by Rickie Blair
“Don’t be silly.” Clasping my hand in both of hers, she simpered in delight. “Us Catholic girls have to stick together.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
She chuckled. “I know. I meant Emy.” She glanced at her watch. “Can you stay for lunch?”
“Maybe. Thing is, Tracy—”
“Yes?”
“I’m actually looking for information. Palmerston Corp. sponsored an archaeological dig about twenty years ago. My mother was on the team. I was hoping to learn something about it.”
“Oh…” She bit her lip, considering my dilemma. “My father might know. You should talk to him. I’ll take you in.”
That was easy.
I returned her grin. “Thanks.”
“After that, we can have lunch.”
I followed Tracy through another huge wooden slab and into a corner office whose floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the outer walls. My feet sank into the plush gray carpeting.
A man of indeterminate age, wearing a hand-tailored gray suit, regarded us from behind an imposing walnut desk. His skin was smooth and lightly tanned, and his hair an even brown—except for matching gray streaks that swooped elegantly over both ears. I couldn’t help but think of an aging, but perfectly preserved, movie star.
“What’s this about, Tracy? I have a full schedule today.”
“This won’t take long, Daddy. A friend of mine has a few questions.” Tracy fluttered her hand in a theatrical gesture. “Verity Hawkes—Nelson Palmer.” Holding the door open, Tracy backed through it. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, Verity. I have something to take care of first.” The door closed.
The silence that followed was broken only by the rumbling of my stomach. I should have skipped that second double-double coffee on the ride in.
Nelson, who had been studying me intently, rose to his feet and extended his hand over the desk. “What kind of questions?”
“About my mother—Claire Hawkes.” While shaking his hand, I studied his face for signs of recognition.
His expression was blank. “I’m afraid I can’t recall—”
“She took part in a dig sponsored by Palmerston twenty years ago.”
“Ah. I’m not sure I can help you, but please sit.” He indicated a trio of leather armchairs surrounding a marble coffee table. We settled in.
Nelson crossed one leg over his knee, revealing taut gray socks—knee-highs, I assumed—and polished brogues. “Yes?”
“It was a university-led expedition in Western Ontario.”
With a slight frown, he sat back in his chair. “I’m not sure how I can help. My knowledge of that era is minimal.”
“Did you know Professor Randall Dignam? From Strathcona University?”
“Not personally. My father would have known him. Anthropology was a hobby with him.”
“But you never met the professor?”
“I’m afraid not.” He gave his watch a furtive glance.
I tried to think of something that would intrigue the Palmerston CEO enough to keep him talking. Flattery was always a good fallback.
“That sculpture in your rotunda is exquisite.”
He sniffed. “It’s exquisite all right—exquisitely expensive. Still, the shareholders like it.” He brightened. “They take selfies with it at our annual meetings.” I sensed Nelson was eager to display his social-media skills. His public relations team probably kept harping on about it.
“I’ll be sure to take one on the way out. You don’t remember anything about that dig?”
“I didn’t say that. I visited Eugene there once.”
“You mean your father?”
“Correct.”
I’d been calling my dad by his first name for years, but I had good cause. What was Nelson’s reason, I wondered?
“I stayed only a few days,” he continued. “It was dusty when it was hot and muddy when it rained. The researchers lived in huts with communal washrooms—and the odd rattlesnake.” He shuddered. “I never went back.”
“Do you remember any other details?”
“Frankly, I put it out of my mind years ago.”
“Professor Dignam organized that dig. You must have met him.”
“If I did, I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember my mother, either?”
“I’m afraid not. Well.” He uncrossed his legs, then leaned forward. “If that’s all—”
“Tracy told me your father had an impressive collection of aboriginal art,” I blurted, anxious to head him off. “Could I—”
“You’re welcome to take a look. It’s in his office. Tracy can show it to you.” He frowned. “Oh—wait. The assessors are in there at the moment. Sorry. You’ll have to come back another time.”
“Your father had an office? He wasn’t retired, then?”
“No…” He frowned, then added quickly, “The Palmer brothers founded this company together. My uncle—Eugene’s brother—still comes in every day.”
“Did he share your father’s interest in anthropology?”
Nelson chuckled. “Hardly. Roy is all business. He doesn’t believe in wasting time on pointless undertakings.” Perhaps realizing how that sounded, he backpedaled. “Although, my father was also a company man. He poured his heart and soul into Palmerston.”
“They must have worked hard to build an enterprise like this from the ground up.”
“They did. My sister and I rarely saw Eugene when we were growing up.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “How did you know Palmerston sponsored that dig?”
“I saw the corporate name on a diorama at the university.”
His fingers froze, and he sat forward. “I was told those were destroyed.”
A twinge of anxiety jolted the coffee dregs in my stomach. “That would be a shame,” I said weakly.
“The university can’t keep everything. And I said so, when some woman came around wanting preservation funds.”
This startled me. “Was it Irina Lasher?”
“Who?”
“The department administrator?”
He shrugged. “Whoever she was, I sent her packing.” He snorted. “As if we haven’t given that place enough already.”
“Then you’ve never heard of her?”
“Why would I?”
“Well…” I hesitated. “She was killed this week. In her office.”
“Oh.” His brow furrowed. “I did hear about that. Was that her? Shame, of course.” He leaned in with a slight frown. “It’s not a well-run place.”
Nelson’s hostility toward academia didn’t bode well for my search. “Were any of the professor’s research papers stored here? Company archives, maybe?” I held my breath.
“Are you an anthropologist?”
“Oh, no. I run a landscaping business. Lawns and so forth.”
“I see. Well, Verity, if that’s all you wanted to know, Tracy can—”
I knew a brushoff when I heard one, but I wasn’t about to give up. “Could I check your archives for Professor Dignam’s research? Perhaps he mentioned my mother.”
“There was a large team on that dig if I recall correctly.”
“Not many women.”
“There would have been quite a few women on the team, if Randy Dignam was leading it.” He chuckled before resuming his former wooden expression. “Which wouldn’t be surprising today, of course, but back then—”
“I thought you never met him?”
“I didn’t,” he added quickly. “But I heard about him.”
“What did you hear?”
Nelson shrugged. “That he liked to have good-looking women around. I believe there was some talk about a female student after Dignam—”
“Disappeared?”
“Is that what happened?” He waved a hand, chuckling. “I’d forgotten.”
I was starting to dislike this perfectly coiffed, impeccably groomed CEO. I had an almost irresistible urge to snap one of his knee-highs. That would make him jump
.
“There was a police investigation,” I said.
“I remember that. Vaguely.”
“Did the police interview your father?”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s a little off topic, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry. I only meant that because he sponsored the project, he was a logical person to ask about the professor’s movements. My mother was interviewed several times.”
“I imagine everyone at the dig was interviewed.” He tapped absently on the chair’s arm. “What did the police ask her?”
“I was a child at the time, sorry.” I blinked rapidly, trying to eke out a tear. Nelson gave me an odd look. Perhaps he wondered why I was blinking at him. “My mother’s been dead for ten years,” I added hastily. “I know this is an imposition, but I can’t let it go. You understand.”
“You should speak to my uncle. As a contemporary of my father’s, he might be able to answer your questions.” He rose and walked over to his desk to push a button on the phone console. The office door swung open, and Tracy walked in.
Nelson gestured at the exit. “My daughter will introduce you.”
Roy Palmer’s double-breasted suit was more dated than his nephew’s sleek three-button, but every bit as immaculate. He was a pleasant old man, his crisp white hair and bushy mustache in perfect harmony with his sparkling eyes.
Those eyes clouded over when I offered my condolences.
“Eugene was a wonderful brother,” he said. “Do you have a brother, Miss Hawkes?”
“No siblings, I’m afraid.”
“That’s too bad. Family keeps us on our toes, do they not?”
“Mmm,” I said, thinking of Aunt Adeline—before noticing his comment had been directed at his grandniece, who sat beside me. Tracy gave me a side-eyed glance before starting to fiddle with her watch.
“Please,” I said. “Call me Verity. And speaking of family—I take it you didn’t share your brother’s interest in anthropology?”
“Eugene had many interests besides the family business. Perhaps he was right to do so. I chose not to pursue a hobby.” He sighed.
“Surely it was more than a hobby? He sponsored digs and collected artifacts. He must have been quite knowledgeable. Did he write any papers of his own?”
“He may have.” Roy Palmer picked an object off his desk, flipping it over in his fingers. With a start, I recognized it as an arrowhead.
“My main question, Mr. Palmer, is about my mother—Claire Hawkes. Do you have any memory of her? Perhaps your brother mentioned her when he spoke about the dig that Palmerston sponsored? She was on the team.”
“Hmm. Claire Hawkes, Claire Hawkes,” he mumbled, gazing over my head while twirling the arrowhead between thumb and forefinger. “Now that you mention it, that name is familiar.”
I sat forward, holding my breath.
“There was some difficulty at the university, and that name came up. But I never met your mother, I’m afraid.”
I must have looked disappointed, because his expression turned sorrowful. “I regret, Verity, that I can’t be of more help.”
“Would your company archives include information about that expedition?”
“It was probably noted in the annual report. Tracy can root that out for you. But it won’t amount to much. A paragraph, at most. Palmerston Corp. has always been a philanthropic company, dedicated to the well-being of our community. We’ve sponsored a lot of good works.”
Wow. That was a load of— I shook off my dismay. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He put the arrowhead down, giving it a possessive pat. “This was one of Eugene’s. I’m sorry you can’t view his collection today. It’s a legal thing—you understand.”
Tracy jumped up to walk to the window. She stared out, fingertips resting lightly on its surface. “That’s not exactly true. Is it, Uncle Roy?” She spoke over her shoulder. “My father is auctioning them off, Verity. All of Granddad’s collection. Going to the highest bidder. That’s why we can’t look at the artifacts—they’re being appraised.”
I froze. Earlier, when I’d feared this encounter might become awkward, I assumed I’d be the one causing the awkwardness, not Tracy. “Well…” I said feebly.
Roy’s voice was firm. “Tracy, your father explained this. Those artifacts were purchased with Palmerston money, so they belong to the corporation. We must stay out of it.”
She traced a finger down the glass. “Why is it always about money?”
Two red dots formed on the old man’s cheeks. I wondered if that was a bad sign—medically, I meant. Should we call someone? I glanced over my shoulder at his closed office door.
“A lot of that stuff is junk,” he continued. “Just because Eugene claimed he recovered it on a dig doesn’t mean that’s where he actually found it. Not only that—”
Tracy whirled around, watching him intently. Their eyes locked.
He hesitated, then turned to me with a big smile. “Verity, I’m sorry to involve you in this. But the truth is those artifacts are not particularly rare, or valuable. I’m afraid my brother had an inflated sense of their significance.”
“Then I suppose I do, too?” Tracy asked.
“You’re confusing sentiment with monetary value, my dear. You’re welcome to take a few objects for yourself—your father has already made that clear. But the bulk of the collection has to be sold.” He rose to his feet. “Now, why don’t you girls go out for lunch? I’m sure after a few—what do they drink now? Appletinis? Everything will look much better.” He ushered us to the door. “By the way, Verity, if you’re interested in this sort of thing, you should drive out to the archaeology museum in western Ontario. They have thousands of artifacts.”
Once the door had closed behind us, Tracy’s stricken expression met mine. “I’m sorry, Verity. Everyone’s been on edge since my grandfather’s death. I shouldn’t have brought that up in front of you.”
“Think nothing of it. You must miss him.”
She blinked rapidly, and I regretted mentioning it.
“Would you mind taking a raincheck on lunch?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
“Great. I’ll text you when the collection is available again. You can help me pick out some mementos before it gets carted away. Would you?”
“I’d be honored.”
I was back in the parking lot before I realized Roy Palmer hadn’t answered my question about his brother’s research papers. But he had given me a valuable suggestion. I looked up directions for the museum on my cell phone. It was two hours away, but Boomer was safe with Lorne and Emy, so I had the entire afternoon ahead of me.
Road trip! as Lorne was fond of saying.
I climbed into my truck and shifted it into drive.
Chapter Twenty
The sun was shining, the air was fresh, and the trees lining the highway sported hints of green on their branches. It was a good beginning for my quest. I even lowered the window for a blast of fresh air as I drove southwest to the archaeology museum, passing through miles of tilled fields, cedar hedges, and tiny hamlets with brick and siding houses.
Two hours later, I pulled into the parking lot. The museum was situated on a heavily treed property with a creek babbling through it. One corner of the grounds hosted a full-sized reconstruction of a longhouse, surrounded by a palisade of hand-stripped logs.
Inside the main building, I explained my quest to the ticket taker, who went off to find the administrator while I examined some of the displays. Within moments, a young woman wearing distressed blue jeans, ankle boots, and a yellow polo shirt with the museum logo stitched on its pocket, was striding down the hall toward me.
After sweeping dark hair over her shoulder, she extended her hand with a smile. “I’m Lynda Montoya, the museum administrator.” Her black eyes sparkled over chubby cheeks. “I understand you’re looking for information about a specific dig?”
“Thank you, yes. My name is Verity Hawkes. Do you remember an expe
dition here, about twenty years ago? It was organized by Professor Randall Dignam of Strathcona University.”
“There have been a lot of digs in this area. That one was before my time. My grandfather might remember it.”
“Is he available?”
“As it happens, he’s dropping by for lunch. Would you like to stay? He’s always happy to talk about the collections. Although I think you should know—” She winced. “My grandfather and the university don’t always see eye to eye.”
“I’m not from the university,” I hastened to add. “Although my mother was. She worked on that dig. I’m editing her memoirs, and I hoped to speak to someone who remembers those days.” I smiled broadly to hide my embarrassment. It was a little worrisome how accomplished a liar I was becoming.
“Corn soup,” a voice called from the entrance. We turned to see a man in a blue shirt and beaded leather vest, walking toward us, carrying a cardboard box. Thin white hair was combed back from his forehead, ending in wisps of white behind his ears, and he wore rimless glasses. “Made fresh this morning.”
Lynda took the box from him. “I’ll take this into the kitchen. Meanwhile—Verity Hawkes, meet my grandfather, Kaientaronkwen Montoya.” At my puzzled expression, she added with a smile, “Kaientaronkwen means ‘Gathering the goods.’”
Not that it helped. I’d never be able to pronounce it.
I held out my hand. “How do you do, Mr. Montoya?”
“Call me Joe,” he said with a wink. When he lowered his hand, his heavy necklace clinked slightly.
“What is that made of?” I asked. “It looks amazing.”
He fingered one of the sharp objects hanging from a row of beads. “These are black bear claws.”
“Did you—”
“Kill it?” His face was impassive. “Not this one.”
“Wow.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I left my bow and arrows at home today.”
“Okay,” I said with an embarrassed smile. “Now I know you’re kidding.” I glanced at Lynda, who was humming softly under her breath with her eyebrows up. “Or—not?”
They both grinned at me.
Joe pointed to the box. “Let’s eat.”