Carbon Dating

by Jerusha Jones

  From Vaughn’s awkward description, I gathered she was the one who’d been the source of the juiciest gossip regarding Dr. Zales. He gingerly used the terms pyramid-shaped and florid, and hearing him say those words so deadpan earnestly made me want to giggle. Something was seriously wrong with my filter-o-meter if I was this giddy this early in the morning.

  “The leg-of-mutton woman, is how I thought of her,” I murmured.

  Vaughn just blinked at me.

  “Upside down, you know—if you hold the haunch the other way…” I tried to demonstrate with arm motions, but my analogy clearly wasn’t going anywhere in his mind. Probably because he’d never roasted a leg of mutton. And since we were discussing the untimely demise of an esteemed archaeologist who presumably could be considered another slab of flesh—this one resting on the medical examiner’s cold metal table—perhaps the comparison wasn’t appropriate anyway.

  I sighed, tried to wipe from my mind the image of a blue-veined and naked Dr. Zales stiffly laid out for examination, and got to the point. “None of the volunteers are fond of him, from what I could gather. Cynical misogynist with a raging ego is probably a good summary of their general opinion of him. But it doesn’t keep them from helping at digs, although the ones in the know do their best to stay out of the way of his sharp tongue—or did, anyway.” I was still having difficulty adjusting to the past tense as it related to Dr. Zales.

  I gnawed the inside of my cheek and replayed the lunchtime conversation in my mind. Vaughn did that silent thing he does so well, his warm brown eyes never leaving my face. He has an incredibly steadying and solid presence. But there were distractions galore in the form of loud guffaws and clanging doors emanating from the rest of the police station.

  There must be significant ebbs and flows in the amount of work the police are called upon to do. Crime and peacekeeping can’t be assigned to a nine-to-five docket, or even scheduled in advance, for that matter, as evidenced by the flurry of noise and activity occurring just outside the confines of the thin walls of Vaughn’s office.

  “The volunteers know about the rancor between Denise Puttnam and Dr. Zales—at least they do now,” I added. “The leg-of-mutton woman—I mean Anne Marie Jones—filled all of us in on their lurid history.” I squinted at the gray layer of overcast clouds out the window, but there wasn’t anything left to resurrect from my memory bank.

  “Did she tell you that his death puts a temporary halt to the Puttnams’ current pet project?” Vaughn asked, reclaiming my attention. “That he was about to sign off on a restoration and native permaculture plan that involves building a replica Chinook plankhouse on the original foundation at a site just north of the Columbia River in Clark County?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “They have a full round—a very successful round—of fundraising invested already, with two more rounds planned over the next twelve months. The tribe will get all the proceeds from the entrance fees to a museum and interpretive center, and the Puttnams get social kudos as well as some concessions for construction on other tribal lands.” He shook his head at the scope of the project. “It actually seems like a good deal for both parties, not exploitive on either side. I spoke with the tribal elder responsible for land use and permitting, and he was nothing but laudatory of the Puttnams.”

  I harrumphed a little bit. But this new information was consistent with what I’d found earlier online. “I don’t think the volunteers made that connection while at the gravesite, even if they did know,” I mused. “But maybe that’s what had Denise riled.” I filled him in on the demanding statements she’d made to me during our confrontation at the farm before he’d arrived.

  A tremendous crash sounded from somewhere down the hall and made the breath catch in my throat. There was a momentary stunned silence as the whole building and all its occupants froze in mid-movement, and then a rough male voice roared what seemed to be a well-earned curse that involved someone’s mother.

  My mother was dead, so I was off the hook, but Vaughn was at his door and had it open, with his head sticking out into the hallway, before I could blink. And then he was gone.

  The commotion in the station had changed direction. Before, it’d been a general hubbub; now it was rushing in toward a central point, which was probably the site of the crash. I tiptoed in the wake of two uniformed patrol officers as they half-jogged down the hall, their hands clamped on the unlatched handgun holsters at their waists.

  Chief Monk’s office was only marginally nicer than Vaughn’s—clean but small, and sparsely decorated. Small towns equal small budgets for things like public works, facilities, and law enforcement. But the spectacle that had drawn everyone’s urgent response was the flattened chair behind the desk.

  It had collapsed in such a way that the chief had to crawl out from underneath his desk through the space usually designated for his legs if he were sitting properly. The chief is not a small man. As tall as Vaughn but with a Kevlar-coated paunch. Not fat, really, but very sturdy. A condition that was exacerbated by the amount of equipment he was wearing. And the remains of the chair were functioning as a mass of robotically entangling tentacles.

  The chief freed himself with one final kick of a thick-soled boot. His knees made loud popping sounds as he slowly pushed to standing. “What is that newfangled death trap?” he grumbled as he turned to the standing-room-only audience. “Show’s over, folks.”

  We were wedged three-deep into the small room, squeezed through the opening from the hallway overflow—probably the way a river delta looks in aerial photos—and so tightly packed that the baton on the officer next to me was jabbing into my thigh. I kept my hands up and pressed over my chest. With all the armed personnel—bristling with radios and handcuffs and Tasers and OC spray and stiff bulletproof vests and other gadgets—in the throng, this wasn’t the time to accidentally bump into someone in the wrong way.

  The heavyset secretary in front of me shifted to the side and started a human steamroller exodus through the office door, giving me my first really comprehensive look at the chair.

  Those black faux-leather arms and spindly metal legs ending in aerodynamic roller wheels were suspiciously familiar. All the blood drained from my face.

  Behind me, people were scuttling away as quickly as they’d converged, probably trying to spare the chief additional embarrassment as he dusted off the knees of his pants and pressed his fists into the small of his back to stretch out the kinks. I could hear slightly muffled snickers and low whispers from the retreating herd. But I just stood there, stuck, slack-jawed and gaping.

  The chief, mistaking the horror-stricken look on my face, assumed I was offended by his outburst. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Eva. I promise it’s not an everyday occurrence.” Then he did a worried double-take. “You feeling faint, honey? We don’t want you hitting the floor too.”

  Vaughn glanced up from where he was kneeling beside the tangled mess of metal and plastic and Naugahyde on the floor, inspecting the parts. His face and shoulders had a strained tautness to them. And the briefest darkening of his brown eyes confirmed my suspicions.

  I gurgled an acceptance of Chief Monk’s apology and flapped a hand in what I hoped was a dismissive gesture. I wasn’t even close to fainting. But that must be the impression I give when I’m overwhelmed with guilt.

  Chief Monk slid a warm hand under my elbow as a form of insurance anyway. “I’d offer you a seat, but that doesn’t seem to be a safe option at the moment. Maybe Vaughn here will look after you, huh?” His expression had turned shrewd. “You’ve been around the station a lot lately, haven’t you?”

  I nodded mutely.

  Vaughn had quickly risen to support my other elbow, and I was now flanked by two handsome men who seemed to be having a nonverbal conversation just barely over the top of my head. It was a weird feeling.

  “Not that I mind,” the chief continued. His gaze was on Vaughn as he said it, and he had a satisfied smirk beneath the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jowly cheeks. “Just
take it easy on the equipment, huh?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Vaughn tugged me back to his office and quietly latched the door behind us. Mindful of the thin walls, I tried to keep the high-pressure snort that immediately burst from my lungs as quiet as possible. But it was useless.

  Vaughn wrapped me in his arms and buried his face in my neck as I dissolved into an endless series of giggles. He was trembling too, his shoulders and breath stuttering.

  For a moment, I struggled against him, trying to see his face, thinking he was ill. But he wasn’t. Unless oxygen-deprivation due to suppressed mirth counts as an illness.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I wheezed. “Does he know?” Vaughn and the chief had a special bond that went beyond their professional relationship, and I was hoping Vaughn had gotten a good read on Chief Monk’s mood.

  “Yeah.” Vaughn heaved a sigh and pressed me against the closed door. “He was moving at his normal speed when he got up. His knees always pop like that. Old high school football injuries.”

  “What happened?” I was still wheezing. “I mean, how did your chair end up in his office?”

  “I’m gonna find out,” Vaughn growled. “And its next stop is the dumpster.” His breath was warm on my cheek, and his noontime shadow created a tingly sort of scratchy on my skin.

  I scrunched up my shoulder to ward off more sandpaper rubbing. “You could strap Vera and Anne Marie to it when you question them. They’re already talkative, but I bet they’d kick it up a notch in that chair.”

  Vaughn was no longer chuckling. “Darling, maybe you need to brush up on police procedure regulations. Besides, I’ve already submitted a search warrant request for their bank statements.”

  My arms were looped around his waist, and I grabbed handfuls of his shirt at the small of his back in my excitement. “Were they in a position to benefit financially from Dr. Zales’ death?”

  Vaughn lifted his head and gazed into my eyes, his face just inches from mine. “Do you really want to talk about the case right now?” he murmured.

  The heat coming off that man. I just about wilted.

  “Um, yes?” I squeaked. “We don’t have a terrific track record when we’re making out in here.”

  “What making out?” he grumbled, but he released me.

  I thought I’d better press on with the questioning. “What did they stand to gain?” I asked.

  “Not them directly, but their husbands. Harry Jones and Don Barrow are partners in a small real estate investment firm that bought a strip mall in Tualatin. It’s a dump, but they had grand plans for it until Dr. Zales put the kibosh on immediate development because of some blacksmith tools found when a bioswale was being dug at the edge of the property. The children of the previous owner raised a fuss and demanded six months to investigate and remove any artifacts they could prove belonged to their homesteading forebears. The investors don’t care about the artifacts but they do care about the time line. With Dr. Zales’ influential opinion out of the way, they have a shot at getting a court injunction that their original contract be honored without delay.”

  That information had me chewing my lip. “Sounds like a conflict of interest within those two couples then too—the Joneses and the Barrows,” I mused. “The two women love history enough to get dirty volunteering in pursuit of it, and the two men want to see their investment pay off as soon as possible. All reasonable claims.”

  “Which is why I’m not enamored of them as suspects and won’t be subjecting them to that rack of a chair anytime soon,” Vaughn added with a wry smile.

  “Due diligence.” I shook my head. “Do you know how much I respect that about you? Following up on all of Dr. Zales’ projects and the concerned parties for each of them. It was a ton of work.”

  He took a step closer, reminding me once again of how good he smells. “Yeah? Even though the work takes me out of social—and romantic—commission for days at a time? It’s stressful on relationships.”

  “Mmmm.” I was thinking, regardless of my earlier objection, that I had a promise to keep. A promise about kissing. I had my good name and reputation to uphold, and breaking promises was not part of that package. I tilted toward him.

  The phone on his desk blared, and I flinched backward.

  “Damn,” Vaughn muttered. But he answered before the second ring.

  A flicker of worry crossed his face, and he punched the speaker button.

  “—Tanith told me you were asking questions about who emptied the cooler,” Chloe was saying. Her voice sounded small, even through the amplified speaker. “That was me.”

  “Right,” Vaughn answered as he rounded the desk and grabbed a notepad and pen. “Can you describe the contents of the cooler and what you did with them?”

  “Uh, well, just some vials and a couple filled syringes and another handful of empties. I couldn’t tell quickly if the empties had been used or not, so I just put all of those in the sharps disposal box Dr. Zales keeps under his desk in his office. I figured it was safer to throw away unused ones than to allow the potential of having used syringes accidentally reused.”

  Vaughn was nodding along, taking rapid notes. “What usually happens to that sharps disposal box?”

  “Our night janitor replaces it with an empty one when it’s half full. He also cleans several doctor’s offices and a dentist’s office in the evenings so he’s comfortable with the process. He takes them to a medical waste facility.”

  “I’ll need his contact information.”

  “Uh, sure.” Chloe hesitated for a second, then added timidly, “Before I called, I checked the box to see…anyway, it’s empty now. I didn’t pick up the box when I dropped the syringes into it, but I could’ve sworn that they clattered on the bottom, that there weren’t very many, if any, other syringes in there until I added the extras from the cooler.”

  “Okay, Chloe,” Vaughn said reassuringly. “I’ll check on that. What did you do with the vials and filled syringes?”

  “I returned them to the trays in the fridge in the breakroom. That’s where Dr. Zales keeps—kept—his insulin stash. I guess we’d all become accustomed to that—seeing his vials right next to the cartons of cream and people’s lunch leftovers. We didn’t think much of it until—well, until now, I guess.”

  “Is there any reason you, rather than Heath, emptied the cooler when you returned from the gravesite?”

  “No. I almost forgot, honestly.” Chloe was taking her time, answering thoughtfully. “We pulled out the plastic tubs right away, the ones with the bones and clothing bits, wanting to log them into the climate-controlled forensic lab as quickly as possible. It wasn’t until I reached behind the front passenger seat for my purse that my hand bumped against the cooler and it occurred to me that the ice packs wouldn’t last until Dr. Zales returned. Because, you know, at that point, I thought he would…” her voice trailed off.

  I’d resettled into the plastic chair, itching to take my own notes on the conversation, but valiantly restraining myself. Instead, I rummaged through my tote bag, pulled out my weekly planner, and pretended to be checking my schedule for the next few days. Anything to keep Vaughn from turning off the speaker function because several urgent questions were blazing paths in my brain.

  He had Chloe forward him to Tanith and, after a short interaction, collected the vital details about the institute’s night janitor.

  As soon as he hung up, I couldn’t help myself and blurted, “You didn’t seize the sharps disposal box during the search.”

  The amused tilt at the corner of Vaughn’s lips was maddening—and endearing. I couldn’t decide whether to huff at him or lunge across the desk and kiss it off his mouth.

  “Because it was empty.”

  “But if the janitor’s not supposed to replace it until it’s half full, then—”

  “Darling, I’m the detective here.”

  “But you’re thinking the same thing. Something fishy’s going on at the institute.”

  Vaughn
just nodded, the muscles of his jaw bunched at the corners.

  “The cooler,” I continued, “I remember it. Behind the front passenger seat of the Suburban. I saw Dr. Zales get into it once, after breakfast. The doors of all those vehicles at the scene seemed to have been unlocked. Remember at lunchtime when we all gathered around under the protection of whatever door or hatch was open? Access to that cooler was available to anyone, pretty much all the time.”

  “And yet, it wasn’t until the cooler was returned to the institute that syringes disappeared.” Vaughn tapped his pen against the notepad, and appeared to be reviewing his tight scrawl.

  “Actually, we don’t know that for sure. Any number of syringes could’ve been lost at the gravesite too. All that mud. Everyone had lots of pockets in their rain slickers and other clothing. Think about that crazy vest Dr. Zales was wearing—pockets galore. Or down a rubber boot. They could’ve been hidden any place. Think about how long that bomb was stuck in the muck until it was found. And a syringe is so much smaller.” I was getting carried away and knew it. I pressed my lips together to keep any other frivolities from tumbling out and scowled at him.

  But he was grinning again. “Are you sure you’re in the right profession?”

  I snorted.

  He came around the desk, pulled me to my feet, wrapped me up in those strong arms, and planted a chaste kiss on my forehead. “Go home,” he rumbled. “Or at least somewhere else. I have leads to follow and while gorgeous, charming, and utterly enticing, you are also very distracting.”

  “If I remember correctly, I was invited,” I grumbled.

  “And now I’m uninviting you, babe, with great reluctance,” he murmured in my ear. “Don’t forget—you still owe me.”

  oOo

  Like son, like mother—that’s all I can say. I must have some kind of electromagnetic frequency that sends quivers to her antennae, because more often than not, she knows when I’ve just arrived home and drops by to chat. Could be she’d spotted my red Jeep Wrangler in the parking lot. Maybe with a pair of binoculars. I wouldn’t put it past her.