Digging Up Death (A Mari Duggins Mystery) (12 page)

Fletcher led me through the catacombs walled with large, cardboard-box-filled cubbies above countertops and thin specimen drawers beneath. Interspersed on the counters were microscopes, large magnifying glasses, computers, and more labeled boxes. The deeper into the lab we went, the wider I opened my mouth to breathe, avoiding the stench of dirt and ancient specimens.

Fletcher broke the silence. “I did an internet search on those photos we found in Henderson’s office, the ones of the little boys. Crowell IOP is Crowell Inner-city Outreach Program. Kind of like feed the hungry.”

“Henderson must have supported the organization over the years and fed thousands of kids.”

“Probably even some of his own.”

I jabbed Fletcher in the side. “Could you find out who those boys were?”

“Nope, their identities were confidential.”

“So I guess those photos weren’t a clue to Henderson’s murder after all.”

“Guess not.”

In an endless journey, we walked past tables filled with artifacts on metal trays in various stages of testing and excavation. Dirt covered some work stations and the surrounding floor while others were tidy. I wriggled my nose as we approached larger specimen drawers, wondering if human skeletal remains were stored in this scientific underworld.

How was I going to examine the scarab if I couldn’t stand to be in this room?

Fletcher stopped at the last set of small drawers. “Why so interested in the scarab? I hear you avoid this place like you avoid … me.” In the dim light he shot me a roguish look. My heart pitter-pattered. Darn his pirateous charm. Why did it have to look so good on him?

“I don’t avoid you.”

“Oh, yeah, well, what about spring break, twelve years ago? Jack made time to see me. What about you?”

“I’d just had a baby, and Jack mentioned you were passing through the airport.”

“The Christmas office party seven years ago. What about then?”

“I had the flu.”

“Two summers ago. Don’t tell me you weren’t avoiding me then. I wrote Jack months before telling him when I’d be in town.”

“Jack had just left.” Could Jack have timed his exit around Fletcher’s visit? “I really wasn’t into socializing. I’m sorry I can’t schedule my life around your trips to the States. Think what you want, but obviously I can’t avoid you now so would you please find the artifact for me?”

Fletcher unlocked the thin vertical panel on the edge of the cabinet that kept the drawers secure and flipped it open. In the third drawer he found the heart scarab with Hatshepsut’s cartouche. I drank in the relic, unable to speak. From all appearances it seemed authentic.

“Thanks, I can take it from here.”

“I’m not sure I should leave you alone with such a priceless discovery.”

I nibbled my lower lip. “It’s not like I’m going to steal it. I want to examine it myself. Run some quick tests.”

“Make sure you’re careful with it. Use gloves. We can’t have the artifact contaminated before it undergoes thorough testing.”

“What do I look like, a student? Besides, you know what happens with me and dirt.”

“You don’t seem to wanna let me forget.”

I pulled on latex gloves and picked up the scarab. “I can’t believe I’m holding Hatshepsut’s heart scarab.”

“Pretty amazing, isn’t it? You know I was three feet away from Jack when he discovered it.”

“Really?”

“Yep, just my luck to come in second to Jack, again.” His energy shifted into neutral. “I wish I could stay and watch you work, but I’ve got to get ready for a dinner date.” He winked and handed me the key to the cabinet. “Lock up when you’re through. Mrs. Cadbury might eat me alive if I left the door open.”

“Only if you were covered in chocolate.”

“For you, that could be arranged.” He raised his eyebrows twice and scampered out the door before I thought of a comeback.

Gazing upon the scarab, I cleared my mind of distractions. I couldn’t believe I was holding the Jasper stone that could’ve been placed on Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s heart. The defenses I had erected around Fletcher drained off, leaving a light and airy feeling in place of the heaviness.

My fingers traced the cartouche. There was no doubt the hieroglyphics spelled her name. The same hieroglyphics I had made into a bracelet when Hattie was born. Though I’d seen hundreds of authentic antiquities over the years, on a closer visual inspection I couldn’t tell this one was fake. Or was it?

There was only one way to determine the authenticity of the scarab. I found an unsoiled section on the table and laid the artifact on a clean metal tray. I brushed off some dirt from the scarab, weighed the sample, dissolved it in the solution, and waited. When the results came in, I recorded the properties of the soil and returned the scarab to the drawer, then locked the panel. I eased off the gloves. That wasn’t too bad. Now I’d have to compare them with the original soil taken from the field.

Several tables over, I spied a computer. Maybe if I checked the lab reports one more time I could avoid another soil analysis. I stood at the counter and tried to log on, but I couldn’t remember the password. My insides cemented. There was nothing more I could do here.

The walk to the front of the lab seemed endless, though the odors were less offensive the second time through. Once outside, I exhaled and pushed in the door lock, then yanked on the knob, making sure it was secure. Turning around, I inhaled deeply and stared at the soil lab across the hall. Henderson’s sanctuary. If only he could do my dirty work.

When I tried the door, it didn’t budge. I power-walked to Mrs. Danbury’s desk and searched for the keys. Thankfully they were labeled. I strolled to the soil lab, eased the key into the lock, and pushed the door open. A musty, mucky odor assaulted my nose. I fought down the queasiness.

Peter’s last test results concluded the soil on the scarab didn’t match the samples taken from the field. If I could find the field samples I could see for myself which report was accurate.

I stepped into the room, my boots scuffing against the soil on the floor. Dirt itched through my boots’ mesh with ant-like feet. Anxiety crept through my innards. Slowly, I tiptoed to the dirt-filled bins. I knew soil came in many different colors, but seeing them side by side reminded me of autumn and allergies.

As I walked toward the bin labeled Luxor, Valley of the Queens, the tan soil chipped at my memory. I had seen it before. But where? All over me! No, somewhere else. In the studio? When Fletcher walked in, or was it in the green room? Why couldn’t I remember?

Sweat dampened my palms. Though the pounding in my head had lulled, my mind couldn’t form a conclusive thought. There was too much dirt. Too many colors. Red. Brown. Tan. Like leaves. Leaves at my parents’ graveside funeral. Adrenaline shot through my veins.

What was I doing? I hurried toward the door. I couldn’t do this without Jack. I halted. Jack wasn’t around anymore. I had to see this through, for my children’s sake. Turning around, I peered into the soil-filled bins, breathing as much oxygen as my lungs could hold.

Why in the world would I choose a profession that involved dirt? I didn’t have a logical answer. Drawn to study the past, I lost myself in the lives of the ancients. Maybe reliving someone else’s past masked my own torment.

Then I met Fletcher, and later Jack, and wanted so much to be a part of their world that I forgot my original dreams. The ones that had kept me alive for years.

Breathing deep through my mouth, I stood before the bins, stalling. A brief smile tipped my expression. My mother loved getting her hands in the earth, especially after my father’s violent tirades. I was powerless to help her, but she found comfort in gardening. Comfort I couldn’t give her. The feel and smell of dirt turned my stomach. It reminded me of my father and my failure, but it never drove me to panic attacks until I landed on my father’s coffin. Covered in soil, I relived the helplessness, the terror, the suffocation of life with my father when he was alive.

Even now, an intense ache bit at the memories. Despite its gnawing, I scrambled to find strength for the task. When Fletcher left, Jack had been there for me. I needed to be there for him. It was the least I could do for the good years we spent together.

Enough stalling. I could do this. I
would
do this, but the soil-filled trays taunted, daring me to disturb their slumber. A timid tremble seized my hands as I opened drawer after drawer, searching for gloves. Nothing. I thought about retrieving the gloves from the Archaeology lab, but remembered I’d locked the door, and I knew if I went to the lobby to search for the key, I’d keep going straight out the door.

The
agita
in my stomach grew. Did these soil samples really hold the answer to Jack’s innocence? Maybe I didn’t have to test them. The detective gathered soil from the studio and green room. Maybe I could get some answers from Lopez.

I shook my head. But that was evidence in Henderson’s murder. What did it have to do with the heart scarab? My brain was one big jigsaw puzzle. Maybe I should have asked Fletcher to stay and help.

But no one was here to bail me out of this mess. I had to do it myself. I had to do everything I could to find the truth. I took a breath and carefully scooped the soil with a measuring cup from the Luxor bin, trying not to get any on my hands. Tears wet my cheeks as I carried the sample to the table.

For Ben. For Hattie. For Matt.

I stumbled and gasped, spilling dirt on my hands. I tried to swat it off, but it stuck to my sweaty palm. The itch of the soil against my skin peppered my entire body from the inside out. Sobs racked me as the burning sensation intensified. I scooped up the dirt and poured it into the test tube. All I wanted to do was run to the sink, strip off my clothes, and wash myself from head to foot. But I remained focused.

Finally, I found a steady breathing rhythm and was able to concentrate on the task. Determination grew. I had to do this. After running the same tests as I did in the lab, I slumped on the stool, as exhausted as if I’d run a marathon.

I chewed my bottom lip as the results came into view. My spirit plummeted like I’d fallen inches from the finish line.

Peter was right. The soils didn’t match.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

7:03 p.m.

Mari Duggins’ Home

“I TOLD YOU NO wine!” Though I really wanted to drown my troubles in the numbing liquid, I needed all my senses intact to deal with Fletcher and his flirtatious eyes shining beneath that silly fedora.

As he rocked on the porch swing bedazzled by Christmas lights, the glow around him created a halo effect. But I knew better. Fletcher was no angel.

He held up the small jug of Sangria. “Only eleven percent alcohol. It’s more like fruit punch.” Sipping the dark pink wine, he patted the cushion next to him, infecting me with his grin. “Come sit for a minute. I promise to behave.”

“I better go in and—”

“Last I checked everything was under control.” He poured an almost-to-the-rim large glass of Sangria.

“I see you’ve come prepared.”

“Once a boy scout ...” Handing it to me, he winked.

“I guess one glass couldn’t hurt.” I accepted, sat, and sipped the sweet wine. The chilled liquid flowed down my throat. Almost instantly my body relaxed.

“See, isn’t that better? Now what’s got you tied in knots?”

“Does it show?”

“Mari, you could never hide anything from me. I know you better than you know yourself.”

He was right. Why was it I could hide things from everyone except Fletcher? He always saw right through me. Maybe that was the real reason Fletcher and I never made it. Why I avoided him. When I was with him I felt free enough to be myself, and that scared me almost as much as death. There were just some things I wanted to forget, but Fletcher had a way of drawing them out, even when I tried to keep them buried.

“Mari?”

Jack never demanded anything from me. He made me feel safe. And right now I needed safe. “It’s about Jack.”

“Didn’t send his check on time?” Fletcher sipped his wine, feigning nonchalance. “I could lend you some money.”

I hesitated. “He’s been accused of stealing and forging the Hatshepsut heart scarab.”

Fletcher’s relaxed posture straightened, his eyes wide. “You’re kidding, right? This is some practical joke, payback for earlier today, which I am so very sorry for—” He held up his left hand. “And I promise will never happen again.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” My body ached as if it had aged ten years in less than twenty-four hours.

Fletcher shook his head. “That’s why you went to the lab.” He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, almost half a glass. “Spill it, and I don’t mean the wine.”

After two more glasses, each, I finished relaying all the information, including my recent discovery. “So I’m confused. Either the soil sample got contaminated after Henderson tested it or the scarab is a forgery. I don’t know which report is accurate.”

“What if they both are?” Fletcher slipped his arm behind me, resting it on the frame of the swing.

“What did you say? I think the wine’s affected my hearing.”

“You mentioned Henderson authenticated the artifact on Friday afternoon and Kipling verified it as a replica on Saturday morning. What if both the reports are right?”

“That makes no sense. I think the wine’s affecting
your
brain.”

“No, listen. What if Jack sent the real artifact from the field and someone switched it with a fake sometime between the tests?”

Hope bubbled up within me. “That would prove Jack wasn’t involved. Or at least cause them to search somewhere else.” I gazed into Fletcher’s eyes, dilated and hopeful. My heart raced, fighting the longing. Fletcher removed his hat and before I knew it, his moist lips pressed against mine, sending shivers to my toes. The warmth inside me rocketed to a new dimension I had never experienced with Jack. Our kiss deepened before I pushed away and stood.

“I’m so sorry, Mari. I shouldn’t have done that.” His bright eyes dimmed. “I guess you were right about the wine. I screwed up again.” He stood. “I’ll leave.”