Birthright

by Nora Roberts

  “She never left her room,” Jake said and had both Callie and the sheriff turning toward him. “Mine’s right next door. You started playing the cello about eleven. Played the damn thing for an hour.”

  “So get another room if it bothers you.”

  “I didn’t say it bothered me.” Just as he didn’t say he’d lain in the dark, listening to those low, somber notes, wishing for her. “She plays Bach when she’s trying to settle down and turn her head off for sleep,” he told the sheriff.

  “You recognize Bach,” Callie said. “I’m impressed.”

  “I know your pattern. It rarely deviates. She finally quit about midnight. I imagine if you asked whoever’s in the room on the other side of hers, they’d verify that. Her Rover was parked right outside, next to mine. I’m a light sleeper. If she’d gone out, I’d’ve heard the engine start.”

  “I spoke with Mr. Dolan yesterday afternoon, in response to your complaint.” Taking his time, Hewitt reached in his pocket, pulled out a notebook. He licked his index finger, turned a page. Licked, turned, in a methodical rhythm until he found what he wanted. “When you and the deceased argued yesterday, did you physically assault him?”

  “No, I—” She broke off, grabbed hold of her temper. “I shoved him, I think. A little push.” She demonstrated, pushing a hand against the solid wall of Hewitt’s chest. “If that’s a physical assault, I’m guilty. He jabbed his finger in my face a few times, so I figured we were even.”

  “Uh-huh. And did you threaten to kill him if he didn’t stay out of your way?”

  “No,” Callie said easily. “I said I’d stuff his head up his ass if he tried to mess with me again—which is an uncomfortable position, but rarely fatal.”

  “You had a set-to with Dolan yourself, just yesterday.” Hewitt turned to Jake.

  “I did. Mr. Dolan wasn’t happy with the situation. He wanted us gone, which is why, I assume, he came out here last night.” Jake sent a meaningful look toward the Hefty bag. “If he’d known anything about what we’re doing here, how we do it, why we do it, he’d have known this was useless. Problem was, he didn’t want to know anything about what we’re doing. Maybe that made him close-minded, even self-serving, but he shouldn’t have died because of it.”

  “I can’t say I know a hell of a lot about what you’re doing either, but I can tell you you’re not going to be doing it for the next couple days, at least. I need you, all of you, to stay available.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Callie replied. “He didn’t understand that either.”

  “While I got you here.” Hewitt licked his finger, turned another page. “I swung by the hardware store in Woodsboro yesterday. Seems somebody bought a couple cans of red spray paint matches what’s on your car over there.”

  “Somebody?” Callie echoed.

  “I had a talk with Jimmy Dukes last night.” Hewitt’s face moved into a sour smile. “And his friend Austin Seldon. Now Jimmy, he claimed he bought that paint to fix up his boy’s Radio Flyer, but the fact is the wagon’s rusted to hell, and the paint’s gone. Didn’t take long for them to fess up to it.”

  “Fess up to it,” Callie repeated.

  “Now I can charge them, lock them up for it if that’s how you want it done. Or I can see to it they pay to have your car fixed up again and come on around here to give you an apology face-to-face.”

  Callie took a deep breath. “Which one did you go to school with?”

  Hewitt’s smile warmed a bit. “Austin. And it happens he’s married to a cousin of mine. Doesn’t mean I won’t lock him up, lock both of them up, if you want to press formal charges.”

  “When I get an estimate on the paint job, I want a certified check in my hand within twenty-four hours. They can keep the apology.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Sheriff?” Jake waited until Hewitt had slipped the notebook back in his pocket. “You probably know Austin well enough to understand he can be a fuck-up.”

  “Don’t I just.”

  “And you know, as his friend, and as an observer of human nature, what he’s capable of. What he’s not.”

  Hewitt studied Jake, then looked behind him to where Digger sat on the ground smoking another bummed cigarette. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  When the ME arrived, Callie and Jake moved to the fence, where they could watch the proceedings and stay out of the way.

  “I’ve never been a murder suspect before,” she commented. “It’s not as exciting as I figured it would be. It’s more insulting. As far as being each other’s alibi goes, that sucks. And it’s not going to hold.”

  “Neither is believing either of us crushed Dolan’s skull over this dig.” He stuck his hands in his back pockets, hit a pack of sunflower seeds he’d forgotten was there. “Hewitt’s smarter than he looks.”

  “Yeah, I’ll give you that.”

  He palmed the pack, slid his hand under her hair, then flicked his wrist as if making it appear from under it. Her dimples fluttered just a little in a hint of a smile as he offered the open pack.

  “If he hasn’t figured it out, he will, that Dolan’s more of an obstacle dead than he was alive.”

  She munched, considered. “Cold-blooded, but accurate.”

  “We’re going to lose days, in an already short first season. We’ll have the town in an uproar, and very likely have gawkers streaming once we’re cleared to start again.”

  Rosie walked over to join them. “They let Digger go in to change. Poor guy’s pretty messed up.”

  “Finding a dead body a few hours old and finding one that’s had a few thousand years to cure makes a difference,” Callie said.

  “Tell me.” Rosie puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. “Look, I don’t want to hang around here while this stuff’s going on. They’re not going to let us work today anyhow. Figured I’d take Digger off somewhere. Maybe tool around the battlefield, maybe take in a movie later. Something. You want part of that?”

  “I’ve got some personal business I can take care of.” Callie looked toward the trailer. “Are you sure you can handle him?”

  “Yeah. I’ll let him think he’s going to talk me into the sack. That’ll cheer him up.”

  “Let me talk to him first.” Jake tapped Callie’s shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere until I get back.”

  “You and Jake getting tight again?” Rosie asked her when they were alone.

  She looked down at the pack of sunflower seeds he’d given her. “It’s not like that.”

  “Sugar, it’s always like that with you two. Sparks just fly off the pair of you and burn innocent bystanders. That is one fine piece of machinery,” she added, studying Jake’s butt as he opened the door to Digger’s trailer.

  “Yeah, he looks good.”

  Rosie gave Callie a light elbow butt. “You know you’re still crazy about him.”

  Deliberately, Callie closed the pack, jammed it in her pocket. “I know he still makes me crazy. There’s a difference. What, are you trying to cheer me up, too?”

  “Gotta do something. Only time I ever had cops on a dig was down in Tennessee. Had a knap-in, and some idiot rockhound fell off a damn cliff and broke his neck. That was pretty awful. This is worse.”

  “Yeah.” Callie watched one of the deputies unzip a body bag. “This is worse.”

  “I told him you were hot for him,” Jake said to Rosie when he came back. In what could have been taken as a casual move, he stepped between Callie and what was going on by the pond. “Perked him up enough, he’s taking a shower.”

  “Aren’t I the lucky one?” Rosie answered, and wandered off.

  “I’ve already seen the body, Jake.”

  “You don’t have to keep seeing it.”

  “Maybe you should go with Rosie and Dig.”

  “Nope.” Jake took Callie’s arm, turned her around and started walking for the open gate. “I’m going with you.”

  “I said I had personal business.”

  “Yeah, y
ou did. I’ll drive.”

  “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

  “So tell me.”

  “I’m going to Virginia to see this Dr. Simpson. I don’t need company, and I want to drive.”

  “I want to live, so I’ll drive.”

  “I’m a better driver than you are.”

  “Uh-huh. How many speeding tickets have you racked up in the past year?”

  She felt twin urges to laugh and to snarl. “That’s irrelevant.”

  “It’s extremely relevant. Added to that is the fact that I seriously doubt you want to drive to Virginia with nasty graffiti scrawled all over your ride.”

  She hissed out a breath. “Damnit.” But because he had a point, she climbed into his car. “If you’re driving, I’m in charge of the radio.”

  “No way, babe.” He settled in, punched in the CD. “Rules of the road are the driver picks the music.”

  “If you think I’m listening to hours of country music, you’re brain-damaged.” She clicked off the CD player, tuned in the radio.

  “Country music is the story-song of the American culture, reflecting its social, sexual and familial mores.” He switched it back to CD. Clint Black managed to get out the first bar before she pushed radio and blasted him back with Garbage.

  Arguing about the selection of music for the next fifteen minutes took the edge off the morning.

  Henry Simpson lived in an upscale suburban development Callie was certain Ronald Dolan would have approved of. The lawns were uniformly neat and green, the houses on them as trim and tidy as soldiers standing for inspection.

  They were all big, spreading over their lot nearly end to end. Some had decks, some carports, some were fronted with stone while others were as white, as pristine, as a virgin’s bridal gown.

  But there was a sameness to it all that Callie found depressing.

  There were no old trees. Nothing big and gnarled and interesting. Instead there were pretty dwarf ornamentals, or the occasional young maple. Plots of flowers were planted, primarily in island groupings. Now and again she saw one that demonstrated the owner’s, or their gardener’s, flare for creativity. But for the most part it was back to the soldiers again, with begonias and marigolds and impatiens lined up in static rows or concentric circles.

  “If I had to live here, I’d shoot myself in the head.”

  “Nah.” Jake checked house numbers as he crept down the cul-de-sac. “You’d paint your door purple, put pink flamingos in the front yard and make it your mission to drive your neighbors insane.”

  “Yeah. It’d be fun. That’s it there, the white house with the black Mercedes in the driveway.”

  “Oh, thanks, that really narrows it down.”

  She had to laugh. “On the left, next drive. Now, we agreed. I do the talking.”

  “We did not agree. I simply said you’re always talking.” He pulled into the drive, shut off the engine. “Where would you live if you were picking a place?”

  “It sure as hell wouldn’t be here. I need to handle this, Jake.”

  “Yeah, you do.” He got out of the car. “Some big, rundown place in the country. Something with history and character that you could fix up some. Leave your mark on.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The kind of place I’d pick to live, if I were picking a place.”

  “You couldn’t just fix it up.” She dug a brush out of her purse, gave her hair a few whacks. “You’d need to research, to make sure whatever you did respected that history and character. And you’d have to have trees. Real trees,” she added as they walked up the white brick pathway to the white house. “Not these froufrou substitutes.”

  “The kind that can hold a tire swing.”

  “Exactly.” Still she frowned at him. They’d never talked about houses before.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She rolled her shoulders. “Nothing. Okay, here goes.” She pressed the doorbell and heard the three-toned chime. Before she could drop her hand to her side, Jake took it in his.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Being supportive.”

  “Well . . .stand over there and be supportive.” She slapped at the back of his hand. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “You still want me, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I still want you. I want you roasting marshmallows in hell. Let go of my hand before I—”

  She broke off, heard his quiet chuckle, as the door opened.

  The woman who answered the bell was middle-aged and had found a way to bloom there. Her hair was a glossy chestnut, cut in soft, short layers that flattered her creamy white skin. She wore narrow, cropped pants and a loose white shirt. Salmon-pink toenails peeked out of strappy sandals.

  “You must be Callie Dunbrook. I’m Barbara Simpson. I’m so glad to meet you.” She offered a hand. “And you’re . . .”

  “This is my associate, Jacob Graystone,” Callie told her. “I appreciate you and Dr. Simpson agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

  “Why, it’s no problem at all. Please come in, won’t you? Hank was absolutely delighted at the idea of meeting you when I called him. He’s just cleaning up from his golf game. Why don’t we sit in the living room? Just make yourselves comfortable. I’ll bring in some refreshments.”

  “I don’t want you to go to any trouble, Mrs. Simpson.”

  “It’s no trouble at all.” Barbara touched Callie’s arm, then gestured toward the stone-gray leather conversation pit. “Please, have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  There was a huge, exotic and pure white flower arrangement on the lake-sized glass coffee table. The fireplace, filled for summer with more flowers and candles, was fashioned of white brick.

  Callie imagined the lacquer black cabinet against the wall held some sort of fancy media center.

  There were two other chairs, also in leather, in lipstick red. Her work boots were sunk into wall-to-wall carpeting a few delicate shades lighter than the conversation pit.

  She studied, with some unease, the three-foot white ceramic rabbit in the corner.

  “No kids,” Jake said as he dropped down on the leather cushions. “And no grandkids with sticky fingers let loose to run around in here.”

  “Dad said he had a daughter from the first marriage. A couple grandkids. But they still live up north.” With more caution than Jake, Callie perched on the edge of the long line of sofa. “This, um, Barbara is his second wife. My parents never met her. They got married after my parents moved to Philadelphia. Then Simpson moved to Virginia. Lost touch.”

  Jake reached over, laid a hand on Callie’s knee to stop her leg from shaking. “You’re bopping your foot.”

  “No, I’m not.” She hated when she caught herself doing that. “Give me a nudge if I start doing it again.”

  Then she was getting to her feet as Henry Simpson came in. He had a smooth golfer’s tan, and a little soccer ball–sized pouch under his summer knit shirt. His hair had gone into a monk’s fringe and was pure white. He wore metal-framed glasses.

  Callie knew him to be in his early seventies, but he had a young man’s grip when he took her hand between both of his.

  “Vivian and Elliot’s little girl, all grown up. It’s a cliché to say you don’t know where the time goes, but I sure as hell don’t. I haven’t seen you since you were a few months old. God, I feel creaky.”

  “You don’t look it. This is Jacob Graystone. My—”

  “Another archaeologist.” Simpson took Jake’s hand and pumped. “Fascinating. Fascinating. Please, sit. Barb’s just fussing with some lemonade and cookies. So it’s Dr. Callie Dunbrook,” he said as he took a seat and beamed at her. “Your parents must be very proud.”

  “I hope so, Dr. Simpson.”

  “You call me Hank now. Please.”

  “Hank, I don’t know how much my father told you when he contacted you this morning to ask if you’d see me.”

  “He told me enough. Enough to
concern me, to make me sit down and go over everything I can think of that might be of some help to you.”