A Midsummer Night's Romp (3 page)

Which will it be? Be sure to tune in to the Now! channel starting September first, and see what turns up under the earth of Ainslie.

“Worms and potato bugs,” I predicted, more than a little jaded. It was true that I'd been jealous of Sandy and her yearly summer trips to exotic places to participate in archaeological digs, but after her experience with Paul, I'd be damned if I ever stepped foot on one, myself.

For a complete schedule, click here. And if you'd like to volunteer as a digger, sifter, or find-washer, follow this link to the managing dig company.

I glanced down at the link, and reeled backward just as if a mule had kicked me in the gut. I stared at it for a good eight minutes, my mind whirling and my stomach lurching around my insides, until I finally clicked on the text.

Wide-eyed, I stared at the resulting Web site.

Claud-Marie Archaeology
, read the name at the top of the page.
Paul Thompson, director.

“Paul,” I whispered to myself, the name bringing with it a red swell of fury. Had Sandy known who was managing the dig? No, that didn't make sense—she would want me to steer clear of any dig of which Paul was a member. And now Sandy's foster sister was right there where Paul was. It seemed almost like a sign, as if fate was daring me not to take notice.

I dug through my memories to shake out those regarding Alice. I remembered her as being bubbly and nice, surprisingly cheerful despite the fact that she was in the foster system. She'd also been the possessor of a wicked sense of humor.

“I have to stop Paul from ruining anyone else's life,” I said out loud to my tank of zebra fish. They flitted back and forth without a care as to what I was saying, but it made me feel better just having something to talk to. “The question is, how do I do that? Dr. Anderson's insistence that I can do anything I want aside, I'm not a superhero. I'm a low-paid, mild-mannered community college French teacher who has a very bad feeling about what might be happening at”—I checked the computer—“Ainslie Castle. The sad truth is I can't save Sandy and I can't stop a villain from being a villain.”

Or can you?
a voice asked in my head. I frowned, my mind surging down a new path of speculation. What if I had proof of how Paul had infected Sandy? Inescapable, solid proof that he couldn't deny? Proof that would hold up in court, if needed.

An idea started to grow in my brain, one that, after a few online searches, blossomed into a full-fledged plan.

“It may be heinous, and it may be incredibly illegal, but that doesn't matter,” I told my fish, steadfastly ignoring my conscience declaring otherwise. “Sandy's faith that Paul isn't the bastard I know him to be just isn't going to cut it. Let's see, I could apply to be a digger, but I have no
experience, and there's bound to be a lot of people applying for those positions, what with the TV show going on at the same time. I need something unique, something that no one else could offer them. . . .”

I mulled over the possibilities, which ranged from being a translator of all things French to what amounted to a gofer, but in the end, I decided to play on people's pretty reliable desire for publicity.

I opened an e-mail and filled in the address of the network producer. “A TV show is going to want all the publicity they can get. I'll pitch the idea of a behind-the-scenes book about the dig and show to them, and pray they like it. Otherwise, fishies, I'm going to have to fake a hell of a background in archaeology, and that won't end well. As it is, I'm going to have to do an awful lot of fudging, but at least I can pretend to use a camera. Right? Right.”

The fish didn't look convinced, but I hadn't survived too many years of my father telling me I was a worthless waste of space to let my fish dis my ideas. “Dammit, I'm a strong woman now. I don't need your approval. Besides, I have a higher calling here—I have to make sure that no other innocent women's lives are destroyed by a man who doesn't care that he has a potentially deadly infection. He might not listen to Sandy, but he'll have to pay attention to me when I get indisputable proof of his illness. Beware, Paul Thompson, for your doom is nigh, and her name is Lorina!”

“W
ell, Lorina, it looks like we've officially started.” Daria Hollingberry, one of the archaeologists whom I'd just met, nodded at the cluster of people standing around a soundman bearing a large microphone swathed in a furry cover. In the center of the group was a woman who'd been introduced as Sue Birdwhistle, the director of the
Dig Britain!
reality show.

“We have?” I glanced at my watch. “Hell's bells, I haven't even unpacked. Well, anything but this.” I nodded at the camera I was holding, one of the two I had borrowed from a friend, after having promised him I would guard them with my life. “Did they move up the schedule? No one told me, if they did. I had to take a train from London, and it took a lot longer than I imagined.”

“No, no, they didn't move the schedule—we don't start actually digging until this afternoon. I meant we've officially started because Sue's just done her first
monologue to the camera.” Daria gestured a small triangular trowel toward the small clutch of people. Then, with a smile, she used it to tap lightly against my camera in a faux toast. “Here's to a successful dig.”

“Ah, gotcha.” I smiled wanly, my confusion fading. “So, do you work for the Claud-Marie company, or are you one of the independent diggers?”

I had an idea of how a dig site actually worked after having listened to Sandy's tales of the summers she spent grubbing around in the sands of the Middle East and eastern Europe as a volunteer, and wanted to identify anyone who might be able to help me in my quest. Volunteers probably weren't going to help my cause much, but an employee . . . that was another matter.

“Yes, I work for CMA. It's quite exciting, really. Last year we excavated in Tunisia, which was a blast, although my husband complained about my leaving him home with our twin ten-year-olds while I gallivanted around in the sun, and had steamy affairs with various and sundry handsome sheikhs.”

I didn't quite know how to take that, so I simply said, “Did your husband come with you this time?”

“Not him! He runs a testing facility—you know, the people who process blood tests and urine samples, and that sort of thing. He'd die if he had to spend his day in what he calls unsanitary dirt.” She giggled. “I've made him sound like a jealous clean freak, but he's not. He's actually quite understanding, although he does like to pretend that I'm surrounded by countless diggers who lust after me, which couldn't be further from the truth. Just look around—by tonight we'll be knee-high in dirt and mud, and the only thing we'll lust after is a hot bath. Are you going to be here for long? Oh, dear, that sounded rude. What I meant to ask is how long you expect it will take to get your book done.”

“Oh, you know,” I said, trying to look sage. “These things are hard to pin down. It could take a few days, or a few weeks.”

“I've never met a photojournalist before,” she said with obvious interest. “It must be thrilling for you to be able to take a few pictures and then voilà! You have a book.”

“It's a bit more complicated than that,” I said with what I hoped looked like learned professionalism. I tried to dredge up every morsel of information I had ever seen about journalists and photography. “There's fact-checking and things, naturally. And the photos have to be processed. That takes a lot of time.”

She nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief that she obviously had no clue I was bluffing like crazy. “I'm sure there's a lot of work involved. I take it you're a fan of Roman history? Or are you just covering the dig because . . . well, because?”

“I'm interested, but afraid I know squat about it.” I'd already decided that it would be dangerous to try to pass myself off as someone interested in history around a group of people who fairly dripped expertise on the subject. “And a friend's friend is married to the owner, so she was happy to let me putter around taking pictures.”

“You're a friend of the baroness?” Daria looked impressed.

“I've met her a couple of times, but that was years ago. She's a friend of my roommate's, actually.”

“What made you choose us for your book if you're not overly keen on Roman history?”

Guilt dug deep in my gut. “Well, I've always wanted to come to England, and when I read about the dig and the TV program that would be filming it, I suddenly had an idea for a behind-the-scenes book. I know those have been popular for other reality shows, and thought that maybe people would like one about an archaeology dig.”

She blinked at me, but said nothing.

My palms started to sweat. “Have you seen the producer's other reality shows? They all had books done about them, and they were really popular, so he—Roger d'Aspry—was totally on board when I suggested doing a book for this project. It may be a bit unorthodox to record the filming of an archaeological dig, but Roger thinks it will do well.”

To my relief, she smiled. “Well, I think it's impressive that you're going to publish a book about us—about the dig. I'll be sure to make everyone in my family buy a copy.”

The guilt in my gut dug deeper. How many more lies would I have to dish out before I could go home with the proof I needed? “That would be awesome.”

“What's the name of the book?”

“Er . . . I haven't picked one yet.”

“How long will it be? Will it be one of those coffee table books, or something smaller?”

I was in hell, liar's hell. This was what came to people who wantonly told untruths, my conscience told me with smug satisfaction. I squirmed slightly, trying to think of something to end the conversation. “I'm afraid I can't talk about it yet.”

“Top secret, eh?” Daria said, nodding knowingly. “I heard authors are like that.”

I tried to summon up a confident smile, but failed. “More like inspiration hasn't yet struck.”

“Let's just hope that we have a productive month to justify a book about us.” Daria watched as Sue argued with Roger d'Aspry, noted producer of various British reality TV shows. “There they go, at it again. You've met both of them, yes?”

“I met Sue when I got here, although I actually met Roger two days ago in London. I was a bit of a fangirl,
I'm afraid. I loved the show he produced with an American woman who played a duchess during a monthlong Victorian reenactment.”

Daria squinted in thought. “Oh, I think I remember that. There was some controversy around it, wasn't there? Sabotage or something?”

“I don't know anything about that. I just thought it was cool, and of course, it was interesting that the lead couple hooked up in real life. I mean, that's kind of a fairy tale, isn't it?”

“Absolutely.”

As I watched Sue and Roger, my thoughts turned to just how wonderful it would be to meet a man I could trust, one who wouldn't use his power against me, one who would be there beside me, supportive and loving and sexy as sin. “There's nothing like that in my future, for sure,” I said on a sigh.

“Nothing like what? Arguments with a bossy producer? Don't fool yourself—I worked with Roger on the
Anglopalooza
show he did two years ago—we tried to locate an Anglo-Saxon castle, but it was a miserable failure—and I can tell you in all honesty that he's the pushiest man in TV.”

“Pushy, how?” I asked, looking worriedly at the red-haired, balding man who was still arguing with the pretty blonde Sue. “When I met him, he was quite nice. Although that might be in part because I was telling him how much I liked the Victorian show he did.”

“For one, he worries more about getting what he calls ‘good TV' than us doing proper archaeology. And he's a stickler for everyone keeping to the schedule, no matter how much we tell him that we have to go where the archaeology is. But worst of all is that he loves having everyone doing reenactments of anything even remotely related to the subject at hand.”

“What sort of reenactments?” I tried to look like I was interested from a purely journalistic viewpoint, but the truth was that I had a secret love for such things, and couldn't wait to watch them in progress.

“Everything from spending twenty-four hours as a medieval nun or monk to making pottery, weapons, clothing, food . . . you name it, Roger will have us doing it. You better watch out, because when he's in the throes of one of his big ideas, he ropes in everyone he can find. And I do mean everyone. In
Anglopalooza
, he had not only the whole crew but also all the bystanders dressed up as Saxons reenacting what a siege was like.”

“That can't be too bad,” I said, considering the subject. “You guys are looking for Roman remains, aren't you? It wouldn't be horrible to dress up like Romans. I mean, they had nice hair arrangements, and lovely jewelry, and their dresses weren't bad, either. Flattering to those of us who are more substantial than others.”

“Just you wait,” Daria warned, nodding toward the group, which at that moment broke up and scattered. “And pray you don't end up being picked to play the part of the servant.”

“Ew.” I remembered a television show I watched a few weeks back in preparation for the trip. “It would be just my luck that I'd be the servant who has to mop up the vomitorium.”

“Pfft,” Daria said, making a dismissive gesture. “Vomitoria were passageways into large places, not rooms where people went to barf up their feast so they could go indulge in more. That's nothing but a fallacy.”

“I'm happy to hear it,” I said, relieved despite the fact that I hadn't been called on to do anything more than stroll around and take pictures. “Let's just hope Roger knows that, too.”

“That is extremely unlikely. He'd love nothing more
than to have people vomiting everywhere. He doesn't really care much for accuracy so long as it's dramatic.”

I let my gaze wander over to where the big television studio trucks had parked alongside an old barn. The members of the dig team had set up a tent camp in an unused pasture well out of sight of Ainslie Castle, per an agreement with Alice and her baron husband. Roger had told me they were worried that tourism would drop if archaeologists were cluttering up the place. Apparently, the castle was partially supported by the tourists who visited it a couple of days a week, so it was important to keep them happy.

In addition to the two dozen or so tents that had been set up as the dig and TV crews' home away from home for the next month, five RVs had been parked along the fringes, where the producer, the director, and the other VIPs would live. One RV had been converted into a miniature processing studio, complete with satellite uplink, editing computers, and a huge whiteboard where the producer mapped out each day's shooting schedule. Although Alice had offered me accommodations at the castle, I didn't want to take advantage of our tenuous acquaintance, and instead had taken up Roger's offer to stay in one of the staff tents. But it was one of the RVs that held my attention.

I decided the time was right to do a little probing. “I'm surprised that Paul would allow things to be presented that weren't true. He's such a stickler for accuracy.”

“Paul Thompson?” Daria gave me an odd look. “Do you know him?”

“A little,” I said, adopting a coy expression that I hoped would lead to further confidences.

She continued, but not along the lines I had hoped for. “Have you ever seen him dig? Most of his finds come from the spoil pile.”

“Um . . . that's what?”

“Sorry, technical lingo. Spoil pile is the dirt and debris that is excavated. We go through it to check for small items like bits of pottery or glass or even bone that's missed while we dig.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

“Anyway, a more incompetent choice for head of the company than Paul I can't imagine. Yes, I'm biased—I was up for the job, and the board gave it to him, instead—but seriously, if you want to photograph proper archaeology, stay away from Paul.”

I pursed my lips. Daria's comment about the spoil pile was an insult, pure and simple—it implied that Paul wasn't paying enough attention to what he was digging. “It's never easy when someone else gets a job instead of you, but surely the board must have felt he was qualified for it.”

“There's qualified, and then there's qualified,” Daria said opaquely, nodding over toward the line of trailers. “He may swank around and think he's a god of the archaeological world, but the truth is that it's us diggers who really know what's going on. Take Dennis Smythe-Lowe, for instance. He's had his hands in the dirt since he was a kid, and worked for CMA almost as long as I have, and yet the powers that be passed us both by when they hired Paul to head up the company. It's politics, nothing but politics.”

Now, that was interesting. There was obviously no love lost between Daria and Paul. . . . I tucked that fact away, and looked interested. “Is Dennis the man who looks like Indiana Jones had a love child with a hippie?”

Daria laughed. “That's him. He's the salt of the earth, and a damned good archaeologist. Just don't get him going about the Stone Age, or he'll spend all day teaching you how to map flints.”

“Map? Like draw?”

“No, in this case it means to chip away at a flint until you have a pointed end that can be used as a tool or weapon.”

“Gotcha.” I dredged up a morsel of information I'd seen during my planning phase for this trip. “One thing I'm confused about—you called yourself a digger, but I thought diggers were the grad students and unpaid volunteers who did the grunt work, not the proper archaeologists.”

“Well, it's a bit of both, really,” she said with a bob of her head. “The term digger does generally refer to the nonprofessionals, but sometimes we archaeologists also refer to ourselves as diggers.”

“As a way of being one of the common folk?” I asked lightly.