by Rickie Blair
Her intent gaze drilled into me. “She wasn’t here long. What did she write about?”
That was a perfectly reasonable query. But since I had no way to answer it, I decided to skip ahead. “There are some old photos in her manuscript. I was hoping to talk to someone who’s in them. But I don’t know who he is.” After rummaging through my bag, I handed her the photo of my mother and her friend.
Irina examined the picture for a few seconds. As she returned it, her hand was rock steady and her tone cool. “That’s Randall Dignam. A professor of anthropology.”
“Was this picture taken on campus?”
“I doubt it. That looks like an excavation site.”
“How can you tell?”
She motioned to the photo in my hand. “See that bright blue rod in the background, leaning against the edge of the pit? That’s a stadia rod. They’re used to measure elevations.”
“What were they studying?”
“Indigenous peoples, I imagine. That was Professor Dignam’s specialty.”
“Was? He’s no longer on the faculty?”
“That’s correct.”
“Or at the university?”
“Also correct.”
“Do you have his forwarding information?”
“I’m afraid not.”
While we stared at each other, her phone rang. She clicked it off without answering.
I tucked the photo into my purse, wondering what to say next and regretting my decision to wing it. I had only one card left to play.
“My mother’s been dead for ten years.”
Eyes widening, she sat up straight. “Claire’s dead? Was it… sudden?”
“I’d rather not—”
“Of course. Forgive me.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, for one thing—why did she switch majors? Mom loved ancient languages, and was happy with her choice, but my aunt—Claire’s sister—said she once dreamed of a career in archaeology.”
“Oh, yes. The sister.” Irina drew out the word while furrowing her brow. “I remember her. She didn’t tell you what happened?”
I shook my head.
“Maybe she’s forgotten. But around here, it was a big deal. Professor Dignam took a group of grad students to a dig in western Ontario on his final summer with the university. Claire went along.” She tapped her fingers on the desk. “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but there were—rumors.”
“Rumors?” My stomach tightened.
“You know how people talk. And Claire was rather provocative. I never thought there was anything to it. People are so quick to judge, aren’t they?”
“Was Professor Dignam married?”
She nodded. “So was Claire. I remember her bringing you in one day.” She paused, remembering. “You complained the entire time.”
I decided to ignore this. As far as I knew, I had been a model child.
“Did those rumors affect my mother’s decision?”
Irina leaned back against her chair with a strange expression, fiddling with her pen again. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Professor Dignam disappeared that summer. From the dig site.”
Our eyes met. I felt the blood drain from my face.
“But… what does that have to do with my mother?”
Irina gave a lady-like snort. “People assumed they’d run off together, obviously. It was quite the scandal.” At my horrified expression, she relented with a casual shrug. “Of course, it was nonsense.”
“Then why—”
“There was a lot of confusion initially, when the professor couldn’t be found, but witnesses later insisted Claire never left the women’s bunkhouse that night.”
“What happened to the professor?”
“The police eventually decided he left town on his own.”
“Leaving his wife behind?”
“Obviously.”
“What about his job? Didn’t he have tenure at the university?”
“He did. But…” She frowned. “There were reasons to believe his tenure was about to be revoked.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say more. So, if that’s all—” Planting her hands on the desk, she half-rose to her feet.
“Wait,” I said, anxious to keep her talking. “There’s something else.”
She tilted her head, annoyance crossing her features. “Yes?”
After I pulled the mysterious postcard from my bag, I smoothed it on the desk, the words facing her. “This arrived in the mail recently, addressed to my mother. Do you remember if any of her colleagues exchanged puzzles or word games by post?”
As Irina glanced down at the card, her eyebrows shot up. She picked up the postcard to examine it more closely, mumbling something under her breath.
“Do you know what this is?” she asked quietly, glancing at me.
“No. Do you?”
“No,” she said haltingly. “Unless…” Her voice resumed its former clipped tones. “Tell you what, Verity—I’ll take a photocopy of this and ask around. Maybe someone else knows.”
Before I could object, she fed the postcard into the printer on her desk. After a copy whirred out, she handed me the original. “That’s the best I can do for now.” Plucking a business card from a metal holder, she held it out between two fingers while reaching for her cell phone. “I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
I tucked both cards into my purse. “Thanks.”
I closed the door behind me, starting for the exit.
In the hall, the same two students were headed for the elevator—this time without their armloads of books. “Find what you were looking for?” one asked.
“Sort of. I was wondering—are there any archaeology exhibits here? I drove in from Leafy Hollow this morning, and I’d love to see something interesting before I go home.”
She exchanged a delighted glance with her companion. “There definitely are,” she said enthusiastically. “We do the cataloguing. Come with us—we’ll show you.”
They led me down the corridor and through an unmarked door. Rows of display cabinets filled the space. I walked along an aisle between the cabinets, admiring the pottery, weapons, and ceremonial objects behind their glass doors. I pointed to the drawers underneath. “Can I open those?”
“Sorry, they’re locked. We keep additional artifacts in the drawers, but they’re all catalogued and in sequence.” She pointed to the tiny black letters and numerals etched onto each of the items on display. “That’s the numbering system used to track artifacts from Canadian archaeological sites.”
I peered at the nearest shard, trying to decipher the tiny lettering. “I have arrowheads at home, but there’s nothing written on them.”
“Then they didn’t come from a registered site,” she said. “People often find arrowheads. Sometimes they bring them to us, but few are significant enough to be added to the university’s collection.”
“Plus,” her friend added, “there’s usually no way to identify exactly where those stray finds come from.”
As we progressed through the room, the displays’ explanatory cards began to look older. I stopped at a table that held a glass-covered diorama with a faded title.
the neutral indians, early 1600s.
“This looks like an old one.”
“Yes.” The girl sighed. “The wording’s outdated. We refer to them as the Attiwandaron now. The department hasn’t done any work on the Neutral Confederacy for years. This exhibit is slated for storage.”
I bent over the glass with my hand on the wooden edge so I could read a name printed in large type.
professor randall dignam.
“Isn’t that the professor who went missing?”
The first student bent over the glass. “Did he?” She wrinkled her brow. “I remember hearing something about a department scandal, but I don’t know the details. It was a long time a
go.”
A yellow-and-red stylized logo, with an intertwined P&C, appeared at the bottom of the list. “That looks familiar,” I said.
“It should. It’s the Palmerston logo. They own that huge office tower downtown.”
“Oh, right—I’ve seen it.” I smiled. “Hard to miss, really.”
“The Palmer family donated millions to the university over the years. They used to be huge supporters.”
“Used to be?”
“I haven’t seen their names on any recent bequests. It’s all ancient history.”
“Like the diorama?”
She chuckled. “Exactly.”
On my trek back to the parking lot and whatever remained of my twenty-dollar bill, I detoured through the courtyard. The last of the snow was melting rapidly under the brilliant spring sun, revealing patches of grass. Any day now, the cherry trees lining the path would burst into flower. I imagined robins hopping across the lawn, tilting their heads to listen for earthworms.
Which brought to mind my own landscaping clients and the long days of cutting lawns and trimming shrubs that lay ahead. I had started a small investigation agency—after promising Jeff to probe only “minor” cases, which he optimistically assumed meant lost pets—but I’d have to put that aside for now. Lorne Lewins—Emy’s beloved—was finishing up his first year of business college studies, and he’d promised to help me out again this summer. I wasn’t sure what I’d do once he embarked on a new career. At least I could rely on his broad shoulders and lanky grin for one more season.
Still, as much as I loved my outdoor work, I loved a mystery more. Especially one that involved my own family. The police had closed their investigation into Professor Dignam’s disappearance, but they must have kept a record of the case. I needed details.
And Jeff was the perfect person to ask.
Mulling over the possibilities, I presented my ticket to the parking lot attendant. He handed me a dollar and a half. With a sigh, I deposited it in the truck’s antiquated coin tray and turned my pickup toward Leafy Hollow.
On the drive home, I pushed my investigation of Professor Dignam to the back of my mind. There was a more pressing matter to consider—what to do about Frank Thorne. I couldn’t bring myself to think of him as “Dad.” But that still left the question of why he was back.
Could the handful of old arrowheads and faded photos I found in the attic be the bequest Frank was here to claim? It didn’t seem likely. I wheeled into a vacant parking spot outside the 5X Bakery on Main Street, then turned off the engine. No, Frank must be angling for more valuable fish.
My cell rang. Smiling at the display, I clicked on the call.
Jeff’s deep voice echoed over the line. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, yourself. I haven’t heard from you for six hours. That might be a record. Not that I’m sorry you called,” I added hastily, picturing Jeff’s handsome face.
“I’ve been busy. There’s something you should know. It’s about your father.”
I straightened, instantly alert. “What about him?”
“He visited Wilf Mullins today.”
“How do you know?”
There was a slight pause as Jeff cleared his throat. “I get around.”
“You followed him, didn’t you?”
“What if I did? As you sometimes seem to forget, I am an officer of the law.” His tone was mildly accusatory.
“How could I forget? You’re so sexy in your uniform.”
“Later,” he said huskily, before clearing his throat again. “About your father—”
“Thanks for the info. For the record, I have no problem with you shadowing Frank Thorne. In fact—”
“I wasn’t shadowing him. I merely observed Thorne entering the premises, and I judged it prudent to observe his next moves.”
When Jeff lapsed into jargon, I knew it was time to back off. “And you were right to do so. Not,” I added hastily, “that your official procedures are any of my business.” Gazing over the truck’s hood at the smattering of snow on the sidewalk, I smiled. All of Jeff’s procedures were A-OK by me.
“Gotta go. Just thought you’d want to know.”
“Before you hang up—what was he doing at Wilf’s?”
“No idea. But Wilf was your mother’s lawyer, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. And since he’s also my lawyer, he might give me some idea what my father wanted.” I brightened. “It’s worth a try. Thanks, Jeff.”
“Verity.” His warning tone had returned. “Don’t get into any trouble.”
I chuckled. “Speaking to Wilf? I think I’m safe. See you soon.”
Since it was nearly dinnertime, I decided to put off my visit to Wilf Mullins until the next day. The diminutive Leafy Hollow councilor could be quite evasive. It might take some time—and a few of Emy’s lemon-curd tarts—to break down his defenses.
Chapter Seven
One week earlier…
Roy Palmer scrutinized the street forty-two floors beneath him. When the stoplight changed, pedestrians streamed across the intersection, heads bent against the wind. He raised a wrinkled thumb, obliterating them like so many ants, and smiled. Lowering his hand, he brushed invisible lint from his black double-breasted suit, then turned to face the man sitting behind a vast desk.
“I’m surprised to see you still at work, Nelson.”
Nelson Palmer glanced at his uncle over the rims of his glasses before reaching for another page. “Why?”
“It’s your father’s funeral today.”
“Not for another hour. Is that why you’re here? To collect me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I thought we could ride there together. A show of mutual respect and love for a remarkable individual.”
“You were always sentimental, Roy.”
“Eugene was my brother. We built this company together. You could stand a little more sentiment, if you want my opinion.”
Nelson slid another paper from the stack. “Speaking of sentiment, have you forgotten you forced him out of this office?”
“A decision you profited from. Eugene was ill-suited to be the Palmerston CEO. His hobbies monopolized his time and cost the company millions. It was better for the corporation, and it was better for him. Everyone agreed, including Eugene. And now—we’re going to lay him to rest with the respect he deserves.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll work up plenty of camera-ready anguish for the ceremony.” He signed the paper in front of him with a flourish. “That’s all that counts, isn’t it? Our public image?”
The older man’s eyes narrowed.
Nelson took off his glasses and laid them down while considering his next words. Roy Palmer was chairman of the Palmerston board. Nelson had to keep the old boy in line—at least until he could persuade him to retire. “You’re right. We’ll drive there together.” He leaned one elbow on the desk, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “It’s been an unpleasant week… Somewhat distressing. I’m sorry if I—”
“No apology necessary.” Roy waved a hand dismissively, although his expression remained pinched. “How is your sister holding up?”
Nelson pondered his reply. In truth, Marilyn had been raging through the family home, hurling knickknacks and being generally disagreeable. He had to ask “the staff”—Marilyn insisted on calling their father’s housekeeper and occasional cook “the staff,” as if the family lived in a BBC costume drama—to hide the liquor. No sense wasting twenty-year-old Scotch on Marilyn’s tantrums.
Truth was rarely the wisest course, however.
“She’s devastated. Grief-stricken. We knew Eugene didn’t have much longer, but it’s still a shock.”
Roy nodded mournfully. “And your daughter?”
“I haven’t talked to Tracy since she got back. But she was fond of her grandfather. I think it hit her hard.”
“I’ll talk to her after the ceremony.”
“Thanks.” Nelson picked up his glasses and leaned back, adjusting the wire arms
over his ears. “Before we leave, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. About Eugene’s last words.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wrote it down.” He pulled out a drawer to search for the notepaper on which he’d written the mysterious phrase. “Ah.” He pulled out the sheet and held it up, reading aloud. “The walks woman. She knows.”
“The walks woman?” Roy’s brow furrowed as he muttered, “The walks woman? Are you sure? Could he have meant—the talks woman? Or gawks, maybe?”
Nelson refrained from rolling his eyes. “We’ve been through this. And no, it was walks.”
“Wait—hang on.” Roy drew a quick breath, whirling to face him. “Was it—the Hawkes woman?”
Nelson’s forehead furrowed as he regarded the sheet of paper. “I don’t think so, but his language was garbled toward the end. I think he was raving when—”
A woman’s voice broke in. “Here are those papers you requested, Mr. Palmer. I’m afraid it took longer than we thought to search the archives.”
“Fine,” he said without taking his gaze from the note in his hand.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Roy cleared his throat.
At the sound, Nelson looked up.
His assistant stood before him, her hand resting on a bulging accordion file folder on the edge of his desk.
“Was there something else?”
“No, sir.” She nervously tapped the folder. “Only—the staff and I are sorry for your loss.”
“That’s not—” The words died in his throat when the older man rocked visibly on his feet. His uncle said nothing, but Nelson felt his disapproval. He nodded briskly. “Thank you, Meredith. That’s very kind.”
“A few of us would like to attend the service, if that’s all right. We can make up the time later.”
“That’s not—”
“What a good idea,” Roy interrupted. “Your father would have been touched, Nelson. He spent many a long night in this room, assisted by his loyal and capable staff.”
Nelson closed his eyes to hide his irritation before replying. “Very well, Meredith. Tell the staff the family would be honored.”