by Alex Archer
Anticipation burned within Huangfu. The woman had made a fool of him. He felt certain that if the three interlopers hadn't come along, he would have buried her in the same grave that contained Ban Zexu.
That had been the plan. Unless the belt plaque hadn't been there. Then he would have simply arranged for Ban Zexu's body to be transported to China and disposed of.
Huangfu still didn't know how she had evaded him.
The SUV rolled through the streets and parked in the small parking lot beside the Iron Skillet Bed-and-Breakfast. A sheriff's department cruiser followed her into the parking lot.
Annja Creed got out, spoke a few words to the deputy, then went inside the two-story house. Huangfu didn't know much about American architecture, but the woman who had checked him into the bed-and-breakfast had told him the residence was over one hundred and forty years old, as if that were supposed to be something impressive. The United States was less than three hundred years old. China's history stretched back thousands of years.
The deputy sat in his cruiser. After a moment, he turned on a light and started to read a magazine. Clearly, he wasn't going anywhere.
Huangfu lowered his binoculars. He didn't mind. The plan was to see what Annja Creed did. If she left immediately, he would follow her. His crew had already hacked into the rental agency's computer and could access the SUV's GPS transponder.
This time, Huangfu vowed, the woman would not escape. It was simply a matter of time.
Chapter 6
Annja loved the room at the Iron Skillet Bed-and-Breakfast. She had a lovely view through two large windows. The furniture was antique, solid oak that had to be at least as old as the building. The bed was a four-poster canopy. Black-and-white photographs of people and places decorated the flocked wallpaper. The photographs dated from the 1860s to the 1920s.
The color television inside the armoire looked out of place, a modern anachronism. Antique stained glass lamps hung on the walls beside the bed. A chandelier filled the high peaked ceiling and glowed softly against the skylight. The skylight was another anachronism, but it really set the room off.
The bathroom was at the back of the room, complete with a sunken tub and whirlpool jets. Annja couldn't wait to soak, but there was work to be done first.
She put her backpack on the bed and brought out her notebook computer and digital camera. After making sure neither was damaged, she plugged the computer into the wall outlet and brought it online.
Taking a white towel from the bathroom, Annja dumped the contents of the leather pouch she'd recovered from the grave onto it. Dirt cascaded from the pouch, mixing with the coins and the belt plaque.
A quick examination of the coins revealed that they were a hodgepodge of American and Chinese. Three of them were gold, small pieces that would bring a few hundred dollars or more from a generous collector.
The belt plaque was striking. It was carved from steatite, a soapstone that was nearly all talc. The material was also called lapis ollaris and potstone. A number of cultures had used it for ornamentation and seals for thousands of years because it could be squeezed into various shapes before being fired. The material was still used as insulation material for electrical components.
The belt plaque looked like it had been carved by a master craftsman, then glazed and fired. The front showed a great cat, perhaps a Bengal tiger, lashing out with one clawed paw. The piece had a dulled turquoise finish that might have been mistaken for jade, but the tiger's image was lifted out of the material through gold and black glaze that gave the image a sharp three-dimensional appearance.
It's beautiful, Annja thought as she felt the weight of it in her hand and ran her fingertips across the snarling tiger. A few nicks and scratches marred the surface, but they added character rather than detracting from the piece.
Turning the belt plaque over, she discovered Chinese characters scrolled across the back.
A message of ownership? A history?
Annja was excited. She loved mysteries.
She wiped the belt plaque clean and put it on another white towel from the bathroom. Picking up her digital camera, she took several shots of the belt plaque from all sides and angles.
When she was satisfied, she hooked the camera up to the computer and started uploading the images. While she waited for the pictures to process, she started the bathwater. After rummaging through the bath selections, she found a lavender mixture that sounded promising and poured it in.
She sank into the tub and luxuriated for a few moments, resisting the urge to turn on the water jets because they would have rendered her boneless in seconds.
After her bath she did a quick check through her e-mail, finding nothing that couldn't keep for a day or two, two or three dozen spam messages, and some obscene offers from male and female fans of Chasing History's Monsters.
She logged onto her favorite Usenet groups and posted a message.
I'm currently in California researching a piece for a magazine.
She knew researchers who loved the research but didn't like the idea of writing always liked helping people who wrote articles. There was always the possibility they would be credited or at least mentioned in the piece.
While I was here I found this.
Annja inserted a picture of the belt plaque. After brief consideration, she elected not to put the picture of the back in the posting. Until she had it translated by someone she trusted, she didn't want the message made public.
The article I'm writing primarily deals with Chinese immigration into the gold mining camps. There are a number of pieces in the area that owners claim are from the Chinese men and women who flooded into the area. I just want to verify that this is Chinese and maybe find out if it has any kind of history.
I think it's fairly unique. I've seen pieces like it, but never this exact presentation.
Thanks!
Annja closed the computer, and lay back on the bed. She was asleep before she knew it.
****
Despite getting to bed at nearly 5:00 a.m., Annja woke at nine, somewhat surprised that the night had passed without incident or phone call.
In twenty minutes, she was at the downstairs room used as the office for the Iron Skillet Bed-and-Breakfast.
There was a note on the door that said, "I'm in the kitchen. Verna."
Remembering the tour she'd been given the previous day, Annja walked to the end of the hall and took a left into the large kitchen.
The room was filled with a stove, flat grill, three-compartment sink, two islands in the center of the room, a huge refrigerator, and pots and pans that hung over the islands. The yeasty smell of bread baking filled the kitchen, reminding Annja of lunches at the orphanage. Despite the loneliness of growing up without any family, there had been some good times. She didn't miss those times, but she was glad she'd had them.
Verna and two women were washing the breakfast dishes. A television mounted on the wall was on.
"If you ask me," one of the women said as she dried a plate, "I think that witch is guilty."
"Oh, Edith," the younger woman protested, "you think everybody's guilty."
"This one's guilty. Mark my words. Her eyes are too close together. She killed her husband. Wait till Nancy Grace gets on later and sets you straight. Nancy knows when people are guilty. She's got a sixth sense about those things, I'm telling you."
"Edith doesn't think everybody's guilty, June," Verna put in. "She thought that priest last year was innocent."
"He was a priest," Edith said. "Who would think a priest would murder anyone?"
"Evidently twelve other people besides you. And it didn't take them long to think it, either." June grinned in triumph, then noticed Annja standing in the doorway. "Verna. One of the guests is here."
Verna was a stout woman in her fifties. She wore her graying brown hair pulled back and had a strong face that had seen a lot. Her dress was comfortable and professional, and she had on tennis shoes.
"Good morning, Miss Creed." Verna smiled
.
"Good morning," Annja replied. "I know I missed breakfast, so I thought I'd stop in and ask if there was a place you might recommend in town."
Breakfast was served promptly at eight at the bed-and-breakfast and was over by nine.
"Nonsense. I'll be happy to fix you breakfast. I thought about waking you this morning, but you got in so late I wanted to let you sleep." Verna walked over to the industrial-sized refrigerator and swung open the door. "What would you like?"
"I really don't want to be any trouble." Annja felt guilty.
"No trouble at all. The girls and I haven't eaten yet. We were just getting the dishes done before we fixed our breakfasts."
"If you're sure."
"I'm sure." Verna took out a big bowl of waffle batter and a dozen eggs. "Waffles, eggs and sausage sound good?"
"Sounds wonderful."
"Good. Coming right up."
Annja leaned a hip against one of the islands and felt awkward. Edith and June stared at her.
"Stop staring." Verna beat the waffle batter then poured it into the waiting iron. She smiled apologetically at Annja. "Would you like pecans in your waffles?"
"Please," Annja said.
"You're the television star, aren't you?" Edith asked.
"I wouldn't call myself a star. I'm more of a host," Annja said.
"She's the one that's the archaeologist," June said.
"Is that the one that wears the sexy clothes?" Edith asked.
June frowned at the other woman. "The archaeologist doesn't take her shirt off," June explained.
"Oh. Well, if I was young and built like her and taking my shirt off would get me on TV, I'd do it." Edith laughed. "I'd do it now if I thought it'd do any good. In fact, I've been thinking about trying to get on Survivor. Those girls go around naked half the time and get all the attention. I could do that."
"TMI," June said, holding up a hand in surrender. "That's just too much information."
"Don't mind Edith. She likes stirring up trouble and saying things just to shock people," Verna said as she poured eggs into a skillet. "Would you like your eggs scrambled or in an omelet?"
"If I have my choice, I'd rather have an omelet," Annja said.
"Are you a vegan?"
"No."
"Good. An omelet's supposed to have meat in it." Verna reached into the refrigerator for diced ham and vegetables. "What would you like to drink? We've got coffee, tea, orange juice, and milk."
Annja asked for milk, then took the tall glass the woman poured for her.
"I heard you were there when those three boys were killed last night," Edith said.
"Edith Clamp!" Verna exploded.
"Well, somebody was going to ask," Edith replied indignantly. "I don't see why it couldn't be me."
"You always ask awkward questions. You shouldn't do that to people."
Annja sighed. "I was there."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Edith asked hopefully.
"Not really."
"Well, we do," June said.
Verna rolled her eyes.
Annja debated leaving. She still had a favor to ask of Verna, and the waffles smelled fantastic.
"I knew those boys were going to come to a bad end," Edith said. "I told Neville's mom that, but she just said she couldn't do anything with him." She shook her head sadly, then fixed on Verna accusingly. "Don't you look at me that way, Verna. I wasn't the one that rented a room to their murderer." She flicked her eyes back to Annja. "That Chinese fella murdered those boys, right?"
"He did, but I don't know anything more than what the television news has reported," Annja said.
"That's too bad, because there are a lot of people in town who want to know the whole story. Some folks are saying that the Chinese fella was a hitman who came in to kill Neville and those other two."
Wow, Annja thought. "That isn't what happened. Huangfu came here to find his ancestor's body."
"Did he?"
"If he really was kin to the man we dug up last night, then yes, he did."
Edith looked stunned. "You dug up a body? The news didn't mention anything about that."
"Yes it did," June argued. "You just weren't listening."
Breakfast, Annja decided, wasn't going to be over soon enough.
****
When the meal was finished, Annja helped clear the table. While Edith and June went back to the kitchen, she asked Verna for a moment of her time.
"Do you have a safe on the premises?" Annja asked.
The woman hesitated only for a moment. "I do."
"Will you keep something there for me?"
"Is it anything illegal? Because I run a good place here and I really don't need any trouble. I don't want any trouble."
"This isn't illegal." Annja took the belt plaque from her jacket pocket. "I need you to hold on to this for me."
"Why?"
"In case someone comes here looking for it."
"Who would look for it?"
"The man I came here with yesterday."
"He wants that?"
"I think so."
Verna looked at the object. "What is it?"
"If I'm lucky, it's a very interesting museum piece. If I'm not, then it's worthless and I've asked you to do something for no reason."
Hesitantly, Verna took the belt plaque. "I can keep it for you, but if the police come here looking for it, I'm not going to lie about it."
"I wouldn't ask you to. I just want to know it's safe while I'm gone."
"You're leaving?"
Annja nodded. "Just for a little while. Do you know anyone in town who reads Chinese? Who might have some knowledge of Chinese immigrants in the area or Chinese history?"
"There's Mr. Kim. Harry Kim. He owns a small antique shop next to the convenience store. His family has lived around this area since the Gold Rush."
Annja thanked her and got directions.
****
Far East Antiques was located between the convenience store and a used book store that Harry Kim also owned. His daughter managed the book store.
"People on vacation come here for all kinds of reasons," Mr. Kim told Annja. "Some of them want a keepsake to take back with them. Others are here to sightsee and relax. I do a good business selling tourists antiques and used thrillers."
Annja liked Kim. He had mild ways about him and was knowledgeable. In his early sixties, he was balding and the rest of his hair had turned iron-gray and was neatly clipped. His eyes were tiny and crinkled easily when he smiled, which was often. He wore gray slacks and a sleeveless navy sweater over a light blue shirt. His name tag read Harry Kim, Proprietor.
The selection inside the shop was nice, offering tourist items, as well as genuine articles. None of them were overpriced. They were also a curious mix of Chinese pieces, as well as gold pans and other mining equipment.
"Do you know Verna? At the Iron Skillet Bed-and-Breakfast?"
Kim nodded. "Very nice lady. I helped her decorate her Prospector's room."
"I didn't see that one."
"It's a nice room. But how can I help you, Miss Creed?"
"You know my name. You've seen the news stories."
Kim inclined his head and smiled. "I have, but I knew you from the television show before that. My daughter is a big fan of yours. If it's not too much of an imposition, I'd like you to meet her."
"I'd be happy to. But you're sure she's not a fan of Kristie Chatham?"
"Her son is. He's fifteen and is very impressionable. My daughter got her degree in history. She says you do your research very well."
"Then I'll have to meet her." Annja grinned. "I've got a favor to ask, if I may."
"You may."
Annja removed an eight-by-ten picture of the belt plaque from her backpack. She'd blown up the picture and printed it on photograph paper on the portable printer she'd brought with her. Enlarging pictures and having copies to pass out or leave with people had come in handy many times.
"I'm trying
to identify this."
Kim took the picture. "This looks very old. The artwork is Scythian."
Impressed, Annja nodded. "I thought so, but I also thought the work might possibly be Chinese."
"Why?" he asked, surprised.
"I took it from a Chinese man."
Kim regarded her carefully. "Up in Volcanoville?" he asked.
Annja decided to be as honest as she could. Kim's personality inspired that, and she'd learned to trust her instincts about people. She nodded in answer to the old man's question.
"The man you were with – the one who killed those young men – he was the one who wanted this belt plaque?"
"Yes," Annja said.
"But you still have it?"
Annja nodded.
Kim studied the photograph intently for a moment. Then he looked straight at Annja. "This is a very dangerous thing to possess, Miss Creed. This belt plaque carries a terrible curse."
Chapter 7
"Curse?" For a moment Annja didn't think she'd heard correctly.
"Yes. According to legend, that belt plaque is cursed with bad luck. I wrote about this particular piece in a book I wrote on local legend and lore." Harry Kim stepped from behind the counter and walked to the door to the adjoining used book store. "Follow me, please."
Annja trailed behind the man. Their footsteps sounded loud on the wooden floor. Kim opened the door and ushered her through.
The bookshop was small and neat. Shelves filled the walls and stood upright in the center of the floor. A few posters and pictures advertised past author signings.
The woman at the counter was in her thirties and looked a lot like her father. She was small-boned and frail, her black hair tied back. Her black skirt and white blouse gave her a professional appearance, but she looked relaxed, more like she was entertaining than selling.
Kim made the introductions. "Miss Creed, I'd like to present my daughter Michelle. Michelle, Miss Annja Creed."
Annja shook hands with the other woman. "It's a pleasure to meet you," Annja said.
Michelle's smile was broad and generous. "I'm a big fan of your television show, Miss Creed."