Airtight Case (47 page)

“Probably to the sheriff to tell him to get an exhumation order for Mary Susan Tidwell’s body.”

Chapter 39

Pieces Of Eight

LEWIS STOPPED AND stared at Lindsay, a question on his face.

“Phil McBride is asking the sheriff to exhume the Tidwell woman? Did I fall asleep and miss an entire conversation?”

“No, you didn’t. Phil McBride and I possess information that you don’t. Mary Susan Tidwell suffered from hypotension—low blood pressure. Anything given to her of a toxic nature that would further lower her blood pressure would bring on death—her heart would just stop.”

“This is the woman whose death you believe started all this?” John asked.

Lindsay nodded, looking over the side at the moonlit creek overgrown with green flora, wild, beautiful, inhabited by snakes.

“Yes, I believe everything started as a result of her death and the theft of her documents. When we were discussing what Nathan Warfield’s father might have thought about his son’s death, I remarked that there are poisons all around, and it hit Phil and me at the same time. Look around at the woods. Rhododendron, mountain laurel—the woods are thick with them.”

“And they’re poisonous?” asked Lewis.

“Several species contain a toxin called grayanotoxin, which, among other things, lowers blood pressure. Tea can be made from laurel leaves. Miss Tidwell drank green tea daily, maybe several times a day, for her health. Someone could have made tea from laurel leaves for her instead.”

“So, you think Drew did murder her?” Lewis asked.

“There’s enough reason for suspicion to test her body for the presence of grayanotoxin or other poisons.”

“And what’s her motive?” John asked.

“Drew and her husband both have reputations to keep. If they stole her papers and she knew it, she would have to be killed in order to protect their reputations. When your professional reputation depends on your integrity, you can’t afford to be accused of something as serious as theft.”

“But she is accused, by the relatives,” said Lewis.

“Relatives squabbling over an estate that they don’t know for sure even exists is different from having the owner herself accuse you. Miss Tidwell had a good reputation of her own for collecting valuable things. People around here would believe her if she said something was stolen.”

“You said a record of her documents has been found,” said Lewis.

“I lied. I wanted to scare them.”

“Lindsay . . . you lied?”

Lindsay looked up from the flowing creek to Lewis’s face.”Yes, I lied.”

“They could be innocent,” said Lewis.

“Then that won’t scare them.” The three of them continued on across the bridge and up to the house.

* * *

“This is where you stay?” John stood in the middle of Lindsay’s spartan room.

“These are really pretty good accommodations compared to some of the digs I’ve been on. The only problem was not having a door. Even that wouldn’t have been a problem had I not felt so vulnerable.”

“I imagine that was the point. Unlike Lewis, I’m not inclined to believe the Van Hornes are innocent.”

“Me neither, but I suppose I need to keep an open mind. I don’t like her husband, and I think that might be coloring my viewpoint a little.” She put her arms around John. “I meant to thank you for Luke. I hate it he’s had to watch over me all the time.”

“I doubt he’s done it all the time, but he needed a break. I try to rotate breaks for my crew when we’re doing some of the intense work we do. I have a good record for crew safety, and I like to keep it that way.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Let’s get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’re going home.”

“John, I don’t like keeping you away from your job.”

“You’re not,” he interrupted. “A component of the aquarium is a cylindrical tunnel.” He put the tips of his fingers together, making a circle with his hands, and smiled as though the thought of the tunnel gave him such pleasure. “The tunnel will wind through part of the aquarium so that visitors can walk among the fish.”

“You mean they can look up and see fish swimming over them?”

“Yes, over them, around them. The materials for the tunnel aren’t ready yet, so I’ve got some free time.”

“In that case I’m glad you’re here. But . . .”

“Lindsay, let the authorities finish this. You don’t have to solve everything.”

The party at the site was still going strong. She could hear the music drifting through her window. “You’re right. The authorities will have to make the airtight case Lewis wants.”

“What’s this?” John picked up a large envelope and handed it to her.

“I don’t know.” She opened the flap and pulled out what at first looked like a charcoal drawing. It was Mrs. Laurens’ rubbing of the piece of eight. “She had it after all.”

“She had what?”

Lindsay explained about finding the Spanish coin in Gentry’s pocket, and about Mrs. Laurens’ rubbing of the treasure coin when she was in Miss Tidwell’s third-grade class.

“You searched his pockets?”

That’s not all I searched
, thought Lindsay—still feeling ashamed of herself every time she thought about invading her co-workers’ privacy, but still wishing she could search their cars.

“Yes, I searched his pockets.”

“Is it the same coin?”

“It’s the same type of coin. They’re both pieces of eight.” Lindsay took the rubbing from under her mattress, stretched out on her bed, and compared the two. “When the Spanish minted this kind of coins, they weren’t particularly careful about doing a perfect job. The insignias were often off center, the coins weren’t necessarily round, often misshapen, and flaws were not uncommon. So, theoretically, each coin could be different.”

John stretched out beside her and examined the two rubbings—actually four. Mrs. Laurens had done both sides of the coin also.

“What do you think?” Lindsay asked John.

“Not a lot of detail.” John put his arm around her waist and pulled her close in beside him.

“But they are offset the same amount, and the design is in the same direction.”

“A magnifying glass might uncover some significant detail.”

“I think they are the same. If they are the same coin, that means Mike Gentry somehow got it directly or indirectly from Miss Tidwell, possibly after her death—possibly as a result of her death.”

Lindsay put the two rubbings in the envelope and tucked them under her mattress. “I have some Dr Peppers in the ice chest. Want one?”

John nodded, and she took out two cans and lay back down beside him. He opened the can with a pop and drank several swallows.

“I love you.” He brushed several strands of wayward hair out of her face. “I know I’ve never said it.”

“You’ve shown it in many ways.” Lindsay took his face in her hands and kissed him. “I love you, too. And I’m sorry that I get into so much trouble.”

“You do that.” He sighed. “I like your independence, but at the same time I’d like it if you did what I told you to do.”

“Not much of a chance there.”

“I know. Dad likes you a lot. So does my sister.”

“How about your kids, do they like me?”

“My kids don’t even like me much these days. I can hardly get Jason to talk to me, he just grunts and mumbles. I tell you, whoever started the notion that Indians only speak in grunts must have come across teenagers when they landed.”

“I think that characteristic of teenage boys is a constant across all ethnic groups.”

“Actually, both Jason and Shelly do like you. You aren’t around very much, and you treat them like adults when you are. Besides, they like it that you get into more trouble than they do.”

Lindsay laughed and kissed him again.

* * *

Lindsay lay with her back against John’s chest, his arm around her waist, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, remembering what it’s like to feel safe. The thing that she wanted, though, was to feel safe when she was alone. Fear had overtaken her life, and she wanted to rule it again. Unless she herself solved this, she might never get back her feeling of security and independence.

Then, think
, her inner self told her.
Think
.

First, what is this about?

Miss Tidwell’s stolen documents.

More than that.

Yes, more than that. Her death.

That’s the result. What is the wellspring of all the violent behavior? What is going on? What do you know?

It has something to do with forgery—I think. At least that’s a good possibility. Why else steal old paper and ledgers, worthless to anyone other than a forger? Was it worthless to anyone other than a forger? Was it stolen? But also, it’s about collectible historical documents. The two could go hand in hand.

Lindsay changed her position, causing John to move in his sleep. Ideas darted in and out of her brain like sparks of electricity. What stuck was the notion of forgery and the information Parker had sent.

The personality characteristics could fit anyone, she told herself.

Then think about what is needed to do the job.

Knowledge and ability. Drew had the knowledge—she could also supply the provenance. Easy for a historical archaeologist. So could her husband, a lawyer and a collector.

What was it she read in the book Parker sent? One way of falsifying a document’s pedigree is to find a library copy of a little-known auction catalog and give it a new page showing the forged document up for auction, listing the document’s bona fides. In other words, apply forging talents to the catalog itself, then refer to the library’s copy in the authentication papers.

That would take ability with graphics, or an artist, or a computer expert.

What catches a forger?

Not knowing internal evidence about—paper, ink, anything testable connected with the document. That can be learned. Lindsay knew a little herself after reading one book. Drew, her husband, or anyone else could learn just as easily.

What else catches a forger?

Not knowing about external evidence of a document. Not knowing history. Not knowing about the person who was supposed to have written the document. Drew could handle that, too.

The final possible trap for a forger is wrong paleographic evidence—understanding handwriting. That means the historical styles of writing and the specific writing of an individual. Possessing authentic historical documents would go a long way toward providing that information. And what did Parker say? One method of forgery is to add a little something to the bottom of an authentic document that would make it more valuable.

How much money would forged documents be worth? Potentially a lot. Even letters of minor historical players can fetch quite a sum.

One more thing is needed. A person with artistic ability.

What was clear to Lindsay was that a small group of people with certain abilities and knowledge could produce documents that would be very hard to detect—especially if one of the group authenticated documents. The group could put a document into the market . . . then Drew could come along to authenticate it. No one would need know the two were connected. She could even expose documents as a forgery on occasion to enhance her reputation. This explanation was working, and there was potentially enough money involved to make murder worth risking.

You need proof.

“Yes, proof,” she whispered. “Where am I going to get that?”

Find the other person, the artist.

Where?

A workman is known by his tools.

Lindsay’s inner voice could be very annoying. She fell asleep.

* * *

There was no problem in the morning getting the bathroom. With the site mostly finished, most everyone was sleeping in. Lindsay and John were down for breakfast before anyone, but Lewis was up.

“I suppose we should go and eat at the site,” said Lindsay as John pulled her toward the dining room.

“No, I asked Mrs. Laurens to make you something special.”

“You didn’t! John, she has enough to cook without making a special dish for me.”

“Now, Lindsay, I didn’t mind. It’s something me and Jimmy like, too. I thought we’d sit down and eat it with you.”

Mr. Laurens came in carrying a huge platter of fried mush. One of Lindsay’s all-time favorite foods.

“You did say you made some for you, too,” said Lindsay, laughing at the size of the platter.

“What’ve you made this morning?” asked Lewis, sitting down beside Lindsay.

“Ambrosia,” answered Lindsay.

“Fried mush,” answered John. “Fried, boiled cornmeal.”

“Boiled cornmeal?” said Lewis. “That’s it, cornmeal and water?”

“You got it,” answered John. “Lindsay loves the stuff.”

“It sets overnight,” said Mrs. Laurens. “In the morning, you slice it, fry it up, and serve it with oleo.”

“It’s a Kentucky thing,” said Lindsay, buttering a slice. “This is great, Mrs. Laurens.”

“You know, it isn’t bad,” said Lewis.

After stuffing herself to the point of embarrassment, Lindsay walked down to the site with John and Lewis.

“It looks like the truck is here to take the bones back to campus. I’ve called Carolyn. She’s getting ready to receive them.”

“What about the lead coffins?” asked Lindsay.

“I’ve decided to re-bury them here where they were excavated. They’re too heavy to haul around the country.”

There were far fewer people at the site. Lindsay guessed that many were still in bed. In a way, she was relieved to be going home—home to her own research, her own house, her horse, her friends. Perhaps that was the key to her getting well and freeing her mind of ghosts. Go home to a safe, familiar environment.

Lindsay made her way to her excavation tent to pack up TPB2—the bones of William Kinkead. Lewis brought in some old newspaper to stuff around the boxes. John came in carrying three cartons of orange juice.

“I thought you might need more nutrition than just cornmeal.” He handed one to Lindsay and one to Lewis.

Lindsay opened hers and drank several swallows.

“Thanks.”

“Need any help?” asked John.