"It seems unlikely, but things like that do happen," said Lindsay.
"Maybe. But Shirt's great love was Will Patterson. She might cheat on her husband but not on him."
"You all used to be friends, didn't you?"
Irene nodded. "Sort of. When we were in high school I felt honored that she chose me as her friend. But I was just a sidekick. Shirl was the main attraction. At the time I thought some of her starshine would rub off on me. It didn't. I'll bet you were popular in school."
"Not especially," responded Lindsay.
"What, you weren't a cheerleader, prom queen?"
Lindsay shook her head. "Not even close. I didn't even have a date for the junior prom. Most of my extracurricular activities centered around horses. My mother raises and trains Arabians. I did a lot of horse show stuff. That and tagging after my grandfather on digs."
"I went to the proms, but Shirl always got me the dates. I think I resented her for that."
"Weren't you relieved to graduate and find out the world isn't like high school?"
"In a way. But when you keep the same circle of friends, it's hard to break the typecasting. I even dated Will myself for a while, after Shirl started seeing Tom. Didn't work out."
"Why didn't Shirley just marry Will in the first place?" Lindsay asked.
"She should have. Her parents had her life laid out for her on a blueprint, and she just went along. I guess I did feel sorry for her some-and for Chris, too. Their parents treated him like the original screwup. His father was furious over his opening that little shop instead of going to work for him. I think Stewart Pryor has dynastic delusions or something."
Irene took another bite of cornbread and a sip of tea. "Getting into law enforcement was the best thing that ever happened to me. That and Granny leaving me this house and property. Mom and Dad tried to get me to give it to my brother and his wife. They told me that, since he had a family, this'd be a great place for their grandchildren to grow up. They had it all figured out. Buster would pay me something every month. Like I'd ever see a penny. Earleen actually came over to measure the windows for drapes."
"They must've been surprised when you refused," said Lindsay.
Irene grinned. "You'd have thought I was the most selfish bitch alive." She stopped smiling. "I wasn't going to be second best anymore. Like you said, life's not high school. I told Mom and Dad that I wanted a family, and if Buster and Earleen couldn't house their family, they should stop having kids. I said that in front of Earleen, too." Irene smiled again. She was attractive when she smiled. Lindsay thought the coroner was right, that perhaps she just wasn't at her best around Tom Foster. "You dating anybody?" she asked Lindsay abruptly.
Lindsay shook her head. "Not now. He didn't like my detective work. But I miss him," she added.
"This guy I'm seeing is nice. I kind of hope something comes of it. I'd still like to have a family. I saw where that actress Adrienne Barbeau had twins at fifty. That kind of gives me hope."
"I imagine it was very hard on her."
"I suppose so. You ever want kids?"
"Yeah, I do. Right now, I'd even settle for a niece or nephew."
"You have brothers and sisters, then?" asked Irene.
"I have a brother. He's visiting me now. He's a nice guy „
"What's he do?"
"He's a smokejumper," Lindsay said with pride.
"Really? I got a cousin who's a hotshot. Name's Zeke Varnadore. Ask your brother if he knows him. It's a pretty tight community of people, I understand."
"I'll ask him. I hate to admit it, but I don't know a lot about what he does. What's a hotshot?"
"Ground crew who fight the fires. Similar to smokejumpers, but they don't get to the fire by parachute." Irene seemed pleased to tell her. "What's your brother's name?"
"Sinjin Chamberlain."
"Sinjin? I don't think I've ever heard that before."
"Short for St. John," Lindsay told her.
"St. John. I like that. It's better than Buster." They both laughed.
Lindsay finished her stew and the last of her cornbread. "This was great. I thought I was going to be in that well all night."
"What were you doing at the old mill?"
Lindsay shrugged. "It was a fellow faculty member's dig. I read his report, and something about it bothered me. I came out to see if I could figure out what." If Irene thought that was an odd explanation, she didn't say so. Lindsay wouldn't have blamed her if she had. It was an odd explanation.
The phone rang and Irene got up to answer it. She came back and sat down. "That was one of my deputies. I've had them dragging the lake for Shirl's car, and they just found it. Would you like to go with me and have a look?"
The lakeside site was lit with large spotlights that shone off a low fog hovering over the water. As Lindsay and Irene approached through the woods, the car was emerging from the fog, pulled by a large tow truck with a winch. The first thought Lindsay had when she saw the car was what a shame someone had pushed it into the lake. It was a dark blue Jaguar and had water pouring out of every crack and opening. A deputy started to open the door.
"Wait," Irene told him. She peered in the window. Lindsay followed her.
There wasn't anything on either the front or back seat. The keys were in the ignition. It looked like the gearshift was in neutral.
Irene carefully opened the driver's side door and took the keys. "Let's have a look in the trunk," she said.
The trunk was full of water, but it was leaking out quickly. Other than what might have been a soggy, flat cardboard gift box, the trunk was empty.
"What do you think happened to the money?" asked Lindsay as Irene drove her back to her Rover.
"Right now, I'm assuming Luke Ferris squirreled it away somewhere. We haven't found any hidden assets. But that doesn't mean he hasn't spent it or maybe has it hidden, trying to figure out how to launder it."
"How does one go about laundering money, anyway?" asked Lindsay.
"Put it through some legitimate business, falsify receipts. It's best if you have a cash business. I knew a guy who stole fifty thousand from his employer. He took up painting with watercolors and went to craft fairs, selling his pictures. His cousin ratted on him. He said the paintings were so bad, no one could possibly be buying them."
They both laughed.
"Luke Ferris has no way to launder any money," Lindsay said.
"Granted, he may not know how. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have it stashed away somewhere. He could be afraid to spend it."
"What was Shirley doing with all that money anyway?" asked Lindsay.
"Who knows? Something she didn't want Tom or her father to find out, that's for sure."
Irene pulled up beside Lindsay's Rover and stopped. Lindsay put a hand on the door, ready to get out.
"I'd get a tetanus shot if I were you," said Irene.
"I keep up-to-date," said Lindsay. "You run into all kinds of things on digs."
"I imagine so. Look, I've read about your troubles in the papers."
"Yeah. I'm trying to figure out some way to clear my name. There's this campus policeman who's sure I'm guilty."
"Kaufman. I know him. He's a friend of the guy I date." For a moment, as Lindsay looked at Irene, she wondered if Sheriff Varnadore had set him onto her, then dismissed the idea. "The reason he thinks you're guilty is someone at the university has been putting a bug in his ear. Says they've been trying to get something on you for a long time and can't."
Lindsay opened her mouth, shocked. "Why?"
"I don't know. I told him you have a good reputation among law enforcement people."
"Did he tell you who said that about me?"
Irene shook her head. "Look, I think you're all right. I'll try to find out who it is, if you want."
"I would be grateful. Thank you."
"You tell me anything you dig up on Shirt's murderer. I think it's the Ferris kid, but I'm not looking to hang him just to close out a case."
"I will, but I've been trying to avoid getting involved. People just keep coming to me. Thanks so much for your hospitality," said Lindsay. "I was in need."
"My pleasure," Irene said.
Someone at the university, thought Lindsay on the drive home. Who? Student, faculty, staff, administrator? Probably not a student; she couldn't imagine Kaufman giving a student that much credibility, but you never know. She turned into her driveway. Through the trees she saw a light on. Sinjin was home. She smiled to herself. Even with everything going on, it was nice to have him visit.
Sinjin stood in the middle of Lindsay's kitchen with his mouth open. "Am I going to have to hire a keeper for you? First the basement, and now you tell me you've fallen down a well. Let me see those hands." He shook his head at her broken fingernails. "I'm really getting to see Derrick's point of view."
Lindsay tried to ignore his ribbing. She didn't want a lecture, either. She took back her hands. "Did you and Sally have a good time?"
"As a matter of fact, we did. What were you doing wandering around out in the middle of nowhere, at a site that's already finished?"
"I don't know. Something bothered me about Kerwin's site."
"Exactly what bothered you? You didn't like his methodology?"
Lindsay ignored his sarcasm. "No. I can't put my finger on it. I have this vague feeling it has something to do with Shirley Foster, but I can't imagine what."
Sinjin grabbed the colas he had poured for the two of them and guided Lindsay to the living room. "Didn't you say she was some textile expert? That was a textile mill-"
"And she gave him a personal communication-" Lindsay stopped still.
"What?" asked Sinjin, putting down her drink.
Lindsay fished in her briefcase and pulled out the journal, flipping to the references in Kerwin's article. "That's it. Personal communication from Shirley Foster, November 14, 1994. That was the day she disappeared. She went out with him to the Rayburn Mill site. That's what she told her secretary-that she was going to Rayburn. Shirley's secretary misunderstood and thought she meant Rabun County in north Georgia. The little weasel never told anyone that he was the last person to see her alive. That's why he was trying to keep me from seeing the article."
"Do you think he killed Shirley there and moved the body?" asked Sinjin.
Lindsay sat down. Put like that, it seemed unlikely. She had no love for Kenneth Kerwin, but she couldn't imagine him killing anyone or having the stomach to try and dispose of a body in such a grizzly way.
"You in there?" asked Sinjin, waving his hand in front of her face.
"I was just thinking. None of this makes sense."
"You work that out while you were down in the well?"
Lindsay grinned. "What did you and Sally do?"
"She took me to downtown Athens. They were having a jazz concert in the street. We went to a sidewalk cafe and listened while we ate. Then we went to the Civic Center and took in Cats. I'd never seen it; not bad. After that we had tea at Sally's." He smiled, showing a row of straight white teeth. "I had a good time. I'd forgotten what dates are like. We even ran across Brian and what's-her-name. I think he was a little jealous."
"Sally must have had a great time," Lindsay said.
"I'd like to think she did. She's a nice kid."
"She's not a kid."
"I know." He grinned. "Did you know she has a Mickey Mouse teakettle? One of Mickey's round ears forms the handle." He made a circle with his hands. "You, know, I'd forgotten you can actually spend time with a woman and not argue."
"Sally's always a breath of fresh air." Lindsay stood up and stretched. "I'm exhausted. Climbing out of an abandoned well is hard work. I think I'll go to bed. I'm sorry I'm such a bad host; I had hoped when you came to visit me, you'd enjoy yourself."
"Actually, it hasn't been half bad. Before you go upstairs, I've got some pictures for you to look at, if you feel like it. I've been going over Papaw's papers and looking at the picture you drew-you're pretty good, by the way. I came up with some photographs."
Sinjin laid out a book with pages marked with Post-It notes, along with several photographs in a folder. Lindsay looked at each one. Most were fuzzy and looked like they could all have been the face she had drawn. Many were pictures of the archaeology crew working or posing for the photographer. Lindsay's grandfather was in several of them. One picture was of the main archaeologists with workers resting in the background. She paid particular attention to the clothes and shoes. All wore work clothes. One had his legs crossed. With her hand lens she examined the shoes. They all had on more or less the same type of shoes, but what she was looking for was an indication of a wear pattern on the soles similar to the wear pattern belonging to the skeleton. Unfortunately, the pictures weren't clear enough to see any details.
She looked through the pictures again. This pass, she noticed a man standing, leaning on a shovel. His whole frame was skewed, causing his left hip and shoulder to be higher than his right. She took her lens and examined the face.
"This one," she said to Sinjin. "Look how his skeleton is asymmetrical."
Sinjin took the picture and looked. He turned it over. "It has the names of the archaeologists but just says `and diggers' for the others." He handed it back to Lindsay and she set it aside and looked again through the other pictures, looking for the same face. A picture that showed several workers seated in a row showed the same man. Lindsay turned the picture over. Names were listed on the back, with the heading L-R. She read the third name.
"Hank Roy Creasey. Is that what it says?"
"Looks like it," said Sinjin. "Do you think there's any chance of finding out anything about him?"
"First, I need to establish that this is the picture of the man in the crate."
"How you going to do that?"
"Actually, that won't be hard. I can do that tomorrow."
She picked up the folder and flipped through the photographs Sinjin hadn't marked.
"Maggie sent most of those," said Sinjin. "I called a few days ago and asked her. I didn't tell her what they were for."
"How was she? Did she say anything about what's going on with the artifacts and the skeleton?"
"She had seen the story in the newspaper," Sinjin said. "She was worried at first. I told her it was really nothingthat it was just such an odd story that the newspapers picked it up. I told her the skeleton might have been from an Indian burial and was just wrapped in old clothes. I didn't think lying to her would hurt, and it might save her some grief."
Lindsay agreed. "Did you talk to Elizabeth and Lenore?"
"Oh, yes." He smiled. "I couldn't get off the phone without talking to them. They're fine. They asked about you."
"I just hate this," Lindsay said.
"Yeah, so do I."
There were several photographs of her grandfather when he was young-some with various family members, some with her father, one of him with a young couple with their arms intertwined. He was grinning broadly in all of them. Many of the photos Maggie had sent were more recent, and a few were of Lindsay and her grandfather. She smiled as she went through them.
"You were a cute little thing," said Sinjin. "I like the one where you're holding the string of fish."
Lindsay remembered the trip. Her grandfather hadn't liked fishing particularly, and it was a rare trip with him, her father, and Sinjin. She was about five and Sinjin fourteen. They all were grinning.
"I didn't catch all those fish myself, did I?"
"Not all of them. We gave them to you to hold."
She looked at her grandfather's face. He looked amused, not like someone who years previously had committed murder. It seemed to Lindsay that if a man like her grandfather had done such a thing, it would show on his face like a scar.
"This looks like Maggie's husband." Lindsay showed him an Ocmulgee picture with her grandfather and his brother-in-law Billy, standing in front of a mound.
"I think Papaw gave Billy a job when the mines closed after a ca
ve-in or something like that."
Lindsay looked at the next picture. It was of Sinjin when he was about seven, her father, and a very beautiful woman. Her father was laughing and had an arm around the woman's shoulder. They all looked happy. Lindsay realized that the woman was Sinjin's mother. It was odd to see her father behaving so lovingly toward someone who was not her mother. This picture must have been taken about a year before she died. Odd how events happen. If Sinjin's mother hadn't died, Lindsay would never have been born. It was a strange thing to think about.
"This is a nice picture," said Lindsay. "Do you remember it?"
"A little."
Sinjin was looking at Lindsay rather intensely. She wondered if he was wondering what she was thinking. She went to the next picture in the stack. This one was of her graduation party. She had just received a combined Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Science degree and her father and mother were giving her a party at her grandfather's house. It was a few months before he died. He was ill at the time and was sitting in a lawn chair, wrapped in a blanket, even though it was June. All her great-aunts were there, Maggie, Elizabeth, and Lenore. So was Sinjin. Her mother was cutting a cake. She remembered that it was a happy day. Her grandfather had been proud of her. She started to put the picture down but was struck by the look of pain on her grandfather's face. Funny, she remembered that he was feeling really good that day. Then she noticed it. He was staring out at the kudzu patch. Lindsay looked up at her brother. He had seen it, too, and was waiting for her to notice it.
"What do you think?" she said, her voice so soft it was almost to herself.
"I think he knew what was out there, and toward the end of his life, it preyed on his mind."
Chapter 17
LINDSAY STOPPED AT a photo shop on the way to her office and ordered two enlargements of the picture of Sinjin with their father and his mother, one copy for Sinjin and one for herself. She wanted to do something for him, something that showed him how much she liked his being here, something that showed him she understood him a little better. She also wanted to remind herself that Sinjin and her father had a family before she and her mother arrived, and that his family was important, too.
Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel Page 19