Preservation

by Charles Lemoine

  “What about the police? They’ll need to know about the accident.” Ingrid stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest. She reminded her of her mother. The woman definitely had more to say but was keeping her opinions to herself—for now.

  “Before any of that, I would like to ask you something. The whole reason I came up here in the first place was to discuss the La Brea Woman.”

  Ingrid uncrossed her arms and placed her hand on her hips. Pursing her lips together, she offered nothing, but a few rapid eye blinks. “What about her?”

  “I’m sure by now you’ve heard. She’s been stolen?”

  Ingrid’s face fell at the mention of it. “Of course, dear. The board of directors was immediately called, and we convened the following day. Do you know what kind of damage bad press can do to a museum like the Page?” Mariska didn’t speak but nodded. “I’m sure you have an inkling, but the full ramifications can be devastating. Bad press can mean the difference between getting funding to continue with the digs or close the doors forever.”

  “What did the board discuss? The appearance of my involvement?”

  Ingrid pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow as her red-hot stare took in Mariska and her current state of messy clothes and hair. “We discussed how we were going to keep the details out of the press for as long as we could. One way we were able to do that was by not mentioning you by name.”

  Mariska was relieved she wouldn’t be having to answer questions to the press as well as the authorities…or at least not yet. Despite her innocence in regards to the disappearance of the remains, she couldn’t help but feeling sad when she looked at the older woman. La Brea Woman was such an integral part of her life. Ingrid had often been quoted as saying the ancient woman’s remains was both inspirational and pivotal in her desire to become a scientist. The mysterious skeleton had provided her with motivation to keep pushing through a testosterone saturated field of study, staying one step ahead of her male colleagues. Another reason Ingrid was such an inspiration to Mariska.

  “I appreciate you keeping my name out of the media,” Mariska said. “It would only have added to the stress of this whole thing.”

  “We didn’t do it for you. My hope is to find the La Brea Woman’s remains before she’s lost forever. God forbid she ends up on the black market or halfway across the world in some rich asshole’s living room on display.” Ingrid stepped over to Mariska and plucked a tiny leaf from her hair. “You were attacked…and now run off the road.”

  “Some luck, huh?”

  “Do you think the two incidents are connected?” Ingrid asked, still holding her hand.

  Mariska wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I would like to think they aren’t, but who knows? I haven’t heard of any leads regarding my attack…or about the La Brea Woman.”

  “Surely, the police have investigated? Haven’t you heard anything about it at the museum?”

  “That’s the thing, Ingrid. I’ve been fired…well, suspended thanks to the influence of my father actually. Pending the outcome of the investigation, Dr. Snyder said he would decide then. If there is a shred of evidence I was involved, I’ll be fired and then prosecuted.”

  “I can’t imagine that’ll happen. I mean, you’re not the cause of this mess. You were the one attacked, for God’s sake.”

  “You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. I was so worried you might believe the rumors.” Mariska squeezed the older woman’s hand.

  “If I believed rumors or even listened to the gossip or innuendos I’ve been subjected to over the years, I would have gotten nowhere with my life.” Ingrid gave a sweeping motion with her arms indicating the enormous amount of success she’d accomplished.

  “I’m glad you feel that way. I have something I need to ask you.”

  “Ask me anything you’d like, dear.”

  “All of my research has been deleted from my computer, and I no longer have access to anything at the Museum. To make matters worse, since the La Brea Woman is missing, I can’t redo any of the research that’s already been done on her. I have nothing.” Mariska’s voice grew high with her emotions.

  “Calm yourself, Mariska.” Ingrid put a reassuring hand on Mariska’s shoulder. “Do you think if every time I was upset about something in my career, I flew off the handle or cried, that I would have been taken seriously by the establishment? Not on your life. Now, continue. Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help.”

  Mariska took a moment to collect her thoughts and pushed down her emotions. “As the head of the IRB for the Page Museum, you were aware I had been granted money for research, or that’s what I’d been lead to believe. I thought I was going to be allowed to complete an in-depth research study on La Brea Woman’s remains. For the first time, we might have been given an insight into who she was, where she came from, how she ended up in the pit, and who she belongs to. Really, belongs to.”

  Ingrid’s eyes were searching hers. Mariska could feel the electricity in the air. The energy of a woman who’s been at the forefront of innovation and international research, for decades. Say something…anything, Mariska thought.

  “You’re absolutely right. I was overjoyed to be at the helm of the board responsible for allowing the research. But with the remains missing, what would be the point on even considering it? I’m not one to give up on a cause or a course of action simply because the road is hard.” Ingrid’s jaw visibly clenched. “Without a body, the research would never justify the grant of precious funding.”

  “I agree, but that’s why I’m here.”

  “Go on.” Ingrid raised an eyebrow in interest.

  “Your father and grandfather were the ones who unearthed La Brea Woman back in 1914. If I know anything about you and your family, it’s that you keep meticulous documentation. The research your father did on the first giant sloth unearth was nothing short of inspiring. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to pull bone after bone out of the earth with absolutely no idea what it was. The species of animal was no longer in existence, so there was no reference by which to piece it back together. It was through his copious notations, photographs, and measurements that made it all possible.”

  “He was truly an impressive man.”

  “That’s why I have a feeling you may have the key,” Mariska said.

  “Key to what?”

  “Finding the La Brea Woman. Think about it…your family members were the first to take notes, photographs, and document details regarding the La Brea Woman. So, while we no longer have the actual remains, we have the next best thing: their first-hand evidence. There may even be something that points to a clue that could help us find her.”

  “How? I don’t understand where you’re going with this.” Ingrid shook her head, obviously unconvinced.

  “There may be clues in their writings as to who she belonged to or how she ended up in the pit, to begin with. I’ve been wracking my brain for days now trying to figure out why anyone would want to steal her remains. The only thing I could think of was the fact that there were protestors outside the Gala. Maybe one of them snuck in to take her.”

  “There’s always protestors at the big events. The local tribes feel she belongs to them, but they can’t even agree as to which tribe has the rightful claim on her. Why now? Why would they attack you and take her now? She’s been housed in the museum for decades.”

  Mariska gave it some thought. “I don’t know. I need more information. That’s what I’m hoping your father and grandfather’s notes would provide. Not to mention in the event she’s lost forever, I’d like to use their documentation to put together research with what we do have.”

  Ingrid didn’t say anything for a few agonizing moments. She reached out and took Mariska’s hand in hers. She led Mariska across the room to the bookcase on the far wall. “Take a look at these books here. Many of them are old and first edition.”

  Of course they are, Mariska thought. She wouldn’t have suspected
anything less from Ingrid. The woman was all class and knew the value of history and artifacts.

  “If you were to pick one book from this collection as being most important to you. One that seemed to have the most impact on your life or career, which one would it be?” Ingrid asked. Her face was bright and alive. Her energy was contagious. Mariska felt a tingle run up her spine, and she shivered.

  Mariska looked over the selection. The books ranged from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, to Moby Dick. There didn’t seem to be much of an order or theme to them, other than they were old and probably signed first editions. Then one book, in particular, caught her eye. Fifty Shades of Grey, by EL James. No, way.

  “This one,” Mariska said, pointing to the book.

  “Ah.” Ingrid crossed her arms and turned to Mariska. “How’d I know you would say that?”

  Mariska smiled and cocked her head to the side as if to say you’ve got to be kidding me.

  “Now, reach up there and tilt the book down,” Ingrid said. But as Mariska reached up to touch the edge of the book, Ingrid stopped her. “Carefully.”

  The women shared a soft laugh, although Mariska cringed internally. With all the care in the world, Mariska tipped the book toward her. When the book reached a forty-five-degree angle, there was an audible click. Mariska turned to Ingrid with a questioning look.

  “It’s a secret room.” Ingrid reached up and pulled on the bookcase. A hiss of air and a scraping sound as the bookcase slid across the wooden floor. “I keep most of my family’s research in here for safekeeping. A fireproof room, hidden from prying eyes.”

  Mariska took a step forward, entering the room. The temperature was at least ten degrees cooler, dry, and pitch black. She turned to ask if Ingrid could turn on the lights when the older woman flipped the wall switch. Mariska gasped, the bright light making her wince and shield her eyes for a moment. Blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the bright illumination, things began to come into focus. The room was a vault. A time capsule.

  Ingrid came up behind Mariska and whispered in her ear, “Now, that you’ve seen this place, I can’t let you leave.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mariska turned just as Ingrid took a step toward her. Heart pounding, her eyes darted around the room but found nowhere for her to hide. Nowhere to run. This can’t really be happening?

  “What do you mean?” Mariska said, taking a step back. Had her luck just run out?

  Ingrid let out a hearty laugh. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” She reached for Mariska’s hand, but Mariska pulled it away. “Oh dear. I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well, you did.”

  “I see that now. Considering what you’ve just been through, it was definitely in poor taste.” Ingrid reached for Mariska’s hand once again. This time, Mariska allowed the older woman to hold her. “I’ve been called many things in my life, but never a comedian. I am sorry I scared you.”

  Mariska took a moment to respond. “Of course, I’m just a bit jumpy. With everything that’s been going on lately, I just overreacted.”

  “I, for one, am glad you didn’t hit me. When I get scared, I tend to lash out. Or, I did when I was younger.” Ingrid released Mariska’s hand and walked across the room to a large built-in cabinet and drawers. “My father always said I was his fiery redhead.”

  The cabinets were, of course, museum-quality and reminded Mariska of the storage areas of the Tombs. They were made of dark wood: large single panels made up the upper cabinets, and the lower drawers had industrial style pulls and were faced with ornately carved designs. Ingrid went over to the top drawer and pulled it open. Mariska crossed half the distance to get a better look. From her new vantage point, she saw that Ingrid was fingering through files. What they were marked, Mariska couldn’t see from this distance. A few moments later, Ingrid located what she’d been looking for.

  “Here it is,” she declared as she pulled out a thick, white folder that had begun to yellow with age. Ingrid turned and smiled. “You must see this. I think this is what you’ve been looking for.”

  Ingrid brought the contents over to a large table in the center of the room and laid the folder open on it. Mariska was there in a flash, willing her hands to keep to themselves. Ingrid slowly, but with a measured hand, turned page after page over until she reached the first photograph in the pile.

  “Ah, this is my grandfather and father standing with Mr. Page. They’d just discovered the La Brea Woman. Look at their faces. They were so happy—proud.”

  Mariska couldn’t agree more. The men looked practically giddy, with huge open mouth smiles, the youngest man slightly doubled over with an explosive laugh. This was something that Mariska had found to be a rarity for the time period. Photographs of people back then were almost always posed, and the people were almost always deadly serious.

  The next picture was just the younger man, but this time he wasn’t laughing, wasn’t smiling. The closer Mariska looked, the more interesting the photograph appeared. In the background was the pit where the La Brea Woman was discovered. Next to it was a tarp covering what Mariska assumed were her remains.

  “Is this your father?” Mariska asked.

  “Yes, John Matthew Ashton. Wasn’t he a good-looking young man?”

  Looks were in the eye of the beholder, but it wasn’t the man’s appearance that drew her attention. “What’s in his hand?”

  Ingrid smiled, “I’ve often wondered the same thing.”

  Mariska said, “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  Ingrid opened the second drawer of the archival table and handed it to Mariska. She used it to look closer at the young man’s hand. His hand fit almost entirely around the object, just a tiny bit showed between the thumb and index finger. Since the photograph had been taken over a hundred years ago and was in black and white, there were limited clues to tell Mariska what was in his hand.

  “Did your father ever record anywhere what he was holding?”

  “Like I said, I’ve wondered my entire life what was in his hand. As a child, I looked at these pictures over and over again. I asked my father about it many times.”

  “And what did he say?” Mariska put the magnifier down and turned to Ingrid, anticipation eating a hole in her belly.

  “He always said that in time, the truth would be revealed. Believe me, when I tell you this. It was one of the things that kept me motivated to accomplish what I managed to do with my life. I’ve been searching for answers my entire life. My father didn’t live a full life. His being cut short by disease he’d picked up on one of his many international travels. I didn’t have a lot of time as an adult to ask the right questions before he passed.”

  “I’m sorry. How insensitive of me. When I see a mystery, I want to solve it. I don’t always think about what stands between me and the answers I want to find.”

  “It’s okay, dear. Why do you think I’ve never been married? There wasn’t time…I had too many mysteries to solve.” Ingrid’s expression told a truth Mariska hadn’t expected. Ingrid, the headstrong, powerful, intelligent woman had regrets. “A husband would have only slowed me down.”

  Mariska could have sworn she’d read somewhere this woman had a family of her own. Why would she lie? Now, wasn’t the time or place to ask a question like that.

  As Mariska went to pass the photograph back to Ingrid, she noticed something unusual. She quickly pulled the photo back to take a closer look. “Who’s that?”

  “Excuse, me? I just—”

  “Oh yes. I know that’s your father. I’m talking about that person…there,” Mariska pointed to the far top corner of the image. “He doesn’t look happy. Not happy at all.” Mariska kept looking at the image but noticed in her periphery when Ingrid turned away.

  Facing the exit, Ingrid said, “No one to concern yourself with.”

  Silence grew uncomfortable and thick between them. Mariska looked from the photograph to Ingrid, and back. The man wore similar
clothes to her family but appeared darker skinned. His black hair was straight and longer than what was traditional for the time.

  “Was he a local Native American?”

  Ingrid turned back around. Her expression, hard. Eyes, angry. “That man made everything difficult for my father.”

  “How, so?”

  “He’s a tribe member of the local Chumash people,” Ingrid said, her voice scratchy and dry.

  “Chumash? Is that the same tribe that’s been protesting the Page Museum…for as long as I can remember?”

  “Longer. They’ve demanded the La Brea Woman’s remains be brought back to them. As if they own her.” If words could burn, Ingrid’s could have set the entire room on fire. “The thing is, it didn’t have to be this way. It hadn’t always been this way…” Her voice trailed away.

  “But maybe they—” Mariska began to offer another way to look at things, but Ingrid’s eyes told her to remain quiet. It wasn’t the time or place for this discussion.

  Change the subject and stay focused, Mariska, she told herself. “Was there another photograph taken right after this one? Where we might be able to see what he’s holding?”

  “I’m afraid not. When my father passed away, he donated a lot of his research papers and photographs to the Los Angeles Public Library for their archives section. All I have are the leftovers.” Ingrid offered a dramatic sweep of her arms and a smirk.

  “Pretty decent leftovers, if you ask me.”

  “I agree. I’ve been blessed in my life.” Ingrid began to pack up her things. “Would you like copies of the photographs?”

  “That’d be fantastic.”

  “I’ll have Thomas make you some, and we’ll have them delivered by courier to your home.”

  They walked together toward the exit when Mariska noticed a large tarp draped over something in the corner of the room. “What’s that? Under the tarp?”