Carbon Dating

by Jerusha Jones

  I thought she could not possibly have been more spot-on in her assessment of human nature. “What did you see?” I whispered.

  She shrugged. “Just him shooting up. He had a stash of little syringes in his vest pockets. He’d pull up the tail of his shirt and inject himself around his waist or high on his hip.”

  “Did he check his blood glucose level first? Prick his fingertip and place a drop of blood on a stick in a little handheld meter?” I wasn’t sure how familiar Willow was with the paraphernalia required for diabetics to monitor their own status. Taking blood glucose readings out in that mucky field would have been a real hassle, but also absolutely essential if he was to dose himself with insulin correctly.

  “Didn’t see anything like that,” she muttered. “I just know he made a special trip back to the Suburban to get more syringes. I guess he had a supply in a cooler. His free pass on doomsday or something.” Her tone had turned peevish.

  Dwelling on the irresponsibility of adults wasn’t conducive to proper character development. Besides, she already had more than enough direct experience in the dereliction of duty by those important to her. Time to change the subject. “Want to deconstruct the recipe for the taquitos we had for lunch?” I asked.

  “We can do that?” Willow gasped with a tinge of eager delight. “Because those were the best taquitos—ever!” she gushed. Mission accomplished.

  I grinned. “Sure. Or we can ask Manny to demonstrate his tradecraft. Maybe we should do both, actually. I’ll try to set up a field trip to his kitchen for this weekend. We’ll put our own spin on the dish so we’re not stealing his secrets.” I figured she needed something to look forward to that didn’t have anything to do with bones or mud or a comatose archaeologist. Time to bring Willow’s prolific imagination back to the relatively safe and secure civilization in which we now found ourselves.

  oOo

  I’d stayed up way too late. Perhaps in solidarity with Vaughn since I knew he was slaving away in a badly fluorescent-lit office in a bleak concrete-block police station, performing his sworn duty. Perhaps because I felt the pressure and responsibility of running my own small marketing and public relations business and was channeling some of the Frasers’ distress myself. Regardless, the result was a stack of updated interim press releases all ready to deliver at a moment’s notice.

  Where they languished—in a pile beside the bed. Because I’d pretty much memorized them already and because Dr. Zales’ medical emergency had provided both the distraction and delay I’d been hoping for—although not in a form I’d ever wish on anyone. There’d been nary a phone call or email or text from any reporter in the greater Pacific Northwest about the gruesome find on the Frasers’ farm.

  I certainly wasn’t complaining about the media’s lack of interest. It was probably the only reason I’d been able to catch a few winks in the wee hours.

  It was still the wee hours, actually. But my phone was blaring somewhere near my head. I fumbled around and under the feather pillows until I found it.

  The caller ID indicated Denby Fraser was on the line—safe to answer. I didn’t even need to clear the frogginess out of my voice beforehand. “Yeah?” I grunted.

  “She’s here,” Denby hissed.

  “Who?” I mumbled, sitting up.

  “She’s truly unhinged. She tried to push past Nash into the kitchen, and they had a scuffle, but he’s bigger, so she’s outside yelling and waving her arms.”

  I clicked on a bedside lamp and rubbed my bleary eyes. “Who?” I tried again. The wood floor was cold under my toes.

  “She says she’s Dr. Zales’ emergency contact. I honestly didn’t get her name. I’m afraid to go outside and ask her.”

  “Have you called Vaughn yet?” I asked.

  “I will next. But she’s yelling about a permit and the publicity schedule for a wetland preserve or something, so I thought I should call you first.”

  Why do I get all the nut cases? “Do you think she’ll go away by herself once she realizes no one is paying any attention to her?” I suggested. Because there is a surprising number of adults in this society who haven’t matured out of the tantrum-pitching stage yet. I was hoping the fruitloop in the Frasers’ driveway was one of them.

  “Not likely,” Denby muttered. “She brought a thermos—and a wad of papers.” She spoke in disjointed phrases as though she was twitching back the kitchen curtains to peek at the intruder. “She’s wearing fancy boots, but they look waterproof to me. Nope,” she sighed, “she’s here for the long haul. She just opened the hatch on her Mercedes SUV and is sitting on the back bumper, sipping coffee. If I hadn’t had the day I had yesterday, I’d wonder how this is even possible.”

  “Okay,” I murmured soothingly. “At least she’s not a reporter. She sounds like a private citizen, so if nothing else, Vaughn can arrest her for trespassing. Don’t do anything to aggravate her.”

  “Like I already didn’t do anything this morning?” Denby snorted. “I want to wake up and have this be a different day.”

  I chuckled. “You and me both. But you’ve got grit. This sounds like a waiting game, and I’m certain you can outlast her. Plus, I’m on my way,” I fudged—a little. Because I needed at least ten minutes to brush my teeth and hair and get out of my pajamas and into something suitable for dealing with a rude and belligerent busybody. Too bad I didn’t have a suit of armor in my closet. But I might be able to match her expensive boots.

  CHAPTER 11

  I’d kept very few of the clothes that had been staples in my wardrobe when I worked for the National Security Agency subcontractor back in Washington D.C. because they were too over-the-top stuffy for the casual environment in the Portland metro area. Shoes, however, were the exception. I love shoes. And scarves. I also have a very decent collection of tote bags.

  Back to the point, however, which is an amazing pair of SOREL knee-high, lace-up, leather with suede trim boots I happen to own. I don’t wear them often because they have a hidden wedge in the heel which puts me well over the six-foot mark when I’m standing. But there are times when being long and lean has its advantages, and the ability to stare down an uppity woman who has planted herself in a client’s driveway is one of them.

  Dressed and with my don’t-mess-with-me mojo on, I gunned my hand-me-down Jeep onto the county road and set a rapid pace for the farm. I was almost hoping I would beat Vaughn to the standoff because I had a few words for that woman before he hauled her off to jail.

  oOo

  I got my wish. There she was, coiffed to the nines, sitting on the back bumper of her exorbitant SUV, her booted legs crossed at the ankles and swinging lightly in the breeze as though this were a day of pastoral vacation, some mild autumn adventure. I probably thought this because the sun was making a rare appearance, rays sparkling off the water droplets that coated every surface in a welcome respite after the past few days of drenching downpour. The ambient warmth couldn’t help but lift the spirits.

  However, the closer I got, the more I could see why the Frasers had locked themselves into quarantine inside their farmhouse. Because while her body might have posed for Town & Country, her expression was better formed for National Enquirer. That loathsome scowl made the professional auburn dye job and perfect French nail manicure for naught.

  The outer package might have some (very few) petty variances, but her demeanor had an uncanny resemblance to several of my father’s ex-wives, and even more so to his current wife. My growing-up years, fraught as they were with familial upheaval and emotional turmoil, were at least an excellent school of preparation for life.

  She hopped off the bumper and strode toward my muddy Jeep, her stylish tan trench coat flapping, and a plaid Burberry scarf knotted at her throat. Cashmere all the way. This was going to be fun.

  I waited until she was close enough, then flung open the driver’s door. The resulting spray of muddy silt-water that fanned across the side of her coat was worth double the satisfaction because it was accompanied by
an indignant shriek.

  She brushed ineffectually at the splatters with her bare hand. “How dare you!”

  I slowly eased out of the Jeep and straightened to my full height, plus wedges. And looked down at her. “Care to state your business?” I kept my tone low, so low she had to lean closer in order to hear me. All part of keeping her off-balance. She’d chosen the location for this confrontation—not wisely—so it was important for her to realize that any consequences were her own fault.

  But she had some spunk. I’d give her that. Because she blasted me with a rather spectacular form of stink-eye instead of replying.

  I nearly laughed out loud. It was a marvelous performance.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t realized just how effective of a training mechanism hanging around with a sometimes angsty, sometimes hyperactive teenager had been. This woman had nothing on Willow’s facial expressions. I returned a well-tutored and aggressive stink-eye of my own. Good thing I’d taken the time to put on both mascara and eyeliner.

  The woman flinched and took a step backward.

  I bit the inside of my cheeks to restrain a jubilant grin.

  “Uh, I need to know what happened to my husband,” she mumbled, her shoulders a little slumpier under the epaulets of her trench coat.

  It would be a progressive defeat, but at that first sign I already knew the outcome. I still wasn’t ready to be conciliatory, however. “Does your husband have a name?” What is it with the social elite who think that the rules of common courtesy don’t apply to them? I would’ve been much more accommodating if she had just introduced herself properly.

  “Dr. Lincoln Zales,” she announced with a little more starch.

  I pitched an eyebrow at her.

  “Ex-husband,” she amended. “But I’m his emergency contact. The hospital called me, but they won’t let me see him. He’s in a coma and…and…” She dug in her pocket and removed a pristinely folded tissue which she dabbed under her eyes for the nonexistent tears. So she was the infamous broad of volunteer gossip lore who dumped Zales for the next rich bloke to cross her path.

  The whole scene was becoming more melodramatic than I could handle on an empty stomach. “What do you want?” I barked.

  She jumped and clutched the tissue in a white-knuckled fist. “What happened to him? He’s a busy man. He can’t afford to have this…this delay in his schedule.”

  I squinted at her. This piffling rationale was clearly not the whole story. She sure was twitchy. What was she anxious about? I had to assume ulterior motives lurked under her unconvincing display of concern for her ex-husband’s professional commitments.

  “Hmmm,” I said.

  “He needs—I mean, so many people are depending on him. So much is at stake.”

  Could she possibly be more vague? I let my body blatantly display impatience and kept my mouth shut.

  “Uh, well…” She found something interesting to stare at on the horizon.

  I wondered if she noticed the blue-tarp awning that was just distantly visible in the farthest field.

  “It’s just that, well, I really need him to get better,” she whined.

  “It’s refreshing to know that you’re concerned about your ex-husband’s health,” I replied with syrupy sweetness. “But this seems like a conversation you should be holding with his doctors, when they’re willing and able to share information with you.” I wasn’t sure how far medical confidentiality guidelines extended to ex-spouses.

  “It’s just that, um, well, sometimes he does things to spite me, and do you think—” She leaned closer to whisper, “Was he faking it? The illness?”

  My eyeballs almost popped out of my head. “Definitely not,” I spat out.

  “You were here?” she continued. “You saw him? Are you sure?”

  What was this, happy hour of the highly cynical? “Yes, on all counts.” My voice took on a granite edge. The gall of the woman. She didn’t deserve details.

  “Well, then.” She inhaled deeply and seemed to snap back into character—the suave, polished, affluent, always-gets-her-own-way one that had probably served her well the majority of her adult life. She dipped her hand into a pocket again and pulled out a business card which she handed to me. “I’m Denise Puttnam, by the way, and I’d sure appreciate it if you could pass along any information as it comes your way.”

  I accepted her card, even while the whole of my being was rejecting her suggestion—and her implication.

  “You’re Eva Fairchild, aren’t you?” She batted long lashes over her hazel eyes in a display of frank feminine assessment as she looked me up and down for the first time. “I’ve heard about you. Maybe from Ross Perkins”—she tapped a forefinger against her chin in a contemplative gesture—“or was it Frank Cox?”

  Neither man was a stellar referral, and the fact that she was on a social chitchat basis with both of them indicated exactly what kind of circles she moved in. Ross Perkins was a corrupt city commissioner who was just wily enough to have not lost his elected position yet, and Frank Cox was a real estate developer who was in the process of negotiating a plea deal with the district attorney for polluting the Willamette River—the river I live on. My opinion was flip-flopping around like a suffocating fish, but I now figured Dr. Zales had been lucky to escape with his pound of flesh in their divorce.

  But this was a woman who could bring the press down on me hard if she was so inclined. However, given her not-entirely-authentic performance, it seemed there were some facets of her relationship with Dr. Zales that she would prefer to keep a lid on as well. Perhaps it would be in both of our best interests if we could avoid unnecessary public attention at the moment.

  I didn’t want to say so out loud, but I gave her a curt nod of understanding.

  She visibly relaxed. “Well, I won’t take any more of your time then.” She turned on her very expensive heels, but hesitated at the sight of two vehicles rolling toward us on the Frasers’ long driveway.

  The vehicle in the lead was the archaeologists’ dented and mud-encrusted Suburban, with Chloe at the wheel. And from the way he was tailgating her, I could tell that Vaughn in his white pickup wished she wasn’t such a careful driver. He was probably responding to Denby’s second frantic call of the morning and anxious to make sure everything was okay at the farm, but I had no idea why Chloe had returned.

  My stomach found something else to worry about besides hunger, because I doubted diminutive Chloe could handle a confrontation with the conniving Denise Puttnam, ex-wife of her currently incapacitated boss. I wondered if the two women had met before.

  Chloe slowed even more, her face white and questioning behind the driver’s window as though she was wondering if she should stop. I waved her on, but she misread my signal, and shifted the Suburban into park.

  Vaughn was already out of his pickup and striding toward us in that broad, territory-covering cop gait he has. It was his own version of a don’t-mess-with-me posture, and he didn’t need the props of mascara or high heels to do it. Today, his handgun was strapped to his leg in a thigh holster—the first time I’d ever seen him wear his gun in an unconcealed fashion. Depending on which side of the law you were on, he was either very handsome in an incredibly stern and trimly burly way, or he was scary. I chose handsome, but tried really hard not to smile at him because flirting didn’t seem appropriate given the situation.

  “Hey, Eva,” Chloe said softly, confusion written all over her frown.

  Denise glowered at the poor girl.

  “Hey,” I answered. “I didn’t know you’d need to come back today.”

  “Oh, just…it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but loose ends, you know.” Chloe cast a quick sidelong glance at Denise. Whatever her reasons, she didn’t want to express them in front of the stony-faced inferno in the trench coat.

  She needn’t have worried, because the first thing Vaughn did when he joined our group was glare coldly at Denise. “You are on private property uninvited, and you are leaving,” he i
nformed her.

  Her eyes narrowed with that split-second of calculating assessment before a catfight starts—I’d seen it so many times in my father’s ex-wives. They’d always known exactly how far to push him and how much they’d have to do on the other end to make up for it, temporarily. They had manipulation down to a science, and I thought it a safe bet that Denise did too. Except she didn’t know what a formidable foe she’d have in Vaughn.

  But a phone rang before she could unfurl her claws, and her Retin-A’d face slackened with the distraction. Then another phone rang.

  Chloe and I stared at each other blankly in the momentary lull before all of us started pawing through pockets and bags trying to find the culprits. Which was just silly because I knew it wasn’t my phone, but the response was so strongly conditioned.

  Denise whirled away from us to answer her phone. Vaughn crowded close to me to answer his.

  He hardly said anything, just a few terse words like “When?” and “Cause?”

  Denise, on the other hand, was shrieking. “You’re lying! It can’t be! Oooo, that man—I’m going to strangle him.”

  Which made it really hard to concentrate, because, of the two, I’d much rather hear Vaughn’s conversation. I leaned against his chest.

  His quiet directive sent chills up my spine. “Notify the medical examiner’s office. I want the body to go straight to autopsy with a full tox screen. Thanks for all your hard work. I know it’s difficult to lose a patient.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I found I’d clutched handfuls of Vaughn’s shirt. “Dr. Zales?” My mouth formed the words, but no sound came out.

  He nodded after he clicked off the call. “Never came out of the coma. His health directive specified no ventilator, no artificial resuscitation. Nothing the doc could do.”

  Denise had gone as white as a dead fish’s belly. She swayed slightly in her now-dirty boots, and Chloe reached out to steady her.