Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel

by Beverly Connor

  "He helps put out large forest fires, in remote locations. The firefighters parachute in with their equipment. It saves a lot of time."

  "Wow. It sounds dangerous."

  "It is.,,

  "Who does he work for? I mean, fires happen all over."

  "The U.S. Forest Service."

  "Interesting guy."

  "I'll tell him you said so. You can go on home, Sally. Thanks a lot for your help."

  "Sure. See you tomorrow. By the way, some guy came by to see you. He didn't leave a name. Said he'd be back."

  "Do you know who it was?"

  Sally shook her head. Her bike was parked just inside the door against the wall. Lindsay held the door open for her as she walked it outside and closed the door behind her. The lab was quiet. Everyone had gone home. Lindsay went back to her office and sat down at her desk. She stared at the photograph of her grandfather standing in front of the platform mound at Macon. Large tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

  Chapter 5

  LINDSAY DID NOT hear the lab door open. Sinjin's sudden appearance made her jump.

  "I didn't mean to startle you," Sinjin said. His cleanshaven face from that morning now had the beginnings of a shadow on his jaw. He had removed his tie and his white shirt was open at the neck, sleeves rolled up. He looked tired. Sinjin drew up a chair and sat down across from her. He could see she had been crying. "You all right? Did you hear from Derrick or something?"

  Lindsay shook her head. "The crates . .

  "Was everything broken? I tried to be careful."

  "No, everything was in great shape." Lindsay sniffed, took a Kleenex from her drawer, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

  "What about them? You aren't getting sentimental about Papaw are you?" He said it as if he couldn't imagine it. "I know you and he..."

  Lindsay shook her head. "The artifacts are in excellent, mint condition. Nothing broken or damaged. They're from at least three cultures: Fort Ancient, Mississippian, and Adena."

  "Fort Ancient? Isn't that Kentucky?"

  Lindsay nodded.

  "I still don't understand what the problem is."

  "The artifacts are from different sites and different times. There are no sacks of pot sherds, or broken arrow heads, nothing that is not well-preserved and whole."

  "What does that mean?"

  Lindsay shrugged. "It looks like looters' stash. In one crate alone I counted about $25,000 worth of artifacts on today's market. I don't know what price they would have fetched in the thirties."

  Sinjin whistled. "You mean I was hauling something that valuable-that's what, five crates? That's potentially $125,000 worth of stuff. Where is it now?"

  "I locked it in the storage room."

  "Why didn't you lock the door to the basement? Anyone could have walked in."

  "I forgot."

  "Jesus, Lindsay."

  "You don't understand," she said, tears threatening to spill over again. "What were they doing hidden away in Papaw's shed? What was he doing with them? And what were they doing in crates labeled Ocmulgee Old Fields?"

  "Are you afraid he was involved in black-marketing artifacts?"

  Lindsay shook her head vigorously. "He couldn't have been."

  "But you think he might have been."

  Lindsay bowed her head and looked at her hands resting on her grandfather's desk, absently tracing her fingers on the scratches made by countless artifacts that had been examined on its surface. "I don't know," she said.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "They will have to go back to where they belong. I just don't know where that is. I just don't want people to think, I mean ..." Lindsay couldn't finish.

  "I see you're upset. Let me drive you home and I'll bring you back tomorrow. I stopped by this Chinese place and got us dinner. You can leave your Rover here can't you?"

  Lindsay nodded.

  They ate dinner at Lindsay's small oak dining table, which sat by a large window with a view into the woods. Lindsay had opened the window to let in the sounds-the cries of raptors and songs of passerines, the tapping of woodpeckers, the rustling and chattering of squirrels, the wind in the trees. Occasionally Lindsay had heard the distant yipping of coyotes and wanted Sinjin to hear them, too. But he worked in deeper woods than hers and had probably heard many more animals than her tiny patch of wilderness had to offer.

  As she ate, Lindsay wanted to talk about anything but the artifacts. Sinjin didn't seem to want to talk about his business in Atlanta, so they talked about the movies they liked. Sinjin liked science fiction and hated musicals, Lindsay liked musicals and comedies, but not science fiction. They both liked mysteries. It turned out that Double Indemnity was a favorite for both of them.

  "Maybe we can check it out before you leave," said Lindsay.

  "Maybe so." He looked out the window. "There's still some light left. How about I take Mandrake out for a while?"

  "Sure. He hasn't been ridden this week. He'll enjoy it."

  Lindsay watched them race across the pasture, then slow and take a trail into the woods. Sinjin's presence filled a deep yearning for a relationship with him that she had had for a long time, but he seemed distracted, and she didn't know how to ask him about anything personal.

  Her thoughts drifted to Derrick, who was finishing his doctorate in archaeology at the University of Kentucky. She wondered if she should call and talk to him about the artifacts. There was a time when she could talk to him about anything; there was a time even before they started dating that he was her best friend. Now she hesitated even to call him about something that concerned both their fields.

  This is silly, Lindsay thought. She went up to her room and picked up the phone. A copy of the Athens Banner Herald that she had meant to read was lying on the floor. She picked it up and noticed a long article about Shirley Foster in it as she listened to Derrick's phone ring. She was about to hang up when he answered.

  "Derrick?" she said. There was a moment's pause. She could hear music in the background. "If this is a bad time, I can call back." She tried to sound professional, as if this were an archaeologist-to-archaeologist call. Which it was, she told herself.

  "Lindsay. How are you? You sound upset. Is everything all right?"

  Oh, no, she thought. She meant to sound so matter-offact. "No, well, yes, something has come up and I need to talk to someone about it, but if you're busy ..."

  "No. That's all right. What do you need?"

  She began pouring out the story quickly because she didn't want Derrick to think she was calling about something personal-something between them.

  "Wow," he said when she was finished. "I know what you must be thinking, but don't jump to any conclusions about your grandfather. You don't know what the story is."

  "It looks so suspicious," she said.

  "Well, yeah, but I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for why thousands of dollars worth of artifacts were concealed under a mountain of kudzu on your family's property."

  Lindsay felt herself relax. Derrick was sounding like the old Derrick she knew.

  "I was thinking of delivering them to the University of Kentucky so the Office of State Archaeology could determine their disposition."

  "I'd hold off on that for a little bit. Remember who's in charge these days: Harold van Deevers."

  "Not him?"

  "Yep, the guy you humiliated at the last North American Archaeology Conference."

  "Well ... he had a decimal in the wrong place. If I hadn't pointed it out, someone would have."

  "Yes, but it was you, and it completely destroyed his thesis."

  "It wasn't a very good one anyway."

  "No, but he doesn't like you at the moment, and being the guy he is, he'd like to have the opportunity to put a pox on you and your house."

  "But Papaw was an important archaeologist in Kentucky."

  "Yes, he was, and that and a quarter won't even get you a cup of coffee anymore."

  "What should I
do?"

  "Let me have a look at them. Can you store them?"

  "Yes."

  "I can't get away for a while, but as soon as I can, I'll come and have a look, and we can decide something. In the meantime, just forget about them. They've been lost for sixty years; they can wait a little longer."

  "Thank you, Derrick."

  "Anytime, you know that."

  Lindsay heard his door open in the background and a female voice announce her presence. "It sounds like you have company. I'd better let you go."

  "I'll be in touch. Don't worry about the artifacts, or your grandfather."

  She replaced the phone in its cradle and sighed. That wasn't what she wanted him to say. She wanted him to tell her that he didn't have to go, that it was only some woman selling magazines, and he could talk all night if that was what she wanted. She didn't get to tell him that her brother was visiting. She didn't get to tell him anything personal.

  Lindsay picked up the newspaper and began to read the article about Shirley Foster. Before she disappeared five years ago, Shirley had been at the university for fifteen years and was a tenured professor. She had won awards for her designs and taught courses in the history of textiles and fabric design. She had just published a book called Women's Work: Weaving, the Oldest Profession. She was internationally known and a world traveler. Shirley Foster also belonged to the Athens Council of the Arts and was an expert on fine wines. She was survived by her husband, Tom Foster, CEO of Glass Edifices; daughter Monica, 18; son Jeffery, 10; parents Evelyn and Stewart Pryor; and a brother, Chris Pryor.

  Lindsay suddenly remembered that Eddie had found an IUD during the examination. Yet Tom Foster was supposed to be infertile. Had Shirley Foster been seeing someone? Who? Lindsay wondered. She was brought out of her thoughts by the sound of her front door opening and closing.

  She hurried downstairs. "How was the ride?" she asked as she walked into the entranceway and came face-to-face with Tom Foster.

  "I knocked," he said.

  "I didn't hear it."

  "I did knock. I don't go around breaking into people's houses. I was about to call for you."

  "Why didn't you call on the phone first?"

  "I tried on the car phone on the way over. Your line was busy." He waved a dismissing hand. "That's not what I came to talk about."

  "Why did you come?"

  "I need to talk to you about Shirl."

  "I was just going out on the porch to watch my brother ride," Lindsay said, gesturing toward the door. Foster grumbled impatiently but followed her out to the porch. She scanned the pasture and woods for Sinjin but didn't see him.

  "I know this is irregular."

  "Yes, it is."

  "It's about this ... investigation. I don't like what you and Will are trying to do."

  "I'm not trying to do anything. My involvement in the investigation is over."

  "I know Stewart and Evelyn came to see you." He didn't mention Monica's visit, and neither did Lindsay. "What did they want?"

  "That is really not your concern."

  "Not my concern! Dammit, can't you see what they're trying to do?"

  "Why don't you tell me?"

  "They want to get their hands on Shirl's money. Her grandmother left her a bundle. They would like to get custody of Monica and Jeffery, too, but that'll stop when they find out they're adopted."

  "They showed me a picture...."

  Tom laughed out loud. "Shirl got one of those things they use in the movies, you know, to make actresses look pregnant."

  "Why?" asked Lindsay.

  Tom shrugged. "You've got to understand Shirl and her family. For all her accomplishments, and there were many, she was terrified of disappointing her parents." Tom shook his head. "When we were in school, all her mother had to say was, `We know you won't disappoint us, dear,' and it would send Shirl into a panic. I didn't understand it, never did, still don't. Chris's the same way."

  "I still don't understand why she was pretending she was pregnant."

  "She didn't want them to know the kids were adopted. She was afraid they'd reject them. They had some rather unkind things to say about a niece who was adopted. I think Shirl enjoyed putting them on, too."

  "But how did she pull it off? Surely she didn't wear that thing every day, and she'd need several."

  "We were out of the country in the months leading up to both adoptions. Shirt spent a lot of time in Europe at various universities, and I traveled a lot for business. That's the way we'd do it. When I'd have to take a trip to several countries, Shirl'd make plans to do research. Every few weeks we'd meet in Paris or someplace." He sighed. "Those were good times. Before she started running around with Will."

  "What?"

  Tom Foster grinned. "You didn't know that, did you?"

  "No." She paused.

  Foster stood there still grinning as though he had slipped something over on her, and it annoyed her.

  "But didn't her mother or anyone ask her questions about her pregnancies?" Lindsay asked-to make him stop smiling as much as out of curiosity.

  "Humph. Her mother'd never talk to her about anything like that. And as for friends, the close ones know. The others, well, Shirl'd handle it. She was good at that." He was silent a moment. He kicked an acorn from Lindsay's porch and crushed another one under his foot. "I loved Shirl, but she had her faults. I won't drag them out in the open on account of Jeffery and Monica, but she was far from perfect."

  "I still don't understand what you want from me, Mr. Foster."

  "I don't want you and Will Patterson trying to pin this thing on me. People are talking and it's bad for business. I've already lost two big orders."

  "Didn't Will Patterson and you used to be friends?"

  "In high school. We were kids then. Kids are stupid sometimes."

  "What happened?"

  "We both fell in love with Shirl. That was all."

  "And you won."

  "With the help of her parents. I admit that, but she loved me. We had good times."

  "And bad?" asked Lindsay.

  "The only bad times were brought on by Will Patterson. Stupid drunk. Look at him-private detective, my ass. He makes his living peeping through keyholes and taking pictures of people cheating on their spouses. He and Shirl never did break it off completely. He'd come off a drunk, Shirl'd feel sorry for him, and they'd go at it."

  "I still don't understand why you think I have some role in this."

  "Will hired you. He said you were working on the case and you had a good track record."

  Lindsay raised her eyebrows, wondering why Will had said such a thing or if Tom had misunderstood. "He hired me to find where Shirley was buried." Lindsay sensed that Tom Foster simply had some free-floating fear that she and Patterson were plotting against him but he didn't know how. As if Patterson by himself was weak, but teaming with Lindsay made him stronger or more credible.

  "Did you ask yourself how Will knew where she was buried? I didn't even think she was dead. He didn't get any anonymous call."

  "Why were you so sure she wasn't dead?"

  "Because the missing hundred thousand dollars never turned up."

  Chapter 6

  "A HUNDRED THOUSAND dollars?" Lindsay said, pronouncing each word to make sure she had heard correctly.

  "Yeah, didn't you know about that?"

  "No. There was no reason I should."

  "When she disappeared, so did a hundred thousand dollars from her account. I figured it was some scheme she and Will were up to."

  "What kind of scheme did you have in mind?"

  Tom shrugged. "I just thought they were planning to run off together. When he didn't leave, I thought maybe she wanted to start a new life somewhere. It's been done."

  "What about her children?"

  "As I said, it's been done."

  "The hundred thousand dollars, was that her entire fortune?"

  "No, but I figured she left the rest for the kids, you know, to ease her conscience for
leaving them."

  "You thought she just walked away from her lifehaving two children, with a terminal degree in her field and tenure? A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, but it strikes me that someone from her social and income levels, having left her credentials behind, would need more to start a new life. Did you look for her?"

  Tom Foster's face flushed red and his voice rose a level. "See, there you go. I knew you would start laying the foundation for blaming me. Yes, I looked for her, but not hard. I figured if she wanted to go, more power to her. At least she left the kids." And part of her money, thought Lindsay. "I just came out here to tell you to tell Will Patterson to leave me alone."

  "Who do you think killed her?"

  "Will might have. Maybe they were planning to leave together and she changed her mind. Maybe he did it on one of his drunken binges. I don't know. Could've been anybody did it. As I said, Shirl wasn't as blameless as everyone thought."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Just what I said. She liked to have her fun."

  "Didn't that make you angry?"

  Foster snapped back, "Now there you go again. It won't work." He pointed a finger at Lindsay's face.

  "Put your finger down. I think it's time you go," said Lindsay, thinking that perhaps she had asked one question too many.

  "Not till I've had my say," he said. "I want you to deliver a message to Will for me."

  "You will have to tell him yourself. We aren't working together."

  "That's not what I hear. You tell him-"

  "I'm not telling him anything. I'm no longer involved in this case."

  "You sure ask a lot of questions for someone who's not involved. Why did Shirl's parents come to see you if you aren't involved?"

  "I think you should go now."

  "Not until-"

  "You heard my sister. I think you ought to stand down." Sinjin's voice was calm, almost friendly. He walked up on the porch. A faint aroma of hot leather and horse wafted through the air.

  "I wasn't intending to harm her," said Tom Foster.

  "I know. Nevertheless, when she asks you to leave her property, you must."

  "I don't want any trouble, here or anywhere. That's all I want to say." He turned and walked to his Mercedes and drove away.