Hide Yourself Away (2 page)

The trowel tapped against the soft, red clay. Clumps of earth fell to the tunnel floor. The indentation in the wall grew larger.

The burrowing continued, revealing folds of material embedded in the clay, discolored and shredded by dirt and time. Still, some metallic threads managed to glitter in the light of the mining lamps. Gently, the mason brushed away the clay, following the trail of golden fabric.

The other workers in the tunnel gathered to watch the digging, and when they saw it they were grateful that they were all together. No one would have wanted to find such a thing alone.

A human skull and bones, swaddled in yards of gold lamé.

FRIDAY

—— JULY 16 ——

  CHAPTER  
1

She was the oldest one.

A Grace studied the college students positioned throughout the bustling newsroom this morning, she was keenly aware of the chasm that separated her from the other interns. At least a decade loomed between her and the best and the brightest she watched leaning against the tops of borrowed desks, scanning computer screens, and chatting it up with the so-inclined members of the morning news program staff. The interns were well educated, eager, ambitious, and rued Grace, so very young.

Their whole life’s ahead of them,
Grace observed as she watched one coed cross her long, tanned legs and somehow manage not to expose herself fully beneath a shamelessly short skirt. They’re all on track for promising futures, poised to graduate from esteemed colleges and universities, already building their résumés in order to land that first paying television news job. Unencumbered, they’re able to pursue their dreams. They have no personal baggage to tote along as they enter the workforce. They
can go anywhere, do anything, accept any assignment, footloose and fancy free.

Grace Wiley Callahan well knew that was not her lot. Her slate was not as clean. She had history and responsibilities. At thirty-two years old, Grace had experienced morning sickness, marriage, motherhood, and divorce, in that order. When she was the age that these kids were, she had already tucked away the dream of a graduation ceremony, withdrawing from Fordham thirty credits short. In fact, when graduation day dawned for her friends, Grace pushed Lucy’s stroller onto the college campus to watch as the diplomas were handed out. The graduates’ shouts of joy were drowned out for Grace by her baby daughter’s colicky cries.

Eleven years since then, and now Lucy was entering the sixth grade and Grace had already discovered fine crow’s-feet at the corners of her brown eyes and the first few gray strands in her honey-colored hair. She had resolutely plucked them out the day she was notified that she had been accepted into this coveted internship program. She was getting a second chance and resolved to make it count, finally earning her degree and determined to make the most of the extraordinary opportunity at KEY News world headquarters in New York City. She was also excited about the prospect of next week’s trip to Newport, Rhode Island, for
KEY to America’s
weeklong location broadcasts from the seaside resort, although fully aware that none of the other interns had to worry about the child they were leaving behind.

Not for a minute, of course, would Grace regret having Lucy. No, that was the best thing she had ever done, would ever do. Marrying Frank—now that was a different story. Frank had initially wanted nothing to do with a child when Grace found herself pregnant in the spring of her junior year. But Grace had refused to terminate the pregnancy. She was determined to have her baby, with Frank or without him.

Grace gazed down at her ringless left hand and recalled how Frank had eventually, grudgingly come around. The handsome, athletic, senior business major Frank Callahan, urged by his parents to do the “right thing,” ultimately proposed. With trepidation, Grace accepted, knowing they weren’t starting their marriage under optimal circumstances but hoping for the best.

When Lucy was born five months after the hastily planned wedding ceremony, Grace and Frank brought the baby home to a small, basement apartment in Hoboken, New Jersey. Frank dutifully took the tube into lower Manhattan each morning to his first real job at a brokerage firm while Grace stayed home with the baby and tried to pick up some freelance reporting assignments for the local newspaper, covering town council meetings and night court sessions. But as Frank’s responsibilities at the firm increased, he didn’t want the added pressure of rushing home at night to be with Lucy while Grace went to work. He was making more, they could afford a bigger, better apartment, Gracie didn’t have to work at that podunk newspaper.

She went along, and one year followed another. Grace
spent her time raising and loving her little girl, trying not to dwell on the repercussions of her marriage to Frank. As she watched the news on television, she tried not to pine for what might have been if she had finished school and followed her plan to work in broadcast journalism. As time went on, after Lucy was tucked in bed at night, Grace found herself watching more and more of the prime-time newsmagazine shows, alone, dreading Frank’s moodiness and anger and the perfumed scents that lingered on his clothing when he came home late after “business dinners.”

Still, Grace stayed. For Lucy’s sake, she told herself. For Lucy, she would stay in the marriage. Her child would not come from a broken home. Lucy deserved to have two parents living with her and raising her in the same place. No, Grace would stick it out. She would not leave.

Instead, Frank left her.

“Grace, would you mind faxing a copy of this tentative schedule to Professor Gordon Cox in Newport?” The producer-cameraman B. J. D’Elia held out the typed itinerary. “I know it’s grunt work,” he apologized, “but if I don’t get out of here, I’m going to miss my train to Rhode Island.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she replied, taking the paper from him. She didn’t relish the grunt work part especially, but she
knew that trust was established bit by bit. Do the small things well now and they would trust you with the bigger things later.

“You’re coming up tomorrow, right, Grace?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you to do me another favor?” B.J. didn’t wait for her answer. He was holding out a sheet of yellow lined paper. “Put together a short research package on scrimshaw and tattoos. We are doing a segment with a scrimshander and, perhaps, a tattoo artist, and we’ll need to have some questions for Constance to ask during the interviews. Don’t go overboard,” he continued. “Just enough to cover the bases, and fax me what you come up with. The fax number at our newsroom at the Viking is on the paper.”

“No problem,” answered Grace as she took the information from him and noticed his strong, tanned hands.

“Thanks, Grace. Thanks a lot.” He flashed a smile revealing white, even teeth and leaned closer. “I’ll let you in on a secret. This is my first remote as a producer, and I’m a little nervous.”

“Really? I thought you were an old hand at this.”

“Nope. I’ve been a cameraman and editor here for six years, and at local television stations for years before that. But just a few months ago they made me a producer as well. That’s the wave of the present, you know. Hyphenates. You gotta do two or three jobs for the price of one if you want to stick around a place like this.”

Grace was a bit envious. She figured B.J. to be about her age, maybe a couple of years older, and yet here he was, well established
in his career. She wondered if he was married and had a wife who stayed home with his child while he was carving out his place in the world. Somehow, she thought not. Not only because there was no ring, but because she just had the indefinable sense that he was available. You never knew, though. There were guys who acted unattached when out in the workforce, when in reality they had families depending on them. Frank was one of those guys. Watching B.J.’s lanky frame as he walked back to his desk, Grace found herself hoping that he was not like her former husband.

As she turned to execute her task, punching in the numbers on the fax machine phone pad, the intern with the miniskirt walked over.

“At least he gave you something to do,” the dark-haired beauty whispered. “I’m going out of my mind with boredom. If I spend one more minute surfing the web, I’ll slit my wrists. They don’t have enough for us to do.”

Grace smiled as she listened for the electronic beep signaling the fax was going through. Jocelyn Vickers was right. The interns did have a lot of free time on their hands.

“It should be better when we get to Newport, don’t you think?” she offered. “There should be plenty of things they’ll need us for. At the very least, we get to spend a week in a beautiful place in the summertime.”

Jocelyn shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I’ve never been to Newport before, have you?” Grace asked, wanting to extend their talk if she could. The younger interns
hadn’t exactly been seeking her out for conversation. They didn’t seem quite able to make out what to think of her.
Grace, the old lady.
What could they possibly have in common with a divorced mom?

“Just about every summer of my life.” Jocelyn sighed. “My parents have a house there.”

“Really? That sounds great.” As Grace took the transmitted Newport schedule out of the fax machine tray, she glanced downward and caught a glimpse of the familiar beige, black, and maroon plaid peeking from beneath Jocelyn’s perfectly manicured toes. Burberry. Over a hundred bucks for a pair of plastic strapped sandals.
It must be nice.
Grace was suddenly aware that her own shoes, the black pumps she had purchased on further markdown at the DSW Shoe Warehouse, looked second-rate and hopelessly boring.

“Yeah, Newport can be fun, if you know where to go and what to do.” Jocelyn swept her hand back through her long, black, expensively cut hair.

“Well, that should keep you in good stead with the folks around here, Jocelyn.”

“Call me Joss.” She brightened. “And, yes, I’m counting on that. In fact, I’m going up there tonight so I’ll be there a little early to help out. I want to make myself invaluable to them when we’re there next week. I really want to be the one who gets the full-time job when the internship is over.”

You’re not the only one,
thought Grace, her heart sinking at the idea of Jocelyn’s advantage.
You’re not the only one.

Just one was going to be selected from this summer’s intern crop to get a staff position as an assistant producer. Everything depended on performance, and Grace was determined to give it her all. She really needed to get that job.

  CHAPTER  
2

Professor Gordon Cox pulled the document from his faculty mailbox and scanned the faxed information. He would go over the KEY News schedule in depth later. Right now he had a class to teach.

He paused before the large, ornately framed mirror and checked his appearance. A full head of silver hair complemented his dark eyes and golden tan. He may have gone totally gray a bit prematurely, but he liked the effect. A distinguished, debonair scholar, attractive to the impressionable coeds.

If only he could impress Agatha Wagstaff the way he did the coeds. With the discovery of the bones, Agatha was threatening to pull the plug on the renovations of the old slave tunnel if it turned out to be her sister’s tomb. Gordon’s pet project for the seventeen years he had been teaching at Salve Regina University
was going to come to a screeching halt, and he was in knots about it.

Opening the Shepherd’s Point tunnel to the public was a cause célèbre in history circles, and Gordon, as the driving force behind the project, had made a name for himself in the preservation community. He had heard he was up for the Stipplewood Prize, but he supposed he could kiss that and his legacy goodbye now. Agatha was as crazy as a loon, and she had always been skeptical about opening her precious tunnel for the delight of the masses. What chance was there that she’d go ahead with the plan if the tunnel turned out to have been her own sister’s final resting place for the last fourteen years?

The thought that all his planning, and cajoling of Agatha, and attention to her niece, Madeleine, and her mother, Charlotte, before her—not to mention all his research, monographs, and speaking engagements—that all of it would come to naught had depressed him, deeply.