A Midsummer Night's Romp (27 page)

“True enough, but whatever treasure was hidden behind it or beneath it—assuming we have the solution to the puzzle in the first place—whatever was hidden may
well have been protected in a box or chest. I'll discuss it with Lorina. I'm due to meet her shortly.”

“Should we tell the TV producer?”

“Not just yet. Let me talk to Lorina, first. She's been as much a part of this as me, and I'm willing to bet she'll want a chance to locate the treasure before the TV people or Thompson are unleashed on it.”

“That's not very professional,” Elliott chastised. “They are, after all, paying for the right to dig on the grounds.”

Gunner sighed. “I know. Sometimes I hate having a good upbringing—it makes it so much harder to be immoral. The film crew and the archaeologists all have a dinner in town tonight where they will be feted by the mayor and town council. Roger invited me to attend, but I made my excuses, since I'd much rather spend it with Cressy and Lorina. Once he's returned from that affair, I'll tell him about your ideas.”

“That sounds much wiser than trying to dig it up yourself,” Elliott said with obvious approval.

Gunner grinned. “That doesn't mean I'm not going to take a stab at a little exploratory digging while everyone is off at dinner, mind.”

“Just so long as you don't irritate the production company, or give them cause to complain you're keeping all the glory to yourself,” Elliott warned. Then, with a wry twist of his lips, he added, “Let me know if you find something promising; Alice would love to be there to see it dug up.”

“Definitely.”

“Not that we'd be able to keep any of the treasure if it was found, what with the law forcing us to give up anything of value,” Elliott said somewhat wistfully, “but it might bring in more tourists, and we could include a tour down to the cellar to see the remains of the villa.
Alice is already brimming with marketing ideas for fans of the TV show.”

Gunner grinned. “Good for her.”

“And about the other thing—” Elliott gave him a look that was meant to be stern.

“Consider it taken care of.” Gunner left before Elliott could chastise him further, his mind on Lorina.

“A
bout this wedding of yours, Lorina—”

“What the—” I stopped dead in my tracks, looking around wildly until I noticed Roger sitting in the shadow of his RV, tweaking his tie and brushing off a suit jacket. “Oh, hello.”

“I had a thought, and I know you will like it. Rather than simply having the wedding at the end of the show, as we originally thought, what if we have a Roman wedding?”

I stared in disbelief. “A what?”

“A Roman wedding. You know, a reenactment of the sort of wedding that the lord and lady of the manor would have had.”

“They weren't a lord and lady, were they?” I protested. “I thought Romans were just . . . citizens.”

Roger waved that idea away. “Anyone can have a wedding. Just last season,
Britain's Got Mimes
had a
wedding, and if the mimes did that, then we have to go one step better.”

“Mimes have their own TV show?” I asked, dazzled at the thought.

“Yes. They were forbidden to speak when they were in costume, which was all the time, and let me tell you, if you think you can generate drama by a couple of mimes sissy fighting, you should think again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sissy fighting. You know,” he said, paddling his hands in the air. “A slap-athon. It was the lamest thing you've ever seen.”

“I can imagine,” I lied, not being able to wrap my brain around the idea of a reality show that featured mime fights.

“So
we'll
do a Roman wedding. Clever, eh? It ties in with the program, allows us to set up some epic reenactments—the making of the bride's dress, getting the groom to the church, et cetera—and yet has something that no other reality TV show has. Viewers will love it, absolutely love it.”

“I won't, you know. But it doesn't matter. There's not going to be a wedding, Roman or otherwise—”

I stopped talking when Roger's phone started blaring an obnoxious pop song.

“Hold that thought. It's the studio head,” he said, lifting up a hand as he took the call. “Gloria, darling, how nice to hear from you. I was just going to call you up and tell you about the ever-so-exciting discoveries we've been making—” He wandered off chatting gaily into the phone.

Luckily, the rest of the dig and film crews were busy getting ready for a big dinner in town with local officials, so no one paid me any mind except to ask if I was going with them. I made my excuses, took a quick catnap, and
was out a short time later taking pictures of the abandoned trenches in the golden afternoon sun.

Gunner sauntered around the corner of the barn behind me, a sultry smile clinging to his lips. He wasn't quite as graceful as I suspected he would be normally, since he still limped a little while walking, but that didn't mean I couldn't ogle him. “You clean up very nicely,” I told him, having to restrain myself from removing the black shirt that clung to his chest in a way that came close to making me drool.

He glanced down at himself, clearly surprised by my comment. “Thank you, but I didn't actually dress up. I would have worn boots, but my ankle is just swollen enough to keep me in trainers.”

“Those jeans have been ironed,” I said, pointing at the faint creases on the fronts of the legs. “And that shirt is pretty nice. I consider both dressing up. And here I am in nothing but a sundress, and sandals that have seen better days, and my hair is sticking out all over because Cressy confiscated my hair dryer this afternoon, and I have no idea where she put it.”

“You look divine,” he said, taking my hand and bowing over it before he kissed my fingers. “I like your dress because it thrusts your breasts upward, where they clearly are waiting for my attention. I like your sandals because they draw my attention to your long, glorious legs. And I like your hair curly like that because it means you have a strong mind.”

“Oh, it does not,” I said, taking the arm he held out for me.

“No, but it sounded good. Ah, I see you're taking pictures.”

“Yes, I thought it might be an interesting contrast to the other pictures. And speaking of interesting contrasts, Roger wants us to have a Roman wedding,” I said with
disgust as we slowly made our way along the line of RVs. “He thinks we'll beat the mimes that way.”

“Mimes?”

I shook my head. “You don't want to know. Although, word of warning—never get in a fight with one. I guess it's a slap fest if you do. Are we going to dinner?”

“We are, but I thought we'd get the meeting with Thompson over with first, if that's agreeable with you.”

“I'm sure he's at the big dinner in town.”

“He wasn't about ten minutes ago when I saw him run to his caravan.”

“Oh. Good.” I made a face. “Or not good, depending on your frame of reference. I really wish it was over with.”

“If you'd rather not be there—”

“No, no, I just meant that my stomach is tied in knots thinking about it. But you're right—let's get it over with. Only . . . what on earth are we going to do if Paul comes up with some proof that he's not the source of the disease?”

“We'll apologize for taking up his time,” Gunner said, placing his hand over mine and giving it a supportive squeeze. “I should warn you from speaking around Daria, though. Evidently she went running to my brother with tales of us blackmailing Thompson.”

“Blackmail? We didn't blackmail him.”

“No, but evidently he presented the situation to Daria that way.”

I frowned. “That's . . . surprising.”

“Why so?”

“Because Daria doesn't like Paul. She said as much the first day I was here, and she's been even angrier ever since he removed her from the dig team in the cellar. I gather that they do things by seniority in the archaeology world, and as the second most experienced
archaeologist, she should have been working in the cellar rather than Dennis.”

“Who's Dennis? The one with the hat?”

“Yeah. He's nice enough, although he seldom talks, and Daria was really annoyed when Paul assigned him to the trench instead of her. Why would she tattle on us like that? It doesn't make sense.”

“Human nature seldom does,” Gunner said, and stopped in front of the door of Paul's RV. My stomach gave a lurch. “Courage, my love. We'll get through this together.”

Most of the tension eased from my tightly wound gut. I leaned in to give him a little kiss, breathing in his heady scent. “Thank you, Gunner. It's nice to know that you are so supportive. It's not something I've seen a lot of in my life.”

“I gathered that to be the situation. Who was it who mistreated you? Your father?”

His eyes were warm, and filled with understanding. I wanted to cling to him and sob out the story of my life, but I hadn't learned to be strong for nothing. I kissed one corner of his mouth and pulled away. “Let's leave that for another time, shall we?”

“I'm here whenever you want to talk,” he said simply, and, lifting his hand, knocked on the door. “And I do mean whenever. Middle-of-the-night consultations are my specialty.”

“I'll remember that—”

The door opened. My stomach gave a warning jump when Paul gave us both a haughty look before handing Gunner a piece of paper. “I think you'll find everything is in order. Not, I wish to point out again, that I need your approval for my lifestyle, but as you can see by the copy of the lab results, it would be quite impossible for
me to infect anyone, let alone Sandy Fache. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for that important dinner.”

He shut the door on us before we could respond.

“Well, that was both anticlimactic and oddly dramatic,” I said, my stomach settling down to normalcy. I leaned into Gunner's side to read the paper. “What does it say? Is it from his doctor?”

“No. Better than that—it's a copy of the result from the lab itself.”

“
Specimen number . . . date of birth . . . clinical information . . . physician ID
 
. . .
Ah, here it is.
Test name: HIV. Test name: syphilis. In range: nonreactive. Test name: hepatitis B. In range: nonreactive. Test name: hepatitis C. In range: nonreactive. Analysis performed by: Hollingberry Laboratories. The performance of this assay has not been approved for pediatric populations.
 
. . .
Blah, blah . . . the rest are just disclaimers. What the hell, Gunner? Nonreactive? Does that mean what I think it means?”

Gunner sighed, and folded the paper, tucking it away in his pocket. “It means, my sweet one, that we owe Thompson an apology. These results show he did not have any of the diseases listed, including HIV.”

I shook my head before he stopped speaking. “No. I don't buy that. Sandy isn't the sort of person to sleep around. She said she fell in love with Paul, and that means she wouldn't sleep with anyone else. He's got to have done something to get a false report. Maybe he had someone else send in blood for him.”

“That's not very likely. Should we get it over with now, do you think, or would he be more annoyed at being interrupted to appreciate an apology?”

I slumped against him. “This is my fault, not yours. I will be the one to apologize, but I think I'd better do it with a written apology as well. It looks more substantial
than just sticking my head through the open door and yelling, ‘Sorry we accused you unjustly.' I just can't believe that the report is right, though. Maybe he paid someone off?”

“I think you're just going to have to accept the fact that he isn't the source of your friend's woes.” Gunner took my hand, leading me away from the RVs and out toward the fields. “Most labs have stringent requirements in place so that the samples taken are from the correct donor.”

Something was itching at the back of my brain, some idea or fact or
something
that I couldn't quite put my finger on. “I just don't believe it,” I repeated, only then noticing that Gunner had paused to collect a couple of shovels and my dig bag. “What are you doing? I thought we were going to have dinner.”

He grinned, his teeth flashing in the sun, which was beginning to set. “We are, but I want us to check on something first.”

“Out here?” I asked, glancing around. We were headed toward the field where the main number of trenches were, but bypassed those for the small hill just beyond the fence that was covered in trees. “You're not planning on digging where the bodies were, are you? Because, although Roman skeletons don't weird me out, the thought of spending the night digging in what is basically a massacre site is a bit unsettling.”

“It was a temple before the people from the villa were killed there,” Gunner said, giving me another smile.

“Right, that's a smile that knows something. That's a smile that says, ‘I have a secret, and you don't know it,' which is only going to irritate me. Why are you smiling that smile, Gunner? What secret do you have, and why aren't you telling me?”

“I haven't told you because my mother taught me it
wasn't polite to talk over people, especially people you like. And I like you. A lot. Are you done analyzing my quite innocent smile?”

I made a face at him, and felt my psyche relax even more. I wanted to do a little dance of joy that I found a man with whom I could be myself without worry. “Innocent, my shiny pink ass. Spill.”

“Shiny pink . . .” He stopped walking for a moment, his fingers white around the shovel handles. After a few seconds of deep breathing, but before I could ask him what was the matter, he shook his head. “No. I must focus on this right now. Later, my delicious little squab, later we shall address the issue of your attempting to distract me with your shiny pink ass, but until then, I want to do a little digging before Roger gets back from his dinner.”

“Hullo. What are you two up to?”

We stopped midway across the field. Daria had evidently been sitting on the floor of one of the deeper parts of a trench, and popped up now, dusting herself off.

“Oh, hi. I thought everyone had gone off to have dinner. Gunner seems to think that we need to do a little digging.” I glanced at the man in question, unsure if he wanted me to mention more.

“We do,” Gunner agreed.

“For something in specific?” Daria started packing away her tools.

“Good question.” I turned to Gunner. “OK, now you really do have to tell us what's going on. What brilliant deduction did the baron have? Why are you worried about Roger? Did you find a mouse stone that gave directions?”

“Better than that—I have a brother who loves word puzzles, and has a history degree.” He stopped, clearly loath to say more in front of Daria.

“Ah,” I said awkwardly, wanting to help Gunner, but at the same time disliking his desire to keep Daria out of it. “That sounds . . . promising.”

Daria looked from me to Gunner, and evidently realized what was going on. She gathered up her bag of tools, and said simply, “I'll leave you to it, then. Happy treasure hunting.”

“Thank you,” Gunner said, waiting until she was out of earshot to say, “That was a bit awkward.”

“Only because you wanted to keep your news secret from her. She's nice, Gunner, even if she did tattle to your brother on us.”

“Which makes me hesitant to trust her overly far.”

I took two of his shovels and marched alongside him. “That was personal drama. She's probably just one of those people who likes to gossip about others. Archaeology is different, though. I've seen how dedicated she is to it. She could probably help us.”

Gunner glanced at his watch. “Knowing the mayor and how he likes the sound of his own voice, we have at least two hours before Roger could return, and we'd be obligated to fill him in. Given that, I have to admit that it's more fun to chase the treasure when it's just us.”