More Bitter Than Death (11 page)

Eleni appeared at that moment like a sour genie and deposited Widmark’s eggs and my coffee. I asked for my bill, and she took it out of a fan of at least fifteen of them and slapped it down on the table, scuffling off before I could even say thanks. The thing was that the coffee was great, again. It didn’t make sense. I’d read
Like Water for Chocolate,
I knew what could happen if you cooked with the wrong attitude. I’d seen Eleni make the coffee herself, and if temperament was any indication, the coffee should have tasted like lighter fluid, or at least no better than fast-food coffee. This was almost as good as at home.

And that’s why I stuck around a little longer than I meant to. I did want to go over my notes, but I sure didn’t need an hour. I just wanted to get away from the table and his breath before I pointed out that “Bonito Breath” was not a term of endearment. At least the meal was helping damp down the reek from across the table, and Widmark was well-behaved enough to chew with his mouth closed, which counted for big points with me. It was while I was engrossed with the coffee that I noticed something about Widmark that took me aback. While he was eating, he was listening to the conversations around him. Not that anyone was trying to keep their voices down—with the lunch rush in the coffee shop, you now had to
shout if you wanted to be heard at all—but it was just strange that he should be so engrossed, intent even. I watched him from behind my cup, and saw that his face changed slightly, not enough to do anything but make me curious. Before he’d seemed amiable, if a bit overfriendly and underprepared, but now there was a sharpness that hadn’t been present before.

As I signed my name and room number to the bill, I heard what he was listening to. It was a couple of guys going on and on with the venerable debate over whether archaeologists had rights over the general public when it came to the use of sites for research and recreation. How to reconcile tourism, diving, and the protection of underwater sites, which often had the potential of great preservation of fragile materials. Does the recovery of a site and its information take precedence over the income states could get from tourism, that sort of thing.

It was so interesting watching him eat so absently and listen so avidly that when he suddenly looked up at me, he caught me staring.

“Sorry, I’m being awfully rude, I know,” he said before I could fashion an excuse for my own bad manners. “It’s just…well, it’s rather embarrassing. I’m getting close to taking an early retirement, and I’m indulging in another one of my hobbies a little early.”

“Oh?” I hate the word hobby, as well as the word hubby; they sound like the fat, silly cousins of the things they represent.

“Everyone always says that you should pay attention to how people talk, if you want to write good dialogue, so I’m making the most of my time here. Lots of different kinds of people.”

“You’ve been writing something? A book?”

“Yes. You know, I think an archaeologist would make a wonderful character for a book. You, for example, with your experiences and everything, why you’d be perfect—”

And now I was going to be perfectly sick. The guy was hitting on me, and it was only lunchtime. He didn’t even have the decency to be drunk or wait until I was, which was the way one could either proceed or reject the offer and everyone could get out of it without losing face. Widmark really didn’t know anything at all about conferences.

“—and so I’ve been really paying attention to people, and I think it’s working out. It’s just a little difficult, because it looks strange, when I record it on paper. It doesn’t look correct, if you know what I mean.”

Then he noticed that I’d finished my coffee and had left the signed check sticking out of the folder, so Eleni could come and collect it. “Oh, rats, you shouldn’t have to pay for your lunch, not when you’ve been good enough to share your table and answer all my questions, and everything! I was going to get it.”

I scratched my chin with my left hand, trying to show off my wedding band and engagement ring, just to get the point across. “Thanks anyway. Please don’t worry about it. I’ve just got to get going.”

“Well, maybe you’ll let me buy you a drink tonight, at the reception before the business meeting. Please, it’s not like it’s coming out of my wallet, and the guys at home will think I haven’t been working if I don’t spend some entertainment money.”

I switched to rubbing my eyebrow, wiggling my rings just a little bit. I just wanted the guy to get the idea. “Hey, like I said, it was no problem, I’m happy to help.”

And when I saw he was about to protest again, I said hurriedly, “But if we run into each other tonight, you can buy me a beer. That’s the common currency among archaeologists.”

“Great, talk to you later!” he said brightly. This time it was garlic and onions, but that was far better than aging bait fish. I was glad to have made him happy, but jeez, the guy was like a leech, and I was eager to get away.

I brushed past the line of hungry, cranky conferees and all but ran for the elevators. Although I had plenty of time, something in me just wanted to be away from the throng for a moment. I checked the messages on my room’s phone and was disappointed not to have one from Scott. The rest were confirmations of dinner arrangements, and one that seemed like a wrong number, asking whether I was “up for a little crawling tonight?” Graduate students crawling the halls, looking for important parties to crash, no doubt.

I deleted the messages and went through my slides. Good: they were still in the order I’d left them last night. You never could be sure that they mightn’t have gotten rearranged at some point. I read through the paper again, only halfheartedly, more eager for it to be done with and get the fresh rush from questions rather than getting off on hearing my own voice or reading my own conclusions on the excavation of Fort Providence so far. When I’d first started reading papers, long, long ago, I lived in fear that anyone would have anything to say about my work. Now, good commentary was the best part of any session.

I called Scott’s room and left him a message, telling him where I’d be for the next couple of hours, and that he could also leave a message on my cell phone, although it would be turned off. Then I found the room for the session on first-period sites and took a seat in the front row. The volunteer who was handling the slides came in to set up, and I left my carousel with him, letting him know I would be the last speaker and giving him a few other instructions.

The room filled up quickly, and we got underway. We were almost through with the presentation before mine when a young woman came up to me and introduced herself in a whisper. “I just wanted to get the chance to say hello. I’d like to talk to you about some of the—”

“Look, I don’t want to be rude, but this isn’t the best
time,” I said. “I’m about three seconds from having to go up there and give my paper. Do you have a card?”

She nodded; it was already in her hands.

“Write what you want to discuss on the back of your card. If I get a chance to see you later, great, otherwise I’ll email you when I get back to campus, okay? And here’s one of my cards; if I don’t get back to you in two weeks, drop me a line.”

She nodded, scribbling on the back of the card. She handed it to me, apologized profusely in a hushed tone, and scuttled away.

I collected myself, got my game face on, and prepared to wrap up the session with my paper. Things were going smoothly, and I was about twenty minutes into my paper, when the audience broke out in a gale of laughter. I looked up, startled, and reread my last sentence, convinced that I’d inadvertently written something rude, an accidental double entendre, but the sentence was fine. I was about to resume, still puzzled, when I realized what had happened and looked at the slide screen next to me.

There, instead of the last slide I was showing, and much, much larger than life, was Kermit the Frog. Someone had taken a puppet, dressed it in a smoking jacket and fez, given him a scaled-down martini glass and what looked like a hand-rolled cigarette, and set him next to a balk from a site that had nothing to do with the barrack building of Fort Providence I was discussing. Carla had struck back in retaliation for my switching her slide of French pottery for a movie still of a Tarzan knockoff, with an extremely buff young man in a very small loincloth. That had been the cause of the uproar from her paper this morning.

Although Carla had said she’d be elsewhere, I saw her at the back of the room and waved, acknowledging that she’d got me in spite of my instructions to the slide wrangler. I fin
ished up my talk without the last slide, which was more of scenery rather than information, and suggested that if certain other people put down their drinks long enough, they might also come to the same conclusions.

A few questions followed, and as I answered, I noted a couple of points to clear up in my paper, if I reused any of it in a report. I looked up, and the last person with a hand up was in the back, obscured by the lights in my eyes. I pointed. “Right, in the back.”

“I’m wondering about your use of polychrome tin-glazed earthenware to date that particular feature.” It took only three syllables before I recognized it was Duncan asking the question. “If the only other artifacts you’ve got in the unit can only be dated to within twenty years or so, what makes you think that something that ubiquitous can support your assertions? I’m not trying to be picky, but it’s the lynchpin of your entire argument and it seems somewhat tenuous to me.”

Duncan, how freaking obvious of you. But it was trying to sound reasonable that gives you away; you still try to cover up an attempt to nail someone with politeness and it still doesn’t fool me, though you’ve gotten better at it. “I guess I should have emphasized this more strongly in the paper, considering how exciting this information really is. I’m looking at the color of the glazes. I got the data from a European source, as yet unpublished, but it’s coming from a good, sealed context, backed up with a recently discovered set of factory documents—”

“And this European publication?” He sounded doubtful.

“Right, Compton and Ashford,
Proceedings of the Marchester Archaeological Society
. The title is…” I spoke slowly, as if I was concerned that he might not be able to copy it down accurately otherwise. Duncan only nodded. “And it should be out next year.”

The moderator stood up, directed the last few questions to the appropriate presenters, and then thanked everyone for coming. As I collected cards from people who wanted copies
of the paper, I saw Duncan watching me. He leaned over still looking at me, and whispered something into Noreen McAllister’s ear. She threw her head back and laughed.

I was hoping to collect my carousel and leave before they could catch me, but Duncan made a point of loudly congratulating me on my paper. Shit-heel.

“You know I have to bust your chops,” he said in a lower voice, like we were both in on the joke, but still loud enough for anyone to hear. “You know, now that you’ve got tenure, someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”

“And you think you’re the one to do it?” I couldn’t stand the way I sounded, the way I wanted to react. The greedy look on Noreen’s face was the icing on the cake, and I all but ran out of there.

I noticed a few startled faces—usually hanging around to chat afterward was the best part—and I knew I’d have to do some explaining later on. I didn’t care.

I stopped by the desk, checked for messages, then looked over the bulletin board. Nothing. I went up to my room, called Scott’s number and got nothing. There were no new messages for me there or on my cell phone either. I wasn’t about to go back downstairs, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to hide out in my room.

The red light bubble on the phone got me thinking, and I called down to the desk, identifying myself. “I’m trying to find Dr. Scott Tomberg,” I said. “He’s been sorting out the issues with the, uh, with Dr. Garrison’s decease.”

“Just a moment.”

I heard Muzak—apparently one of the things that was updated at the General Bartlett Hotel was the phone system—until another voice, this one male and even more businesslike, picked up the line.

“I’m the day manager. I don’t know where Dr. Tomberg is, but if you’d care to leave him a message?”

“No thanks, I’ve done that,” I said.

“It’s possible he’s been speaking with the police. They arrived here about an hour ago, along with the ambulance. There’s been a lot of delays with the storm.”

“I see. Thanks for your help.” I didn’t wait for his response, and all but slammed down the phone. I grabbed my coat, gloves, and hat, pulled on my boots, and shot out of the room. I didn’t wait for the elevator, but ran down the stairs and down the side of the lobby to the side entrance, zipping up as I went plowing through the snow.

I was glad for all my heavy gear, for although it had warmed up since yesterday, the snow was still flying and had mounted up considerably through the night. Wet snowflakes had replaced the light fluff, and if I kept standing there, I was going to get soaked through. I kept moving, slogging along a path that had been made by a herd of anonymous officials who’d been by this way not too long before me. If I didn’t keep moving, keep following that path, if I stopped where I was, I would begin to blend in with the rest of the landscape, just another indistinct shape that wouldn’t regain its identity until spring or a premature melt.

The well-trodden path led out around back and down the stairs to the lake. I hesitated at the top of the hill for a moment. Snowflakes had begun to fill the footsteps, blurring them, yet the pathway was marked out in front of me as clearly as a sign. The wind buffeted me, and I clung to the railing, almost giving myself enough time to think about what it was I was really doing. What are you waiting for, Emma? What do you want?

I was just about to answer myself, was on the verge of turning around and going back into the hotel, when a gust of wind kicked up and all but shoved me forward down the staircase. I slid a ways, the stairs never where I expected them to be, the path iced over by compacted snow. When I regained my footing, I continued to follow the steps and path down to the lake.