Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel (28 page)

"I can't see you did me any favor."

"I'm sure you don't." He took his hand from the mouthpiece and listened, frowning. "But I've told you all I know."
Pause. "I'm not sure when I'll have the time." Pause. "Yes,
I'll make the time." Pause. "This afternoon, yes."

Lindsay smiled and turned and walked out of his office.
She could almost feel him staring at her back and wishing
his gaze was arrows. She walked to her office, hoping she
hadn't gotten Luke into any deeper trouble. But on the
other hand, he might be guilty. She wasn't sure that he
wasn't. She sat at her desk wondering what to do next when
the phone rang.

"Lindsay, it's Derrick. How're you doing?"

"I'm doing fine." She decided not to tell him about
falling down the well.

"Lindsay, I've heard a rumor."

It was unlike Derrick to be cryptic or hesitant to speak.
The acid in her stomach churned up a notch. "Oh?"

"Actually, it's from a reliable source. It's a done deal."

"What?"

"The dean is making a division out of Anthropology and
Archaeology. A separate, but not separate, kind of arrangement. They're bringing in Francisco Lewis to be division
head. He plans to bring in some of his own people. Among
them, Gem Chapman."

Lindsay pressed her lips together, as if that would stop
the stinging in her eyes. She liked her job-the students, the faunal lab, the forensics. Unconsciously, she pulled
open a drawer and fingered the file with all the information
she was collecting to apply for tenure. She knew what she
had to do to get promotions at the university. She wrote the
papers and got them published in the right journals. But this
was so out of her control.

"Lindsay?"

"That must have been what Kerwin meant."

"What's that?" asked Derrick.

"Oh, he hinted that I wouldn't be here much longer. Of
course, I should have realized something was up when I
came in and found Gerri trying out my chair."

"She wasn't-"

"'Fraid so. Derrick, thanks for being the one to tell me."

"Would you like me to come down?"

"Would you?" She leaned forward, holding the receiver
tight in her hands.

"If you want."

"Don't you have the film crew coming to start the documentary about the Cold River site?"

"They can start it without me."

Lindsay smiled into the phone. "I would like it very
much, but it would also give me a great deal of pleasure to
watch you tell about your site on public television."

"Then you come visit me when you can," he said.

"You have a job for me?"

"Yes."

"I'd like that. When I know something about my future,
I'll come for a visit."

"How's the problem with the artifacts?" asked Derrick.
Lindsay told him everything she knew. She also told him
about the conversation she just had with Kerwin. "You
think Kerwin is trying to set the police on you?" he asked.

"I thought so. I wouldn't put it past him, but he didn't
seem to know what I was talking about when I mentioned the detective's name. I don't know who it is. Derrick,
would you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"I found out that the skeleton in Papaw's crate was a man
named Hank Roy C-r-e-a-s-e-y. I'm going to look in the old
Macon and Atlanta papers here for his name. I was wondering if you would look in the Kentucky newspaper archives?"

"You're kidding, you found out who it was? Lindsay,
you're amazing."

"Sinjin helped a lot."

"Sure, I'll look it up for you. I'll give you a call when I
find out something."

"Thanks, Derrick, for everything."

"Sure, baby, take care."

"I will." She started to hang up when she heard him call
her name. "Yes?"

"I miss you," he said.

"I miss you too." Lindsay felt tears sting her eyes.

"Do you think we could talk sometime?" he asked.

"I think we could do that."

"Good. I'll free up some time and call you and we'll
make some plans."

"That would be good." Lindsay set the phone back on
the cradle and stared at it. Derrick was always there when
she needed him.

In the basement of the library Lindsay sat down in front of
the microfilm reader, looking through 1935 and 1936 editions of the Macon Telegraph and the Atlanta Journal. She
narrowed her search to the years 1935 and 1936 because
those were the years on the newspapers wrapping the artifacts and the date stenciled on the crates themselves. Newspapers weren't indexed. She hadn't known that. Her
academic research took her exclusively to professional
journals and not to newspaper archives. She found out when she asked the librarian in charge of the newspapers
where the indexes were. The woman looked at her without
speaking, her lips almost, but not quite, turning up in a
smile. Lindsay realized immediately what an enormous
task it would be to index daily newspapers from their first
issue until the present, and most libraries all over the country were understaffed. So, Lindsay was there straining her
eyes looking in the microfilm reader for the name Hank
Roy Creasey, Hank Creasey, H. R. Creasey, and every
spelling she could think of anybody Creasey. She found
nothing. It was time to give it up and go home. Maybe Derrick would find a reference in Kentucky, though Creasey
could have been from anywhere.

On her way out of the lobby, Lindsay noticed the
archivist of the Hargrett Library getting on an elevator.
Lindsay stopped in her tracks, turned abruptly, and followed the woman up to her office.

"Mrs. Andrews?" Lindsay said.

"Yes?" The woman looked at her, smiling, ready to
answer her questions.

"I was in here a few days ago looking for some clippings, and I overheard you talking to a campus policeman.
We in the Archaeology Department have had some of our
artifacts stolen and, well, I was wondering if-"

"If we are suffering from the same thing? The answer is
yes. Some of our rarest books and maps are missing. The
policeman suggested that perhaps I misplaced them."

"Right now, they think I might have, er, misplaced artifacts."

Mrs. Andrews shook her head. "I don't know how they
expect to find anything. I read about the artifacts missing
from the Archaeology Department and actually called the
policeman in charge of our theft. I don't know if he looked
for a connection."

"Do you know if any other antiquities are missing on
campus?"

The librarian motioned Lindsay into a chair. She sat
down at her desk. "I called the museum. They're looking at
their inventory again. They haven't found anything missing
recently, but you know, about a year ago they had some
thefts. I also talked to the Classics Department. They have
several things missing. I told the policeman about all of
those cases."

"What did he say?"

She stretched out her arms on her desk and linked her
fingers. "He thanked me."

"I have another question, and I would like you to forget
it after I ask you." Mrs. Andrews raised her eyebrows.
Lindsay took a piece of paper and wrote two names on it.
"Have either of these men visited the Hargrett Library in
the last few months?"

She put on her glasses, which hung from a chain around
her neck, and looked at the paper.

"The second name has come on more than one occasion
in the past several months to look at the rare books. Don't
tell me you suspect him?"

"I have only the thinnest evidence on which to suspect
him. That's why I wish you would forget I said anything."

"I like my job here. I won't say a word. But it would be a
bad thing if he were involved."

"Yes, it would." Mrs. Andrews didn't ask what she
intended to do. Lindsay wouldn't have known what to tell
her if she had.

Lindsay was strangely relieved that Kenneth Kerwin
hadn't visited the rare book room. As much as she disliked
him, she didn't want anyone in Archaeology to be associated with stealing antiquities. On the other hand, it was
probably only a coincidence that Ellis Einer had visited the
rare book collection from which items were missing and
was also present on the day after the artifacts were
unpacked in the archaeology lab. As she told Mrs. Andrews, it was the thinnest thread that connected him. But it nagged
at her. He was also someone a man like Detective Kaufman
would listen to.

Lindsay's phone was ringing when she opened her
office door. It was Irene Varnadore.

"I thought you'd like to know, we found a witness who
was there on the evening Shirley Foster died," she said.

"Really, someone saw what happened?"

"Yes. I thought you would like to hear her story."

"THE FOG SETTLED itself above the water like a low
ceiling, and the moon shined on it, making it blue gray and
everything else bright shades of black and gray. It was raining earlier and the water still dripped off the trees. There
weren't no wind, and the water on the lake was still, like a
black mirror, a good night for fishing."

Mrs. Lila Poole looked to be in her late sixties, with a
head of white hair and a lean, wrinkled face. She sat in the
sheriff's office drinking a cup of hot coffee, wearing a
pink-checkered house dress. Mrs. Poole moved like a much
younger woman. She had sat down in the chair the sheriff
brought for her with an ease that showed she still had
strength in her legs.

"You were there fishing?" asked Irene.

"Who's she?" Lila pointed a wrinkled finger at Lindsay.

"Dr. Chamberlain. She found Shirley Foster for us. I'd
like her to hear your story if you don't mind."

"You want me to tell it again? I told it to your deputy."

"I want you to take your time and tell me everything you
remember."

"You going to record it?"

"Yes. Then I'll have it typed up and you can sign it."

"Fair enough. You asked me if I was fishing. What else
would I be doing out there in the dead of night? Yes, I was fishing. That missy what thinks she owns the land-"

"Tom Foster's cousin, Georgina Sothesby?"

"Yes, her. She calls it poaching. Poaching! Who does
she think she is? By my thinking, if they can't figure out
who owns it, it don't belong to nobody." She nodded with a
jerk of her head. "Like I said, I was fishing. Done caught
me a whole stringer full when Mrs. Foster came. I was
about to go, but I didn't want to get caught, so I just stayed
in my place."

"Your place?" asked Irene.

"My favorite fishing spot down by the lake. Now, we're
going to be here all night if you keep interrupting me."

Irene smiled. "Sorry. Go ahead."

"She came, Mrs. Foster, parked her car in the road, and
walked down to the lake. She don't mind me fishing. She
knows I gotta eat. But I stayed where I was, just the same.
People out by themselves don't want to be bothered. She just
stood there looking at the lake. Sometimes pacing back and
forth, with it getting darker and darker. It wasn't long before
another car come up and parked behind her. This feller got
out. He left his headlights on, and they was like a spotlight.

"He come walking down to the lake. She turned and saw
him and started walking toward him. Once, she held out her
arms and said something. I didn't hear what it was. Then
her arms dropped to her sides." Lila Poole started shaking
her head back and forth. "I will remember what happened
next for the rest of my life, and as God is my witness, it's
the truth.

"That poor woman burst into flames right before my
eyes. There weren't nobody around her. The feller who
drove up was still a ways off. There weren't nobody there
but the three of us, and she just caught fire. I thought at first
it was God what done it, but I knew Mrs. Foster, and she
weren't no worse than others in this world, and a lot better than most. It had to be the devil's work. It was like a piece
of hell got a'holt of her.

"She screamed. Oh, how she screamed." Mrs. Poole put
her hands to her ears. "I didn't know what to do, I sat there
in the bushes with my mouth open, scared to move, afraid
that fire and brimstone would start coming out all over. The
feller came running, yelling for her to `drop the rolls, drop
the rolls.' I don't know why he was worrying about some
bread burning when she herself was burning like she was.
She weren't carrying nothing, she didn't have no bread.
She run and jumped in the water." Mrs. Poole raised her
hand as if taking an oath. "And I swear to you this is the
truth, she burned brighter in the water. She was close to
where I was, and I looked at her glowing in the water, and I
knew it was a demon that got her. I put my hand over my
mouth. I was afraid I'd attract whatever it was that had
a'holt of her.

"The feller got him a stick and fished her out of the
water. It was hard, but he done it and he started beating her
with his coat, trying to put out the fire. I thought he was a
brave feller. He kept yelling, `Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!'
over and over. But God wasn't having none of it that night."

Irene looked over at Lindsay. Each raised their eyebrows at the other.

"I knowed you wouldn't believe me. I don't blame you.
I wouldn't if someone told it to me and I didn't see it with
my own eyes. But it's the truth."

"Why didn't you come forward when Shirley Foster was
missing?" asked the sheriff.

"What? And tell that story, and me being there where I
ain't supposed to be? Besides, she was gone. They should
have found her, but she was gone. I didn't know what took
her and didn't want none of it."

"Why did you come forward now?" asked Irene.

"She was found. That poor boy got hisself arrested and,
unless he's the devil, he didn't do it. Couldn't have."

"What do you make of it?" asked Irene after the deputy left
to take Lila Poole home.

"I don't know. I've never heard anything like it," said
Lindsay. "What are you going to do?"