Site Unseen

by Dana Cameron

  “Huh!”

  “Can it, Terry,” Stannard said patiently.

  The footsteps grew louder and suddenly the speakers turned the corner toward us. Dave Stannard was walking with a woman, and her appearance took me aback. She was a wizened little stump in a stained white lab coat. God help me, she looked like an evil gnome, with a tight bun of coarse black and gray hair. She was worrying an unlit, unfiltered Camel cigarette in one clawlike hand, and she had another tucked behind her ear, both apparently ready and waiting to have the life sucked out of them at the earliest opportunity.

  “Dr. Fielding.” The sheriff stopped in front of us. “Nice to see you. Again.”

  I giggled a little at the “again,” all composure shot in the face of legal authority. I introduced the rest of our group and explained the sheriff’s words to Tony. “I stopped by a couple of weeks ago to let folks here know I was going to be digging at the Point—”

  The short woman in the lab coat broke in insistently. “Digging? Digging for what?”

  I ignored the interruption. “—and then yesterday, there was a body washed up near us and I was there for that too.”

  Tony shook his head in amazement. “You found a body? I thought this was about a pothunter!”

  “You the one found Augie Brooks?” the woman wheezed, then snapped her gum, suddenly interested. “Lots going on down the Point.” She looked at the sheriff. “All of a sudden.”

  The sheriff kindly stepped in to rescue me. “Things happen near rivers, Terry, for all sorts of reasons. This is Dr. Emma Fielding. She’s an archaeologist, doing some research out at the Point.”

  “Archaeologist, huh? And all of a sudden Augie washes up on your shore, looking a little the worse for wear.”

  Stannard coughed a little and gave the woman a look. She viewed me with the utmost distaste. “So, you dig up bodies and stuff?”

  “Excuse me? What?” I was thrown for a minute, because I had suddenly realized that the woman sounded just like the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz. Margaret Hamilton with a Down East twist, rusty Victorian hinges and squeaky blackboards. “Well, we haven’t found any human remains yet, but—”

  “Except for Augie.” She snapped her gum again pointedly, and the sickly sweet smell of cinnamon reached me.

  “Well, he wasn’t exactly an archaeological find”—I risked a quick smile at Tony—“but we have found pottery sherds, things like that. We hope to find more before we’re done.”

  “Huh.” She looked me up and down appraisingly. “You’ve got to be some kind of nut, looking for that kind of stuff, nosing around people’s business like that.”

  Meg muttered crossly under her breath. “Well, perhaps,” I said stiffly, “but we may have just found evidence of the earliest English settlement on the East Coast today.”

  Sheriff Stannard stepped in. “Dr. Fielding, this is Dr. Theresa Moretti.” He let a beat pass. “Our consulting medical examiner.”

  Chapter 5

  THE MEDICAL EXAMINER AND I STARED AT EACH OTHER with distaste. “Dr. Moretti’s just concluded her exam of Augie Brooks. It looks like it was just a nasty accident,” the sheriff said firmly. “He was drunk, fell over, hit his head on the way out of the boat, and drowned. Still don’t know where he went in, though.”

  “Still lots of questions—” the ME growled.

  “Terry—”

  “But why was he out on the water at night at all?” I interrupted. The two officials turned and stared at me.

  “I mean,” I said hastily, “he wasn’t too keen on the water, as I understand it.”

  Dr. Moretti gave me another sharp look, then snapped her gum expectantly, then looked at the sheriff, waiting for his answer.

  “We’re still looking into it,” he said pleasantly.

  “Yeah, well.” Dr. Moretti shot Stannard a withering glance. “I’ve got crosswords to do.”

  We watched the woman scurry off back down the hall. Stannard looked like he was going to say something and then apparently thought better of it. “If you’ll give me a second, I’ll get the photos.”

  He stepped into an office, and through the door I could see that it had not been subject to the same renovations as the rest of the building. That room looked a little less renovated but also a little more relaxed, and I could see a couple of framed finger paintings proudly hanging behind the desk. The sheriff pulled a file and returned, holding out a piece of construction paper in front of me. It was covered with a half-dozen Polaroids. I pointed out the one of the stranger—Tichnor—immediately; you couldn’t miss that malevolent look, even without the sunglasses. The hair was also a pretty good clue.

  Meg also picked out the same picture. Alan looked over her shoulder and said, “Is that him?”

  Stannard held it out so that he and Tony could see. “Got it in one,” he said. “That’s Grahame Tichnor, figured it was him. And he was vandalizing your work when you confronted him?”

  “Yes.” I felt a rush of heat in my face, and I realized that I hated admitting that the guy intimidated me, that I was a victim of any sort.

  “You wouldn’t believe the sort of damage treasure hunters have done to sites down where I work, in Mexico,” Tony added. “It’s a global crisis, really.”

  “Well, if I’m right, he’s the one responsible for the damage to sites around here too,” the sheriff said, surprising me. “There’s been a complaint from Fort Archer. Someone’s been digging little holes all over the historic site. Maybe looking for the legendary Fordham County gold. I know it kept my girls busy on the beach last year.” His grin suddenly turned into a frown. “No chance it’s another professional looking around there?”

  “None,” I said firmly. “Professionals get permission and dig with a goal, a research goal, in mind. And I don’t know of anyone else working around here this year.”

  The sheriff nodded at Meg and Alan. “What about the rest of your students?”

  “If I even suspected one of them of doing such a thing, I’d skin him alive!”

  The sheriff was taken aback by my vehemence. Tony just laughed, and Meg and Alan hurriedly shook their heads.

  “Well, then I’m willing to bet we’ve got our man,” Stannard said. “We’re looking for Tichnor now—we want to ask him about a few other things too—and bring him in if we find him, of course, but I’m betting he’ll do a fade job for a couple of weeks. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Just so long as Pauline’s safe,” I said. “She’ll be away next week for a week or so, and I’m glad of that.”

  “He won’t be back,” the sheriff said confidently. “I’ll let you know when we pick him up. You’re willing to press charges?”

  “Of course!”

  The sheriff led us politely but quite unmistakably toward the front door. “So you think you hit Fort Providence today? That’s pretty exciting. You’ll do a talk around here, I hope, let folks know what you’ve got? Maybe at the elementary school? Like I said, the kids would love this.”

  “Oh sure. I always like to keep people informed of what I’m finding.”

  “Good, good. Thanks for your help.”

  I was surprised to see the sun still shining when we got out of the station; it seemed to me that we’d been in there a long time.

  “Now, how about that drink?” Tony offered.

  “That sounds great. You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  Meg perked up, obviously hoping to be asked along, but Alan insisted that he wanted to get going, so they excused themselves.

  “I know a place nearby,” I said to Tony. “They know me, and won’t mind my grubby clothes.”

  It was just a couple of blocks to the bar, the Goat and Grapes. I suppose years ago it had been a fairly posh place—there was still a lot of good wainscoting in there—but now it had lost all its pretensions to plastic red-checked tablecloths and beer posters. I didn’t mind, however; I never knew it any other way, and besides, I went there because the folks were nice and the
beer was just cold enough. The television was usually off too.

  I didn’t see anyone I knew besides the bartender. “Hey, Nick,” I called, as I slid into a booth.

  A short, slight, balding fellow with glasses worried a toothpick in his mouth and squinted at me as he came to the table. “Hey, Emma! Been a while hasn’t it?”

  “Too long. How’s things?”

  Nick snorted. “Same as ever—we’re not real big on change around here. What can I get you?”

  “Amber, please. Tony?”

  “The same.”

  “I think I can manage that.” Nick left us to our conversation.

  “I didn’t mean to dodge your question back there at the site,” I apologized in a rush. “About Oscar. It…I just tend to avoid talking about my grandfather in a professional sense. I mean, the relationship’s no big secret, but I want to be known as Emma Fielding, not Oscar Fielding’s granddaughter, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course.” Tony nodded. “I can see the difficulty, but I really don’t think that it’s something to worry about. Forget about comparisons, or anything like that. It’s a different world today.”

  I gave him a look and a brief smile.

  “Of course we Southerners tend to trot out the family tree on any and all occasions,” Tony continued. “It’s a sort of familial jousting tournament, who’s got the most colonels or the most decaying moss-covered mansions.”

  I laughed. “I’m ferociously proud of him, don’t get me wrong. It’s just odd sometimes, to hear the way that people talk about Oscar. He was a big deal to the archaeological community of course, but he was just Grandpa to me, when I was a kid. Just doing what grandfathers did, I thought.”

  “I’ve got this mental image of you, Emma,” Tony said, “as a lisping urchin, clutching a projectile point in one grubby hand and a copper bead in the other.”

  “Not too far off, I guess.” I took a sip of beer. “It’s how I got my start, following Oscar around. I picked up a lot of the mindset before I even knew what was happening. It was a bit of a shock to start college and see his name in textbooks, with all those verbal laurel leaves. I was glad to be able to relate to him professionally, though, for that little while he was alive. He died a couple of years before I took the position at Caldwell. I’m the only one in the family who followed in his footsteps.”

  I swallowed another mouthful as I thought about the welter of emotions, the pride, the worry that I wouldn’t measure up, the love I had for him, the fear that people would expect too much of me. That I would disappoint him. “Graduate school’s when I started to be shy about it. Too many people would ask me what Oscar was really like. He was of the old school, demanding, scathing, at times. John Houseman in The Paper Chase crossed with a Marine staff sergeant. But what was I supposed to answer? He was Grandpa.” I shrugged.

  Tony seemed to be deep in thought himself. “I met Oscar on several occasions, but never knew him well. I suspect few people would have been privileged to see his family life. He had such a reputation for, er, demanding exactitude,” he said, carefully polite.

  When I was very little, I had thought that Oscar was a pirate. His bushy red beard and growls ensured that most people never grew out of that superficial impression. I never minded, though, because I wanted to be a pirate too, stomping through the woods, looking for treasure, and then telling stories about it. It was just a by-product of my affection for him that by the time I was in high school, I’d already had more field experience than most graduate students.

  I changed the subject. “So what brings you to the area? We’re a ways from the college.”

  Tony settled back into the booth. “I was having lunch with a friend nearby; he’s got a summer place near here. And I thought as long as I was around, I’d drop by. What with my sabbatical and your workload, I figured we could stand to get better acquainted.”

  “It’s been a busy year.” I thought about the amount of work that gets heaped on new professors. “I’m hoping that things will settle down this semester.”

  Tony laughed humorlessly. “It will never settle down. Academia’s a grind, so you just have to find your own approach to dealing with it. I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned over across the table. “The more you seem to disdain the process—while completing all the obvious tasks you need to get tenure—the more that people will think you know something they don’t. The more they will defer to you. The more you will succeed, through appearing to scorn the scene. By seeming to reject the process, you will triumph over it.”

  “That’s sort of the cat theory of academic advancement, isn’t it? The more you ignore your keepers, the more desirable you become?”

  “That’s it precisely.” He took another deep draft of beer. “Enough about this. Tell me about the site.”

  “Not too much besides what I told you out on the site. We’re still getting down to the right levels. The locals, for the most part, our maniacal friend today quite excepted, have been great, very supportive. We’ll be out working for another couple of weeks, and then back to classes. I’m extremely hopeful about what we’re going to find.”

  “It is exciting and you should make the most of it, because these opportunities don’t come along that often.” Tony continued, “particularly since Rick Crabtree wants to give the nonmajors’ introductory class to you again this year. Says it will help your tenure review. Though how Lifestyles of the Dead and Famous could help anyone is beyond me.” He smiled briefly, meaningfully.

  “I always thought of it as Ancient Thrills for Jocks and Jills.” I put my glass down carefully. This was great kindness in Tony, to let me know what Rick, who was probably my greatest obstacle in the department, was thinking. “I’ll see if I can’t offer Chairman Kellerman a more attractive option instead.”

  “Good idea. You’ve got a lot riding on this, of course.”

  “You don’t need to tell me. I don’t know what I’ll do if this doesn’t work out,” I admitted. “Everyone knows the tenure statistics…” I laughed awkwardly. “There’s not a huge market for slightly used assistant professors out there…”

  “Look, let me tell you about my field season,” Tony offered, as eager to change the subject as I was. “We’ve been finding just the most…”

  We spent the next half hour trading war stories and gossip, a decent end to the day.

  “…and that was when I realized that in addition to telling the new students which plants to avoid touching, I really did have to warn them to use the official, cleared latrine sites. Imagine a snakebite…” Tony paused, then chuckled a little into his beer glass. “Well, the poor lad lost all interest in archaeology after that.”

  “Oh, I can imagine. Poison ivy’s bad enough.”

  Suddenly Tony set his glass down rather decisively, almost impatiently. He reached over and brushed his thumb across my wrist and down my index finger. “Look, will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  A thrill ran up that arm and down my spine. I sat transfixed, shocked, disbelieving for the second time today. “Wha-what?”

  Tony reddened, but persisted. “Dinner. Would you have dinner with me? I’m asking you on a date.”

  Startled, I started to snatch my hand away from his, and then imagining what kind of rejection that must look like, I pulled away more gently. “Uh. Tony, thanks, but I’m…I’m married, you know?”

  He stared at me, swallowed, and looked away, compressing his lips. “No, no I did not know that.” Tony exhaled and smiled embarrassedly. “I did not know, I’m not in the habit of asking out married women. I didn’t see a ring, else I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Now I felt guilty, like an idiot. “No, you didn’t. I don’t wear jewelry in the field. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry, really.” He looked away, pained.

  We sat there, supremely uncomfortable, for an interminable thirty seconds.

  “Look,” I started hastily. “How about another beer?”

  “N
o, no thanks. I’ve got to get going.” Tony got up and waved aside my offer to pay for another round or even my half of this one. “I won’t hear of it, I invited you out.” He threw down some bills on the table, leaving a decent tip.

  “I’m sorry, really,” I repeated.

  Tony reached over as if to touch my shoulder, but then pulled back, thinking better of it. “We are fine, here,” he said. “Really. It was a simple misunderstanding.” He peered at me, cocking his head. “Right? We’re good?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “Okay. Now. Thanks for the tour, it was even more interesting than I expected.” He shook his head. “Everyone seems to think that we Mesoamericanists are the inheritors of Indiana Jones’s reputation, but you—you’re right in the middle of it all! It’s not every day I get to see medical examiners and mug shots.”

  “Well, I’m not used to it either,” I said. “It’s not a regular thing for me.”

  “Fair enough.” He looked uncomfortable, then laughed again, offering his hand to me. I took it and probably shook it a little too long, trying to make up for the misunderstanding. “Thanks again. See you in a month or so.”

  “See you, Tony.”

  I leaned back against the booth a moment after he left and groaned to myself. In the few meetings we’d had during my interview at Caldwell, Tony seemed rather detached, but that made sense in light of his views on how one gets ahead. He reminded me a bit of Oscar, age difference apart. There was the same old-school flair for the dramatic, the same sort of encyclopedic mind, a similar sense of humor. But no matter how honest the mistake, I had blown him off. Great.

  I went over and sat down at the bar and rubbed my head; the day was settling down on me. “Another one, Nick?”

  “You bet.” He pulled on the optic and glanced over at me, a toothpick working between his lips. “You okay?”