The Other Crowd (14 page)

“You going to shoot me? Or is kidnapping more your style?”

He didn’t answer. When he walked past her, his shoulder slammed hers hard.

Annja rubbed her shoulder and cast a glance over it to watch him exit.

If Slater hadn’t sent those men after her they had to have been sent by Neville. That meant Slater was not the highest man on the totem pole, only the one greasing the pole to keep curious parties from climbing too high.

And until she learned the truth about the disappearances of the other two archaeologists, Annja was determined to make that climb.

A montage of past season successes for the Shamrock Rovers, a Dublin-based soccer team, played on the plasma television above the bar. O’Shaughnessy’s pub catered to the men from the fight.

They’d come to this bar because Wesley had said it offered the best
craic
around. Even though the word was pronounced like an illicit drug, Annja knew the Gaelic word meant rousing conversation, fun people and lots of it.

Wesley’s split lip had reopened, and he sported the beginnings of what would be a remarkable shiner on his right eye come morning. Annja still couldn’t figure out how he had won the fight. No, she knew
how
he had—Slater had thrown the fight. But she wouldn’t mention her suspicion to Wesley. And she couldn’t figure out
why.

Wesley clanked his mug against a few of his buddies’ mugs and settled across the table opposite Annja on a high stool. Triumph glittered in his eyes. He’d already replayed the entire fight to her on the walk over, but she suspected she might hear it again, once or twice, before the night was through.

After putting up with Slater’s “security” on the dig, Wesley deserved the kudos, if only for the evening.

A waitress dropped off Annja’s second pint. The creamy head spilled down the side of the frosted mug. She swallowed the dark ale. She’d told Slater she much preferred to be on a real adventure, which usually meant barren wastelands, poor sanitation and eating bugs. She’d enjoy the amenities this nonadventure offered while she could.

“So how did the two camps ever manage to come together for these Saturday night excursions?” she asked Wesley. “Did you invite Slater or was it the other way around?”

“You trying to figure who wanted to punch the other the most?” he asked.

A flash of his movie star smile made Annja glad she’d chosen to end the night in Wesley’s company rather than continue to try to pry information from the uptight Slater.

Wesley raised his mug to a bunch of fellows nearby and then drank heartily. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he carried out a long, satisfied
ahhh.
“One of the kids on the dig—my side, that is—his brother runs the fights. He was excited telling his friends to come and check it out, but he hadn’t figured that the newest people on the dig were not the friendliest. I think Slater showed up that first weekend out of curiosity. But it’s all good. When we’re standing toe to toe in the ring we don’t necessarily want to kill each other.”

“You just want to show you can take the other guy. Who’s the boss?”

“You got it. And I like the workout.”

Annja smirked. Not to mention the adulation that came with the win. She wasn’t going to criticize him for that one.

“So do you know this guy Slater works for?” she asked. “Frank Neville?”

“Nope. And I’ve been on a lot of digs all over the world. I recognize most names in the industry, as I did yours. I have a weird sort of sixth sense that Neville doesn’t have ties to our trade. Taking over the dig may have been a fluke. Whatever it is they think they’re going to find isn’t going to be riches. I got the results from the soil sample back right before I went to the fight.”

“Were your guesses to the nineteenth century accurate?”

“Yep. And it’s a strain of
Phytophthora infestans,
the potato pathogen I suspected. We’ve dug into some old farmland that once grew the crops that were annihilated in the mid-1800s.”

“A lot of people died during the famine.”

“For no good reason,” Wesley said. “Foreign countries sent hundreds of thousands of dollars in aid to Ireland, but it never made it. Some was even stopped by England. Millions of people died during that time. It’s a shame.”

“Wasn’t it true they still produced a lot of livestock and other field crops, yet it was owed to landowners?”

“Yes, landowners who lived in England. Irish farmers, rather than send their precious stock to the rich landowners across the channel, would sooner shoot the animals and burn the produce, than see it in their grubby hands. They sacrificed their assets, even while their starving family stood by and watched.”

“The other camp has uncovered a complete female skeleton,” Annja said. “It was nicely preserved in the peat bog.”

“That’s interesting, especially since I don’t mark that site as a homestead. It’s a bog. Janice uncovered a femur this morning. I think it belongs to the skull, but it’s twenty feet away. It’s like the body was just left on the ground. Odd, because if it’s from someone who died of starvation they would have been buried. Mass graves were popular. Unless they died during the winter and not right on the homestead like this. It’s hard to figure.”

“So I would suspect wild animals or even an attack by thieves, the inhabitants fleeing and being shot or killed. There were a lot of wolves in Ireland in the nineteenth century. Or even, the body could have been buried in a shallow grave, then later dug up by animals,” Annja said.

“Both are possible. The body at Slater’s camp had to have been dragged there. It could have been marauders. Or it could have been a hard winter. Foxes were known to scavenge dead bodies.”

“Have you seen indications of animal attack on the bones?”

“Nope, but we just uncovered them. Haven’t had a chance to do a thorough check. Animal intrusion should be immediately obvious. Like I said, I don’t know what to say.”

“What about faeries?” she asked with a wink.

Wesley laughed. “I think you’re ready for another pint.”

Annja tilted her half-full mug of dark stout. She wanted to keep her wits about her and she’d have to drive. “I’d better call it a night. I was going to head over to Daniel’s but it’s getting late.” She still had the curious business card she’d taken from the thug.

“You don’t want to wander about this time of night, Annja. The other crowd will get you. And then maybe a hundred years in the future the archaeologists will be digging up your bones.”

She shook her head, but hadn’t the energy to argue. The ale was making her tired. Wesley quickly cracked a grin, and then tilted back the rest of his mug.

“Where’s your puppy dog?” he asked.

“Eric is flirting with the musicians. I think he’s developed a thing for flute music since we’ve been in the country. I’ll let him chat a little longer while I go retrieve the car, which we left at the fight. This joint is really hopping this evening.”

“Attribute it to the
craic,
” he said. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car, then.”

She followed him as he slapped a few high fives on the way out and promised to return and defend his title the next weekend. “You know I’m having some fun with you about the fair folk, Annja.”

“Do I?” The night was bright and the sky filled with stars there at the edge of the city. “I expect the locals to cling to tales and myths, but you don’t even live here.”

“I like to assimilate the cultural beliefs wherever I go. Buddhism in Tibet. Voodoo in Savannah. Faeries in Ireland. Just have fun with it, Annja. It’s not all a load of horse shite.”

“I don’t think what, or whoever, took the two missing men from your site would want anyone to have fun with it. Aren’t you concerned?”

“They probably found some magic mushrooms like Beth did and took a boat up the river to Kinsale. I’ve lost a crew member a time or two. They usually come back after they’re tired of experiencing the local fare, or I get a phone call a few weeks later saying archaeology wasn’t for them and sorry they took off without saying goodbye.”

“You don’t believe either of the men did that,” she stated. “And how do you know Beth found mushrooms? Did she tell you?” She couldn’t reveal to him that she’d read Beth’s chart.

“No. It’s a guess, Annja. She was talking about seeing faeries. I may have some fun with you, but even I am educated enough to know a man’s not going to see a winged woman come flying out of the forest anytime soon.”

“That relieves me a little. But I’m afraid for Beth. If someone gave her a drug, why? Why not simply keep her tied up? Or even kill her?”

“Is that what you think should have happened?”

“No, but whatever she was on made her see faeries. That’s odd. I’m surprised the gardai aren’t all over this.”

“Slater notified the police.”

That explained a lot. “Slater doesn’t have anyone’s best interests in mind. Maybe you should give the gardai a call tomorrow and check?”

“You want me to? I will. I was hoping when Beth came around she’d have the answers. Maybe she’s seen the missing men.”

“He’s up to something,” Annja said. “Slater.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“But it’s not your thing to get involved, am I right?”

“Something like that. Is this it?”

They climbed into the Mini and Annja pulled a U-turn to navigate back to the pub.

“Whoever Frank Neville is,” Wesley continued, “will quickly learn there’s nothing but bones and dirt on-site. He’ll pack up camp and leave soon enough.”

“But how many more will disappear before then? Do you think they saw something they weren’t supposed to see?”

“I thought you were snooping about Slater’s camp? What did you see?”

“The skeleton I told you about. Nothing worthy of shutting me up. I’m missing some very large piece of the puzzle, and it frustrates me. I haven’t gone down to check out the river yet. I think I should take a look.”

“I’ll go along with you, if you like.”

“Tomorrow, then. It’s a date.”

“Best-looking date I’ve had in a while. How’d I get so lucky?”

“I think it’s the blarney. You’re full of it.”

“I do try.”

Annja’s cell phone rang. She answered without checking the caller ID—which she regretted as soon as Doug Morrell’s voice rattled across the phone lines.

“Annja! Good afternoon!”

It wasn’t good. And—she glanced at the bedside table—the LED clock flashed 1:00 p.m. She had slept past noon? And why did her head ache? She’d only had two pints last night.

“How are things going? Is Eric doing well?” Doug asked.

“Yes,” she muttered groggily.

Sitting up on the bed, she winced at the bright daylight shining in.

“What’s wrong, Annja? You don’t sound so good. Is it late at night there? I thought I figured the time zones right this time. No matter. Guess what?”

“You’ve decided faeries don’t exist and want me to come home?”

“Wrong. I’m scheduling shows for next month, and guess who agreed to be interviewed for the Halloween special? Rob Zombie! Doesn’t that rock?”

“He’s a rock star, Doug, not a monster.” She dropped backward across the bed, but the thud of skull to blanket flashed bright auras behind her eyes. Annja groaned. “Can we talk later? I need to take a shower and wake up.”

“Annja, you sound like Kristie when I call her on location. But I expect her to be hungover.”

“I’m not hungover, Doug. Just…” Not even awake yet. “I’m hanging up now. We’ll talk later.”

D
ANIEL
C
OLLINS MET
Annja on her trek to the dig site. He pulled over the Jeep and jumped out. Eric had risen early and left a note that he was heading out to film some scenery. The kid kept earning points with his initiative.

“Care for a bite?” Daniel asked.

Casting a glance at the cloudy sky, Annja agreed. “Sure. Looks like rain.”

“It’ll be pouring by the time we make my place,” he said. “You getting a late start today?”

“I think all the residual bar smoke really played a number on me last night. Either that, or jet lag finally got the better of me.”

“Come along.” He gestured for her to hop in the Jeep. “I’ll fix you up in no time.”

Three minutes later the rain beat the land relentlessly. Annja hoped Wesley had an extra tarp to cover the excavation; otherwise, it would take at least a day to dry out and be workable enough for digging again.

“Give it five minutes,” Daniel yelled as they arrived at his place. He ran and directed Annja toward the front door. “The sun will come out.”

He offered her cold salmon sandwiches, which his mother had prepared and sent home with him. Homemade pickles and deviled eggs topped off the light lunch.

“Ah! Where are my manners?” Daniel stood and tugged the napkin from his shirt. “I should have brought up some wine for the meal.”

He told Annja to follow him.

Now was as good a time as any to get curious, she thought.

“Speaking of wine… Is this yours?” She pulled out the business card and handed it to Daniel. “I took it from a guy who wanted me to leave town without passing Go, without collecting two hundred dollars. You know anything about that?”

He handed the card back to her. “That’s mine. But I don’t know anything about collecting two hundred dollars. I barter with the discerning and often I pick up a customer by word of mouth. What was his name?”

“Didn’t have a chance to ask. He was too busy shooting at me.”

“Shooting?” Daniel paused and leaned a shoulder against the cedar-paneled wall. Standing so close to him, Annja noticed his scruffy dark hair was streaked with gray. And what did she really know about this man? Other than he liked to gamble, drink wine and watch fights? And seduce women under the stars upon his ritual disemboweling stone.

“Annja, what’s the trouble? Someone fired a weapon at you? I don’t see how that can be related to you filming a bit of the land and talking about the fair folk.”

“Neither do I. But something is not kosher with Slater’s camp. Though he didn’t claim knowing the men after me, either. But the man whose pocket I found this in? I find it hard to believe he’d be a wine connoisseur.”

“We oenophiles come in all shapes and sizes. Mustn’t judge by appearance. Let me show you something,” he said.

Annja followed him down a narrow hallway. He hadn’t seemed nervous about the business card. She couldn’t decide if he was lying. But then how could Daniel possibly be involved in sending men after her with guns? To what purpose? It wasn’t as though she’d said something nasty about his mother’s cooking.

“I’ll look into it if you like,” he called back. “But I suspect it’s Slater’s machismo bleeding through. As deadly as that is, I don’t think the man would actually kill anyone.”

“Do you know Michael Slater well?”

“No. I’ve only spoken to him a time or two at the dig. But you’ve witnessed his aggression just as much as I have.”

She wasn’t ready to place Slater to the business card. But he and Daniel could be allied by a common factor—Frank Neville.

They descended what felt like two stories below Daniel’s modest home.

“You know Frank Neville, right?” she asked.

“Sold him some wine a time or two. He likes a good cigar, as well, but he is not from the area so I couldn’t say he’s a friend. What about Frank is important to you?”

“It’s just a name that keeps coming up during my investigation. I like to have all the facts before making conclusions.”

“Conclusions on what? How does Neville figure into a show that chases after faeries?”

“The show seeks the truth, whether or not a monster is involved. Do you actually believe faeries kidnapped the missing people?”

He shrugged. “Can’t be very interesting for your viewers if the promised monster turns out to be human.”

“You would be surprised.”

He’d ignored her question, which troubled her in ways she couldn’t quite sort out. He was just the local eccentric, right? So why did that creeping-up-the-back-of-her-neck feeling tingle right now?

“So, what do you think?” he asked, arms splayed to encompass the room.

While upstairs it was no-nonsense, handmade wood furniture and homey touches, down here in the cellar Annja felt as if she’d entered the elite clubhouse of a true connoisseur.

She ran a palm over the varnished mahogany railing. “This is gorgeous.”

Redwood wine racks grew from floor to ceiling on the two outer walls. The concrete floors were streaked with amber, which gave an old-world fade to the cellar. Gothic tin lights were suspended overhead and spaced to track the aisles. Rolling library ladders tilted against the wine racks reached to the uppermost racks. Two aisles paralleled the center counter, which was a waist-high rack that also sported goblets, corkscrews, wine journals and a computer that currently flashed what appeared to be a filing system.

“High tech,” she observed. “Eric did mention you’re a fanatic about wine.”

“Guilty as charged. Mr. Kritz must have told him about my collection.”

Right. Eric’s father. The man financing this trip. And should that bother her more than it did? Why hadn’t Doug mentioned that detail? Everyone was intertwined, and that raised the red flag.

Annja peered at the computer monitor. “So you have all the bottles entered in this program?”

“Yes. Any bottles I’ve consumed I record notes on them, as well. The bottles each have a bar code that I use to track provenance and chateau. A climate-control system monitors the temperature and keeps it at a constant fifty-seven-degree/seventy-percent-humidity ratio. The security is fierce, as well.”

“Security? You get a lot of burglars out here on your little patch of green?”

“You’d be surprised at the riffraff that comes sorting about for artifacts and bits and bobs.”

Like his mother?

“If they’ve been drinking they can be very bold,” he said. “They will knock right on the door and start a ruckus. That’s why I keep a 20-gauge shotgun beside the door.”

“Not unwise.” She eyed a huge wine bottle behind the computer screen. It was about three feet tall.

“That’s called a Balthazar,” he offered upon noting her wonder. “Holds twelve liters. Equal to sixteen bottles of wine. I keep it for a conversation piece.”

“I bet. This is all very impressive, Daniel.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

He turned and perused a rack of bottles, drawing his long fingers down the row. He stopped at one and pulled out the bottle. “You enjoy wine, Annja?”

“On occasion.”

She preferred Diet Coke and beer but she wasn’t a snob. Wine would serve when appropriate.

“How long does it take to acquire a collection like this?”

Daniel uncorked the bottle he held and set it on the center counter. “I’ve got about twenty thousand bottles. Been collecting for fifteen years. And yes, that makes me a lot older than you.”

“I wasn’t aware the age difference was a concern. Is it when drinking wine and sharing conversation?”

“Not at all. But we’ve yet to have a scintillating conversation. Unless you consider a stolen midnight kiss?” He smiled and handed her the bottle. “Take a swig of this.”

She accepted the bottle, glanced to the row of gleaming goblets, then decided it was his character to expect her to quaff a swig directly from the bottle. So she did.

“What do you think?” Daniel walked onward, eyeing the bottles as if in search of another. He thumbed his chin. Dark ink looking like a birthmark slashed across his flesh.

The red wine was deep, pleasant and a little fruity. Annja had no clue when it came to actually discerning good wine from otherwise not. She’d once attended a tasting at New York University and had learned there were too many ways to define wine. Acid, cloying, luscious, foxy, peppery. And then to spit it out?

“It’s wine,” she offered. “Pretty good.”

He nodded and wandered farther into the cellar depths. Taking out a bottle from a row, he displayed it to her.

Annja tucked the bottle she held to her chest and went to inspect. The label was unevenly cut around the edges, definitely not machine printed. “Old?”

“Seventeenth century. A rarity. Not many bottles survive from that long ago. The glass is so fragile. If you can find eighteenth century you should consider yourself lucky.”

“Nice. French?”

“Prephylloxera Lafite. Very rare. Made before the yellow root louse infestation forever changed the vintage. It is the holy grail of wines.”

He replaced the bottle. Annja lingered on the vertical row of ancient bottles that must hold so much history coded within their murky depths. A connoisseur could decipher that liquid code. But she did know that not all wine traversed the decades intact. It could very well be vinegar Daniel kept as a prized possession in some of these bottles.

“So how much does an old bottle like that cost?”

“The prephylloxera? That one put me back five hundred Gs.”

“Five hundred
thousand?
” she repeated, utterly stymied.

“Yes, but that’s my most expensive bottle.”

And he didn’t have it under lock and key? If it was her, she would put it in a safe and surround it with guards.

“People pay that much for wine?”

“Yes, and you can never know if the contents will be drinkable or reduced to vinegar.”

“Then why spend so much on it?”

“It’s buying history, Annja. You must be able to appreciate that.”

“I do appreciate history, but not the kind that breaks the bank. I like to dig it up from the dirt. For free.”

Daniel chuckled. “But you’re not allowed to keep your finds.”

“I can go to a museum whenever I wish and spend an entire day looking over any number of valuable artifacts.”

“True. But drinking history is amazing.”

“Even vinegar?”

“Even so.” He pointed toward the other aisle, where he shuffled down the row and sorted through the bottles.

Annja took another swig from her bottle. History? The label was marked 1955. Old, but not surprisingly so. It was certainly before her time. “So how much did this stuff cost?”

“Five grand,” he said, and turned away from her, dismissing the statement as if a mere comment of a mediocre day of sunshine.

Nearly choking, Annja swallowed hard. The wine burned now. It dropped to her belly like a stone. Suddenly the word
vigorous
came to mind to describe it. Five thousand? She inspected the bottle. A few healthy oaths tickled her tongue, but she held them back.

Daniel had handed her a five thousand dollar bottle of wine as if it were something he’d picked up at the liquor store for six bucks. What the hell?

“Ah, here.” He claimed another bottle and opened it up. “A nice pinot grigio. My favorite. You bring that bottle, and I’ll decant this one. We’ll go up and chat a bit.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough wine for the day. You want this one back?”

“No, you keep it, Annja. It’s a gift.”

Cradling the bottle carefully, for now she feared dropping it, Annja followed the man upstairs.

“I’d offer a Montecristo, but I don’t believe you smoke,” he said as they took the hallway back into the kitchen.

“Thanks, but I do enjoy the smell. I should probably be going. I had intended to speak to Wesley and look around the forest a bit before it gets too late. Don’t want to tease the midnight hour.”

“The witching hour can be very magical.”

“Is that when the faeries come out?”

“They could.” He winked. “They most definitely could.”