by Fay Robinson
“What did you do with it?”
“Gave it to the university for the museum. I pass along anything like that, anything major I find. It’s not illegal to keep artifacts if you find them on private land, but it doesn’t seem right to hang on to them. At least when they’re at the museum, other people get to see and enjoy them. And they can’t be studied if they’re sitting in a glass case in someone’s living room.”
“Ever think about selling what you find?”
“Selling history? Never. People do it, but I think it’s wrong.”
“No argument from me.”
“Both the early and the modern Indians used the river extensively, so there are mounds and remnants of villages along it. Down the river in the central part of the state is a place called Moundville, where they’ve excavated a three-hundred-acre settlement from the Mississippian culture, which reaches back to A.D. 1000. It has something like forty mounds.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Oh, it is. I’d like to show it to you sometime.”
“Any mounds around here?”
“A few small ones, but nothing on that scale. Most of the things that turn up are from later tribes, the Creek and the Choctaw. Some people believe there was a town here at the forks that both those nations inhabited at different times, but others place it elsewhere.”
“You’re really up on all this stuff.”
“I’m fascinated by it, so I’ve read a lot. Holding a pot or a flint point that was made hundreds of years ago—I can’t describe how that feels. I guess that’s why people want to own them.”
“Got any books I could read?”
“You’d like to know more?”
“Yeah, I would.”
Pleased, Lucky told him she had books, photographs and articles back at the cabin and she’d dig them out when they got home. “This is great! Whew! I have to tell you I’m relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“Because we finally found something we both like. I was beginning to think we were hopelessly mismatched. We never like the same things, not even the same food. But now you don’t have to suffer through fishing anymore, and I don’t have to try and hit that stupid golf ball. Jeez, I detest golf. We can explore our common interest in Indian culture together.” She smiled widely.
He didn’t smile back. “Well, hell,” he said, blowing out a breath.
“What’s wrong?”
He hemmed and hawed for a minute before admitting the truth. Personal interest wasn’t his reason for asking. He needed the information for a theft case Deaton was working on. “I should’ve told you that up front. Sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m the one who jumped to conclusions.”
“So you really detest golf?”
She winced. “Detest is such a strong word. I’m sure there are parts of the game I haven’t caught on to yet, and when I do, I’ll probably…uh…” He was already amused at her bullshit. He was grinning, and she could barely keep a straight face.
“You’ll probably what?” he asked, laughing.
“Really, really detest it,” she admitted, bursting into laughter.
“Don’t feel bad, because I really, really hate fishing.”
“I bet I hate golf more than you hate fishing.”
“No way in hell.”
They teased each other about it all the way home. Helping her out of the boat at the pier, he commented that their good-natured bickering proved they obviously agreed on one thing.
“What one thing is that?” Lucky asked. “I’d sure like to know.”
“That we’re always going to disagree.”
JACK HAD TO ADMIT that what Lucky showed him that night was pretty interesting. She had a wealth of knowledge. But he was enjoying the teacher much more than the lesson.
“And here are some of the things people find,” she said, leaning over to point to a photograph. He was at the desk he’d set up in the storage room. Lucky sat on the corner, her bare legs dangling.
He tried to keep his gaze on the book in front of him rather than the gaping neckline of the loose, short nightgown, but it was impossible.
She flipped the page. “See here? They worked shell and bone into tools and ornaments. You can tell a lot about the age by how they were decorated.”
“Ah.”
“A coiled rope used to press a design suggests one era. Shape is a clue, too. Remember how the bowls I showed you before looked more like cylinders? Here they have flared— Are you paying attention?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, you’re not.” She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “You’re looking at my chest again.”
“I can’t help it. I’m not used to you having so much up top. It’s distracting.”
“You’re turning into a pervert. I can’t talk to you without you touching me or looking down my shirt.”
“So satisfy my perversion and let me play with them.” He glanced to the floor on either side of him. “Where’s Beanie?”
“Still outside.”
“Perfect. She wouldn’t like it if she saw what I’m about to do to you.”
“Something naughty, no doubt.”
“Something very naughty.”
He pushed back his chair, pulled her forward to her feet and made her straddle his lap. She didn’t resist and rested her arms on his shoulders. “I thought you wanted to learn about pots and things.”
“I do.” The nightgown came only to her knees, allowing him to run his hands up her shapely thighs to her bottom. No panties. Arousal flooded him. He gathered the gown and pulled it over her head, then put a hand on each breast. “Mmm, these little babies sure have gotten big.”
“Why are you working this case if it’s supposed to be Deaton’s?”
“It’s not really even Deaton’s.”
Her nipples had grown larger from the pregnancy, and he rubbed one tip and then the other, smiling as they hardened.
“Who’s is it?”
“Conservation is doing most of the legwork. We’re assisting only, looking out for anything that might help. I thought I’d lend a hand.”
He punctuated his remark by giving her left breast a gentle squeeze. Her hands had started to move over him, caressing his shoulders, stroking his hair and neck. She kissed his forehead, then down his cheek to his lips. She’d eaten a banana Popsicle a little while ago, and the pleasant taste of it lingered on her breath.
“Deaton should talk to Paul Hightower, the head ranger,” she suggested. “If people are digging on federal land, he might know something.”
“Deaton talked to Hightower weeks ago. He claims not to have any knowledge of people digging out there.”
“I’m sure that’s possible. The area is huge. Thousands of acres. Only a few logging roads have been cut through it.”
Bending down, he angled one breast toward his mouth and lightly sucked. She arched to give him better access, burying her hands in his hair.
“Do you know Hightower?” he asked, then gently sucked the other breast. Their ongoing discussion made this the strangest foreplay he’d ever engaged in.
“Never met…mmm, that feels good. I didn’t know who he was until recently. Shannon pointed him out to me at Mr. Bagwell’s visitation, and he was at the funeral.” She gasped. “Oh, jeez, could Mr. Bagwell have had anything to do with the artifact thefts? Maybe stolen pots are what he had in his shed!”
Jack held a similar suspicion, but he had no evidence. “That’s something I’m looking into.”
She took his hand and guided it between her legs. “Oh, yeah,” she moaned. “Touch me right there.”
“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.”
“If Mr. Bagwell was digging artifacts on federal land, maybe Hightower was in on it and they had a falling-out. They argued on the phone and that’s the conversation Carolyn overheard. Hightower could’ve gotten mad and thrown Mr. Bagwell in front of the train.”
“A good theory, but Hightower and his wife we
re in Atlanta visiting his mother when Bagwell died, and at least fifteen people at the nursing home and at the motel will vouch for his whereabouts. He didn’t kill Charlie Bagwell.”
“Well, shoot, I thought I’d solved the case.”
“Bagwell wasn’t thrown in front of the train, either.”
“But you suspect somebody killed him, don’t you? That’s why you asked me those questions about the railroad grade.”
“Mm, maybe.”
“And you destroyed my pork roast the other night with stun guns because you think one was used on Mr. Bagwell.”
“Possibly.” Frustrated by the delay in the report from DFS, Jack had bought several of the guns himself to test the width of the prongs and the marks they left on skin. The raw pork roast had provided the perfect “victim.”
Holding Lucky with one arm around the waist, he eased up and pulled down his boxers, slipping inside her as he brought her bottom back down to his lap. She was wet and tight, and enveloped him to the hilt. When she gripped him with her muscles, he had to concentrate hard to keep control.
“Oh, baby, don’t do that.”
She grinned. “I have you at my mercy.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then tell me how this ties in to the death of Miss Eileen. Was he her lover?”
Bagwell, she meant. “I don’t know if any of it ties in, and no, I don’t think he was her lover.”
“Who was?” When he hesitated, she squeezed him a little tighter. “Tell me!”
“I’m going to lose it if you don’t quit that.”
“Then tell me. And what’s that mysterious box you got from Dad? I saw it in the back of the Blazer.”
He figured she had. They’d taken her truck to her parents’, and without a trunk it was difficult to conceal anything.
“The box has files in it. Since your dad’s written stories about both the Olenick case and artifact theft, I thought his clippings might help me. Nothing mysterious about it.”
Careful of her stomach, he put his hands on her waist and they rocked forward and back, forward and back, in a nice, easy rhythm, but being on top put her in control.
“That feels incredible.” Her voice softened until it was nearly a purr. She nipped at his earlobe with her teeth, sending desire rippling out through every nerve ending. “So if Mr. Bagwell wasn’t having an affair with Miss Eileen, do you still think Terrell was her killer? His aunt, Leona Harrison, has always insisted that he witnessed the murder, not committed it.”
“It’s probably going to turn out like most of the town believes, that he came upon her in the woods that morning while she was looking for something to stick on her hat for church, got too friendly and either purposely or accidentally killed her.”
“No, that’s wrong. She’d already decorated her hat.”
He barely heard her answer. The pressure inside him was building, reaching an explosive level. He gripped a little harder, and she increased their rhythm.
The chair skidded a couple of inches across the floor. “Whoa, Trigger,” she said with a giggle.
“Want to move to the bed?”
“No, I love this. I feel so powerful.”
She used that power to bring him close to climax more than once, easing back each time. When he finally tumbled over the edge, she went spiraling with him.
Afterward she collapsed on his shoulder and groaned. “My heart feels like it’s going to explode. Am I heavy?”
“Feels like I have a ton of bricks sitting in my lap.” She bit him on the shoulder. “Ouch! No, seriously, the cane bottom of this chair is killing me. I’ve got to get up.”
Lucky laughed when they reached the bathroom and she looked at his skin. “You’re branded. You’ve got perfect little circles and X’s all over your butt.”
She ran a bath in the old clawfoot tub and he climbed in facing her. He bent forward and let her wet his hair and work shampoo into it. “What were you saying before about Eileen Olenick’s hat already being decorated?”
“At church, the Sunday before, it was covered in petroglyphs, but that Sunday, the day she disappeared, she’d decorated it all in white—lace, ribbons and wedding bells pinned to the side. I remember looking at the photograph of the hat in the newspaper when they took Terrell in for questioning and wondering why she’d picked a wedding theme.”
“What are petroglyphs?”
“Aboriginal art. We have a lot of it on caves and rocks. I’ve seen some on the bluff on the other side of the river. The indigenous people used symbols that had meaning to them, like on a few of the pots I showed you—concentric circles, spirals, crosses, birds. On the rocks they also put handprints and footprints. Your buddy the snake was very popular, too.”
Indians again. He frowned, wondering if this was another piece of the ever-widening puzzle or simple coincidence. Could a disappearance that took place twenty-one years ago have anything to do with the events of the past two months?
“Is this important?” Lucky asked. “You’re concentrating so hard your forehead looks like a plowed field. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
He put a blob of shampoo on the end of her nose. “You’ve been a big help to me tonight. I appreciate it.”
“I hear a but coming.”
“But…that’s all you’re getting out of me. I don’t want you involved in this. If Terrell did kill Eileen Olenick, he’s dangerous. I want you as far away from him as possible.”
“But what if he didn’t, Jack? That’s what worries me.”
“It worries me, too, because if he didn’t, the problem’s even worse. Somebody got away with murder. And he’s still out there.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE HOT DAYS of summer passed, and the trees along the river began to dress themselves in the reds and yellows of autumn. From time to time Lucky asked Jack if there were any new developments in Mr. Bagwell’s case, but he remained tight-lipped. All he would say was that officially he’d closed his investigation.
Unofficially she hoped he continued to search for answers, because the suspicious part of her brain was hard at work. She found herself looking at everyone around her in a different way.
Who had reason to kill Miss Eileen if it wasn’t Terrell Wade? That nice Mr. Turner down at the drugstore? The man at the produce stand who always picked out the best tomatoes for her?
She started feeling she was being watched. Crazy. Still, she couldn’t shake the sensation. Not that she ever really saw anyone. Well, once she thought she had while shopping at the mall, a reflection in a window that was there one minute, but gone by the time she turned around.
One night, while she and Jack were sitting on the porch, she’d felt a prickling at the back of her neck. The hair had risen on her arms. She’d stood, opened the screen door on the side by the driveway and stared into the dark woods, certain someone was out there.
“What’s wrong?” Jack had asked.
When she’d told him, he’d gotten a flashlight and he and Beanie had looked around, but hadn’t found anything. A few minutes later she’d thought she heard a car engine crank in the distance, but the more she ruminated about it, the more unsure she felt.
“I guess I’m spooking myself,” she’d said, apologizing. “Once you reminded me that Miss Eileen’s killer might still be around, I started worrying it was somebody I pass every day on the street—or even somebody I know. He might even work at the Register.”
“Damn, I should know better than to talk to you about my cases. Your imagination starts working overtime.”
The uneasiness stayed with her. For the first time she regretted the isolation of the cabin. She began locking the door the minute she came in, something she’d never done before. At work she jumped when people spoke. Cal commented on it one day.
“What’s wrong with you? Lately you’re like a rabbit in a pen full of beagles.”
She had negatives on the light box in the darkroom, and she leaned down to peer at them through her magnifying eyepiece. “No
thing’s wrong. Can I help you?”
“No, I just thought I’d check and see how the new guy’s working out.”
“He’s been a godsend.”
Leigh had hired someone to assist with the processing and photography assignments. The arrangement was good for Lucky, because he was a college student who preferred to work nights so he could attend class in the mornings at Birmingham-Southern College in nearby Birmingham.
“Leigh was worried you might fight it.”
“Not me. I’m too pooped to fight anybody these days. I’m thankful to go home at a reasonable hour.” Now in her seventh month, she’d gained nearly twenty-five pounds, and her back bothered her all the time. Booger was probably going to be a soccer player, too, as hard as he kicked. Or she.
“Leigh was looking for you earlier, by the way.”
“I’ve been in here all morning. Did she say what she wanted?”
“I didn’t ask. How’s the house-hunting going?”
“Slowly.” She explained that they’d looked at houses nearly every Sunday afternoon for weeks, but she hadn’t seen any she really liked. “Jack hasn’t said anything, but I get the feeling he doesn’t think I’m trying hard enough.”
“Are you?”
“I think I am. I want to find a place and make him happy, but it’s also a major decision, and if I settle for a house I don’t like, that won’t be a step forward. Has he said anything to you?”
“I’ve hardly seen him, he’s been working so much. Although we did play a quick nine holes last week on his day off. I miss not having him come over to watch baseball.”
“He’s really been putting in the hours. He brings work home, too.”
“Maybe you should build a house. Buy land and have an architect design exactly what you want. That would take more time, but in the long run you’ll probably be happier.”
“Not a bad idea, big brother. I’ll suggest it. I don’t think I’m up to moving anyway, until after the baby’s born. I can hardly get around now, and I’ve got eight weeks left.” She put her hand on her aching back and straightened.
