Digging Up Death (A Mari Duggins Mystery)

by Gina Conroy

  Maybe one of the kids dropped it in my bag. Their locker combination? The intercom beep startled me.

  “Yes?”

  “Mari, someone’s here to see you.”

  “Can you tell them to make an appointment for tomorrow? I’m almost ready to leave.”

  “It’s Danny. That handsome tenant of yours.”

  I threw the Rolo foil in the trash, then dumped everything else in my tote bag, including the half- eaten protein bar and Henderson’s letters. My stomach roiled. I had to call Lopez before the day ended. “Sure, send him right in.”

  Danny entered, his smile dim like an Osmond out of toothpaste. He swung his army green backpack off his shoulder and set it by the door. “Hi, Mrs. D. Sorry to bother you.”

  I waved him to the chair in front of my desk. “You know you’re always welcome. Thanks again for coming to my rescue earlier.” I eased back in my leather chair, thankful for the comfort it provided my aching lower back.

  “No problem. Like I said, I was headed to the university after lunch. It was on the way.”

  “So what can I do for you?”

  He sat, legs spread, his lanky form slumped deep in the chair. With his head hung low, I couldn’t see his almond brown eyes, but I could tell all wasn’t well.

  “Classes going okay?”

  He shrugged. “I’m almost done with mid-terms. Just two more.”

  “That’s great. But I bet you didn’t come here to talk about something we could have discussed at dinner tonight.”

  His leg began to shake. “I can’t put one over on you, can I Mrs. D.?”

  “Not many can. What’s on your mind? I’m not a counselor, but I’ve got two good ears.”

  He lifted his gaze. “It’s about Cherilyn. I really care about her, but she’s going through a hard time. I don’t know what to do.”

  I remembered my first blinding crush. Thankfully I had grown up and seen the light. “Flowers and chocolate usually heal any female trouble.” At least chocolate did for me.

  “Nah, that wouldn’t work. Have you seen her figure? Not an ounce of fat, and she works at a flower shop.”

  “The best thing to do is stop trying. What she needs now is a friend, someone to talk to.”

  His leg bobbed, shaking his upper body. “That’s just it. I wish she’d talk to me, but she won’t open up.”

  “I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I found Professor Henderson.”

  “I think it’s more than Henderson. There’s been rumors. Stuff I don’t want to repeat. I know it’s mostly locker room bravado, but how can I be sure if she won’t talk to me?”

  I leaned across my desk and folded my hands. “She’s probably been hurt in a relationship and doesn’t want to get too close to you right now, which could be a good thing.”

  “How?”

  “It probably means she has feelings for you. My advice is to give her time. Take it slow.”

  “If I went any slower I’d be walking backwards.”

  I laughed. “Don’t try so hard. If it’s meant to be it will happen.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll give her some space.”

  “Not too much. You want to be there when she needs you.”

  “Right.”

  “So do you have big plans for your birthday Wednesday night? Now that you’re legal, will you be going to Maloney’s with all your buddies?” As if he hadn’t been there already. The bar was a college hangout and most customers were underage drinkers.

  “I thought I’d take Cherilyn out for a quiet dinner at Romano’s. If she’ll go with me.”

  “Isn’t that pricy for someone on a limited income . . . and with a girl you hardly know?”

  “I guess. But I want it to be special. Cherilyn’s special. Well, I better go.” He stood, grabbed his backpack, and slung it over one shoulder. “See you tonight. Anything I can bring? Maybe Cherilyn could get some flowers for the dinner table.”

  “No, please. No flowers. Just bring your appetite.”

  “Will do, Mrs. D.”

  After Danny left, my mood brightened. Nothing like solving someone else’s problem to ease the soul. I found Lopez’s card and stared at the number. Nothing like the past to darken my mood.

  I picked up my office phone and dialed, then hung up before the first ring. Telling Lopez about the love letters was the right thing to do, but the thought of hearing his voice gave me agita. Forcing my hand toward the phone, I tried to think of an excuse, a way to avoid Lopez. But I couldn’t. All I could think about was getting it over with so I could focus on what was really important.

  I grabbed the phone again, clutching it as if rigor mortis had already set in, but I didn’t hang up. Instead, I let it ring and ring and ring. My pulse sped up with each unanswered trill. I let out a sigh when it went to voicemail. Then I heard Detective Lopez’s voice and with a queasy stomach, I left a message.

  Sinking into my chair, I felt the tension leave. I picked up the letters and studied them one last time, debating whether or not I should photocopy them. Just in case. I sneezed and reached for a tissue. Something nagged at me as I read the last letter, but I didn’t have time to worry about Henderson’s love affair gone awry. Bigger problems begged for my attention before dinner.

  After jotting some notes on a small spiral pad about the contents of the letters, I dialed the Archaeology lab. The manila envelope in my inbox stamped LAB, ATTENTION HENDERSON distracted me, so I hung up the phone. As I tore open the envelope, tremors shook my hands. The report on Jack’s heart scarab? Could this be the break I was hoping for? The lab had made mistakes before. Whatever was inside this report could bury this entire forgery mess. I just knew it.

  I scanned the papers. Hadn’t I read this same report in Peter’s office? Except this one was different. It authenticated the artifact. Wasn’t this exactly what I wanted? Proof the heart scarab was real. Then why did my head pound with such intensity?

  Still clutching the report, I walked into the empty lounge and knocked on Peter’s door. The ache in my jaw intensified. He would need to explain why his report differed. Surely he wasn’t trying to smear Jack’s good name. I’d expect it of Henderson, if Jack had been a threat, but not Peter. That wasn’t his M.O.

  I waited and knocked again. No answer. I eased the door open and peered into the darkness. Peter was gone. I flipped on the light, tiptoed to his desk, and found the lab report. Holding the two side by side, I tried to decipher what was going on.

  The lab report sent to Henderson had Henderson as the primary tester and claimed the soil analysis concluded the artifact was authentic. The report Peter showed me had his name on it, but documented a discrepancy in the soil, thus Peter’s assumption the scarab was fake. Why would Peter test the artifact after Henderson? Henderson was a geoarchaeologist, trained to study the natural physical processes affecting archaeological sites. He knew his soil. If I had to choose sides, I’d support Henderson’s report with my life.

  The date on the report sent to Henderson said Friday, 3:18 pm. Peter’s report was dated Saturday at 8:47 am. Could the soil have gotten contaminated in that short of a time? Unanswered questions rattled in my head.

  Turning to leave, needle pricks pulsed down my neck toward my left arm. I reached for the chair, my thoughts blurring, fingers numbing. I really needed to make a doctor’s appointment, but when? My life was already overflowing.

  I opened the top drawer and searched for Peter’s migraine medication, hoping it would dull the thwoping in my brain. Several bottles rattled around. By the amount of medicine in Peter’s desk I thought I was in Henderson’s office. I picked up the largest bottle and read the label. Hawthorn. An herb for angina. I checked the name plate on the desk. Peter Kipling. Nope, I wasn’t in Henderson’s office. The next bottle read Black Licorice. Feverfew. For migraines. Bingo.

  Reading the label, I opted for the highest dosage. Three capsules. I hesitated before I popped the lid. I’d never taken herbal supplements before, but if they were use
d by the ancients for millions of years before prescriptions, then why should I worry? I twisted off the cap, poured the capsules in my hand, and swallowed them without water. When I returned the bottle to the drawer, another prescription caught my eye. Digoxin. I wasn’t sure what medical condition it was used for, but I knew I’d heard the name before. I checked the prescription label. It was torn off except for the name of the pharmacy by the hospital.

  After leaving Peter’s office, I peeked in on Matt. With earbuds in place, his nose buried in a book, he looked innocent. But I knew better. Where had my A-student Dudley-Do-Right brother gone? In the span of two years he had morphed into someone I didn’t recognize. I didn’t want to believe Jack’s leaving could have impacted him like it did, even though I should have known better. Jack was like a father to Matt. Of course, Matt must have felt rejected when he left.

  Maybe it was good Jack wasn’t in his life anymore. Then maybe when the vicious rumors about the man he’d come to know as his father got out, Matt wouldn’t be as devastated. A part of me wanted to tell him about Jack before things got ugly, but I needed to protect him from the lies and more hurt. He’d had enough devastation in his life already.

  Ma’at represents the laws and concept of right and wrong, which are characterized by truth and a respect for life and relationships.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I had to keep this from Matt. For as long as possible. I silenced my conscience as right and wrong blended into a muted grey.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  5:41 p.m.

  Lyndon University Basement

  Archaeology Labs

  EVEN THOUGH MANY OF my students utilized the Archaeology lab, I avoided the stuffy, dirty room like Nonna’s pickled hog’s feet. Seeing her gnaw on those little piggies turned my stomach, just like now, standing outside the lab offices. Unlike when I was six, I couldn’t hide under her bed. Today, I had to choke down my repulsion. If there was a chance the answers to Hatshepsut’s heart scarab were somewhere in this room, I had to force myself through the doors.

  I pushed the intercom button outside the office and waited for the secretary’s jovial voice. No answer. I knocked. Waited. I had phoned Mrs. Danbury fifteen minutes ago telling her I was on my way. I knocked again. Still no answer. Where was she? Probably taking a chocolate break. Turning the knob, I eased the door open. No one in the front office, though her wastebasket overflowed. Hershey Kisses, her obvious chocolate of the day. I checked my watch. 5:44. Maybe she was gone already.

  “Hello. Anyone here?” My voice echoed through the corridor. Past the secretary’s desk, I spied the Archaeology lab. I reached for the knob, then withdrew my hand. “Get a grip, Mari.”

  My sweaty palm glided around the knob several times. I rubbed my hand on my sweater and clutched the doorknob harder until it twisted open. I fell into the room, landing against a rock solid chest.

  “You’ve got to stop falling for me.” Fletcher set me upright and grinned as my hands lingered on his defined pecs.

  My face flushed. “What are you doing here?” I inched away.

  “Getting acquainted with the lab. What about you? It’s late. Shouldn’t you be home doing the domestic thing?”

  “I got a little sidetracked, but Hattie can handle it.”

  “Your cook?”

  “My daughter.”

  “What’s with the old lady name?”

  I clenched my teeth. “She’s named after an Egyptian Pharaoh.”

  “Hatshepsut. How original.”

  “Jack and I thought so. Now would you quit grilling me and direct me to the heart scarab?”

  “Right this way, M’ Lady.” He fanned his right arm in front of him, picking a fine time to resurrect his chivalry.

  “Why don’t you lead,” I smirked, “Just this once.”

  Fletcher led me through the catacombs walled with large, cardboard-box-filled cubbies above countertops and thin specimen drawers beneath. Interspersed on the counters were microscopes, large magnifying glasses, computers, and more labeled boxes. The deeper into the lab we went, the wider I opened my mouth to breathe, avoiding the stench of dirt and ancient specimens.

  Fletcher broke the silence. “I did an internet search on those photos we found in Henderson’s office, the ones of the little boys. Crowell IOP is Crowell Inner-city Outreach Program. Kind of like feed the hungry.”

  “Henderson must have supported the organization over the years and fed thousands of kids.”

  “Probably even some of his own.”

  I jabbed Fletcher in the side. “Could you find out who those boys were?”

  “Nope, their identities were confidential.”

  “So I guess those photos weren’t a clue to Henderson’s murder after all.”

  “Guess not.”

  In an endless journey, we walked past tables filled with artifacts on metal trays in various stages of testing and excavation. Dirt covered some work stations and the surrounding floor while others were tidy. I wriggled my nose as we approached larger specimen drawers, wondering if human skeletal remains were stored in this scientific underworld.

  How was I going to examine the scarab if I couldn’t stand to be in this room?

  Fletcher stopped at the last set of small drawers. “Why so interested in the scarab? I hear you avoid this place like you avoid … me.” In the dim light he shot me a roguish look. My heart pitter-pattered. Darn his pirateous charm. Why did it have to look so good on him?

  “I don’t avoid you.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, what about spring break, twelve years ago? Jack made time to see me. What about you?”

  “I’d just had a baby, and Jack mentioned you were passing through the airport.”

  “The Christmas office party seven years ago. What about then?”

  “I had the flu.”

  “Two summers ago. Don’t tell me you weren’t avoiding me then. I wrote Jack months before telling him when I’d be in town.”

  “Jack had just left.” Could Jack have timed his exit around Fletcher’s visit? “I really wasn’t into socializing. I’m sorry I can’t schedule my life around your trips to the States. Think what you want, but obviously I can’t avoid you now so would you please find the artifact for me?”

  Fletcher unlocked the thin vertical panel on the edge of the cabinet that kept the drawers secure and flipped it open. In the third drawer he found the heart scarab with Hatshepsut’s cartouche. I drank in the relic, unable to speak. From all appearances it seemed authentic.

  “Thanks, I can take it from here.”

  “I’m not sure I should leave you alone with such a priceless discovery.”

  I nibbled my lower lip. “It’s not like I’m going to steal it. I want to examine it myself. Run some quick tests.”

  “Make sure you’re careful with it. Use gloves. We can’t have the artifact contaminated before it undergoes thorough testing.”

  “What do I look like, a student? Besides, you know what happens with me and dirt.”

  “You don’t seem to wanna let me forget.”

  I pulled on latex gloves and picked up the scarab. “I can’t believe I’m holding Hatshepsut’s heart scarab.”

  “Pretty amazing, isn’t it? You know I was three feet away from Jack when he discovered it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, just my luck to come in second to Jack, again.” His energy shifted into neutral. “I wish I could stay and watch you work, but I’ve got to get ready for a dinner date.” He winked and handed me the key to the cabinet. “Lock up when you’re through. Mrs. Cadbury might eat me alive if I left the door open.”

  “Only if you were covered in chocolate.”

  “For you, that could be arranged.” He raised his eyebrows twice and scampered out the door before I thought of a comeback.

  Gazing upon the scarab, I cleared my mind of distractions. I couldn’t believe I was holding the Jasper stone that could’ve been placed on Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s heart. The defenses I had erected around F
letcher drained off, leaving a light and airy feeling in place of the heaviness.

  My fingers traced the cartouche. There was no doubt the hieroglyphics spelled her name. The same hieroglyphics I had made into a bracelet when Hattie was born. Though I’d seen hundreds of authentic antiquities over the years, on a closer visual inspection I couldn’t tell this one was fake. Or was it?

  There was only one way to determine the authenticity of the scarab. I found an unsoiled section on the table and laid the artifact on a clean metal tray. I brushed off some dirt from the scarab, weighed the sample, dissolved it in the solution, and waited. When the results came in, I recorded the properties of the soil and returned the scarab to the drawer, then locked the panel. I eased off the gloves. That wasn’t too bad. Now I’d have to compare them with the original soil taken from the field.

  Several tables over, I spied a computer. Maybe if I checked the lab reports one more time I could avoid another soil analysis. I stood at the counter and tried to log on, but I couldn’t remember the password. My insides cemented. There was nothing more I could do here.

  The walk to the front of the lab seemed endless, though the odors were less offensive the second time through. Once outside, I exhaled and pushed in the door lock, then yanked on the knob, making sure it was secure. Turning around, I inhaled deeply and stared at the soil lab across the hall. Henderson’s sanctuary. If only he could do my dirty work.

  When I tried the door, it didn’t budge. I power-walked to Mrs. Danbury’s desk and searched for the keys. Thankfully they were labeled. I strolled to the soil lab, eased the key into the lock, and pushed the door open. A musty, mucky odor assaulted my nose. I fought down the queasiness.

  Peter’s last test results concluded the soil on the scarab didn’t match the samples taken from the field. If I could find the field samples I could see for myself which report was accurate.