Carbon Dating

by Jerusha Jones

  “Uh, help?” Vaughn leaned across the table and whispered after we’d been handed our menus. They were entirely in French. Pretentious, hoity-toity French.

  Why produce amazing food and then make it inaccessible to the general public? I ground my teeth together and set about deciphering the descriptions in the candlelight. My French is rudimentary and written-only, but I do know a lot of the cooking terms. Even so, squinting in the gloom and trying to crack the gastronomic code hidden in the words was giving me a headache.

  Finally, I took a turn leaning across the table and said, “Let’s employ the guess and point method. I’ll pick something from the top of the left page, and you pick something from the bottom of the right page.”

  He snorted and tossed his menu on the table.

  “Better yet, talk to me in English.” I grinned at him. “It’s so sexy. You know you want to.”

  He shook his head, but also gave me the first real chuckle I’d heard from him in too long. He’d been silent—which was not abnormal for him—in the truck on the ride into town, and I knew he was stewing on something. It was likely his mind was still back at the office, and he needed a good kick in the pants to rejoin the real world, i.e. me. Besides, my patience had just about run out.

  Vaughn shoved the candle out of the way and planted his elbows on the table, leaning forward conspiratorially. I mirrored his actions, eyes wide in anticipation.

  “First of all,” he said slowly, “Jack thinks you need a stern lecture. I promised him I’d take care of that.”

  “What?” I flinched backward. Then, “Oh, yeah.” I nodded slowly. I’d sort of gotten lost on Jack’s watch. Of course he wouldn’t appreciate that. “Do you think he’d forgive me if I gave him some goodies? Is he a sweet or savory sort of guy?” My brain was already flicking through my recipe index, trying to decide what a strapping sheriff’s deputy would consider delectable.

  Vaughn might have growled a little. “He’s just a guy. And he doesn’t need any encouragement. I expect he’ll rib you about it next time he sees you, though.”

  I straightened. “Nerves of steel.” But I wrinkled my nose too. “And chagrin. I really am sorry I threw a kink in the works up on that hillside.”

  “I know, babe. You’re hard to keep an eye on. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Vaughn nudged my hand with his thumb, and that somehow turned into a full-on clasp. The man is a champion hand-holder. “In all honesty, we couldn’t have asked for a better outcome—for everyone involved. The whole mess turned out pretty well, thanks to you.”

  His thumb was doing things now, working circles on my palm. I was on the verge of melting, and that wasn’t going to suit my informational needs. So I narrowed my eyes at him and said instead, “You’re working on a Sunday. That must mean the lab results came in—very fast. Which means you put a rush on them.”

  He just gave me another rueful grin and shook his head. It was like trying to wring out a dry sponge. Why was he so much better at interrogations than I was?

  “Are you going to tell me?” I finally blurted, pitching forward in my insistence, and Vaughn had to rescue the little bowl of herbed butter balls.

  “Murder,” he answered softly. “Heath’s lawyer is already working on a plea deal with the district attorney’s office. The evidence is so clear that a conviction is almost guaranteed. He doesn’t want to go to trial.”

  “Then Willow won’t have to testify,” I breathed.

  “Exactly.” Vaughn’s lips pressed together, and I could tell that he’d also been concerned about putting such a strong-but-fragile girl on the stand. “It helps that Tanith produced a printed copy of the rebuttal Heath was planning to file with the ethics board. His handwritten notes are all over it, demonstrating his emotional state far beyond the information contained in the deleted emails. It’s a motive a jury would buy.”

  Now for the method. “Rapid-acting insulin?” I blurted, perhaps sounding like a machine gun with my barrage of questions.

  Vaughn frowned. “How did you know?” The crease that is my sole responsibility appeared between his eyebrows. “I just got the results a couple hours ago. Don’t tell me you have informants inside the department.” But he didn’t release my hand, so I took that as a favorable sign.

  “Um, I dated a guy—for a while—who was diabetic. Very educational,” I mumbled.

  He scowled at that inconsequential information and, to my relief, addressed the more important topic. “So you know about basal and bolus insulins?” Again he leaned forward, and I joined him, face-to-face over the middle of the table. Maybe he didn’t want the other diners to hear. “I was lucky the medical examiner was working the weekend too. He had to explain the lab results to me over the phone.”

  I nodded eagerly. “Heath switched them, right? Either in the vials or in the filled syringes? So Dr. Zales was injecting what he thought was basal and getting bolus instead? And he was probably on a pretty high basal dose already because he refused to wear a pump or moderate his carbohydrate intake. So when he wasn’t feeling the results he needed, he added an extra dose or two to kick-start things? Or maybe he was confused by that point. Extreme blood glucose levels—either high or low—can cause a sort of woolly-headedness. Regardless, he massively overdosed by himself, but largely because the rapid-acting insulin had been substituted for the slower-acting baseline insulin.”

  “It’s a hands-free way of killing someone,” Vaughn replied. “Heath didn’t know when the vials would be used, just that they would, eventually. But he panicked when he learned about the search warrant and that we’d seized the extra insulin in the breakroom refrigerator. He had to verify that all the other syringes were accounted for. He told me that he checked Zales’ pockets that night at the gravesite, before the ambulance arrived. Between that and what Chloe emptied from the cooler, he knew three were missing.”

  I released the breath I’d been holding and slumped against the chair back. “He almost got away with it. What would he have done to Willow?”

  Vaughn lined up his fingertips with mine, just the barest caress. “The good thing is, we’ll never know.”

  The waitress slid plates in front of us, and we turned to the welcome diversion of French-flavored nutrition. Except it wasn’t that good. Too salty, and the sauce had little lumps in it that had the texture of moistened flour. A roux gone awry.

  I sampled off Vaughn’s plate—with his permission—and was equally unimpressed. Frankly, the dishes were so insipid that I lost my appetite.

  “We’re not staying for dessert, are we?” Vaughn whispered across the table.

  I shook my head rather abruptly.

  “Good. Let’s walk instead. A little rain won’t hurt us. Besides, I have a desk covered with paperwork to face after this. I’m all for postponing that as long as possible.”

  We scooted out of the bistro, managing to avoid the waitress’s worriedly pushy offer of take-home containers for the remainders of our meal only with a very large tip. Poor thing; it wasn’t her fault.

  Vaughn had me snugged up against his side as we meandered, his warmth spreading across to me and making the general dampness of no account.

  “I have some good news,” he said after a while. Our footsteps were making cheerful little splatty sounds on the concrete sidewalk.

  “Mmmm,” I answered, not wanting to interrupt the cozy sensation of walking with his arm around me.

  “Chief Monk reports that the incident with the chair seems to have cleared up the nagging lower back pain he’d been suffering from, said that crash produced better results in a split second than his chiropractor ever has.”

  “So he’s truly not upset?”

  “Nope. The chair ended up in his office because the new patrol officer felt guilty for having such a grand seat when the chief had an old clunker. He performed the swap of his own accord.”

  I groaned. “Good intentions strike again.”

  But Vaughn was chuckling now, almost giddily. I stopped and stared
at him suspiciously.

  “Chief Monk bought a replacement that was within the department’s budget. A $19.99 inflatable ball—a gigantic, bright-yellow thing. No one will be stealing his seat ever again. Claims it’s doing wonders for his posture.”

  I couldn’t suppress a grin myself at the vivid image of the big, jowly law enforcement veteran on his bouncy ball. Snickering, I snuck my hands inside Vaughn’s coat and wrapped my arms around his waist, snuggling even more into his warmth. “Haven’t you been a busy detective,” I said approvingly.

  Vaughn chose that moment to collect on the other rain check. The one for a kiss.

  Holy smokes!

  That’s all I have to say about it—well, except to acknowledge that Vaughn’s kissing skill far exceeded his hand-holding expertise (which was already superior). By a lot. Otherwise I would start babbling.

  “Can you walk?” he eventually murmured in my ear.

  “No.” Somewhere along the way, my joints had lost their ability to function properly.

  He grunted softly, readjusted his hold on me, and kissed me again. Not exactly a solution to the problem, but oh, so very marvelous. I had zero complaints. In fact, I wasn’t thinking about much at all, except…well…again, under threat of babbling, I refrain.

  We were interrupted by catcalling teenagers in a souped-up Honda that was resplendent in a dull, patchy coat of primer. They were cruising slowly down the middle of the street, and they had to be lost, because there was absolutely no action going on in downtown Fidelity. Well, except for Vaughn and me, I supposed. I may have blushed mightily under cover of the gap between streetlights.

  Vaughn just waved the gawkers on and aimed me along the sidewalk toward where his truck was parked. “Cooking for people makes you happy, doesn’t it?” he said, apropos of nothing.

  “Yes,” I said slowly.

  “You cooked for your diabetic ex-boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all your other boyfriends?”

  “There weren’t that many.” My tone came out a little more irritated than I’d intended.

  Vaughn grunted again and unlocked the door to his pickup. He waited, his hand on the handle, while he considered his next statement. “I love taking you out,” he said cautiously, “but the truth is, if I want a good meal, I know where to go.”

  So that’s where this conversation was headed. I actually couldn’t agree with him more. He hadn’t graced a bar stool in my kitchen for too long. However, I poked him in the chest to emphasize my terms. “You provide the kisses; I’ll provide the food.”

  That amused tilt to his lips, which is his hallmark, appeared like a spark of joy. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Early Monday morning, I drove out to the farm. I had clothing to return—washed and folded (but not ironed, sad to say)—and gossip to glean (I hoped).

  I also had a basket of pumpkin custard profiteroles with maple caramel sauce because, you know, food. And as a way to use some of the pumpkins Denby had loaded me up with after the searchers and reporters had cleared out—as a sort of going-away gift, maybe. Or maybe just because the Frasers had enough pumpkins still in their fields to last a few lifetimes. And because, as Vaughn had pointed out, it made me happy to cook for my friends.

  My timing was most fortuitous, because trusty old Sherman-with-the-bashed-in-rear-bumper was also parked beside the farmhouse.

  The first thing I saw when I stepped through the kitchen door (I’d become so accustomed to coming and going that I actually forgot to knock…oops) was the pile of diaries in the middle of the table.

  “So?” I asked breathlessly. “I’m expecting good news.”

  Chloe’s eyes were bright when she glanced up. “As good as it can be, now, so much later, considering.”

  That was a lot of caveats. I hefted my basket onto the table beside the diaries, and Nash kicked out a chair for me with a welcoming nod.

  Denby grabbed a handful of napkins and spread them around. “You weren’t going to save those for later, were you?” she asked, tipping her head toward my basket. Her characteristic cheerfulness hadn’t fully returned, but she was moving in a sprightly manner that was a welcome replacement to the heartsick weariness she’d seemed burdened with over the past few days.

  “Of course not.” I set to performing serving duties with gusto. “But I’m dying here. Fill me in?”

  “Well, it’s there,” Denby started, gesturing toward the diaries. “But it’s subtle, as though even at the time there were privacy issues with the services my great-grandmother’s parents were providing for disturbed veterans. She referred to the patients as lodgers and sometimes as the farm help.”

  “But her references and dates coincide exactly with what I was able to find in the records of one Dr. Hiram Stephenson, who fancied himself a cutting-edge researcher of, as he called them, injuries of the mind,” Chloe added.

  I knew those patients had been treated, unsuccessfully, a long time ago, but my heart still squeezed a bit, knowing where Chloe’s research had led her.

  “Thanks to Marcy’s tip, it was actually fairly easy to unearth the documentation. No crime,” Chloe confirmed. “Just a lamentable lack of knowledge, accompanied by a rather liberal prescription of narcotics. Not abnormal for the time, but still really, really sad.”

  I hated to ask, but I did anyway. “Why a mass grave?”

  “Oh!” Chloe sat up straighter. “I don’t think it was, at least not in the official sense. You see, this information, about the young men being treated for mental illnesses and perhaps ostracized from society, supports something I’d suspected even as we were doing the digging. The graves weren’t actually on top of each other. I also don’t think the bodies were buried all at the same time. More like side-by-side, but really close together, and over a span of several years. Over the intervening decades, the ground shifted some.” She was using her fingers to demonstrate, drawing imaginary topography lines on the table top. “Plus, Marcy mentioned that at the base of the hill there’d be even more topsoil transition. I think the graves just got a little jumbled in the natural course of time with erosion above and soil migration factored in.”

  “Plus farming activity. Later generations—like me—have been plowing around and over…” Nash’s forehead wrinkled, and he clearly didn’t want to finish the thought.

  “If we’re talking about disturbances,” I added, “surely the bomb detonation was the capstone. But why did no one know the graves were there?”

  “They were likely unmarked because”—Chloe winced and lifted her shoulders apologetically—“well, probably there was no one to claim the bodies.”

  Denby exhaled loudly. “I’m going to plant a memorial garden,” she said firmly, “in that exact spot. There will be no more secrets on this farm.”

  Nash stretched an arm across the table and squeezed her hand with somber agreement.

  “And I’m keeping a journal too,” she added. “Just like my great-grandmother, but without euphemisms.” She had a stubborn set to her jaw that made me so proud.

  “Are you doing okay?” I nudged Chloe’s elbow. While she’d been energized by the chance to explain the science and history behind her discovery, she was still looking a little wan.

  She gave me a small smile. “Bit of a shock. Losing two members of the institute.” She paused and took a deep breath before adding, “Especially in that way.”

  “Busier than ever?” I asked softly.

  “Oh, yes. Good thing I love my job. Tanith’s keeping all of us on a short leash and writing up new security procedures.” She scooted away from the table but added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m afraid we’re all going to have to time-and-date stamp our lunch leftovers now, to make sure they aren’t tampered with.” She shook her head good-naturedly and began layering on her coat and scarf. “I’ll have my official report to Vaughn by the end of the week. And I’ll pop a copy in the mail for you at the same time.” She nodded to Denby and Nash and let hersel
f out.

  The three of us just gazed at one another, wide-eyed for a few moments.

  “It’s really over,” Nash finally said.

  “Except the bomber wreckage,” I pointed out.

  He helped himself to a second profiterole. “That’s almost wrapped up too. The JPAC team leader stopped by yesterday. I think he was checking to see if we were planning any more nighttime rambling excursions across their site. I told him no, that I’d never been so sure of anything in my life.” He chuckled at the memory. “But he did say that they’d been almost finished with mapping the site before the search for Willow, so all they have left to do is collect the pieces. They’ve already removed and identified the remains and notified the next of kin.”

  “Oh, and you need to know this.” Denby tapped my forearm. “We’ve had a ton of new CSA subscriptions through the website you designed for us.” She shook her head, sending the tips of her bandanna bouncing. “We’re fully funded.” Tears sprang into her eyes while a smile lit up her face. “We’re going to do this thing. For real. Next spring”—she laughed lightly—“there will be epic planting.”

  I couldn’t help jumping out of my chair and giving her a hug. And I pumped Nash’s hand most firmly. I felt like a proud auntie or something, like I should hand out cigars to complete strangers.

  oOo

  I had a date at lunchtime. With a blue-haired teenage girl who was being allowed to stay home from school until she recovered. Knowing Willow, I expected her to milk this newfound leniency on Roxy’s part for all she could.

  Not that I wasn’t complicit. It’s just that lunchtime on a Monday was Manny’s first choice when I requested the favor of an observational field trip. It was education of a different kind, right?

  I had an ulterior motive for playing hooky myself. My phone had been ringing incessantly all weekend and all morning. I never knew there were so many crises in the glorious metropolitan area of Portland, Oregon. But it seems that appearing with some regularity on the nightly news has a way of boosting business—the public-relations, disaster-mitigation, communications business otherwise known as spin. Not my favorite flavor.