you. Again."

I giggled a little at the "again," all composure shot in the face of legal authority. I introduced the rest of our group and explained the sheriff's words to Tony. "I stopped by a couple of weeks ago to let folks here know I was going to be digging at the Point--"

The short woman in the lab coat broke in insistently. "Digging? Digging for what?"

I ignored the interruption. "--and then yesterday, there was a body washed up near us and I was there for that too."

Tony shook his head in amazement. "You found a
body?
I thought this was about a pothunter!"

"You the one found Augie Brooks?" the woman wheezed, then snapped her gum, suddenly interested. "Lots going on down the Point." She looked at the sheriff. "All of a sudden."

The sheriff kindly stepped in to rescue me. "Things happen near rivers, Terry, for all sorts of reasons. This is Dr. Emma Fielding. She's an archaeologist, doing some research out at the Point."

"Archaeologist, huh? And all of a sudden Augie washes up on your shore, looking a little the worse for wear."

Stannard coughed a little and gave the woman a look. She viewed me with the utmost distaste. "So, you dig up bodies and stuff?"

"Excuse me? What?" I was thrown for a minute, because I had suddenly realized that the woman sounded just like the wicked witch from
The Wizard of Oz.
Margaret Hamilton with a Down East twist, rusty Victorian hinges and squeaky blackboards. "Well, we haven't found any human remains yet, but--"

"Except for Augie." She snapped her gum again pointedly, and the sickly sweet smell of cinnamon reached me.

"Well, he wasn't exactly an archaeological find"--I risked a quick smile at Tony--"but we have found pottery sherds, things like that. We hope to find more before we're done."

"Huh." She looked me up and down appraisingly. "You've got to be some kind of nut, looking for that kind of stuff, nosing around people's business like that."

Meg muttered crossly under her breath. "Well, perhaps," I said stiffly, "but we may have just found evidence of the earliest English settlement on the East Coast today."

Sheriff Stannard stepped in. "Dr. Fielding, this is Dr. Theresa Moretti." He let a beat pass. "Our consulting medical examiner."

Chapter 5

THE MEDICAL EXAMINER AND I STARED AT EACH OTHER with distaste. "Dr. Moretti's just concluded her exam of Augie Brooks. It looks like it was just a nasty accident," the sheriff said firmly. "He was drunk, fell over, hit his head on the way out of the boat, and drowned. Still don't know where he went in, though."

"Still lots of questions--" the ME growled. Terry--

"But why was he out on the water at night at all?" I interrupted. The two officials turned and stared at me.

"I mean," I said hastily, "he wasn't too keen on the water, as I understand it."

Dr. Moretti gave me another sharp look, then snapped her gum expectantly, then looked at the sheriff, waiting for his answer.

"We're still looking into it," he said pleasantly.

"Yeah, well." Dr. Moretti shot Stannard a withering glance. "I've got crosswords to do."

We watched the woman scurry off back down the hall. Stannard looked like he was going to say something and then
apparently thought better of it. "If you'll give me a second, I'll get the photos."

He stepped into an office, and through the door I could see that it had not been subject to the same renovations as the rest of the building. That room looked a little less renovated but also a little more relaxed, and I could see a couple of framed finger paintings proudly hanging behind the desk. The sheriff pulled a file and returned, holding out a piece of construction paper in front of me. It was covered with a half-dozen Polaroids. I pointed out the one of the stranger-- Tichnor--immediately; you couldn't miss that malevolent look, even without the sunglasses. The hair was also a pretty good clue.

Meg also picked out the same picture. Alan looked over her shoulder and said, "Is that him?"

Stannard held it out so that he and Tony could see. "Got it in one," he said. "That's Grahame Tichnor, figured it was him. And he was vandalizing your work when you confronted him?"

"Yes." I felt a rush of heat in my face, and I realized that I hated admitting that the guy intimidated me, that I was a victim of any sort.

"You wouldn't believe the sort of damage treasure hunters have done to sites down where I work, in Mexico," Tony added. "It's a global crisis, really."

"Well, if I'm right, he's the one responsible for the damage to sites around here too," the sheriff said, surprising me. "There's been a complaint from Fort Archer. Someone's been digging little holes all over the historic site. Maybe looking for the legendary Fordham County gold. I know it kept my girls busy on the beach last year." His grin suddenly turned into a frown. "No chance it's another professional looking around there?"

"None," I said firmly. "Professionals get permission and dig with a goal, a research goal, in mind. And I don't know of anyone else working around here this year."

The sheriff nodded at Meg and Alan. "What about the rest of your students?"

"If I even suspected one of them of doing such a thing, I'd skin him alive!"

The sheriff was taken aback by my vehemence. Tony just laughed, and Meg and Alan hurriedly shook their heads.

"Well, then I'm willing to bet we've got our man," Stannard said. "We're looking for Tichnor now--we want to ask him about a few other things too---and bring him in if we find him, of course, but I'm betting he'll do a fade job for a couple of weeks. Don't worry about it."

"Just so long as Pauline's safe," I said. "She'll be away next week for a week or so, and I'm glad of that."

"He won't be back," the sheriff said confidently. "I'll let you know when we pick him up. You're willing to press charges?"

"Of course!"

The sheriff led us politely but quite unmistakably toward the front door. "So you think you hit Fort Providence today? That's pretty exciting. You'll do a talk around here, I hope, let folks know what you've got? Maybe at the elementary school? Like I said, the kids would love this."

"Oh sure. I always like to keep people informed of what I'm finding."

"Good, good. Thanks for your help."

I was surprised to see the sun still shining when we got out of the station; it seemed to me that we'd been in there a long time.

"Now, how about that drink?" Tony offered.

"That sounds great. You're sure?"

"Of course."

Meg perked up, obviously hoping to be asked along, but Alan insisted that he wanted to get going, so they excused themselves.

"I know a place nearby," I said to Tony. "They know me, and won't mind my grubby clothes."

It was just a couple of blocks to the bar, the Goat and Grapes. I suppose years ago it had been a fairly posh place-- there was still a lot of good wainscoting in there--but now it had lost all its pretensions to plastic red-checked tablecloths and beer posters. I didn't mind, however; I never knew it any other way, and besides, I went there because the folks were nice and the beer was just cold enough. The television was usually off too.

I didn't see anyone I knew besides the bartender. "Hey, Nick," I called, as I slid into a booth.

A short, slight, balding fellow with glasses worried a toothpick in his mouth and squinted at me as he came to the table. "Hey, Emma! Been a while hasn't it?"

"Too long. How's things?"

Nick snorted. "Same as ever--we're not real big on change around here. What can I get you?"

"Amber, please. Tony?"

"The same."

"I think I can manage that." Nick left us to our conversation.

"I didn't mean to dodge your question back there at the site," I apologized in a rush. "About Oscar. It... I just tend to avoid talking about my grandfather in a professional sense. I mean, the relationship's no big secret, but I want to be known as Emma Fielding, not Oscar Fielding's granddaughter, if you know what I mean."

"Of course." Tony nodded. "I can see the difficulty, but I really don't think that it's something to worry about. Forget about comparisons, or anything like that. It's a different world today."

I gave him a look and a brief smile.

"Of course we Southerners tend to trot out the family tree on any and all occasions," Tony continued. "It's a sort of familial jousting tournament, who's got the most colonels or the most decaying moss-covered mansions."