Findings

by Mary Anna Evans

  Or perhaps they’d known exactly what they wanted and where to find it. Perhaps they had rushed downstairs, intending to steal one specific thing, but Douglass was unlucky enough to be in the way. Then, after putting him out of commission, they had packed the thing or things they came to steal into the two missing boxes and left. This would make her notebooks innocent bystanders, accidentally kidnapped during a crime. Supporting that theory was the fact that the newspaper article published on the day of the robbery had mentioned that Douglass had a basement lab manned by a professional archaeologist. If they had wanted a particular artifact, then they knew that there was a good chance it was stored in the lab.

  Nibbling at Faye’s mind was the final and, to her mind, least likely possibility. Perhaps her notebooks hadn’t been an unfortunate casualty. Perhaps the thieves hadn’t just thrown the objects of their invasion into the boxes storing her notebooks, stealing them accidentally. Perhaps her notes had been their goal all along. But why?

  The article had mentioned no artifacts more valuable than the silver flask, which was nearly worthless, so there was no value in stealing the notes documenting all her valueless finds. It hadn’t, thank goodness, mentioned her by name, but every page of those notebooks bore her initials. Micco County was no burgeoning metropolis. It wouldn’t be too hard to find an archaeologist with the initials F.L.

  Faye hadn’t discussed these suspicions with anyone. Neither Joe nor Ross could be trusted to react rationally to the idea that Douglass’ killers might be looking for Faye. She hadn’t even mentioned them to the sheriff, but she sensed that he shared her concern. Otherwise, his not-too-subtle efforts to ensure she was constantly monitored by Joe or someone equally large were nonsensical. And a little insulting.

  Faye was no dummy, and she didn’t mind taking reasonable precautions. Part of those reasonable precautions had been to use her photocopies of those field notebooks as bedtime stories for the past two nights. Reading those notes had only fed her desire to get back out to Joyeuse Island and look for some more emeralds, but the work she was doing in the lab where Douglass was killed was far more important for the time being.

  She had scrutinized every notebook page for some detail that might make her a target. She’d found nothing so far, but she was keeping her eyes open.

  Chapter Five

  Every pew in the Blessed Assurance African Methodist Episcopal Church was full, and the ushers had filled the vestibule with folding chairs. Being the survivor of a housefire, Faye found herself scanning the room, looking for a clear path to a window or a door. The open casket made her uncomfortable, but it was what Emma had wanted. She had to admit that, as she watched the mourners file by Douglass’ body, many of them seemed to get comfort from one last look at the dead man’s face.

  She surveyed the casket’s polished wood with satisfaction. As she had suspected, there was no modern equivalent of the plain pine box, but neither she nor Emma could bear the thought of putting Douglass into the enameled tin cans that passed for caskets these days. The funeral director’s eyes had lit up when Emma asked about wooden coffins.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, we have those, and they are well-worth the extra cost. They feature lovely lines and a hand-rubbed sheen. We can provide any finish you desire—cherry, mahogany, maple, oak…pine…”

  With the single word “pine,” the solicitous man made his sale. Emma never even asked the price. Douglass had certainly left her enough money to give him exactly what he’d wanted. It was her last chance to do so.

  The pine glowed golden, even though its finish was now smudged with the fingerprints of an onslaught of mourners intent on laying hands on the deceased and everything associated with him, even his coffin.

  Faye had been honored to sit in the daughter’s spot in the family room during the viewing of the body. She had leaned in close to Emma and stayed there while hundreds of people filed past to pay their respects. She had rarely spoken, but Emma seemed to derive strength from her presence, and a newborn widow certainly needed her strength. Faye didn’t think that the current Queen Elizabeth herself was ever forced to graciously greet this many people in the space of a single evening.

  Joe had long ago stood in the interminable line for a chance to pay his respects to Douglass’ widow. Since then, he had stood in the front corner of the family room, near the door, where he could see the face of everyone who entered or left. His intense scrutiny was Faye’s most insistent reminder of the fact she would like to forget but couldn’t. Douglass had not left this life on his body’s schedule or on God’s. He had been brutally removed from the side of his loving wife. Joe’s clear green eyes were searching the funeral guests, looking for signs of a murderer. Sheriff Mike lingered nearby, doing the same thing.

  As Faye sat watching Joe, a familiar figure came into sight and paused, standing framed in the doorway. She had told him not to come. She had called him, weeping and looking for comfort in the face of violent death. In the same breath, she had told him not to come, but here he was.

  Why hadn’t she wanted him to come? Because she had the feeling that it would be unwise to let herself be alone with him now, when her shattered defenses might prompt her to make a commitment she wasn’t ready to make. When dealing with a man like Ross Donnelly, a woman had to know what she wanted. Otherwise, she was going to get what Ross wanted.

  ***

  Emma did her best to walk proud during her long trip down the aisle to the front pew, which was reserved for bereaved family members. Douglass had never seen her hang her head and weep, and she knew he was looking down on her from heaven now. Nothing would make Emma lose her grip on her dignity.

  And apparently, nothing would make Faye lose her grip on her elbow. The child seemed to believe that Emma would collapse if she let go. That was doubtful. Emma reflected that she had lived sixty years without collapsing even once. She’d never fainted yet, nor succumbed to a fit of the vapors. It seemed unlikely that she would start doing such things now. Still, she wouldn’t have wanted to live through this thing without Faye’s help.

  There had been talk among Douglass’ kinfolk about her inviting Faye to sit with the family at the funeral. Emma was not surprised. The Everetts were the kind of family that was very good at that kind of backbiting.

  The way Emma saw it, her husband’s cousins had been blessed with all the children they wanted. She and Douglass had not. She figured that since God had not given her a daughter, then He had implicitly given her the option to choose her own. Although if Faye didn’t stop pushing Kleenexes in her direction, she planned to stuff the whole wad of them into the casket with her late husband.

  Lord, how she hated that open casket, but she knew her friends and relatives. If the lid had been closed, they would have talked about it all week.

  Reckon how bad those murderers beat him? Must’ve been plenty bad, if Emma didn’t even let the reverend open the coffin lid.

  Emma wished she had eyes in the back of her head, because two of the seats directly behind her were occupied by intriguing people. Joe Wolf Mantooth remained intriguing, though she’d known him for more than three years now. And Ross Donnelly was newly intriguing.

  She and Douglass had met him just a month before. Faye was making her third trip to see Ross in Atlanta, and Douglass had said, “She’s apparently not going to bring him home to meet us any time soon. Let’s fake an urgent business trip to Atlanta.” So they’d done just that, calling Faye on her cell phone when they got close to town and offering to take her and Ross out to dinner.

  Faye had known precisely what they were up to. So, probably, had Ross, but they had been very gracious to a meddling old couple, and the four of them had enjoyed a fine evening out on the town.

  Ross had made a most favorable impression. Douglass had decided that Faye should marry him immediately, because he had all the qualities men want in their daughters’ husbands. He was intelligent, respectful to his elders, financially successful, and he treated Faye li
ke a queen. Emma agreed with her husband’s assessment in all of these areas and, as a woman, she would have added that Ross looked like an African god. She thought Faye could be happy with Ross.

  But then there was the question of Joe. Douglass had hooted at the idea that his pseudo-daughter should marry this man who needed her help just to get his driver’s license. Faye didn’t even seem to notice that her steadfast friend was a man—and a man who had put her on a pedestal that was too high even for a physical specimen like Joe to climb. This proved that even brilliant women could be oblivious to bare facts.

  When it came to husband material, Emma wasn’t so sure that Joe should be dismissed out of hand. He couldn’t offer financial stability, it was true, but Faye had been taking care of herself for many years and she didn’t seem much the worse for wear. Like Ross, he treated her like a queen, so that race was a dead heat. He couldn’t give Faye the deep, scholarly conversation that Ross’ wife would enjoy, but Emma believed that only a few people were blessed enough to meet their soulmates. And Joe owned the most beautiful soul she’d ever seen in a man, setting aside her late husband.

  Emma had planned to ask Joe to sit with her and Faye in the family pew, until Ross had shown up. Not wanting to put a pseudo-mother’s stamp of approval on one man or the other, she had taken the no-action alternative. Neither man was honored with an invitation to sit beside Faye. They weren’t told where to sit at all.

  Emma didn’t have eyes in the back of her head, but she’d sneaked a look in that second pew as she took her long widow’s walk to the front of the sanctuary. Both men were there, sitting broad shoulder to broad shoulder. Now they sat together behind Faye, giving her their simple physical presence, which was the same support Faye was giving Emma.

  If Joe and Ross felt a sense of competition, it was not evident. They didn’t glare at each other or pull away when the fact of a crowded pew forced them to touch each other. Emma thought that, in other circumstances, they might have been friends. Unlikely friends, but friends all the same.

  Sooner or later, Faye would have to choose between them. Or maybe she wouldn’t choose either of them. Emma wished she could tell Faye what choice to make, but she couldn’t. This race was too close to call.

  ***

  Emma had never seen so much food in her life. Which was saying something, since she’d lived all her life in the South and she had attended southern funerals before. She didn’t know about the rest of the country, but she sensed that her friends and neighbors monitored the obituary pages, looking for the name of someone they knew, however vaguely. When a familiar name surfaced, these people flipped their oven switches to “Preheat” and started whipping up delicacies.

  She recognized Magda’s summer squash soufflé, and she knew that the sheriff grew a dense forest of zucchini every summer, so that their deep freeze could be well-stocked with critical supplies in case somebody died. A generous bowl of his smoked mullet spread sat in the place of honor on Emma’s coffee table, surrounded by saltine crackers.

  Joe had contributed the pot of oyster stew that was simmering on the stove. Even Faye, who usually relied on Joe to keep her fed, had dragged out her grandmother’s recipe for pralines, proving that she did indeed know how to cook.

  Ross had shown no signs of any kitchen survival skills whatsoever, but he’d wanted to help, so Emma had suggested that Faye allow him to monitor the candy thermometer. He’d succeeded perfectly, which was what Emma had expected when she nominated him for the task. “Precision” should have been Ross’ middle name. The creamy pralines were mouthwateringly good.

  The entire congregation of the Blessed Assurance African Methodist Episcopal Church had prepared the rest of the bounty that threatened to collapse Emma’s kitchen counter. Each and every congregation member had stopped by after the funeral to pay their respects to the widow, and they’d all done their best to eat their share of the baked offerings, but it was to no avail.

  Emma stood in her kitchen, arms outstretched as if to gather up all the excess food, and moaned, “Would you look at this stuff? Have these people missed the point completely? I’m a widow now. One person can’t eat all this.”

  “Food equals love,” Magda said, sitting at the kitchen table and spooning applesauce into little Rachel’s mouth. Achieving motherhood at an advanced age agreed with her. Her arms and legs were still short, sturdy, and muscular, and no amount of time sitting in a darkened nursery would wash away the tanned and weathered skin of a career archaeologist, but the lines around her mouth and eyes were softer.

  Her husband Sheriff Mike, already a grandfather three times over, was well-practiced at doting. He exercised this skill at every opportunity. With parents like hers, Rachel would either grow up to be a princess or the president.

  Joe and Ross stood on either side of Emma, each wielding a spoon with aplomb. A stack of filled freezer boxes rose in front of each man. Faye was washing casserole dishes as fast as they got them emptied.

  “You’ll eat well for a year, Miss Emma,” said Ross.

  “It’s not like I can’t buy food. And some of the generous folks who cooked this stuff aren’t as comfortable as I am. Fortunately, I’ve figured out how I’m going to get rid of all this food, without wasting it or hurting the feelings of the people who brought it.”

  “How you planning to manage that?” asked the sheriff as he tested the temperature of Rachel’s rice cereal with a clean fingertip.

  “Every time I go to church—Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, Wednesday nights, every single time—I’m bringing somebody home with me for a meal. Somebody whose months last longer than their money does.”

  “Well, okay then. I like that plan,” Ross said, scooping creamed corn with renewed vigor.

  “Just as long as it’s somebody you know well,” the sheriff said, glancing up from Rachel’s bottle with a lawman’s gleam in his eye. “None of us needs to forget that there are two murderers out there.”

  “That worries me, too,” Ross replied. “I’ve been talking to Faye about beefing up security out there on her island. Those killers came a little bit too close to her for my liking.” He quickly added, “And to you, too, Miss Emma.”

  The room’s festive atmosphere dampened measurably.

  Faye plunged her hands deeper into the hot, soapy water with an annoyed snort. Emma knew Ross had been pressuring her to accept his personal protection since the minister had closed Douglass’ funeral service with a heartfelt “Amen.”

  Emma didn’t see that Faye was necessarily in a great deal of jeopardy. The fact that she’d just left Douglass when he was attacked was simply a case of coincidence. What could the burglars have possibly wanted with her?

  They would have been quite satisfied to get their hands on her emerald, but they’d had no way to even know that it existed. If they’d given her field notes a quick glance, they’d know that she existed, but Faye had explained that those notes described potsherds and flint chips, not emeralds or diamonds. They didn’t even have her notes from the day she found the dirt clod that had harbored the emerald. That notebook had been with Faye in the skiff.

  “Emma and I can take care of ourselves,” Faye piped up.

  No, Emma saw no reason to force Faye to accept a bodyguard she didn’t need, not even one that looked like Ross. Emma also saw Faye’s unspoken objection: being on an island with both Ross and Joe could get a little…crowded.

  Fortunately, Emma was significantly older and wiser than Faye, and she saw an elegant, Solomon-like solution to this problem. “Even if Faye needs male protection, which I doubt, she has Joe. I don’t mind saying that I’m a trifle nervous to be staying here all alone. Just because those burglars didn’t load my art treasures in their boat on their first trip doesn’t mean they won’t be back. And this time, they’ve gotten a look inside my house. They’ll know what they want, and they’ll know there’s nobody but a little old lady to stop them from getting it.”

  There. She’d
played the widow card. It had been a little hard to make her lips form the words “little old lady” when she’d put so much effort into remaining attractive for Douglass. Yoga. Facials. Fashionable clothes. She hoped she had the fortitude to continue to put her best face to the world, just for herself.

  Poor Ross.

  She could see he knew what he had to do. She could see that he was going to do it. But he was finding it hard to make his lips form the words that would hand a victory to his rival, Joe. Did Faye notice? Probably not, since she was so deeply committed to being oblivious. She was certainly blind to the fact that Joe showed every sign of being silently, wordlessly, in love with his best friend Faye.

  “Would you mind if I stayed with you for a few days, Miss Emma?” Ross asked. “I mean, Joe will be on Joyeuse Island with Faye, but we’re all worried about you, too. I don’t need to be back to work for a week or so. Maybe, in the meantime, I could keep the bad guys away.”

  Emma thought, Good boy. I knew all along that you were well-brought-up, but all she said was, “Thank you.”

  Chapter Six

  The library smelled like Douglass. Faye could smell his aftershave, his favorite brand of deodorant soap, and the cigars that he sneaked when Emma wasn’t around. His library’s scent seared her heart, but she needed to be alone so badly. It had taken her all afternoon to find a chance at that solitude.

  When the sheriff and Magda left the kitchen to put Rachel down for a nap, she saw her chance. Emma was on the phone, returning an interminable list of sympathy calls, Joe was doing something in the kitchen that required intense concentration, and Ross was attacking a sagging drawer with a screwdriver. No one was paying her the slightest bit of attention, so she’d slipped into the library, hoping for a half-hour of quiet time to simply think.