Artifact (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery)

by Pandian, Gigi

  I couldn’t meet his gaze. “I know. Whoever is following us now knows to look for us there. I’m sorry you’ll be in danger if you try to finish your article.”

  “Jaya—”

  “You’ll probably be able to go back soon. This was always only my first stop. I’m getting out of here tomorrow. It’s me they want, right?”

  “You can’t—”

  “Can’t what?”

  “You’re going to the Scottish dig by yourself?”

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” I said, “but archaeologists attend digs unchaperoned all the time. They’re no braver than historians. If they can do it, I can too.”

  “You can drop the sarcasm,” Lane said. “Murders don’t happen at the average dig.”

  “Then what do you propose?”

  “I can’t go back to the library any more than you can,” Lane said. “I could go with you to Scotland.”

  “You want to come with me?”

  “Based on what’s going on, it makes the most sense. We should stick together.”

  “In that case,” I said, “I have a plan. You’re my rich new boyfriend, who dabbles in archaeology. I’m bringing you to the dig to rub Rupert’s nose in it.”

  “You are something,” he said, his lip curling in amusement. “You already thought this through. You want me to be your cover for showing up at the dig.”

  “You’re the one who said you wanted to tag along.”

  “It’s a good idea,” Lane said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “What was your story going to be on your own? Surely you weren’t going to walk in and say Rupert sent you a note saying one of them was going to murder him.”

  “You’re the one who said you thought he sent me the bracelet to get back together with me. Who’s to say I wouldn’t follow him across the world to get back together?”

  “Would his friend at the dig believe you’d do that?”

  “Our plan is more believable.”

  We walked back to the hotel in silence, glancing around nervously whenever the bushes rustled. As soon as we entered the hotel, I was suddenly so tired that I could have fallen asleep in one of the chairs in the lobby.

  “My key doesn’t fit,” I grumbled through a yawn as I tried to open the door to my room.

  “That’s because this is my room,” Lane said, pulling my hand back from the door handle.

  His hand was gentle, but I felt his strength. He drew the key from my fingers. He led me over to my door and unlocked it for me. He pushed the door open and quickly scanned the room.

  We stood close to each other. I could feel Lane’s breath on the top of my head. He hesitated in the doorway.

  “Get some sleep, Jones,” he said.

  I felt cool metal as he pressed the key back into my palm.

  “We want to catch the early train,” I said, yawning again.

  “Train? Shouldn’t we catch a flight? I know I’m not the biggest fan of flying, but I can handle it.”

  “They’ll be out at the dig all day. We’ve got time.”

  “Come get me in the morning when you’re ready to leave.”

  I didn’t remember falling into bed, but I awoke to bright sunlight streaming across the bed, hitting my face.

  I’d overslept.

  I meant for us to catch the earliest departing train to Scotland from King’s Cross Station. That way we’d have time to examine our new surroundings. Even with our late departure, with the seven-hour train ride we’d still arrive in the late afternoon.

  English train stations, full of hearty British food and interesting people from around the world, are some of my favorite places on earth.

  The trains themselves fill me with much the same feeling, with the added benefit of scenic landscapes passing before my eyes. A romantic might think of Murder on the Orient Express or some other classic book involving intrigue on a foreign train. I, however, am not a romantic. It’s the meditative respite I appreciate.

  Lane and I boarded the Scotland-bound train and found seats in a coach car. We dumped our luggage in the compartment at the end of the car and settled into our seats. We barely made it before the train pulled out of the station.

  I hadn’t had time to buy food at the station. Since the train had both a dining car and a roving snack cart, I wasn’t worried about keeping properly nourished.

  The engine hummed and we started moving. As we chugged along smoothly, I looked out the window. Lane was reading a book, but when I turned from the window he looked up at me.

  “You like it here, don’t you?” he said.

  It should have made me nervous that he was always able to read my mind. For some reason, it didn’t.

  “It’s the perfect balance,” I said. “When I’m overseas in an English-speaking country, it’s similar yet different enough at the same time. It’s liberating.”

  “I know,” he said. I had the feeling he wasn’t making small talk. That he did know what I meant.

  “I’m not supposed to fit in here,” I said. “I’m a foreigner in India, where I was born, and to some extent I’m even a foreigner at home. But here, it feels much more natural being asked where I’m from since I’m not in one of the two countries I’m actually from. There aren’t the same expectations about who I’m supposed to be.”

  “It gets tiring being an outsider in places where you’re not supposed to feel that way.”

  I looked at him—really looked at him. Not his physical features, but at what the image he presented seemed to be hiding.

  “Where are you from?” I asked.

  A flash of emotion shone in his eyes for a moment. Indecision?

  “Minnesota.”

  “You don’t look like you’re from Minnesota.”

  “I’m from Minnesota like you’re from India.”

  He returned to reading his book. He stayed on the same page for an awfully long time, shifting in his seat.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something.”

  “What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

  “That’s not what you wanted to say.”

  “We have to get to know each other,” Lane said. “I’m supposed to be your significant other. We need to know the basics about each other.”

  “Red,” I said.

  “Figures.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m a good guesser.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “The same.”

  “Favorite author?” I asked.

  “Dostoyevsky.”

  “Really?”

  “And yours?”

  “Borges.”

  Lane’s left eyebrow arched. I was again struck by the gracefulness of the simplest of his body’s movements.

  “Which grocery store do you go to?” he asked.

  “That’s a good one,” I said. “This was a good idea. I don’t go to the grocery store.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I listen to my body,” I said. “I never know in advance what I’m going to want to eat, so I wait until I’m hungry and then follow my gut. I’ve always lived in urban places, so it’s easy. My gut has a lot of options.”

  “I cook,” Lane said. “In our pretend life together, I cook dinner for you all the time. And you like it, because we’re not fulfilling our proper gender roles. What? That’s funny, huh?”

  He laughed along with me. His teeth were pristine. Interesting.

  “How long have you smoked?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s one of those things you pick up in your youth.”

  “How old are you, anyway?”

  He shrugged again. “Let’s say I’m thirty-five.”

  “How old are you really?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Oh, you’re a riot.”

  “My turn,” Lane said. “How do we say we met?”

  “Good question.” I thought about it for a moment. “I was
doing research for an article. I needed the help of an art historian. The less we have to make up, the better.”

  “Nice,” he said. “Sticking to real-life facts as much as possible. So I’m myself.”

  “With a few extra million dollars lying about,” I added. “You certainly look the part in that tailored suit.”

  “Let me get this straight in my mind,” Lane said. “I’m financing this romantic summer vacation, a whirlwind European tour, during which you drag me to Scotland. Your ex told you he was on this small, underfunded dig. He tells you he wants to see you, not knowing I’m in your life. You know that in addition to my interest in art history, which is something I do to pass the time, being independently wealthy and all, that I have a fondness for archaeology. So, you think you can do two things at once. One, you’ll give me a nice present by finding a dig that would be willing to let me help. Two, you get to rub your ex’s nose in my presence. We head up here before learning about his accident, which we accept as accidental.”

  “You’re good,” I said. “Did you think that up on the spot?”

  “Last night. But there are still some holes.”

  Rain began to patter on the windows of the train. I hadn’t noticed that the blue sky had turned to gray.

  “I know,” I said, looking out at the rain. We’d come far enough that urban London had given way to greenery. “Our story doesn’t matter if someone there already knows we know more than that. We’re in the impossible situation where we need to find out what they know. But if someone there does know something useful, then it means they probably know our story is a lie.”

  “They might not know. Whoever is following us hasn’t remained at the dig. All we can do is try. Tell me about the dig.”

  I went over the few facts I knew. Professor Malcolm Alpin’s underfunded Pictish dig in the middle of nowhere, the staff that included Rupert’s best friend Knox, and the Fog & Thistle Inn that Rupert had listed as his address.

  “Damn,” I concluded.

  “Damn?”

  “The guy following us,” I said. “He doesn’t fit.”

  “There’s nothing else we can figure out before we get there,” Lane said. “How long have you played the tablas? That’s what I saw in your apartment, wasn’t it?”

  I opened my eyes. The rain was letting up.

  “Technically,” I said, “it’s the tabla, singular, for the pair of drums.”

  “So how long?”

  “As long as I can remember. It’s the only other language I truly speak.”

  He nodded, his eyes locked on mine.

  “I studied classical tabla,” I said, “but when I listen to it, modern fusion is my favorite. The Asian Underground. Bhangra. I feel like....”

  “Like you understand them.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not quite it. It’s like they understand me. It’s not the same thing. The music isn’t only straddling cultures or generations. At its center, something new had to grow out of the mix.”

  Lane held my gaze for a second past when I stopped speaking. Some emotion flickered in his eyes, and he turned away.

  I watched him for another moment before the mystery of him, on top of the mystery we were solving, became too oppressive for me to take.

  “I’m hungry,” I said. “I’m going to the dining car.”

  “I’m sure the food cart will get here soon.”

  “Maybe, but who wants to chance it?”

  The dining car was several cars down from where we were seated. The endless length of British trains never ceases to amaze me. I walked down the gently rocking corridors through at least five cars. I was passing through the sleeper car when it happened.

  Two strong arms reached out of an open door and pulled me inside. The door shut behind me.

  The arms twisted my body around until I was facing my attacker. As his arm reached across me to lock the door of the small compartment, I stood staring up into the eyes of Rupert Chadwick.

  Chapter 18

  The breath was momentarily knocked out of me. The arms that dragged me into the compartment were unquestionably not those of a ghost.

  A second wave of surprise hit me as I noticed something else. Rupert’s shoes. The faded red sneakers were the shoes of the partially hidden man in my blurry photographs.

  In the precious fraction of a second before I was able to gather my thoughts and my breath, Rupert grabbed his chance. He leaned down and kissed me on the mouth.

  He didn’t have to lean far. Rupert was only five foot five. I had always suspected my height was one of the things that attracted him to me. As for what attracted me to him? Well, even at the worst of times, no one could claim Rupert was boring.

  He pulled me toward him, kissing me more deeply. He didn’t hold me for long, but his grip was intense. Especially for that of a man who was supposed to be dead.

  His lips finally released mine. “All right?” he said, grinning.

  That refined accent of his was full of vigor. The sound filled the space of the small compartment. The steady background noise of the train faded away.

  “How dare you let me think you were dead!”

  I felt foolish that I hadn’t thought of something more clever to say. But when presented with a situation such as this, really, what else is there that can be said?

  “Why, darling,” he said, beaming, “I didn’t know you still cared.”

  A big part of me wanted to bring down my heel on his foot. Hard. But at the same time, seeing him alive, relief and compassion won out. Rupert’s face was uncharacteristically gaunt. Deep, dark circles stood out under his blue-gray eyes. A sizable bruise covered his jaw. A bandage poked out of his left shirt sleeve near his wrist. Even though he wasn’t dead, whatever was going on had ended up with him getting himself hurt. But in spite of his ailments, his eyes were as lively as ever. They sparkled as he continued to grin at me.

  That was too much.

  I raised my arm to slap his face. He must have anticipated the move, for he was able to block it and grab my arm instead.

  If that’s what he wanted, that’s what he would get. I raised my other arm and slapped his bruised cheek. Not hard. But it was the principle of the thing. He swore something indecipherable, releasing me and taking a step back.

  It’s amazing how easy it is to forgive someone’s faults when you think they’re dead. My memories had absolved Rupert of his cocky arrogance. And he was arrogant. First, assuming that I would help him with his scheme. Then, letting me believe he was dead.

  “Always so predictable,” he said, rubbing his jaw while he grinned at me. “I knew you’d head for the dining car sooner rather than later. All I had to do was wait.”

  “You’re a terrible spy,” I said. It was difficult to speak with a level voice. “I can’t believe you’ve been following me. You didn’t even let me know that you weren’t...that you...all the effort, and you couldn’t even...I mean....” I gave up trying to be calm. “You even broke into my apartment!”

  “What? I never broke into your flat, Jaya.” He wasn’t smiling any longer.

  “You—”

  “Hold on, love,” he said. He sank down into one of the two small seats in the compartment. For a moment he looked seasick.

  With his casual attitude and his kiss, I assumed his injuries weren’t serious. But Rupert didn’t suffer from motion sickness. He wasn’t doing well.

  “I might not have gone about this in the best possible way,” he said. “But when I first saw you with that tosser at the library, going after the treasure for the two of you....I didn’t know what to do.”

  He looked up at me imploringly. His voice sounded heartfelt. But with Rupert, you could never really tell.

  “We were trying to figure out who killed you, you jerk,” I said. “I don’t care about a stupid treasure. We don’t even know what we’re looking for. Why did you bother to mail me the bracelet if you were going to steal it back?”

  “Wait,” Rupert said slowly. “Why
did you think someone killed me?”

  “Anna sent me a link to the article in the paper about your death. Remember her? The date of your supposed death was reported as the same date as the postmark on the package you sent.”

  Rupert swore under his breath.

  “And you put together—”

  “Why have you been sneaking around?” I asked. “Why didn’t you—”

  “You were with that strange fellow,” Rupert said, a sour expression transforming his face. “I didn’t know what was going on. I’d been searching the library for days, and then all of a sudden you show up making kissy face with some other bloke. I bloody well didn’t expect that you’d show up across the pond, did I?”

  “You did.”

  “What are you talking about, love? This business about your flat? You’re talking about your flat in America? That wasn’t me. How could I have done that?”

  He stared at me, confusion evident in his eyes. I again noticed how drawn his face was.

  “You don’t believe me?” he said. “No bleeding way I could get out of the country on my passport. I’m supposed to be dead.”

  “But then how—”

  “Some lucky nutter’s got the ruby, then?”

  “No,” I said, feeling suddenly claustrophobic in my surroundings. “It’s safe.”

  Relief showed on Rupert’s face. I, however, was less than reassured. I should have been happy it was Rupert who had been following me in London. But I wasn’t. That meant someone else had broken into my apartment in San Francisco. Someone who Rupert knew nothing about.

  If he could be believed.

  “Rupert,” I said, “tell me what’s going on. Why did you write that you needed my help?”

  “Right, then....” he trailed off.

  “You conceited bastard! You let me think you were dead.”

  I tried to pace around the small quarters. I had to do something to quash the urge to hit Rupert again.

  “Hold on, then,” Rupert said. “I tried to get in touch with you. You didn’t get any of my messages? Is that why you’re angry?”

  “Messages? Really, Rupert.”

  “I emailed you first.”