Necessary Evil

by Killarney Traynor

  But that was weeks away. Surely I’d come up with some solution by then.

  Now as Randall assessed the room, I realized how small it was. It had adequate space for the original bed, bureau, side table, but now, with the boxes, the computer equipment, and the small desk I’d moved in at his earlier request, the space was definitely cramped.

  As he looked around in consternation, Aunt Susanna said, “I hope you’ll be comfortable here. It’s one of our nicest rooms.”

  She looked uncertain as she said it.

  “Oh, is it?” he asked, and his gaze fell on me. I must have looked as I felt, for he returned to Aunt Susanna. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be just fine in here.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, turning to leave the room when he continued, “Now, where should I set up my research center?”

  Before I could stop her, Aunt Susanna volunteered the office downstairs. My office. Where I did my paperwork at the end of the day.

  “There’s enough room in there for both of you, and all of Michael’s research is still in there,” she said. “There are two desks, so you can take one and just make yourself at home on the bookshelves. Maddie’s only there in the evening, so you’ll have the place to yourself most of the time. You won’t mind sharing a space, would you, Professor?”

  “Oh, not at all,” he said. “As long as Maddie won’t feel inconvenienced?”

  They both turned to me, and although I burned with a desire to throw him out right there, I managed to mumble, “Fine, that’s fine.”

  Then I ran downstairs to lock the filing cabinets and desk before he could start moving in. There was nothing of value or with particular privacy demands in either, but denying Randall something made me feel better. I spent the rest of the day outside, working with the animals and children, and avoided going into my own house as much as possible.

  Chapter 11:

  I worked until late that night, and not entirely because I was avoiding the people I lived with. With Lindsay out of work until at least August and being unsuccessful at finding a replacement, my lessons were scheduled further into the night, sometimes ending as late as ten o’clock. Late-night lessons meant bedding the horses down even later. It wasn’t a healthy situation, but I kept hoping it was a temporary one.

  Hiring extra labor help had become a tricky situation. Whenever I mentioned the possibility to Aunt Susanna, she always reacted with surprise.

  “Why do that?” she would ask. “We’ve already got Randall coming to work as part of his room and board. Why spend money we haven’t got on help that’s going to be redundant?”

  “He’s an intellectual,” I would protest. “How much help do you think he’s really going to be?”

  But she stubbornly insisted that we wait for Randall to show what he could do before we hired. I think she was unwilling to let go of the idea that she had brought about this “relief” solely through her own efforts, and her triumph undermined by my doubts. I briefly considered hiring a local boy anyway, but didn’t for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that I hated to go against Aunt Susanna’s wishes.

  To make do, I employed the volunteer efforts of the young riders in the stables, organizing them to tend to their own horses’ bedding and exercise, and to help out with others from time to time. But, like many volunteer situations, this was good only so far as it went. They were eager, but unreliable, calling in sick, getting summer jobs, going away on vacations, or just plain forgetting to come in. At the end of the day, the bulk of the work was still on my shoulders.

  That night, I waited to go back into the house until I was quite sure that Aunt Susanna and Randall had already eaten and left the kitchen. It was late when I crept in. I popped a plate into the microwave, put the stack of mail by my cup, and went to wash up. Yet despite my precautions, they were both in the kitchen when I returned.

  Aunt Susanna was by the stove, preparing mugs of coffee. Gregory Randall sat at the counter, setting up his tablet, notebook, and stack of files. The pile of mail I’d put by my glass had been pushed aside to make room for his propped-up cell phone, which was almost the size of the sleek, silver tablet he was working on.

  He looked up when I came in and indicated the stool I’d set up earlier for my dinner.

  “Ah, Warwick,” he said. “Excellent, we can get started.”

  Warily, I went to the stool, but didn’t sit. He fussed with the keyboard while Aunt Susanna pulled my plate out of the microwave and set it down in front of me.

  “Eat it while it’s hot,” she said.

  The scent of roasted chicken and vegetables reminded my stomach of how long it had been since lunch, yet I still hesitated to sit.

  Aunt Susanna hobbled back towards the stove to tend to the coffee. I considered taking my plate and eating my meal in my room. But Aunt Susanna had three mugs ready by the stove for coffee and Randall was absorbed in his computer screen, one finger resting lightly against his lips as he scanned the screen.

  After a moment, I gave in and sat down. I could afford to give them one night of my time.

  Despite working outside in the muggy weather all day, the warm food felt soothing as I shoveled it into my mouth. I was starving, and I ate without noticing much else for a few moments. When I raised my head to take a drink, I realized that Randall was watching me, his finger still on his lips, a studious expression on his face that seemed oddly critical. I had eaten through half a plateful already, and under his scrutiny, I suddenly felt gluttonous.

  “What?” I asked defiantly.

  His eyes glittered behind the glasses, but he only shrugged slightly. “You shouldn’t wait so long between meals,” he said quietly.

  My glass thudded loudly on the counter as I brought it down.

  Aunt Susanna’s bright tone cut through the silence.

  “Maddie likes a little milk, and I like cream and sugar, but what do you like in your coffee, Professor?”

  She was limping back over, two steaming mugs in her hands, and I reached over to take them from her. My cup was a fragrant hazelnut, but she’d selected a mild roast for the professor and I slid it over to him without looking.

  “Black is fine,” he said and took a sip. When he grimaced, I wondered if he’d said it just to be accommodating. “Have a seat, Susanna, and we can get started.”

  “Started?” I asked. Despite the discomfort of eating under his watchful eye, I worked through the rest of my plate. It had been a long day, and I knew going hungry would only add to my stress. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re giving evidence,” Aunt Susanna said. With some difficulty, she got up onto the stool next to mine and carefully leaned her cane against the counter between us. Watching her struggle, remembering all the times she used to hop up on the counter to hang decorations over it, I felt a sudden, intense urge to take the cane and break it over my knee. It seemed to be the awful symbol of change, of crippling injury, of restriction by violence - an object that held my aunt back, and I wanted it destroyed.

  As if reading my thoughts, my aunt moved the cane to her other side, nonchalant, as though there was nothing wrong.

  Randall was typing again. “Just a second,” he said.

  We sat in silence and waited.

  The intervening weeks since Lindsay’s accident had been busy, but productive. Darlene Winters’ endorsement of Randall’s abilities had aroused my curiosity, and I’d done a little research. I could still hear the surprise in his voice when he saw that I didn’t recognize him by reputation. Now I knew how considerable that reputation had been.

  Gregory Randall was something of a wunderkind. His discovery of the Dunstable cache was a fortunate event that launched the career of a wet-behind-the-ears history major working towards his doctorate. He’d gotten recognition and a book out of the deal, as well as nationwide coverage and offers of positions from several well-known universities. His articles were published in magazines and blogs across the country. Fifteen years ago, he’d been considered the rising sta
r in the academic ranks and, luck aside, he seemed to have earned the recognition. One article even referred to him as “a modern age Indiana Jones”. No wonder the man had an inflated opinion of his abilities.

  “Have we decided on a name yet?” Aunt Susanna broke the silence. When Randall and I looked at her, she explained, “Your pen name. While you’re here, so that people don’t realize.”

  One of my few conditions on his conducting research in my house was that the investigation be kept quiet. The last thing I wanted was to encourage whoever was leaving the holes on my property and both Randall and I reluctantly agreed to Darlene’s suggestion that he pose as a novelist.

  “Lots of authors do that,” Aunt Susanna had explained to me about a week before, when she, Darlene, and I were having dinner.

  “It’s common, but I don’t,” Darlene replied, her mouth curving into a grin. Her dangling earrings swung as she shook her head. She should know a thing or two about writer’s habits. Darlene had been the author of an immensely popular travel column, globetrotting almost constantly until she took up novels instead.

  Ten years of self-imposed exile in New Hampshire had not yet tempered her exotic appearance. Her vibrant Indian-print tunic and chunky jewelry was a shock of color against the pale early American color palette of the kitchen. When she held up her mug, her sleeve slid back to show a hint of her tattoo - a souvenir that she’d picked up while in Saigon.

  Darlene continued, “But it’s a good idea if you want to keep the neighbors in the dark. Mention the name ‘Randall’ in connection with the Chase farm and you might as well hang a ‘Treasure Hunters Welcome’ sign up.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It seems a bit – well, daytime-drama to me. A false name?”

  She dismissed my concern with a wave of her arm, bracelets clacking with the movement. “Gregory Randall is still touted as one of the foremost historical detectives. People will assume the treasure is as good as found, and you’ll have worse than what happened before.”

  Aunt Susanna nodded vigorously.

  “We don’t want anyone encouraged by Randall being here,” she said firmly. “He could just go by his middle name. I think he said it was ‘Vincent’.”

  I looked from one to the other. They were an almost comical contrast: Aunt Susanna thin where Darlene was generous, pale where she was dark, minimalist in dress while Darlene was bold. Aunt Susanna’s walker sat close at hand while Darlene’s beaten sneakers reflected her athletic spirit. Aunt Susanna was the quiet version of Darlene’s strident strength. Salt and pepper, they were best friends and confidants. I owed both more than I could repay - had it not been for Darlene’s presence and persistence, Aunt Susanna wouldn’t have made it through the past couple of years.

  Still, I had to object to this plan.

  “It’s dumb,” I protested. “Besides, won’t these people know him by sight?”

  “He’s a writer and an academic, not a TV celebrity,” Darlene said. “I don’t think anyone will recognize him from his second book photo – that picture was taken when it was written, about ten years ago.”

  “You did,” I said, and she gave me a dour look.

  “I didn’t,” she replied, with a sniff that spoke volumes. “I recognized him from a speech he gave at an event I attended. He has a very distinctive speech pattern. But most people here will not have seen him personally. He’s been keeping a very low profile.”

  That was the oddity in Randall’s profile. His career seemed to have stalled as suddenly as it launched. One day his was a best-selling book, another was promised, and he was waving away invitations to Harvard, Oxford, UCLA, and Princeton. There was even talk of his heading an investigation into the legendary La Noche Triste treasure, loot that was lost after Hernan Cortes and his Conquistadores fought their way out of Tenochtitlan.

  Randall denied being a fortune hunter then, too. In an interview, he said, “Of course, treasure is not the object of the investigation. We hope to find a better understanding of the tragic events surrounding the Night of Sorrows, the causes, and the political and societal impact on the Aztec people. That’s what we’re setting out to find.”

  He had refused to comment on how much the missing gold artwork, looted from Moctezuma’s Palace, would be worth in the current market.

  Then, without warning, Randall disappeared. The prestigious positions dried up, his book published with little fanfare, his website was dismantled, and the La Noche Triste expedition was never spoken of again. The wunderkind, who once had Yale and Princeton beating on his door, accepted a position at a tiny, obscure Midwestern college, then transferred to Hadley. There was no scandal, no big story, no whisper of hardship, no explanation at all. Randall just simply faded away.

  It was a fact that I found hard to reconcile with his attitude, but it worked for our immediate purposes and that was all I cared about.

  “I thought we decided on ‘Gregory Vincent’,” Aunt Susanna continued, breaking the sudden silence that had filled the kitchen.

  Randall paused before answering, shooting me a look I couldn’t decipher. “Is that really necessary?” he asked. “It seems awfully dramatic.”

  I couldn’t resist the opportunity to say, “Aunt Susanna, no one is going to recognize Randall now. It’s been a long time since he’s been in the public spotlight.”

  He stiffened, but hardly a moment passed before he looked me in the eye and grinned, inclining his head.

  Aunt Susanna was too busy arguing her point to notice the exchange. “Even so, I think we ought to be careful,” she said. “It’s not like we have to lie completely. He is writing a book, and he is here to research one. We just don’t want treasure hunting brought into it.”

  “Mmm, true,” Randall said, tapping his mouth with his finger again. He posed as though he was thinking, but there was a wicked glint in his eye as he said, “I understand Maddie’s point of view. We want to be as completely open and honest as possible. No secrets, only the truth.”

  He spread his hands on the counter and leaned on it, smiling in a manner that might have been reassuring, had I not known him better. “So why don’t we just omit details as you suggest? When people ask, I’m researching a book. We don’t say what it’s about. We can imply that it’s tied to a horse farm. And I’m not a proud man – just introduce me as Gregory. I think that will do, as I don’t think you have many society soirees that will require a full introduction, do you?”

  Aunt Susanna nodded her agreement, I glowered, and Randall, grinning, turned back to his computer.

  “It’ll only be for a few weeks,” he said, his eyes on his screen. “I’ll just do my research and investigation and be out of here before you know it.”

  Despite the reassurances and my own dig at his fall from fame, I wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t be known. Chester had a historical society and his research was likely to bring him in contact with people who might actually know what the Dunstable papers meant.

  Do historians have groupies? I wondered. If they did, I felt quite sure that Randall would be the type who wouldn’t mind the adoration. I would have to ask Joe.

  If anyone would know about Randall’s fall from grace, Joe would - or he would know how to find out. But between his summer classes, the articles he was writing, and the soul-searching that naturally came out of a divorce, he had enough on his plate without burdening himself with my problems. I wouldn’t ask him anyway, because I was afraid the story of the blackmail would come out. I didn’t know what he would do then – my imagination had him punching Randall’s lights out, which stoked my womanly ego; but in practical terms, physical assault would make our position even more tenuous. I decided it was best to keep him in the dark about the whole affair for now.

  My plate was empty and my coffee was growing cold. I sighed audibly and Randall’s head snapped up, as though he were waking from a trance. Pulling off his glasses, he leaned back, sucking on the temple tip for a moment before he spoke.

  “The first thing an
y good detective does,” he muttered absently, and I found myself exchanging glances with Aunt Susanna, “is discover what the basic facts of the case are, from the source, or as close to it as he can get. That’s what I want to do tonight. I want you to tell me, in your own words… Oh!” He leaned forward and tapped his propped-up cell phone. “We’ll be recording this, by the way. So much more thorough than taking notes. Now, I want you to tell me everything you know about Alexander Chase.”

  He stared at us expectantly.

  “Oh, really,” I said, getting up and gathering my things. “What’s there to know that hasn’t been written down already?”

  “I want to hear it from you two,” he insisted, as I dumped my plate in the sink and rummaged in the cabinets for dessert. “You are the last living relatives on location. You by marriage, I know, Susanna, but both of you have lived and absorbed these stories for decades. There will be things that you know that are not what the scientific world would consider facts, but will be invaluable to me. Insight, family lore, legends – stories that are unproven but stubbornly refuse to die. I need you to talk to me. Tell me anything.”

  “Oh…” Aunt Susanna began to rub her hands together, under the counter where he couldn’t see. I saw when I sat down next to her with a box of cookies. She only ever rubbed her hands when she was nervous, but there was no reason for her to be nervous now. I thought she probably didn’t want to be recorded.

  I patted her hand and shook my head at Randall. “I repeat, what’s there to say that hasn’t already been written down? I assume you’ve already read Uncle Michael’s book, and the article about Lost American Treasures? There’s nothing…”

  I was cut off by Aunt Susanna. “Where do we start?” she asked, leaning forward and putting her hands on the counter.

  Randall grinned again, an irritating air of victory clinging about him.

  “Why not try the beginning?” he suggested.