by Merry Jones
Hank didn’t reply. He lay back, folding his hands on his chest, staring at the ceiling, leaving Harper to think about her attitude. Was she being foolish? Was there, as Detective Rivers suspected, a connection between Zina’s terrors of a Nahual and her murder the very next morning? Had someone been stalking her, someone she’d mistaken for a shape-shifter? And, if so, what was his motive? Did it have to do with the collection? Was everyone who worked with it going to be targeted?
Maybe. Even probably.
Damn. Hank was right. She should at least let the murder investigation proceed before recklessly putting herself in danger.
‘OK. You win. I’ll talk to Schmerling.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll tell him I don’t want to work there unless he can guarantee it’s safe.’
‘Hoppa. For real.’ Hank raised an eyebrow, doubtful. ‘Promise.’
Harper bit her nail, and her voice was husky with resentment. ‘Promise.’
She lay back against her pillows, but she tossed, picturing crates filled with carved vessels and masks, figurines of marble, silver and gold. And when she finally drifted off, she dreamed of an immense ebony warrior, poisonous serpents emerging from his mouth, his helmet and the twist of his belt.
The memorial service was well attended. The chapel in Annabel Taylor Hall was full. The press was there, as was the entire Archeology Department, along with members of the press, a number of university bigwigs, including the Provost, the Chancellor, the Dean, and a slew of people who hadn’t even known Zina, who were simply curious about the murder.
Harper sat with other graduate students, between Philip Conrad and Stacey Cohen. As a small choir sang Amazing Grace, Philip leaned over, whispering, ‘Sad about her family, isn’t it?’
It was? ‘Why?’
‘Well.’ He looked around. ‘She has four brothers and family living in New York. Not one of them came.’ He shook his head, disapproving. Covered his mouth with his hand as he whispered. ‘They wouldn’t have any part of this. Flatly refused. They said it was a matter of honor.’
Honor? Why? Getting murdered was dishonorable?
‘I don’t get it. It’s about women in their culture or their religion.’ He stopped abruptly as the singing ended and the chapel hushed.
A pastor led the twenty-third psalm, then invited people to speak. One of Zina’s housemates read a poem. ‘I Did Not Die,’ she recited. ‘By Mary E. Faye. Do not stand at my grave and forever weep. I am not there. I do not sleep . . .’
Another housemate talked about how ambitious and smart Zina was, how she’d overcome the constraints of her family and fought to establish her own identity on her own terms. The third one broke down and couldn’t read, so someone volunteered to read her notes, in which she promised never to forget Zina, her strength, and her spicy couscous dishes.
Harper listened, moved by the statements, wondering why she’d never seen in Zina the qualities extolled by her friends. Maybe she’d been foolish to resent her, competing against her instead of getting to know her.
Professor Wiggins stood and talked about Zina’s commitment to Archeology. He confessed to being awed by her uniquely powerful and determined spirit. His affect seemed wrong, almost joyous, and his comments were followed by awkward silence until Phil got up and talked.
Phil described first meeting Zina, being intimidated by her dark, enchanting beauty, and trying to impress her with his knowledge of Indian culture, only to find out later that her family was from Syria, and that he must have sounded idiotic.
Finally, Professor Schmerling gave a eulogy, praising Zina’s initiative, persistence and talent. He closed by inviting everyone to mingle and honor Zina by informally sharing their memories. One of Zina’s friends played the Beatles’ ‘Blackbird’ on the guitar as people filed out to the lobby where Marge, the department secretary, was serving cookies and punch.
‘That was nice.’ Tears swelled in Stacey’s eyes, threatening her mascara. ‘You did a great job, Phil. You lightened it up.’
‘Someone had to. Especially without her family here.’
‘Yeah. That’s terrible.’
Phil picked up a piece of shortbread. ‘You have to give her credit, though. Standing up to them.’
‘Standing up to them?’ Harper had no idea what they were talking about.
‘Yeah,’ Stacey sniffed. ‘Her housemate Sonja, the one who read the poem—’
‘I talked to her while I was arranging this,’ Phil interrupted. ‘I wanted to include Zina’s family, but Sonja told me that was out of the question. That they’d told her she was dead to them.’
‘What? Why?’
Phil sighed. ‘Long story.’
‘They arranged a marriage for her—’ Stacey began.
Again, Phil cut her off. ‘She said they did it for business. They’re into international importing and exporting. Art, antiques, high-end collectibles – that kind of stuff. Apparently, to promote their interests, they promised Zina to a wealthy client back in Syria. She’d never even met him.’
‘Never mind he was thirty years older than she was and had two other wives. Can you believe it? Zina was accomplished and independent, getting a PhD from an Ivy League university.’ Stacey was incensed. ‘And her family was forcing her into an arranged polygamous marriage? Positively medieval.’
Harper agreed.
‘Zina refused, of course,’ Phil added. ‘She wouldn’t go back to Syria, wouldn’t meet with her brothers in New York, wouldn’t agree to the marriage. She flat out defied her family, which evidently infuriated them. I assume that’s why they wouldn’t attend the service.’
Harper didn’t know what to say. Zina had been stronger, far more complicated than Harper had imagined.
‘And that’s the least of it.’ Stacey swallowed a bite of sugar cookie. ‘Sonja said that by refusing the wedding, Zina had dishonored her family. And she was worried there would be consequences.’
Consequences? Like what? They’d ground her? ‘What consequences? They couldn’t force her to get married.’ Could they?
Stacey looked at Phil. Phil looked away, shrugged. ‘Harper,’ he said, ‘in some cultures, women represent the honor of the family. Being dishonored isn’t taken lightly.’
Harper blinked, as if snapping back to consciousness. Of course – she ought to have realized, having dealt with some of those cultures during the war. She knew what he was about to say even before the words left his mouth.
‘At the time, Sonja assumed “dead” was just a figure of speech. But Zina told her otherwise. Because she’d dishonored her family, she was literally dead to them. And, if they ever saw her again, or if she ever tried to go home, they’d kill her.’
An honor killing? Harper pictured Zina, her confident, assertive attitude. Her ambition. And her lifeless, bloodied body. Was it possible that her own relatives had murdered her for defying them? For shaming them?
Harper had first heard of such things while in Iraq. Incidents where family members – brothers, husbands, fathers or even mothers – killed their sisters, wives or daughters for shaming them. For not being virgins. For falling in love with the wrong man. For trying to get a divorce. For going out alone in public, dressing and behaving too ‘westernized’. She’d heard about these killings and maimings of women, but, in Iraq, she’d never personally encountered any.
But now there was Zina. Was it possible that Zina had been killed by her own family? Harper couldn’t imagine it. And yet, it was possible. Maybe even likely.
‘Do the police know about this?’ she began.
Phil nodded. ‘I told them myself – and I know Sonja did.’
‘I mentioned it to that woman detective who came to the Archeology office.’
So Rivers knew about the honor killing possibility. Why hadn’t she mentioned it?
‘So is it true you’re taking over Zina’s assistantship?’ Phil asked. ‘There’s a rumor—’
‘Lovely memorial, wasn’t it?’ Professor Schultz, a member of Phil’s dissertation
committee joined their cluster, and Phil began chatting him up. Stacey went to refill her punch.
‘Harper.’ Dean Van Arsdale suddenly approached, Professor Schmerling at his side. ‘Thank you for stepping up on the Langston project.’ He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. ‘Especially in these circumstances – we all appreciate it. Myself especially. Good luck with it.’ He flashed some teeth and kept moving, releasing her shoulder in order to extend his hand to someone else.
Oh dear. How awkward – she’d promised Hank she’d turn the position down. But Professor Schmerling was still standing there, handing her an envelope. ‘Contract, detailed instructions and the keys to Langston’s,’ he said. ‘Return all four signed contract copies to my office any time next week. And again, thank you.’ He nodded, started to walk off.
‘Wait – Professor? I need to talk about this.’ She held out the envelope, trying to return it.
Schmerling kept nodding, walking away. ‘Call me with any questions. The instructions are quite clear.’ The Dean joined him, pulled him away.
Harper stood in the middle of the crowded lobby, holding the envelope, surrounded by the buzz of conversation, thinking of the assistantship and how embarrassing it was going to be to turn it down. But how could she complain? Embarrassment was nothing compared to what Zina had endured. She thought of Zina’s last minutes. The horror of knowing that her own flesh and blood were taking her life – if, in fact, they had. But it made sense, didn’t it? The family wouldn’t even come to her memorial service; maybe that was because they were responsible for her death.
It was too much, too awful. Hoping for quiet, Harper stepped outside but was immediately assaulted by blaring brass and pounding drums. The Big Red Band paraded down College Avenue, promoting the next day’s Homecoming game. Life and football went on as usual, not even pausing for a woman’s murder.
Harper closed her eyes, leaned against Annabel Taylor’s wall, absorbing the vibrations of the band, holding the envelope with the contract and the Langston keys. Damn. She’d promised Hank she’d turn it down, but according to Phil, everyone in the department had already heard she’d taken it. And Dean Van Arsdale and Professor Schmerling – the whole university was counting on her to get started. She pictured rooms filled with relics. Mysteries of time preserved in boxes. She opened the envelope, took out the keys. Looked at them.
She could just go over and glance at the collection. Just take the briefest peek. What would be the harm in that?
No – what was she thinking? She’d promised Hank she wouldn’t go until she was sure it was safe.
But that was before she’d known about Zina’s family. Now, it seemed that Zina’s death had been an honor killing, that she’d been killed by her own relatives. In that case, there was no danger to anyone else. What would be the harm in just stopping by?
She could just go look at it. Not actually begin work – merely peek at a few pieces. See how Zina had left things. What the place looked like. How it was set up. She’d spend just two or three minutes – at most five.
She’d call Hank and let him know that it was safe, that he didn’t need to worry – maybe just send a text message to avoid a discussion. Harper dug around her bag, pushed aside the flashlight, her wallet and Zina’s bracelet, located her phone. Saw that she’d missed some calls. Good God, three voicemails from Burke Everett. The lunatic was stalking her. She played back his first voice message.
‘Harper – I’m being followed. You might be, too. Keep your eyes open and be careful. I’ll be in touch.’
The next: ‘Harper, they know I’m here. Watch your back. They’ve figured out I came here to see you. So they know you know what I know – sorry I put you in danger.’
The last: ‘I have to ditch my cell. They’re tracking me on it. I’ll call you when it’s safe.’
Burke had completely lost it. Wherever he was, he needed help. Lord. She hoped he wouldn’t harm anyone. Hoped he’d call again so she could get him to a hospital.
The last message was from Leslie, her soothing voice agreeing to could see Harper at four o’clock.
Good. Four o’clock.
It was hours away. She had plenty of time.
Before she went to her Ninja, Harper sent Hank a text. No need 2 quit! Will explain. Making a stop. C U 2ish.
Then, dropping the keys and phone into her bag, she headed to her motorcycle and roared away. She had gone all the way to the Langston’s long private driveway before the question came to mind.
If her family had killed Zina, why had they taken her heart?
She didn’t have an answer. She’d never heard of it being part of any honor killing before. But then, she was no expert on the subject. Maybe it was symbolic in some cultures. Harper was still considering the missing heart as she confronted the yellow police tape still draped across the drive, blocking the road to the Langston house. Police and the press had been gone for some time; evidence had been gathered and removed. But the tape remained, wrapped around the area where Zina’s body and car had been found. Harper didn’t want to mess with the police, so she got off her bike and walked it through the trees around the taped off area, parking it near the house.
Up close, the place was much larger than she’d imagined. Like some once grand and elegant hotel. Rambling and endless, hollow and forlorn. Haunted, even. Odd that Zina hadn’t mentioned that paint crumbled on the porch pillars, that wood rotted on the frames of windows and double doors. A riser was missing on the front steps. The roof sagged. Parts of the house literally seemed to be crumbling. Well, never mind. Harper was well acquainted with worn-out floorboards and loose shingles; she and Hank had been renovating their own old house for years. And in Iraq, sometimes, living conditions made this place look like five star luxury. So, undaunted, Harper left her Ninja and plowed through ankle deep fallen leaves toward the house.
Climbing the front steps, she reached into her bag for the house key, found her cell phone instead, thought briefly of calling Hank, decided that there was no reason to; she’d be on her way home in a few minutes. Finding the key, she unlocked the elaborately carved double door, stepped inside. And sneezed.
Dust was everywhere. Clouds of it. Specks as large as snowflakes. She saw it floating around her, illuminated by light beaming from the windows. Harper looked around the foyer, saw a high, rounded dome with a heavy crystal chandelier, a spiral staircase, marble floor, ragged Oriental rug.
Harper noted the worn carpet leading to the second floor. The faded wallpaper, curling at the corners. To her right, walnut panels and closed doors. Corridors leading to various wings of the house. To her left, another corridor, and the entrance to a cluttered living room, the surfaces of sofas and chairs buried beneath journals and publications. A large marble fireplace gaped from the opposite wall, filled with burned wood and ashes, surrounded by stacks of firewood.
Harper was tempted to explore the publications – the professor probably had a treasure trove of archeology literature. But that was his personal property; besides, she couldn’t wait to get a look at the collection, which her instructions said was on the third floor, at the east end of the building. In seconds, she’d gone up the spiral staircase to the landing, then up another flight of steps to the floor above. Then down a long hallway, passing door after door until she came to an arch that divided the east wing from the core of the house. On the other side of the arch, she confronted the collection.
No one had prepared her for what she saw. Not Professor Schmerling, not Zina. No one. When she entered the east wing, Harper stopped, gaping at the dozens of pine crates stacked in the hall. She stepped around them, looked into the first room she passed. Saw a few worktables, a computer. Shelves of small cases, notebooks and more boxes.
The next two rooms were loaded wall to wall with various-sized containers and boxes. Harper gaped, overwhelmed. The collection was huge – far larger than she’d imagined. She stepped into the last room, squeezing between rows of mid-sized cartons, noticing that eac
h had a note taped to it. She stooped to read one:
Early/Middle Mohica, Loma Negra, 300 BC–300 AD. 6 ¾ inches high. Copper warrior mask, slight damage. Est. $5000–$7000.
Really? She had to see it. Box cutters were all over the place. Harper took one and slit the seal of the package. Opened it. Began removing the packing material wadded up inside—
‘Excuse me!’
Harper jumped, sent the box cutter clattering to the floor.
‘You want to tell me what you’re doing in there?’
A man stood in the doorway, glaring. At first she thought it was Angus. His hairline was receding like Angus’, and he was thin and tall. Same prominent cheekbones. But this man had a ponytail. Wasn’t Angus. Another of the professor’s sons?
Harper’s heart was still somersaulting. She took a breath. ‘Sorry if I startled you.’ Actually, she was the one who’d been startled. ‘I’m here from the university.’
‘The what? You’re fucking kidding me.’ He shook his head. ‘Those sons of bitches don’t waste any time, do they? That last one isn’t even buried yet.’
Actually, Zina was going to be cremated. But Harper didn’t explain that; she got his point.
‘Well, go ahead. Knock yourself out – make all the lists and labels you want. But you’re wasting your time.’ He watched her for a moment, must have realized he’d been acting belligerently. Backed down a notch, nodded at her. ‘I’m Jake Langston.’
Harper breathed. ‘Harper Jennings.’
‘So you’re a grad student like the last one – like Zina?’
‘Yes. Same department.’
Jake reached into his vest, pulled out a pack of Camels, offered her one with tobacco-stained fingers. Lit up when she declined. ‘I’ll share something with you, Harper Jennings. It doesn’t matter how many lists you make or pictures you take. The university isn’t getting any of this collection. Not one single arrowhead. Everything here belongs to my family.’
Oh great. Jake was going to argue with her about the professor’s will? Get into details of the lawsuit? Harper didn’t want to hear about it, had no part in the dispute. She just wanted to take a look at the mask in the box she’d opened. ‘Look, I’m just here to document—’
