Last Breath (2 page)

“I don't understand how a treasure like the one he reportedly found could have been forgotten like that,” Daria said.

“Oh, not so mysterious,” Samuel responded.

Daria heard the sound of a match being struck softly.

“Samuel, I heard that!” her mother snapped. “Put the damned pipe away.”

Ignoring his wife, Samuel continued. “Trustees change. Faculty come and go. Crates get pushed farther and farther back into the recesses of the basement as other items are obtained. Having served my time in academia, I understand completely how such things occur.” He puffed softly on his pipe. “Out of sight, out of mind. Over the years, the story is forgotten; the items, unseen for all these years, lose their allure. And there's the tide of popularity. In one year, out the next. Back in the early twenties, Egypt became all the rage after Tutankhamen's tomb was discovered. Every museum was after mummies for quite some time.”

“Well, something's brought Shandihar back into the foreground,” Daria said.

“The anniversary, I suppose,” Margarite suggested. “Did Dr. Burnette say when that would be? When they were planning to open the exhibit?”

“I'm sure I'll find out on Tuesday.”

“You'll call us when you arrive in the States?” her father asked.

“Of course, Dad. But right now I'm going to have a long hot bath and a fabulous dinner, and my first night's sleep on a real mattress, on a real bed, in almost nine weeks.” Daria stood and shielded her eyes from the sun, which had begun its afternoon shift lower in the sky. She said good-bye to her parents and hung up the phone.

She went into her room and found her sunglasses and put them on. Returning to the balcony, she leaned on the railing and stared out at the boats in the blue Atlantic. Blue skies, blue water. It was all very restful. She regretted she wouldn't be staying longer. But there would be time for that bath, and there would be the wonderful dinner promised by Magda, who with her husband Cyrus owned the Villa. And later, maybe, when the sun went down and the evening stole in, there'd be music in the courtyard.

Daria went into her bathroom and turned on the water in the tub, adding some of the sweetly scented bath crystals Magda had left for her. She stripped off her travel clothes and sank into the deliciously luxuriant bath and closed her eyes. It would take more than one bath to wash the desert sand from her pores, but for now, she was as content as she could be.

She idly wondered what Magda's chef was preparing for dinner, and thought back to her last stay at the Villa and smiled. For more than a year, Magda had been trying to set her up with a man Magda had assured her was “perfect for you.” They'd finally met, months ago, and had shared a lovely evening in Magda's courtyard.

He'd been everything her hostess had promised, tall and lean with dark hair cropped very short and dark blue eyes. And very handsome. Not the kind of man who generally noticed women like her, but he was gracious about dining with her at Magda's insistence. He'd been very attentive throughout the meal and had seemed more interested in her and her work than in talking about himself, but, that was the polite thing to do. Magda had said he was well mannered for an American—which, as an American herself, had made Daria smile—and that he was one of her favorite guests.

Daria remembered that night as one of the best nights of her life.

         

“Hi,” he'd said when he approached the table.

“Hello.” She turned her face up to his, and her heart all but stopped beating.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Please.” She'd gestured to the chair opposite hers. “Magda said I might have a compatriot at my table tonight. Daria McGowan.”

She'd been acutely aware of how she must have looked to him, in her plain white shirt and khaki pants. No makeup, and her hair chopped short by her own hand.

“Connor Shields,” the beautiful man had introduced himself.

“I know. Magda brings up your name every time I'm here.”

“Nothing bad, I trust,” he said as he pulled out the chair.

“No, no. Just, ‘Daria, you really must meet Connor Shields. He's American, like you.'”

He laughed. “I admit she's used the same line on me.”

“So where are you from?” She nervously sipped her drink, bottled water and lemon juice.

“I was brought up in Virginia.”

“Ah, another Southerner. I'm from South Carolina. At least, that's where my family home is now.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Oh, let's see.” She tilted her head to one side and pretended to think, then began to count on her fingers. “The Gobi Desert. Greece. Syria. Turkey. Afghanistan…”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Not so much. My parents both worked in the field a lot, so we traveled a lot. Stateside, we lived in Texas, Georgia, New Jersey—we stayed there the longest, actually had a house there. I went to school there. For a while, anyway. My parents both taught at Princeton. Mom, anthropology; Dad, archaeology. We never knew where we'd be, come summer.”

“Did you like that, traveling around so much?” He signaled for the waiter, then ordered a drink when one appeared.

“Are you kidding? We had adventures that other kids couldn't even begin to dream about. We saw places most people have never even heard of. We loved it.”

The waiter appeared with Connor's drink—bottled water with lime and mint, the local Muslim laws regarding alcohol being strictly enforced this time of the evening—and went over the evening's dinner offerings. They both ordered baked sea bass, the chef's special.

“You were telling me what it was like to have been a kid on the go,” he said, urging her to continue.

“It was tons of fun. There were four of us. My brothers, Sam and Jack, and my sister, Iona. We were a really tight band of four. How about you? Siblings?”

“I have…had…two brothers,” he told her.

“Had?”

“One of them died.”

“I'm so sorry.” She paused to study his face, and recognized the sadness in his eyes. “It's very difficult, isn't it, to lose a brother. He's always there in the past, in your memories, but the present is just a big blank, as far as he's concerned.”

“One of your brothers…?” he asked cautiously.

“Jack. Disappeared. He was on an expedition into the Amazon and just, poof! Vanished. My parents have sent trackers in to search for him at least a half-dozen times, but it's as if he didn't exist. As if he hadn't been there at all.”

“How long ago?”

“Ten years. He's been gone since 1997. I miss him every day. Think about him every day. Wonder if he's dead or alive. My parents never give up. Every other year or so, they hire someone to go down there to look for him.”

“I have some connections in South America,” Connor said thoughtfully. “Maybe I can have someone look into it.”

“That's really very nice of you, but I don't want to waste anyone's time.”

“You think he's dead?”

“You send teams of professional trackers into the jungle where he supposedly had gone, and they come out with no more information than they went in with, you have to suspect that—”

“That he may well have gone somewhere else.”

She'd stared at him. When the waiter arrived to serve their dinners, she leaned back from the table silently.

“You're not going to tell me that no one considered that possibility, are you?” Connor asked.

“Yes. I mean, no, no one did. He'd been with a group, and all the investigators followed the trail the members of the group had given them. To the camp, then to the ruins…”

“So maybe for some reason your brother—Jack, was it? Maybe he took off on his own, or joined another group, or got lost and is out there somewhere.”

“I'd like to think that. That somehow he's out there and that someday we'll see him again.”

“I'd be happy to make some inquiries. Really. It's no trouble. I have some contacts in the area.”

“That would be very kind of you. Thank you. I'll get you all of the information—when and where and with whom.”

She tasted the fish, and smiled. “This is so good. Is there a better chef in all North Africa than Claude?”

“Not for my money, no.” He appeared thoughtful for a moment before asking, “Have you ever taken an evening horseback ride on the beach?”

“Several times. You?”

“Yes, but the camel rides are more fun.”

“Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I spend enough of my time on camels.”

“Don't knock it until you've tried it. There's nothing like watching the sun set on the Atlantic from the back of one of those large, swaying—”

“Mr. Shields?” A man had appeared at his elbow. “You are Mr. Shields?”

“Yes.” Connor nodded.

“The Madame asked me to give this to you. It was dropped off at the front desk.”

He handed Connor an envelope bearing his name.

“Thank you,” Connor told him. To Daria, he said, “Excuse me, I just need to…”

“Go right ahead.”

Connor opened the envelope and read the note that had been tucked inside. When he was finished, he folded it, returned it to the envelope, and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Daria, I really hate to cut this short,” he said. “I've been enjoying this evening more than I can say, but I'm going to have to make my apologies.”

“I hope it's nothing serious?”

“No, no. This is business.” He stood. “I'm really sorry. Maybe tomorrow?”

“I'm leaving in the morning.” She smiled to hide her disappointment. “It's all right, if you have to go. I understand. We all have those emergencies to deal with from time to time.”

“Look, let me give you my card. When you're back in the States, maybe you'll give me a call and we can get together.” He took a card from his wallet and wrote something on the back before he handed it to her. “Assuming I'm there at the same time. Or maybe, before you come back here next time, you'll get in touch. I can get all the info about your brother…”

Daria glanced at the card.

“That's the number for my office, back in the States.”

“There's no company name on it.” She looked at both sides of the card.

He lowered his voice. “I'm with the FBI. I don't advertise that around here, though of course Magda and Cyrus know. Call that number and leave a message, it will get to me. Anytime. Day or night. I'll get the message.”

“Thanks.” She half turned in her chair and offered her hand to him. “I'm happy to have finally met you. I hope we meet again.”

“So do I, Daria.” Then he leaned down and kissed her cheek. “As a matter of fact, I'm counting on it.”

And with that, he'd disappeared, and her perfect evening ended.

         

She yawned and sank lower into the hot water, her eyes still closed. Certainly if Connor were here at the Villa tonight, Magda would have wasted no time letting her know. Maybe it was just as well, Daria thought. If he'd been there, she'd have been tempted to dress for dinner, to sit at the table for two in the corner of the courtyard, hoping he'd join her, hoping he'd invite her for a horseback ride on the beach later that night. She smiled wryly. She'd even be happy with a camelback ride.

As it was, she'd call for dinner in her room, dine alone, and get the first good night's sleep she'd had in months.

TWO

D
aria drove through the Pennsylvania countryside, trying to remember the last time she'd visited Howe. The only recollection she had at all was of one time when she was around eight, and the entire family had gathered for some type of memorial in honor of the first Benjamin Augustus Howe, the university's founder and her great-great-grandfather. She had a vague memory of a gathering in a fancy Victorian parlor where lemonade and petits fours were served. She'd been mesmerized by the tiny pastries, exquisitely decorated with flowers in shades of pink and yellow, and served on silver platters lined with lacy white doilies. The family had just returned from several months in the Jordanian desert, and such sweets were as foreign to her and her siblings as television. She smiled, recalling how she and her sister Iona had stuffed themselves with the delicious treats, and how sick they'd both been by nightfall.

Any subsequent visits they may have made to the university, however, were lost to the years.

The street sign on her left announced that Howeville was a half mile ahead. That, too, brought a smile to her face. She'd always thought Howeville sounded so Dr. Seuss, and she couldn't help but think of all those Howes down in Howeville whenever she saw the name of the town.

But Howeville it was. And it was straight up the road. She slowed to the speed limit, then slowed yet again when an Amish buggy pulled out from a side road up ahead. She had no recollection of Amish living in the area, but wasn't all that surprised to find they were. She'd passed several sizable farms since she'd left I-95, and Lancaster County was only a short drive away.

The town itself definitely had a split personality, an old country town with a modern attitude. Daria passed Howeville Feed and Grain, located across the road from a large field with a sign that promised Amish produce every Tuesday from eleven in the morning until four in the afternoon. There were two car dealers, a pizza place, a Mexican bakery with a hand-lettered sign, and a café. The brick hotel on a corner of the main intersection in town was now condominiums, and the old train station had been turned into an ice cream and sandwich shop. She drove through the green light at the center of town, past the library and a small old-fashioned diner that advertised the best burgers in town.

Main Street dead-ended at the entrance to the university. A wide brick arch bore the original name of the school—Benjamin Howe College—and its founding date, 1879. The arch covered a paved lane that wound slightly to the left and ended in a wide parking lot. A courtyard of sorts was formed by the three imposing buildings that framed the lot. All three were constructed of brick and appeared to have seen better days. While far from derelict, Daria noticed that the black shutters were all in need of paint, and the brick clearly needed pointing. She parked in a spot designated for visitors and got out of the car she'd rented at the airport.

She folded her arms across her chest, and took in the campus that sprawled out around her. Disappointed to find that nothing looked familiar, she hunted in her purse for the index card on which she'd written the directions Dr. Burnette had given her on the phone.

The building she wanted was directly in front of her. She swung her bag over her shoulder and headed up the front steps to a covered porch. Double doors—also needing a refresher—opened into a wide lobby. Steps to the third floor rose up in the center, and halls led off to either side. The carpets were just this side of threadbare and the paneled walls needed a good cleaning. Rectangular shapes on the walls above the dark paneling hinted of paintings that had once hung there, and the chandelier in the center of the lobby was unlit. The overall impression was one of past grandeur.

Daria took the hall to the left as she'd been instructed, and stood outside the door bearing a wooden plaque with C. LOUISE BURNETTE, PHD PRESIDENT painted in black script. She hesitated, not sure whether to knock or just walk in.

“May I help you?” a voice from down the hall called to her.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Burnette,” Daria replied.

“Dr. McGowan?” The woman walking toward Daria was short and squat and had dark hair that just grazed her shoulders. She appeared to be in her mid-forties and walked with a spring in her step. “I'm Vita Landis, Dr. Burnette's assistant. You're right on time.”

She shifted the stack of papers from her right arm to her left and opened the door, holding it for Daria to pass into the reception area. This room, too, had seen better days.

“How was your trip?” Vita asked as she walked around Daria and placed the papers in the middle of her desk.

“Fine, thank you. It was a good day for a drive. Last night's rain cooled things off a bit.”

“Bound to get humid, though. Worst thing about this time of the year in this part of the country. Humidity. Means two things to me. Bad hair and mosquitoes.” She hit the intercom button on her phone. “Dr. McGowan is here, Dr. B.”

Vita hung up and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, the office door opened and a tall, slender woman dressed in a lightweight pale green pantsuit with a short-sleeved jacket stepped out, hand extended. She appeared to be in her mid-sixties, with light brown hair cut in a short no-nonsense style.

“Dr. McGowan, I'm so pleased to meet you.” She gave Daria's hand a hearty shake. “I cannot begin to tell you how happy we all are that you agreed to come.”

“I'm delighted to be here,” Daria said truthfully.

“Come in,” the woman invited, “so we can chat. Vita, if there's any iced tea left, I'm sure Dr. McGowan would appreciate a cold drink after her drive. You did say you were driving from Baltimore, didn't you?”

“I did. I spent a few days with my parents in South Carolina, then flew into BWI and rented a car.” Daria took one of the two armchairs that faced each other at the far side of the room. The chairs overlooked a garden where dozens of roses were in bloom, and paths led to a pergola where stone benches sat. “This is lovely. The garden is beautiful.”

“One of our history professors found a description of the original garden in a journal that Iliana McGowan kept through the 1920s. After her husband died—your great-grandfather—she devoted herself to raising their children and tending to her father, serving as his official hostess. At the time, he was still president of the university. I'm sure you've heard the story before. This was his office.” Louise Burnette had remained standing. “That's him, over the fireplace. It's one of the few paintings we kept out of storage when we removed the others.”

Daria got out of her chair and walked to the portrait for a better look.

“He looks quite dashing, don't you think?” Louise Burnette asked.

“He certainly does,” Daria agreed. “I've heard he was quite the rake. Loved the ladies, loved adventure, though supposedly after he founded the college, his adventures came to an end. He took his responsibility here quite seriously.” Daria turned and smiled. “Or so the story goes.”

“He did a wonderful job putting the college together, and his generous endowment has kept Howe going through the years.” Dr. Burnette frowned. “At least, until now.”

Daria looked at her quizzically.

Vita knocked once on the half-opened door, then came in bearing a silver tray with a cut-glass decanter and two goblets. Daria noticed that the silver appeared to be freshly polished and the glasses gleamed as if recently washed.

“I'll just set this here for you,” Vita said as she placed the tray on a table between the two chairs. “Let me know if you need anything else, Dr. B.”

“Thank you, Vita.” Dr. Burnette poured the cold tea. Handing one to Daria, she said, “I suppose I should get right to the point. Howe is in desperate need of funds. Our athletic teams have never been strong enough to pull in student athletes, and our campus is, as you may have noticed, a bit run-down. Each year it gets more difficult to attract good students. This year, our enrollment hit an all-time low. We're not conveniently located, we don't have an all-star faculty, and we lack the funds to attract the type of professors that could help our reputation.”

“I thought you said Benjamin Howe left a generous endowment.”

“He did, but with the drop in the number of tuition-paying students, we're running through it more quickly than we'd like. The trustees met last month to discuss alternatives—selling off land, selling some paintings, perhaps a few of the buildings on the opposite side of the road—none of those options were particularly desirable, but the consensus was that we'd do what we had to do to buy a little more time. Later that night, after the meeting, I was walking back to my house—I live on campus—and I passed by the museum. It's been closed for a number of years.”

“I wasn't aware of that.”

“The funds weren't there for a curator, and the building isn't properly ventilated. It was closed ‘temporarily' by my predecessor. It was pretty much forgotten. Well, we'd been talking about finding money for the school, and here we had our own museum with who knew what stored away down there. The next morning I started looking around, taking stock, and you'll never guess what I found.”

“The crates my great-grandfather brought back from Shandihar.” Daria found herself tapping her foot impatiently.

“No. Well, yes, eventually, I was led to them. They're buried somewhere deep in the basement behind a locked door, as I've since learned. But what I found that day was dinosaur bones, still on display from the last time the building was open, and some signs relating to another dig funded by the university around the same time as your grandfather's.”

“Oliver Jacobs's dig.” Daria smiled. “Howe sent them both off with the promise that whoever returned first would be the first to exhibit their find. My great-grandfather was the first back but the building hadn't been completed yet.”

“And by the time the building was finally ready, he'd passed away. Jacobs's findings were put on exhibit and written up in all the newspapers and magazines, and your great-grandfather's discovery was pretty much forgotten over the years.”

“And the Jacobs artifacts?” Daria asked.

“Remain in the basement of the museum. In the 1950s, the museum was turned over to a man named Casper Fenn, who decided the emphasis here should be on American natural history, so he proceeded to purchase or trade for all manner of things. Dinosaurs—small ones, of course—and animal skeletons, a collection of stuffed birds and monkeys.” She rolled her eyes.

“He sold or traded some of the artifacts from the Jacobs dig for—”

“Bones and stuffed animals, yes. Oh, and some Indian relics. Buffalo skins and a tepee,” she said drily. “They were a big hit with the school kids but really brought in nothing in terms of revenue.”

“So what exactly remains of the Jacobs find?” Daria frowned.

“There are still several crates of objects in the basement clearly marked as his. We do have the inventory, and for all his faults, Fenn kept impeccable records. Every sale, to whom, how much, when and where, it's all written down. And in his defense, he did attract some positive attention to the school.”

“Dr. Burnette, when we spoke, you said you wanted to talk to me about reopening the museum. That you wanted me to work on a display of my great-grandfather's find. I thought that was what you called me here to discuss. Please understand, I left an important dig thinking that—”

“Yes, yes, I'm getting to all that.” Louise Burnette leaned forward and patted Daria's arm reassuringly. “I do intend to reopen the museum. I have every intention of displaying the Shandihar collection.”

“And that would bring in the funds you need to keep the school going…how?” Daria wasn't following the logic. “Are you aware of how expensive it is to exhibit such a find? You're going to need to design special display areas. The building will certainly need upgrades of the mechanical systems. There's publicity, there will be staff needed, insurance, security once you start reminding people what you have here. And then there's my fee…”

“I understand. But here's what I'm thinking.” She took a sip of her tea. “If you could appraise the collection—set a value on it—we would have collateral for a bank loan. Once the display is ready and we can reopen the museum, we'll be able to attract other experts like you from all over the world to view it. We can have symposiums here, host guest lecturers…”

“Which would bring in little more than a drop in the bucket, compared to the costs.”

“Yes, but we'll be able to loan out the collection, won't we? For a fee?”

“Possibly,” Daria responded cautiously.

“Until your great-grandfather's find, Shandihar was thought to be a place that existed only in the epic poems written by ancient scribes.” Dr. Burnette's eyes narrowed. “Between the time he found his lost city and now, there have been two world wars and any number of political changes in Turkey, where he made his discovery. The treasures of Shandihar have been forgotten, essentially, for over two thousand years.” She smiled. “There will be television specials, there will be books. And—God forgive me—if we're lucky, coffee mugs and coasters.”

“You're looking at this as a strictly commercial venture.” Daria's voice held a touch of disapproval.

“With all due respect, Dr. McGowan, I have no other choice. The revenue this collection will generate will not only save this college, it will offer an opportunity for countless scholars to study up close the treasures of a lost civilization that have never before been exhibited. We'll attract not only the most promising students in the field, but the best professors, just as we did a hundred years ago. Just as Benjamin Howe dreamed of when he financed not one, but two, expeditions.”

She leaned closer to Daria and said, “Don't you at least want to open those crates and see what your great-grandfather spent his life searching for?”