Life was okay. It wasn’t the greatest, certainly not where she’d expected to be by this point, but she had a job with good people. She lived in a nice condo near the Metro, went out with a few friends now and then, and she’d been working hard to see the positives in her life. She didn’t need a stressful treasure hunt. She didn’t need to be on the same continent as Sochi Castillo.
She liked Washington, DC. She’d even learned to blend in, staring at her phone all the time when she wasn’t working, and sometimes when she was. Most of the time she was watching a video or playing a game instead of communicating with others, but no one knew that because they were too focused on their own phones. Claire felt an odd sense of connectedness when everyone around her was doing the same thing. It was like the communal experience of seeing a movie in a theater instead of at home—everyone hyper-focused alone, but together.
Claire checked her phone and read a few social media entries from people she didn’t know, and a few from people she knew but didn’t care about, and tried not to feel lonely. She tossed the phone onto the cushion beside her and looked around the room, which was done in grays with splashes of turquoise. She had a lovely home.
No. She wasn’t going to Peru. If the eggs truly came from King Chaco’s long-lost tomb, then someone else already knew where it was. They didn’t need her.
CHAPTER TWO
Claire
Thursday, March 16
The DC skies were heavy and gray, not helping Claire’s mood. Absolutely nothing interesting happened at work, which was usual. As a result of the messy way she’d left Peru, the great job Claire had hoped for at the Smithsonian in DC disappeared faster than a puff of smoke. She ended up as a mid-level manager for a new Smithsonian venture—moving priceless museum art and artifacts for other museums. This way the museum administration didn’t have to be embarrassed that they’d hired the Tomb Whisperer.
So instead of searching for treasures as an archaeologist, Claire supervised the transport of treasures, a job that was just as exciting as it sounded. The closest she came to the actual artifacts was reading their descriptions on work orders. The only hunting she’d been able to do was the day Bob misplaced the necklace of Hapiankhtifi, 12th dynasty, as it was being transported from New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Hunting down that impressive necklace proved to be the most fun she’d had in months.
But today Bob didn’t lose anything, and the morning dragged on. Nothing broke in transit. All the clients were happy with their work. Claire’s training session for new employees nearly put her to sleep. They laughed when she shared their internal motto: If you don’t break it, you don’t have to fix it. It wasn’t a joke, just a daily truth everyone seemed to forget.
She didn’t even have any outstanding invoices to try to collect. By noon, her boss Mac, a round, bald guy always chewing on a toothpick to help him stop snacking, said she was doing a bang-up job. Claire rolled her eyes and let him see it. How could Mac not see the phrase “bored to death” tattooed all over her face?
Mac had brought his black lab, Roger, to work because the dog needed medication four times a day for an infection. After lunch, Claire kidnapped Roger and took him to her office. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, with Roger’s head on her lap. She played with his soft ears, rolling and unrolling them until Roger grunted with pleasure. She played with his big feet, amazed to learn that dog feet smelled oddly comforting, and vaguely like toast.
Claire wanted to be the type of person who shared her life with a dog. The dog owners she knew just seemed better grounded, less likely to float up and away from their life’s pathway. But the time had never been right—college, grad school, then the move to Peru. She’d been in DC now for three years, plenty of time to settle down and get a dog. But she hadn’t done it. Maybe she was like those writers who enjoyed talking and thinking about writing, but who disliked actually writing. Maybe she was a wannabe dog owner, doomed to only talk about it.
Mid-afternoon, Claire returned Roger to Mac for his pill, then closed her office door and made a personal phone call.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Claire Bear! How’s my absolutely most favorite daughter?”
“I’m your only daughter.”
“And my absolutely most favorite daughter!”
Maybe instead of going on a stupid treasure hunt, what she really needed was to go home for a few days. She could curl up on the faded brown sofa and have a Lord of the Rings movie marathon with her parents. During the tense moments Mom would cry, while Dad and Claire would fire popcorn at each other. Unlike many people, she’d had a childhood filled with love and support.
“Mom, I think I need an early spring vacation. Are you and Dad around?”
“Actually, no. We’re packing for a white water rafting trip in Mexico. We leave tomorrow.”
“I’ve heard the rivers down there are really swollen from all the rain.”
“Precisely why we’re going. It’s an opportunity for some extreme rafting that we can’t miss. Your dad and I don’t want to get old until we’re actually old. Hey, come with us!”
“Thanks, Mom, but that’s not the kind of vacation I was looking for.”
“I know. What you really need is to visit Peru one more time.”
Claire snorted, unnerved that Mom would bring up Peru. “Mom, you can’t be—”
“I am totally serious. You left before you had time to figure things out, to process everything. And you dumped Sochi, whom we adored.”
“Mom—”
“And you’ve practically abandoned poor Hudson.”
“I have not. We just texted yesterday.”
“When’s the last time you’ve seen him?”
Claire hesitated.
“Every time he comes back to Virginia to visit his parents, you find an excuse to be gone.”
“No, that’s—”
“When was the last time you actually spoke?”
She opened her mouth then closed it again. She couldn’t remember. No wonder their texts had started to feel stilted.
“You’ve not been a good friend to Hudson. In fact, sweetie, you haven’t been a good anything these last three years.”
“That’s harsh, Mom.”
“Claire, you’re stuck. You’ve been stuck since all that ghastly publicity about you finding tombs by hearing voices of the dead, which is totally unfair. Speaking with the dead is a perfectly legitimate way to work.” Only her parents would think the paranormal was normal. “You’ve been stuck since you left Peru. Don’t you think it’s time to go back there and get closure?”
“What sort of closure?”
“I don’t know, babe. It depends on what you need.”
Claire hated it when Mom made sense, which she almost always did.
“Your father’s yelling at me from the garage. Gotta go. I’ll text you when we’re off the river.”
Claire moaned softly at the phone. It was freaking exhausting to have parents who were younger than she was.
The workday still hadn’t ended, so Claire did some research on the current state of archaeology in Peru and was horrified by what she found. The looting of Peruvian tombs had really gotten out of hand. Two dominant looting gangs were on the verge of declaring war on each other. One was purportedly run by Carlos Higuchi, a Japanese-Peruvian with his manicured fingers in every business possible—legit and illegit. The other was run by a woman, which captured Claire’s attention. This woman was called La Bruja sin Corazon—the witch without a heart. If Claire’d been in any other line of work, she would have admired La Bruja for taking on this Higuchi. But looting Peru of its treasures? Unforgiveable. Disgusting. Between the two of them, unprotected sites were being raided and the treasures smuggled out of Peru.
She cheered herself with the idea of bringing back the delightful practice of mounting heads on spikes as a deterrent to crime. Now that would be something worth traveling to Peru for—the sight of two heads mounted in Lima’s main square
: Higuchi’s and La Bruja’s.
The longer she researched, the harder it was to convince herself that she wasn’t going back to Peru. She felt as powerless as a gambler trying to avoid Las Vegas, or a mountain climber trying to avoid Everest. Claire sat there, making a list of all the metaphors that applied until she finally accepted that the hunt was going to lure her back. Nothing she could do about it.
Claire poked her head through her boss’s open door. His office smelled of microwave popcorn cooked a few seconds too long. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” Mac nodded toward the open bag of popcorn on his desk.
She took a few kernels and tossed them to Roger. “How many vacations have I taken in the three years I’ve been here?”
“None.”
“Do you think the company would survive if I took off for two or three weeks?”
“We’d probably teeter on the brink of disaster, but I think we could hang on by our fingertips until your return.”
“What about four weeks?”
“Hmm. That might be pushing it, but a few weeks is fine, unless, of course, your assistant has his head too far up his ass to do your job.”
“Only partially up there. He’ll be fine.”
“Then get out of here. Don’t want to see your face for a few weeks, or at least until Bob loses something.”
That evening she stared at her half-packed suitcase. This was insane. Why leave so quickly? Why not take some time to think about this? The plane ticket would certainly be cheaper if she waited a few weeks instead of buying one at the last minute.
Five minutes later, she zipped the faded rose suitcase shut. She knew why she was going now. You never put off a treasure hunt. If you did, someone else might get there first. And when it came to King Chaco’s tomb—if it actually existed—Claire was determined to be FTF. First to find.
The next day Claire texted a few friends to cancel plans, then texted her rafting parents. She tucked the gold, silver, and copper eggs into her pocket and flew to Peru.
CHAPTER THREE
Claire
Friday, March 17
Las Dulces was Claire’s favorite outdoor café in Trujillo, Peru. Located on the large central plaza, it was perfect for people watching. She gazed across the huge square to the Cathedral, which rose up yellow and white like a marzipan creation. The bright blue building next to the cathedral created an optical illusion, looking as if it were a lake curled around the Cathedral. She shook her head a few times to turn the “lake” back to a building.
Maybe she’d make time to visit the city’s historic churches during her stay. While she was as far from religious as one could get, Claire did find it calming to sit inside the old buildings that smelled of smoke and candle wax. Even when the doors were thrown wide open, as they often were, the sounds of the city magically stopped at the entrance, as if chaos knew it wasn’t welcome there.
True to its name, Las Dulces—the sweets—boasted everything sweet—pastries glazed with honey and toasted almonds, orejitas de chancho, crème caramel, and tres leches—a sponge cake soaked in sweetened milk. Claire used to come for the people watching and stay for the sweets. She couldn’t resist anything sweet, which was why her attraction to Sochi had never made sense. Sochi had been fiery, passionate, obstinate, intense, but never sweet.
But today, as Claire nibbled on a heart-shaped orejitas and enjoyed the occasional crunch of caramelized sugar, she began to feel like an idiot. What sane person dropped out of her life and flew to South America?
And even worse? The CNTP office was only three blocks away, straight down Ayacucho Avenue. Trujillo was one of the largest cities in northern Peru, but you could easily run into people you knew. She scanned every blonde who passed. How could she sit here, on the city’s busiest pedestrian sidewalk, and not see Sochi Castillo? Claire had come back for a treasure hunt, and if she were to listen to her mother, perhaps some closure with Sochi, but now she lacked the courage to face her. Perhaps that afternoon she’d walk over to the Cathedral, slip inside, and meditate on why she was such a coward.
Claire adjusted her chair so the sunshine hit more of her body. Summer in Trujillo was perfect—blue skies, temperatures between sixty-five and seventy, and hardly any rain, given that the city was located in the Sechura Desert.
A black dog with flecks of white in his face nudged Claire’s elbow. He rested his chin on her knee and gave her one of those irresistible looks dogs were famous for. “I’m immune,” Claire said. The dog just blinked. Weak as a newborn lamb, Claire broke off a piece of orejitas and fed it to him. After a quick lick of her hand in gratitude, the dog trotted away to the next occupied table. Now that was a practical dog—too focused on eating to get wrapped up in sentimentality. Yes, she definitely needed a dog. A dog could pull her out of the hole she seemed to have fallen into. Getting a dog would be easier—and more pleasant—than seeking closure with Sochi.
She took another gulp of Coca Cola Lite. Why hadn’t she stayed at one of the hotels farther out? Instead, she’d chosen La Casa del Sol, a converted colonial mansion built in the late eighteenth century near the center of the old city. Her parents had stayed here when they’d come to visit. Her friends, back when she’d had them, had done the same.
Claire chewed the inside of her cheek. If Sochi heard Claire was in Trujillo, she’d know right where to find her.
Cars honked in traffic, and a jackhammer blasted concrete a few blocks away. Flowers were blooming nearby, perfuming the salty air. Then a new thought brought panic—Sochi could have changed her hair color or grown it out. What if Sochi suddenly appeared and Claire didn’t recognize her?
She finished the pastry and licked her fingers clean, resolving to come up with a plan. If she found herself face-to-face with Sochi, what would she do? She inhaled slowly for calm, enjoying the heat of the sun on her head.
Okay, here’s what she’d do: She would stand and meet Sochi’s five foot seven with her own five foot eight. She would simply say, “You betrayed me.” Then she’d watch guilt and shame spread over Sochi’s perfect face.
Sochi would say, “It was a mistake. I see that now.”
Claire would flare her nostrils as haughtily as she could. “No, the mistake was mine…in trusting you.” Then she’d freeze Sochi’s very soul with her gaze. Only when Sochi was immobile, frozen to the ground, would Claire turn her back and walk away, listening to the sound of her ex-girlfriend crumpling to the ground in despair.
Well, maybe not. Sochi would never fall to the ground, overcome. Whenever she was upset, her backbone hardened to a steel rod. Okay, no crumpling, but perhaps she would reach out a trembling hand while a strangled sob escaped from her throat. Good. Claire wanted her to be devastated. And if Sochi was overcome with regret for what she’d done, Claire could live with that.
A native woman in her bowler hat bartered at her stand with two tourists. Those hats never failed to crack Claire up. In the 1920s, a shipment of bowler hats was sent from Europe to Peru and Bolivia for the European workers building railroads. The hats, too small for the men, somehow ended up in the hands of the native women, and it became their thing.
No, Claire wouldn’t go for shame the first time she saw Sochi. Instead, her wit would be as cutting as a knife. She’d say, “You look great, which is no surprise since they say ‘a betrayal a day keeps the doctor away.’”
Well, okay, perhaps the wit was more butter-knife sharp than steak-knife sharp, but she had time to work on it.
“Mrs. Claire? Mrs. Claire?”
“Nancho!” Claire rose to her feet and hugged the man who’d approached. “It’s so good to see you.”
She hadn’t seen Nancho Quiroga for three years, but he was dressed exactly the same: baggy shorts, T-shirt, dark blue blazer, and a gray, battered fedora wrapped with colorful cords.
“Mrs. Claire, I am so glad you called me. My car is yours for as long as you need me.” Nancho had the warmest smile, one that reached every plane of his broad, brown face, a
nd created in others the need to smile just as widely, even her. He’d been her driver for the four years she’d worked at Chan Chan. She’d tried biking, and buses, and even driving herself, but she’d been so hyper-focused on work that she’d nearly been hit dozens of times. Since she was transportationally challenged, someone had given her Nancho’s name, and she gladly put herself in his backseat.
He strode toward a gleaming but very old Buick, water still dripping from its freshly-washed back fender.
“Nancho, you have a different car.”
“Thanks to you, Mrs. Claire.” He held the back door open. When she’d left so suddenly, she knew Nancho would have to find all new clients because she’d been his sole customer for so long. When they’d reached the airport, Claire had jammed a huge tip into his jacket pocket, then grabbed her suitcase and fled into the small, one-story terminal, fighting back tears. Leaving him had been an unexpected hurt.
“So, Mrs. Claire, where we go today?” She’d tried to shift him from Mrs. Claire to Ms. Adams or just Claire, but he always reverted to Mrs. Claire, his way of showing respect. And he insisted on speaking English, even though her Spanish was better than his English.
Claire slid across the worn but pristine seat. “I thought we’d take a drive up the Pan American, if that’s okay.”
“We will have lovely drive,” Nancho said as he wedged his considerable bulk behind the wheel. Nancho wasn’t fat, just a large man whose size sometimes made her feel like a Barbie doll. Yet he was one of the gentlest men she knew.
Claire leaned back and sighed happily. Having a driver felt so bourgeois, but it reminded her of being safely cocooned in the backseat with her little brother, Nick, while her parents talked quietly in the front seat.
“Nancho, how is your family?”
He smoothly merged into traffic. “Anna is eight. Pedro five. They good kids…and bad kids!” They easily slipped back into their comfortable relationship. Claire enjoyed watching Nancho’s face in his rearview mirror as he talked about his family. His features were more native than Spanish, of which he was very proud. No sense of native inferiority for Nancho. As they talked, Claire rolled the eggs around in her pocket, her fingers easily picking out the copper egg because of its weight.
The Copper Egg Page 2