Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows (30 page)

Billingsly took a moment, sliding the beads across his cerebral abacus one by one. “Oh, I gotcha. Like Murder She Wrote!” He guffawed, the sound ricocheting off the hardwood floor and my nerves.

I tried to hide my irritation. “I admit my memory of the first body is fuzzy, but when I saw this man’s face it struck me as wrong. I know my first impression was correct.”

Billingsly, at last containing his amusement, said, “English, you been through plenty, I give you that. Lots of material for stories, eh? You probably can’t wait to get home to LA.”

I sent Jake one of those poison pen looks. He met my eyes and glanced away, addressee unknown.

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Billingsly made a few more notes, clearly humoring me. He thanked me for my time and trouble, and took himself off. His was the last of the fleet of cop cars to leave my property.

When the sound of engines had died away the kitchen seemed mighty quiet. The heavy, cool scent of just-bloomed lilacs drifted in the open window easing the memory of that other smell.

“That’s that,” Jake said, setting the coffee cups in the sink.

“Is it?”

“Yes.” He turned to study me. “Don’t start trying to make a mystery out of a molehill.

Your missing body has been found. The vic was probably a confederate of Harvey’s. Harvey killed him and now he’s split.”

“Harvey is dead.”

After a pause Jake turned on the faucet. Over the rush of water I heard him say, “Maybe he is by now but that’s not our problem.”

“If you say so.”

He turned off the water. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that I may not be a trained observer but I’m not blind either. Two different men. Two different bodies.” I held my fingers in the peace sign though I was feeling anything by peaceable. “Why doesn’t anyone want to believe that?”

He threw me a chiding glance. “Now it’s a conspiracy?”

“Come on, Jake, you know what I mean. Everybody is too eager to accept the obvious solution. I know why you are, but why is the sheriff?

Jake turned off the water. “Baby,” he said finally and almost kindly. “You have too much imagination. That’s good in a writer and bad in a -- um -- detective.”

“I seem to remember you saying once that a good detective isn’t afraid to use his imagination.”

“Do you take notes on everything I say?” he inquired exasperatedly.

“There’s so many contradictions it helps to keep track.”

“Yeah. Which reminds me. Aren’t you supposed to be writing or something? Isn’t that why you came up here? I haven’t seen you write a word since I arrived.”

“And that’s another thing: that Murder She Wrote crack!”

He avoided my eyes. “I didn’t make that crack.”

“You set me up for it.”

Jake folded his arms across his chest like the Rock of Ages refusing to cleave itself for me or anybody else.

“Yeah, whatever.” I know when I’m wasting my breath. Off I went to the study to give myself time to cool down.

188

Josh Lanyon

I guess it was natural we were going to butt heads if we spent any amount of time together. Truthfully we butted heads when we didn’t spend any amount of time together.

I recalled that impromptu backrub.

After a few minutes of brooding I got bored and picked up the yellow pamphlet I’d purchased at the museum.

According to Histories of Basking Township, Basking was first settled in 1848 by an ex-Cavalry scout named Archibald Basking. Basking was also an artist and his sketches of Indians and Indian life hung in local museums like Royale House. By 1860, Basking had moved on into the pages of history, but by then the gold rush was in full spate and Basking Township had a sizable population. After the gold rush ended in 1884, many citizens stayed on in other fields of enterprise. Basking survived and even flourished, unlike most of the 500

mining camps spawned during the gold rush which were now nothing more than crumbling foundations or faded names on signposts.

Blah, blah, blah.

Every now and then I looked out of my book and caught a glimpse of Jake outside the window hammering the broken shutter into place, taking his aggressions out in home improvement. I was surprised he didn’t just spit the nails into the wood like Popeye the Sailor Man. As he worked he whistled grimly around the nails clamped between his lips.

When he finished with the shutter he set about repairing the fractured rose trellis.

Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

I read on till about five. By that time Jake was in the shower, where I could hear him swearing over the erratic water pressure and fluctuating temperatures. (Ah, the sounds of domestic bliss.)

I confess I was discouraged. By now Grace Latham would surely have found a torn scrap of an incriminating note or a bloody footprint or something. Detective work is not only easier in books; it’s more fun.

And that’s when I found my first clue. There in smudgy print was the name of the mine owned by Abraham Royale: the Red Rover.

I tossed the book aside.

In the front room I poured a couple of whiskies from a twenty-year-old bottle Jake had located in the back of the liquor cabinet. I downed mine staring out the front window, watching the wind rake the winter grass like an unseen hand through the fur of a sleeping animal.

Jake appeared in the doorway combing back his damp hair. The sun had deepened the color in his face. The bronze corduroy shirt made his eyes looked almost gold.

“You’d better wait a few minutes,” he told me. “There’s no hot water.”

I handed him his drink. He swallowed and sighed appreciatively.

“Get a lot done?” he questioned.

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“Enough.”

“Listen, just in case, if anybody at this dinner party mentions what happened here today, don’t start in about believing the dead man in the barn was not the guy you found the night you arrived.”

“Why?”

“Just do me a favor and keep your mouth shut.”

“Since you ask so nicely how can I refuse?”

He gave me that smile that was more of a grimace and said, “Please.”

“Hey, the magic word.” I clicked my glass against his and tossed back my drink on the way to the bathroom.

There was no hot water for my shower so I made it fast. Even so the bandage on the top of my head got soaked and fell off. I examined it, tossed it in the trash and hoped the tonsured look became me. At least it wasn’t permanent. Yet. I inherited my mother’s baby-fine dark hair, and plenty of it. As a matter of fact I needed a haircut even worse than I needed a shave. I was having a go at my forelock with a pair of nail scissors when Jake showed up in the doorway.

“You want another drink?” he inquired.

“No.”

He observed me snipping away and said, “The better to see you with?”

“I don’t get it.”

“The kid. O’Reilly.”

My hand jerked and I nearly put my eye out. “You’re kidding, right?”

But Jake had already disappeared. From the other room I heard him blowing his nose like the war trumpet of a bull moose.

I pulled on a semi-clean pair of Levi’s and dug a blue denim workshirt out of the bottom of my Gladstone, telling myself that the blue matched my eyes and the wrinkles matched the lines around them.

* * * * *

It was sunset by the time we reached Spaniard’s Hollow. Against a fiery sky the black tents stood like paper cut-outs illuminated from within by kerosene lamps glowing cozily like nineteenth-century lithophanes. We parked by the lake with the other vehicles. The sound of voices drifted across the clearing.

The nutty professors were all present and accounted for with the exception of Dr.

Livingston who had been unable to make it back to camp in time for the festivities. Dr.

Shoup did the honors, giving us the grand tour of the site.

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Josh Lanyon

Though the get-together had been Shoup’s suggestion, his demeanor had thawed only slightly since our last encounter.

“The term ‘archeology’ refers to the systematic and methodical recovery of the material evidence of man’s past life and culture. It is a science,” he informed us as he led the way into a tent crowded with cardboard filing boxes and several long tables piled with miscellaneous artifacts: broken bottles turned purple with age, arrowheads, a rusted belt buckle.

Shoup paused, apparently waiting for comments. When we didn’t argue he continued,

“Our understanding of the past gives us the knowledge to shape the future.”

I watched Jake size up Dr. Shoup, from the toe of his spit-polished boots to the crown of his khaki safari hat. I recognized the sardonic curve to Jake’s mouth and looked forward to his commentary on the drive home.

“How many people do you have on staff?” he asked politely enough.

Dr. Shoup said, “There are eight of us. On the weekends, our volunteers pitch in. In the summer it will be different. The university sponsors an adult field school program.”

“University?” The cop, always wanting the facts straight.

“Tuolumne Junior College,” I supplied.

Dr. Shoup checked long enough to show us the improbably named proton magnetometer, explaining that the data collected by magnetometer surveys would be processed by the college computers, which would then produce a variety of detailed maps, profiles and three-dimensional views.

“Maximal information, minimal ground disturbance?” I suggested.

“Quite.”

Jake met my eyes and arched his brows.

“We are professionals, Mr. English. We do not rape and pillage the countryside as you imply.”

Jake said, “Huh?”

“Have you found the Red Rover mine yet?” I inquired.

Dr. Shoup’s eyes narrowed. “Er -- no. Not yet.”

“How can that be?”

He bridled at this. “To begin with, we don’t have the exact location.”

“It’s a giant hole in the ground, right? Maybe boarded up? How hard could that be to find? Besides, mines had to be registered or staked, right?”

“We know the general area, but not the exact location. It’s only a matter of time.”

Shoup explained that in order to reconstruct the site a horizontal grid had been laid over the entire area. The object was to recover all items within the grid and place them in their related stratigraphic sections. He showed us grids, maps, a basic wall profile and the daily excavation notes.

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“Everything is completely regulation.”

Strictly regimental. I resisted the impulse to salute. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

“This mine worth a lot of money?” Jake asked.

“Certainly not. The mine played out long before the end of the gold rush. The Red Rover is strictly of historical and cultural significance.” Shoup proceeded to explain why.

Kevin joined us as Jake’s eyes were beginning to glaze. He looked good in khaki shorts and a rolled-sleeve denim shirt -- like a big Boy Scout. He and Jake briefly acknowledged each other, then Kevin grinned at me and held up the crescent-bladed shovel he carried.

“Number one tool of the archeologist,” he said undervoiced, with a nod at Shoup’s back.

“Equally useful for digging artifacts or shoveling through the bullshit.”

* * * * *

Dinner in the main tent consisted of hot cornbread and hotter chili made of franks and beans. The flickering Coleman lanterns threw a cozy light over the faces gathered around the long table, several of whom I recognized from my first visit. It was warm in the tent, smelling of propane and damp earth. Jake and I were greeted like old friends as we squeezed in at the table. Clearly we were being courted.

“Coffee or box wine?” Bernice offered gaily.

Jake opted for the coffee and I had a plastic cup of boxed rosé.

“So what do you think of our operation?” Dr. Marquez, on my left, inquired. His melancholy dark eyes met mine as though waiting to hear the worst.

“It seems like you have a very professional operation here.” Even while I chafed over the thought of test pits, I couldn’t help but respond to the energy and camaraderie around us.

“Dr. Shoup has a great deal of field experience. He’s ... on loan, you could say, from UC

Berkeley.”

“I thought Dr. Livingston was in charge here?”

“That’s true.”

“When does Livingston get back?”

He drained his coffee cup. “Late tonight or tomorrow.”

“Is this what you do fulltime?” I queried.

Marquez smiled that mournful smile. “I’m an instructor at the JC. Geography and zoology as well as anthropology.” He sighed. “Diversity means job security these days. Or the closest thing to it.”

On my other side Jake was shoveling through his meal like a Forty-niner. He responded to Amy’s overtures between mouthfuls. She related the amusing tale of how she had nearly blown my head off, and Jake nearly choked laughing.

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Josh Lanyon

About midway through dinner Melissa Smith, my childhood nemesis, showed up. We all scooted down, clearing space at the table. She wedged in between Kevin and Dr. Marquez and hailed-fellow-well-met me.

“I didn’t realize you were a member of this expedition,” I said.

Her look informed me that there were many things I didn’t know. “I’m working on my Ph.D. in anthropology.” She shook her hair back from her face and accepted a plate from Bernice.

Kevin said, “I hear you had some excitement at your place today.”

“What’s that?” Dr. Shoup turned his pale gaze our way.

“We found a dead body in the barn,” Jake said. “Probably a vagrant.”

“Yuck!” said Amy. “What was he doing in your barn?”

“How should anyone know what a vagrant might be doing?” Shoup barked like a bad-tempered Schnauzer. “Any more bright questions?”

Amy colored the shade of her red thermal undershirt.

Kevin refilled my plastic cup with more box wine. I smiled thanks. Kevin smiled welcome. Jake kicked my ankle.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.”

Well, we were scrunched together pretty compactly at the long table.

Bernice said, “But aren’t you the one who found a dead body last Thursday?”

“Adrien,” Jake clarified. “Adrien’s the one who finds the dead bodies.”