Carbon Dating

by Jerusha Jones

The caramel apple kuchen I’d made using Macintosh apples I’d picked myself from an orchard in Hood River was resting on a cooling rack down in the kitchen. The scent was doing its best to lure me back downstairs, but I was valiantly fending off its advances.

  Because something was still bugging me. A lot of somethings, actually. But mainly those niggly words Denise Puttnam had uttered in her half of the phone conversation I’d overheard. Particularly the part about strangling him. I’d assumed the him she’d been referring to was her ex-husband. But it’s hard to strangle a dead man.

  She’d also said so much was at stake. What, exactly?

  I’d stolen a pair of eyeglasses once. They belonged to Ancer Potts, a former resident of the marina. But during his hurried departure under cover of darkness, I’d been too distracted by other needs and people to think of returning them. So they were hooked around the base of the lamp on my desk, looking back at me with their thick, distorted lenses as I opened my laptop, reminding me that motivations are often not what they seem at first glance.

  Or at the tenth, or hundredth glance. People have hidden depths, and they change their minds with perplexing frequency.

  Google—the answer to many of life’s questions. Or at least a decent tool for helping to develop a few working hypotheses. I lit up the search engine and learned more than I’d bargained for.

  For one, Lincoln Zales’ and Denise Puttnam’s lives were far more intertwined than one would expect from a former couple who had no children together. He’d been the primary investigator and expert opinion during the permitting process for several developments Denise’s husband, Phelps Puttnam, had initiated. And, by and large, Dr. Zales had produced reports that were in their favor. The Puttnams also seemed rather conscientious about their investments—lots of do-gooderism in the form of land reclamation, clean up, diverse botanical plantings, and preserving the land for public enjoyment.

  What they didn’t do was donate. They insisted on maintaining ownership of, and therefore stewardship responsibility for, the land they owned. Consequently, they’d collected a chorus of negative voices around their activities, primarily environmental activists who thought all land belonged to everyone, no matter who happened to be paying the taxes on it. There were also hints of favoritism in how their permits were given priority and/or laxity in interpretation of certain rules by the governing bodies—in other words, the appearance of wealth can engender political influence. Not a new refrain.

  But still, the Puttnams seemed responsible and civic-minded, even if their methods were a bit heavy-handed. Phelps was an expat Brit who’d moved to the United States to attend university back in the 1970s. It seemed he’d brought a landed gentry attitude with him.

  As much as I hated to admit it, I wasn’t finding any glaringly good reasons for Denise Puttnam to off her ex-husband. Clearly, I was also allowing my imagination to run away with me. It would be better for everyone—except Lincoln Zales, obviously—if his death was entirely and unfortunately accidental.

  A phone call from Roxy saved me from a mire of unproductive mental wallowing. “Want to see yourself on television?” she rasped. “Then get your skinny self up here. It must be a slow news night, because your mug is all over the teasers.”

  Roxy, as well as the other marina residents, had been incredulous when she learned that I didn’t own a television, especially considering what I do for a living these days. They frequently took pity on me, inviting me over for all major televised events like NFL games, political debates, the season opener of whatever police procedural/drama/crime/dysfunctional family show was destined to be popular around water coolers. I figured I had enough of all those things in my life already and consistently turned down their offers of cultural hospitality.

  Except tonight. I pulled on a second sweatshirt and slid my feet into a pair of rubber clogs I’d recently added to my climate-appropriate repertoire and made a dash for it. I had a ninety-second advertisement slot to make it to the small apartment attached to the marina office.

  Roxy’d left the door ajar, and I pushed inside as the male anchor for the NBC affiliate station read the lead-in to the evening’s top story. And then there I was, in all my ten-pounds-heavier camera glory, spouting calm reasonableness (if I did say so myself).

  “Not bad,” Roxy grunted when the ordeal was over. “Seems like a bunch of furor over nothing. Or next to nothing. But that’s normal for the news, I guess.” She hefted herself out of her recliner and took the three steps necessary to reach out and change the channel on the television. Apparently, she eschewed remote controls for the sake of exercise.

  The ABC affiliate was just wrapping up what appeared to be exactly the same clip. Roxy took a hiatus from lighting up a fresh cigarette to poke more buttons, and the CBS affiliate anchor flashed onto the screen. He was in the midst of adding his own commentary to my story—something about the rich history of the region and how, more often than not, it’s just below your feet, wherever you’re standing. Not a bad spin, I thought.

  Roxy thunked her half clamshell ashtray on top of the TV and eyed me through a haze of bluish smoke. “Was that what you were aiming for?”

  I nodded. “More or less. I’ll review the other clips later, but short of no coverage at all, which would’ve been my preference, yeah, I guess it’ll do.”

  She snorted softly and returned to her chair. She waved her free hand toward the matching recliner that was situated at a mirrored angle to her own. The talking heads on the television continued blathering, oblivious to the fact that this particular audience was no longer paying them any attention.

  “Where’s Willow?” I asked as I sank—and continued sinking—into the plush depths of the chair.

  “Out at the farm. The Frasers have her harvesting and sorting what’s left in their pumpkin fields now. They got a deal with a foofy local bakery to supply the organic pumpkins for their preordered Thanksgiving pies. The Frasers have to get them out of the fields and to the processor in the next few days. She’s working until nine tonight in their cold storage shed.”

  “On a school night?” I queried, cringing even as I did so. Who was I to presume to know how to mother a child?

  But Roxy is remarkably resilient, particularly against taking offense. She answered readily. “Her homework’s usually finished before she gets home from school. That girl…” She wagged her beehive. “I don’t know how she does it, but I think it’s a form of compensation. One part of her life that’s nice and orderly and fully under her control. I just know neither her mother nor I ever got the kind of grades she does. Seems to enjoy academics in spite of the obligatory complaints.”

  I grinned, remembering that stage in my own life. Complaints were mandatory. Actually, I might not have changed much since then. “She seems to be thriving at the farm too,” I added.

  Roxy sighed deeply. “I’m going to lose her in a few years. She’s going to rise above banausic considerations.”

  I blinked. Roxy and her word-a-day calendar. I would have to look up the meaning of banausic when I got home. But it was safe to guess she wasn’t referring to the appeal of drugs, sex, or general craziness. She meant the call of real life, exploring the world, possibly ambition in a more arty sense. Willow would want all of those things, and she was also right that most weren’t abundantly available in the bare-bones, drab little apartment in which I was now sitting.

  But Willow was already doing just fine pursuing her own interests—cooking lessons with me, getting her hands dirty at the farm, attending her writing group where her speculative fiction was critiqued by her peers and she learned to formulate critiques of her own.

  But then Roxy’s real meaning—the underlying one—just about leveled me. I grabbed the arms of the cushy chair to keep from disappearing into the odoriferous green velveteen while I processed the true sorrow in her words.

  When Willow grew up and left home—it was nearly certain she wasn’t the type to hang around and mooch off her grandmother—Roxy would be alo
ne in the world. First a daughter lost to drugs and a prison sentence, then a granddaughter lost to the lure of a better life. I winced, thought of a million things to say, and opted to voice none of them. How does one offer consolation in the face of such deprivation?

  So we sat in silence, the television squawking in the background, Roxy puffing away, her narrowed gaze fixed on the ceiling, and me fidgeting ever so slightly. As much as the chair allowed, really.

  “You’re good for her, you know,” Roxy interrupted her reverie to state. “Even if you’re part of the problem.”

  I gulped. “In what way?”

  She shrugged and blotted the end of her cigarette in the ash tray that was her constant companion. It had its own nestled indentation in the padding on the chair’s arm. “Who doesn’t want the life you have?”

  “Really?” I squeaked. “Because I didn’t think—”

  “Nope. Didn’t think, did you? She sees you starting your own business, darting all over the city to talk with interesting people, in the thick of things. So competent, so—I don’t know—invigorating. So foreign to her. Of course she idolizes you.”

  In the past few months since arriving in the Pacific Northwest and sinking my savings into a rundown floating house, I’d been thinking about eating, and how to afford the food necessary to keep body and soul together, and how to not default on my moorage lease. The kind of ideas guaranteed to force a sort of scrabbling intensity into one’s outlook and activities. But I didn’t say anything. Roxy needed to vent, and arguing, trying to justify myself in her sight, wouldn’t solve anyone’s problems.

  The human interest story about overcrowding at a dog shelter transitioned to the sports broadcaster. He was wearing an atrociously bright green tie with a big yellow O on it that contrasted garishly with his orange spray-on tanned face—probably because Roxy’s television was of the old, big box, cathode ray tube variety and the color settings were wonkily enthusiastic. Apparently, he was an alumnus of the Big Green—University of Oregon—whose football team was suffering a string of embarrassing and unexpected losses. I hated that I even knew this, but a general awareness of the Ducks’ gridiron prospects was unavoidable if one ventured around the state’s most populous city.

  Roxy heaved another sigh. “Forget I said those things, will you? I’m a crabby old woman.”

  “I know love when I see it,” I replied, straining mightily to free myself from the chair. It’d been a physical mistake to sit down—but not an emotional mistake. Roxy cracked open her hard shell and revealed her inner workings only if you stuck around for a good long time. “And so does Willow. Guaranteed. She has you all figured out.”

  I squeezed Roxy’s shoulder as I passed by on the way to letting myself out. “You’ve given her so many reasons to come back and visit, I can’t even count them.”

  She grunted and took a long drag on the current cigarette, but there was a soft mistiness at the edges of her intelligent black eyes. She gave me a little nod of the giant hair—an apology, agreement, and tinge of hope all in one gesture.

  CHAPTER 15

  I didn’t see Vaughn for two days. He was tracking down every stray detail about Dr. Zales’ life, and I was taking care of the less urgent needs of my other clients. The Frasers were busy with the pumpkin harvest and other autumn preparations, and Chloe was buried in archive research. It was like we were all hunkered in our respective foxholes but holding our collective breaths, waiting for the autopsy results.

  Which came through, loud and clear, Thursday morning. They weren’t for public release—at least not yet—and that public included me.

  But Vaughn did soften that harsh blow (for a busybody like myself, at any rate) with a considerate warning. “The initial examination looks promising, even though we’re still waiting for the lab results and tox screen. But I’m about to execute a search warrant on Northwest Archaeological Institute as a precautionary measure. As their spokesperson, I thought you’d want to know. But don’t talk to anyone associated with the institute for at least an hour, babe. I don’t want them to have a heads-up that I’m coming.”

  However, he hadn’t forbidden my driving over there. So that’s exactly what I did.

  True to my promise, I didn’t say a word. Just stood in the entrance vestibule beside Tanith and watched a handful of uniformed officers troop back and forth in the course of their rambles along the narrow halls where they were combing through the contents of the institute’s many small rooms. I also tried to pretend that Vaughn’s fierce scowls were bouncing off my impervious skin. Apparently he didn’t appreciate my inventiveness, or the fact that while obeying the letter of his law, I was seriously violating the spirit of it.

  Tanith was shaking, the ruffly edges of her chiffon sleeve brushing against my arm. So I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, still keeping mum but giving her a reassuring squeeze.

  “What do they want?” she whispered. “I already gave the detective everything he asked for. Willingly. Happily. There was no need for them to barge in like this.” She flapped a hand nervously, indicating all the dust being disturbed in the creaky old house.

  The place was probably an archaeological dig all on its own, which was perhaps why the officers were taking so long—and having to be so painstakingly thorough amid the piles of historical clutter.

  “He’s not so handsome now, is he?” Tanith continued to whisper. Clearly, she’d noticed the scowls too.

  I grimaced but held my tongue.

  Eventually, Vaughn was called to confer with one of the searching officers. When he returned, he was holding a beat-up Coleman cooler by the handle with a gloved hand. It was hard-sided but small, the kind used by construction workers to carry their lunches. It had been used hard and long, judging by the dirty scrapes and dings in the rugged exterior plastic.

  “Recognize this?” he asked Tanith.

  She nodded. “It’s Dr. Zales’ cooler, the one he keeps his insulin supply in when he’s out in the field.”

  “It’s empty.” Vaughn made the words sound like an accusation.

  “Of course.” Tanith’s demeanor turned frosty. “We have a fridge right here. One of the team must have returned the extra syringes to the breakroom refrigerator since Dr. Zales wasn’t here to do it himself. That’s where he keeps his supply. We didn’t know then that…” She faltered and shifted her gaze to study the scuffed carpet runner at our feet. “Well, we just didn’t know,” she repeated quietly.

  “Who emptied it?” In an instant, Vaughn’s tone had changed to consoling. I had no idea how he did it.

  “Heath or Chloe. They rode back in Sherman.” She must have spotted Vaughn’s raised eyebrow, because she hurried on to explain. “That’s the name of one of our field vehicles. They all have names, which is easier than memorizing the license plate numbers. Since they had Sherman checked out, they were responsible for emptying the Suburban when they returned and logging in any artifacts they’d collected.”

  Vaughn signaled to the officer who’d been standing at his shoulder, and the young man disappeared down the hallway toward the breakroom. “I’ll need to see Sherman,” he told Tanith.

  “Of course.” She bustled over to her desk and selected a key with a bright-orange tag from her top drawer. “Straight through the back door will get you into the motor pool parking lot. Sherman’s a maroon color with a bashed-in left rear bumper. Sign post,” she added as an afterthought with a shrug. “These things happen.”

  Very efficient and organized. I gave Tanith a grim nod in response to her worried glance. The distraction of a vehicle to search gave us a few moments alone together.

  “What do you suppose they’re looking for?” She was back to whispering.

  I shook my head. “I’m particularly inept at reading his mind.”

  “You’d better work on that, honey, if you want this thing between you two to develop.” Tanith clucked. “He’s a tough one.”

  The thing was, I did sort of have an idea of what Vaughn was looking
for. If I was right, then his actions put a whole new spin on the meaning of promising—as in the initial autopsy exam was promising. Promising for whom?

  Vaughn returned from the Suburban search empty-handed, but the officer who’d been sent to inventory the contents of the breakroom refrigerator came back with a bulging padded paper pouch. In the end, they removed only two items from the premises, two things Tanith had to sign for—the cooler and the collection of insulin vials and syringes in the paper pouch.

  “Come to my office?” Vaughn murmured as he brushed by me on his way out the door.

  I blinked at his request, but shrugged a positive response. Might as well get the lecture over with.

  oOo

  Instead, I got to see a weary man at work.

  “No leads?” I asked as I settled into the molded plastic chair that served as visitor seating in Vaughn’s office. The room was starting to feel familiar to me. Probably because I’d seen the carpet up close during my last visit.

  “Several. But none of them are particularly compelling.” Vaughn leaned back and stretched, lacing his fingers behind his head. His new-old chair seemed to be up to the task of supporting his considerably tall and leggy form. It didn’t make a single squeak.

  I exhaled when I realized I’d been holding my breath with regard to the chair’s integrity, and offered him a feeble grin. I still wasn’t up to testing it with both of our weights, however. “Want to talk about them?”

  To my surprise, he nodded. “I noticed you were huddled with a group of volunteers that afternoon. I’m interested in a couple of them. What were your impressions of Vera Barrow and Anne Marie Jones, and what did they say to you?”

  “There was only one Vera at the scene?” I queried. “Because I caught only first names, and not even that for most of them.”

  Vaughn nodded. “One Vera. Silver hair. Short.”

  I inhaled deeply, hoping the extra oxygen would prompt full memory recall. “And what does Anne Marie Jones look like?”