by Dana Cameron
“I saw you hit the casinos in Connecticut on your way up,” Scott said, jerking his chin toward a couple of plastic bags with exuberant logos sitting under the desk.
“Oh, sure,” I said before Jay could answer. “There’s a really impressive museum and research center focusing on Native American culture associated with one of them. I stopped by myself, last time I visited my mother. It’s worth the trip.”
Scott laughed at me. “Yeah, that’s why Jay stopped at the casino, Em. For the museum.”
“Here.” Jay thrust a stapled sheaf of paper into Scott’s hand. “Now let’s get going, can we?”
The session we walked into was on migration and the effect it might have on the archaeological record. Meg was tackling it in the broadest sense, examining the politics of the period in which the Chandlers had moved to Massachusetts and comparing it with the situation in Matthew Chandler’s hometown of Woodbroke, near Norwich. She was attempting to build a correlation between a political fracas there, the Chandlers’ hasty marriage and departure, and what appeared to be a slight dip in their fortunes, based on the artifacts from the earliest strata of their house site in Stone Harbor, Massachusetts.
I was interested to see what Meg was going to do with this paper, as I knew she was nervous about it. Meg was developing her professional persona. She’d presented papers before, but in much less formal circumstances, and while there was no other limit I knew to Meg’s confidence and aggression, public speaking was the one thing I knew she was not comfortable with. That would come with time, I thought. Meg had the ability to overcome many things, including herself.
She’d dressed up for this, I was surprised to see; usually there was little difference between Meg in the field and Meg in class and Meg at a prom, for all I knew. But instead of baggy army surplus fatigues, a T-shirt, and boots, she was wearing wool dress pants, a silk shirt, and shoes: flat-heeled lace-ups, to be sure, but shoes nonetheless. It made me wonder what her wedding gown—if any—and the whole ceremony would look like.
Meg was all business from the get-go: curt nod of thanks to the moderator, a brief “lights, please,” and then she was off.
She was discussing an aspect of the Chandler house excavation that had particularly interested her, Justice Matthew Chandler’s reasons for leaving England to come to Massachusetts in the 1720s, a drastic decision for anyone, much less for someone with the means and family connections that he would have had. Meg, as far as I knew, had been corresponding with an archive in England, and they had sent her a copy of a letter that seemed to confirm her hypothesis: Matthew Chandler had left England because of county political controversies.
I never bought into this theory for several reasons. The first was that, having studied his wife Margaret’s journal, I never saw any indication that this was the case. She was an extraordinarily canny woman, and my brief introduction to her world, two hundred years and more after her death, led me to believe that she would have written something about this. The second was my sense that Margaret wrote about her husband with respect and growing affection. While she wasn’t happy with being forced to live in the Massachusetts wilderness—indeed, she’d come within a hair’s breadth of having been executed for murder—she never blamed Matthew for her situation. My impression was simply that there would have been more blame, or at least some reference to their plight, had they been forced to flee their home for the reasons that Meg was suggesting. Another was that I could find no indication that Matthew had been a part of the tempest in the local teapot. Not solidly conclusive reasons, just instinct.
Meg gave the overview of our two seasons in the field, with some of the gorgeous shots of the brick house that overlooked Stone Harbor itself. She included a couple of good shots of the crew working, and one of them goofing off, which was nice, and then some of the tastier artifacts we’d recovered. She loitered over the chatelaine that we’d found season one, a particular prize of mine because my sister Bucky had found it. And then she wound up her introduction with a description of the politics she believed caused the Chandlers to relocate.
“What I had originally decided was that it had become socially and economically prudent for Matthew Chandler both to marry into the Chase fortune—Margaret’s father was a successful merchant who married into a minor branch of nobility—and to leave London quickly thereafter, as the news of the corruption scandal from Woodbroke was just reaching Norwich and London at that point. It turns out I was wrong.”
I blinked; I hadn’t heard this part.
She took a deep breath. “I received an email just three days ago, from Professor Merton-Twigg, whose work focuses on the documentary history of Norwich in the early modern period. It turns out, however, that although the name Chandler is prominently mentioned in the city records of the time, it is not our Chandlers. I don’t even know if they are related, but it certainly wasn’t Matthew who was involved. The reason we can confirm this is twofold: The first is that a diarist of the time mentions that Matthew was already in London, having quit Woodbroke for Oxford some years before. The second was that Professor Merton-Twigg realized that the transcription of the document I hoped would prove my point was incomplete. A footnote that had been described as ‘illegible’ was in fact a remark that Matthew had served with good faith his family and their interests at Woodbroke, and that he never would have let this happen.”
Meg took another deep breath and smiled ruefully. “There goes chapter three of my dissertation.”
There was a shocked pause, some “awws,” and some laughter. I sucked my teeth, knowing what a blow it was to Meg.
She finished up smartly enough, discussing where she could go from here, what else remained to be done, and what were the other options for her research.
I ducked out of that session, went to another couple papers on osteology, and then snuck back in for the wrap-up, a rather dreary report on numbers of immigrants to a small town outside of Hartford during the late nineteenth century. After the question period, Meg was collecting her slide tray—she was still unable to afford more impressive computer hardware and display software—and I sidled up behind her. The lights were up, showing the dull gold wallpaper to no good advantage.
“That’s a pain, huh?” I said.
“What are you going to do?” She screwed up her face. “The email came a couple of days ago, and a copy of the letter came right as I was leaving for here. It just nailed down the lid on the coffin.”
“And is it really a whole chapter in your dissertation?”
She shrugged. “It would have been fun and interesting, but it’s really just a smallish part. I can revise it easily enough, make what I’ve got part of the family history, then get to the site itself. No biggie.”
“I have to say, you’re taking this remarkably well. I know you thought you had a hot lead there, that it would have been a nice, juicy scandal to work with. But you might be able to work it into an essay on historiography, or something.”
Meg frowned, darting a sideways glance at me, as she worked her carousel box into her backpack. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m not about to sit down and cry just because history didn’t go the way I wanted. It would be nice to shape the past anyway I want, but I’m not going to screw with the data we do have to suit my own prurient interests.”
Neal came up then. “So, how’d it go?”
“Good. Got it over with. Onward and upward. Or downward, as the case may be.”
“I’m taking it worse than she is,” I added. “Bummer.”
“Oh, well, there was some serious pissing and moaning at home, and on the ride up here, and for a while as she was rewriting,” Neal offered.
“Thanks, chum,” Meg said to her fiancé. “Way to get my back.”
“Oh, come on.” Neal squished her in a big overblown hug, guaranteed to wrinkle her shirt and rumple her serious demeanor. Meg was smiling by the time she wriggled free. “You’re fine now. Emma understands.”
“Do I ever,” I said.
“Okay, how about this?” I said. “You get me your revised outline in two weeks.”
“Yeah, that’s more like it,” she said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. It rutched up her shirt so that her bra showed through straining fabric. A little more adventurous than I would have expected. Meg might have mastered lingerie, but she still hadn’t come to grips with what wearing dress clothes—however casual—might require.
Then she turned and saw my face. “You’re serious.”
“Like a lightning strike. You’re ready for it. You said you wanted direction.”
“Well.” She looked surprised by this, but undaunted. “Shit. Okay.”
“You can always tell the Caldwell crowd,” a voice said from behind us. “It’s like pets and their owners. The students and professors start to look alike.”
We turned around. “Oh? Hey, Scott.”
“Short hair, neatly dressed but not too formal—no suits here—”
“And just last year my hair was long and I was wearing suits,” I retorted. “What do you make of that?”
“That’s right, and didn’t I see you decked out in pearl earrings and stilettos last year?” he asked Neal.
Neal gave Scott a questioning look. “Emma, I’ve got to run. Excuse me.”
He and Meg took off, and I turned to Scott, whose humor had utterly vanished.
“What’s up? News about Garrison? People are really wigging out about the cops here. But I guess they have to treat the investigation as a potential homicide because Garrison’s death was sudden and suspicious and possibly violent.”
Scott shook his head, surprised that I should have these facts at my fingertips. “Uh, no. Emma, I need to talk to you about what you said to Duncan earlier.”
My shoulders slumped. “What did I say to Duncan? I try to say as little as possible to him.”
“But what you do say is choice. What is it you’re after?”
His words were cold, like nothing I’d ever heard from him, and I looked at him in shock.
“I have no idea of what you are talking about.”
“Let’s cut the shit, shall we? You were asking about Josiah Miller. Why’s that?”
“Because I heard it in a paper and it rang a bell with me, and for some reason I thought it was something that he might remember.” I tried not to think of how scary Scott suddenly seemed to me, as big and angry as he was.
“I don’t like you playing Dunk for a fool.” He was disgusted now. “If you’ve got something to say to him, you should just get it out in the open. I thought better of you, Emma.”
Now I was really pissed. “Look, for the hundredth time, I have no idea of what you’re talking about. And if Duncan is worried that I’m saying something to him—about what, I can’t for the life of me guess—then you tell him to get his cowardly and overimaginative ass out here and ask me in person. I don’t do threats and hints. Got it?”
I didn’t wait to hear what he had to say to that, I didn’t care. I was so mad, I could have hit him. He was my friend, and now, for some reason, he could barely look at me. And apparently I had Duncan Thayer to thank for it.
Chapter 10
AS I STORMED OFF AWAY FROM THE BALLROOMS, I saw Petra sitting with some of the older folks, people who’d been doing historical archaeology before there was such a thing. I hadn’t been over to see them yet, but I knew I would have to eventually. I usually had to juggle finding as many of them together as possible, avoiding Garrison, and my own schedule. Plus, there was a whole pile of inert reluctance that I had to overcome in order to do it, and it weighed on me like an anchor. Overcoming yourself in order to do the right thing seems doubly hard.
“Evening, folks,” I said to the table in general.
“Evening, Emma.”
“How are you, Emma?”
“Well, now, Dr. Fielding.”
Rob Wilson was sitting over there with them, and I thought that might make it easier. “Hey, Emma!”
“Hey, Rob.” He got up and I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Missed you at the card game.”
“Sorry, I got hung up. You know how it is.”
“Sure.”
A good friend to me years ago, and once a more active member of our set, Rob had only ever played two or three years with us. Ever since then, he “got hung up.” It was a yearly exchange on both our parts, and it saddened me.
“Don’t I get a kiss?” Roche said.
Exactly what I’d been hoping to avoid, especially after his egregious sucking-up to Garrison during the plenary session. “Didn’t know you’d want one,” I said, smiling as best I could. I leaned over and bussed him on the cheek and felt a rasp of stiff whiskers against my face. Thomas had missed a couple of places.
“Known her all these years and I still have to ask for a kiss,” he groused to the rest of the table.
“Oh, well…” I began tentatively. There was no good response.
“I knew her back before she was in high school. Knew her before she got too big for her britches—”
“You’ve known your wife even longer, and she still waits for you to ask her for a kiss too,” Dr. Lawrence said. There was some laughter, and then someone came up to ask Roche a question. I felt a surge of relief.
Petra was still talking with someone and Rob had turned away to speak to someone else, but Lawrence—Larry, as I knew him—turned to me, offering a hand.
“How’ve you been, Emma?”
I shook his hand and leaned in to kiss him. “Pretty well, Larry. Busy, you know.”
“I do know. You’d think emeritus would be a break, but now I’m only doing everything I didn’t have time for when I was working full-time. Congratulations on your tenure, by the way. I was very pleased to hear about that. No one deserves it more.”
“Thanks. I thought things would ease up a little, but I feel busier than ever.”
Larry laughed. “And how is Brian?”
We chatted for a few minutes, until I saw that Petra was getting up to leave. I excused myself from Larry and followed her.
“Thomas Roche is an ass,” she said, when she noticed me. “He’s been an ass for years.”
“He’s not my favorite person. But I have known him a long time.”
“It doesn’t give him the right to presume. Your relationship with Oscar saddled you with a lot you didn’t ask for.”
I looked at Petra quickly, then just nodded.
“You shouldn’t be so surprised,” she continued. “I know something about it.”
“Oh?”
“Think about my name. Not a lot of seventy-year-old women wandering around called Petra, are there?”
“No.”
“Not a lot of seventy-year-old women historical archaeologists either, are there?”
“Nope. Not as many as there will be, soon enough.”
“My father was a biblical scholar. We traveled a lot. I got my interest in archaeology from those trips with him. My mother hated it, she hated being out of the country, but what could she do? The one place she really liked was Petra, in Jordan. Maybe because it was fixed in one place.”
I was struggling, not understanding what she was getting at. “I always thought it was a gorgeous name.”
“Imagine explaining what it meant in the nineteen-forties. I didn’t just get a passion for the past from him, I got a damned odd name. I also got an entrée into the field through his colleagues, which made things a little easier for me, I’m sure, in those days.” She glanced at me. “And a little tougher too.”
I nodded again, saving this all for later to think about. Working with Oscar had been lots of fun, but at the same time…“I was wondering whether I could talk to you about Garrison.”
Suddenly, Petra’s sympathy evaporated. “What about Garrison?” she asked sharply.
“How he was, before he died.”
“He was a cantankerou
s old bastard before he died,” she said evenly, after a pause. “Much the same as he’d been for decades before that event.”
“No, I mean…had he been having trouble with people, getting into altercations? Trouble with drinking, with his medications? I’m only asking because I’ve heard conflicting stories,” I said, rushing along before she could protest. “And I thought that if I just came out and asked you, it might simplify things.”
“Hmmm.” She glanced at me. “What have you heard?”
At least she hadn’t just told me to take a hike, I thought. “That he was drinking, and he shouldn’t have been, with whatever he was taking. That he was suffering mood swings.”
“More mood swings than usual?” she asked lightly, but it was an act. “How could anyone tell?”
I shrugged. “You could. You were married to him.”
“Yes, I was married to him. We’ve remained close, so I can tell you unequivocally, not that it’s any of your business: Garrison was taking his medications—nothing fancy, just anticoagulants—and he was not drinking, not as far as I knew.”
Was there just a tinge of defensiveness in her voice? I wondered.
“And he was no more moody than usual. Garrison died by accident, because he was a stubborn old ass and wanted his walk. He died from sulking, if you want to find a reason for it.”
“But…what about the—?”
“Emma, Garrison died by accident.” Her words became louder, more insistent. “He went outside, he fell, he cracked his head. Let’s not make anything more of it than that. It was an accident. Excuse me.”
She swept past me toward the elevator banks. Had she been squashing me with practical truths, or had she been denying something? I could not tell, and I was still left with the unease of having been pressing her beyond decent limits in her grief.
“Hey, Emma, come over here!”
I turned around and saw Lissa and Sue. Lissa was waving excitedly; Sue had her hand on Lissa’s arm, like she had been trying to keep Lissa from calling me.