What else catches a forger?
Not knowing about external evidence of a document. Not knowing history. Not knowing about the person who was supposed to have written the document. Drew could handle that, too.
The final possible trap for a forger is wrong paleographic evidence—understanding handwriting. That means the historical styles of writing and the specific writing of an individual. Possessing authentic historical documents would go a long way toward providing that information. And what did Parker say? One method of forgery is to add a little something to the bottom of an authentic document that would make it more valuable.
How much money would forged documents be worth? Potentially a lot. Even letters of minor historical players can fetch quite a sum.
One more thing is needed. A person with artistic ability.
What was clear to Lindsay was that a small group of people with certain abilities and knowledge could produce documents that would be very hard to detect—especially if one of the group authenticated documents. The group could put a document into the market . . . then Drew could come along to authenticate it. No one would need know the two were connected. She could even expose documents as a forgery on occasion to enhance her reputation. This explanation was working, and there was potentially enough money involved to make murder worth risking.
You need proof.
“Yes, proof,” she whispered. “Where am I going to get that?”
Find the other person, the artist.
Where?
A workman is known by his tools.
Lindsay’s inner voice could be very annoying. She fell asleep.
* * *
There was no problem in the morning getting the bathroom. With the site mostly finished, most everyone was sleeping in. Lindsay and John were down for breakfast before anyone, but Lewis was up.
“I suppose we should go and eat at the site,” said Lindsay as John pulled her toward the dining room.
“No, I asked Mrs. Laurens to make you something special.”
“You didn’t! John, she has enough to cook without making a special dish for me.”
“Now, Lindsay, I didn’t mind. It’s something me and Jimmy like, too. I thought we’d sit down and eat it with you.”
Mr. Laurens came in carrying a huge platter of fried mush. One of Lindsay’s all-time favorite foods.
“You did say you made some for you, too,” said Lindsay, laughing at the size of the platter.
“What’ve you made this morning?” asked Lewis, sitting down beside Lindsay.
“Ambrosia,” answered Lindsay.
“Fried mush,” answered John. “Fried, boiled cornmeal.”
“Boiled cornmeal?” said Lewis. “That’s it, cornmeal and water?”
“You got it,” answered John. “Lindsay loves the stuff.”
“It sets overnight,” said Mrs. Laurens. “In the morning, you slice it, fry it up, and serve it with oleo.”
“It’s a Kentucky thing,” said Lindsay, buttering a slice. “This is great, Mrs. Laurens.”
“You know, it isn’t bad,” said Lewis.
After stuffing herself to the point of embarrassment, Lindsay walked down to the site with John and Lewis.
“It looks like the truck is here to take the bones back to campus. I’ve called Carolyn. She’s getting ready to receive them.”
“What about the lead coffins?” asked Lindsay.
“I’ve decided to re-bury them here where they were excavated. They’re too heavy to haul around the country.”
There were far fewer people at the site. Lindsay guessed that many were still in bed. In a way, she was relieved to be going home—home to her own research, her own house, her horse, her friends. Perhaps that was the key to her getting well and freeing her mind of ghosts. Go home to a safe, familiar environment.
Lindsay made her way to her excavation tent to pack up TPB2—the bones of William Kinkead. Lewis brought in some old newspaper to stuff around the boxes. John came in carrying three cartons of orange juice.
“I thought you might need more nutrition than just cornmeal.” He handed one to Lindsay and one to Lewis.
Lindsay opened hers and drank several swallows.
“Thanks.”
“Need any help?” asked John.
“I’ve just got to pack these bones. I think Lewis has already loaded TPB1 and CB1.”
“Don’t you call them by their names?” asked John. “Seems to me you know these guys.”
Lindsay took a newspaper off the stack and started to stuff it in the space between one of the smaller boxes inside the larger packing box. She stopped, stark still, staring at the pictures on the front page.
“Lindsay? Lindsay . . . ,“ said John.
“Lindsay?” said Lewis.
They both sounded far off.
John’s father was right. Her brain was working right, she was just reading it wrong. She was right. Ghosts are the unfinished business of the living.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.”
She felt herself crumbling to the floor, plunged into deep grief, and horrific guilt.
“Oh, God.”
Tears streamed down her face, and her body was racked with sobs.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Lindsay!” yelled John. “What is it? What are you sorry about?”
“Where are you, Lindsay?” asked Lewis.
“I’m so sorry.”
She felt herself lifted onto a chair. She heard John and Lewis beseeching her, but she couldn’t stop crying. She remembered everything, and she had unfinished business to take care of.
Chapter 40
If Ghosts Could Talk
THERE WAS NOTHING John or Lewis could do but wait until Lindsay stopped crying. John took the newspaper from her hand, and he and Lewis looked at the front page.
“It must have something to do with this story,” she heard Lewis say.
The headline was one Lindsay had seen several days earlier, but she hadn’t seen the photographs that went with it. She tried to think back. Was Claire already dead when the story appeared? She couldn’t remember.
If I had read the story and seen the pictures, maybe I would have known then what I know now. If I could have told someone then—everyone—maybe Claire would still be alive. Would knowing about the pictures really have made a difference? Maybe. Maybe they would have chosen to run and not kill again. Or maybe not. No way to know now.
Lindsay stopped crying and tried to breathe evenly under the heavy guilt.
“Can you tell us about it?” asked Lewis.
He and John sat down facing her. She took a breath.
“Nigel Boyd at the University of Tennessee identified these two lost hikers,” she said, touching and rubbing the pictures with her fingers. “They’re the ghosts I’ve been seeing—the one in the mirror, on the porch, and again in the house.”
“You’ve been seeing ghosts?” said Lewis. “I didn’t think you believed in ghosts.”
“I believe in memories and unfinished business.” She looked at John. “Your father told me that the hallucinations might be my brain sorting things out. He was right. It was trying to tell me something, and I couldn’t understand.”
“Did they have something to do with what happened to you?” asked John.
“They tried to save me. When I was chased into the woods by the two men who forced me off the road, I tripped on some barbed wire and they caught me. I fought them off and escaped again, and ran deeper into the woods. They caught me again. I screamed for help, hoping someone would hear me. The hikers, a man and a woman, did. I remember being so relieved.
“The guy fought one attacker off and seemed to knock him unconscious. The woman and I tried to overcome the other one, but he shot her in the chest. I put my hands over the wound to keep the air from escaping her lungs. Her companion ran to her, but the attacker he had fought off recovered too quickly and hit him hard in the back of the head with a piece of dead tree limb. The other one must have s
hot at me, and I suppose the bullet creased my skull. I don’t remember.
“When I came to, I was buried with the two bodies. I was on top with my face in the crook of an arm. The arrangement of limbs created a space for me to breathe. That’s why I didn’t suffocate. When I clawed my way out, they . . .”
Her eyes filled with tears. She paused for several moments.
“They were dead. They tried to save me and died for it. I lived, and they died.”
“Lindsay, it wasn’t in the least your fault.” John’s voice was so gentle.
He deserves better than someone who is always getting into dire trouble, she thought.
“He’s right,” said Lewis. “The men who did it are responsible, not you.”
“I thought I was going crazy, seeing those phantom faces.” She shook her head. “I owe them a debt. I have to try to find their killers.”
“Now that you remember, you can tell the authorities what happened. That is the extent of your debt,” said John.
Lindsay took the paper from John’s hand.
“Are you sure you want to read that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
She read the article out loud. She was disappointed it didn’t have much forensic information in it, but news articles rarely do. There was one paragraph, however, relating how Nigel had made the identification, that gave her enough information to be reasonably sure who one of the killers was and how to prove it.
“I’ll call Sheriff Ramsey and the sheriff at Mac’s Crossing and tell them what I remember.”
“That’s the best thing,” said John. “Tell them what you know, and let them handle it. It’s time to put it behind you and go home.”
* * *
Most of the remainder of that day the site crew watched and helped the science crew take down and pack up their tents and equipment. Drew and her husband weren’t there. Lindsay overheard Sharon and her husband telling Adam that the Van Hornes’ cars were gone when they left the motel to come to the site that morning. So they skipped out. Rather incriminating.
Lindsay watched the trucks pull out, leaving the site as bare as before they came. And she watched the archaeology crew with a cold, objective suspicion, wondering if any of them was a member of the gang of forgers she believed to exist. Sharon Kirkwood and her husband were possibilities. Bill Kirkwood was very good with a camera and a computer—two talents a good forger needs. And why was his vacation so long? How long had he been here? Three weeks? Sharon’s penmanship on the site forms was like an engineer’s—very neat and uniform.
Joel was a possibility. He was so meticulous at everything he did. Erin said he was an artist. Marina and Erin were possibilities, both artists. Maybe the others had hidden talents. For that matter, Elaine McBride was artistic. But a good forger had to be more than artistic. He . . . or she . . . would have to be an accomplished artist. And there was Claire. Perhaps she had been in with the forgers, too, and there was a falling-out among thieves.
Ideas occurred to her as she watched the crew, ideas she should have thought of before if her brain had been working on all cylinders. It was working again now. Remembering about the hikers had removed that smothering fog from her mind and freed up brain cells for other work.
For instance, why had Drew kept Miss Tidwell out all day doing things that had already been done during the survey? Because, Lindsay answered herself, to allow someone all-day access alone in Miss Tidwell’s house to look for the documents and anything else worth stealing.
It would be so easy to come in the back way to her house, back up a truck or car to load anything heavy, and not be seen by passersby or neighbors. Drew probably knew the security code of the alarm system. Miss Tidwell had no reason to suspect fellow scholars of anything so heinous as murder.
Could Erin have been the one in the house, looking for the thing that would make her famous? Or, to get money to get away from her parents? Surely not. Her mother wasn’t that bad, but perhaps Erin’s greed was. That explanation left a bad taste in her mouth. She liked Erin. Lindsay always preferred that her criminals be someone she didn’t like. But she’d been fooled in that respect before.
Mike Gentry had been in the house. She was sure of that. Just as she was sure that he stole Miss Tidwell’s coin. She was also sure the nurse, Mary Carp, lied to Luke. But Lindsay no longer worried about Nurse Carp. The sheriff at Mac’s Crossing would deal with her.
“Okay, gang,” said Lewis. “Can I have your attention?”
“We going to be digging today?” asked Powell. “He looked at his watch. It’s really too late for that.”
“I’m kind of beat,” said Kelsey.
“Do you know where Drew is?” asked Byron.
Lewis didn’t answer any of their questions. He looked over their faces a moment. Lindsay wondered if he was contemplating them as suspects or simply feeling sympathy for a crew who were about to get some sad news.
“Claire Burke was found dead in her automobile. She has been murdered.”
Lindsay watched their faces. Their mouths fell open. Everyone was surprised . . . or seemed to be. Bill found his voice first.
“What happened? How? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“I don’t have any details, but I think it would be fitting to have a moment of silence here at the site in her memory. I’m aware there were issues with Claire and the way she directed the site. But that’s over now.”
After the moment of silence, they looked at one another in bewilderment.
“What happens to the site now?” asked Byron. “Claire’s gone, Drew’s AWOL. What the hell’s going on around here? Claire was murdered, you say? Someone killed her?” It was as if what Lewis had told them just now sank in with Byron.
“Yes, someone killed her. The authorities are investigating. I’m sure they’ll want to speak with each of you. But don’t be alarmed in any way. They just have to gather as much information as they can about Claire’s last days. As for the site, I’ve been in touch with the state archaeologist, and I’m taking over the remainder of the excavation. Adam, you are the new site director. I hope that sits well with everyone.”
“Works for me,” said Powell.
“This evening we all need to sit down and discuss how to finish up here. I know there were issues about the excavation, and we need to iron those out so we can proceed. This is a good dig. Good things have happened here, too. The antique air project is significant, and we all can get articles from what we’ve done here.”
“Did Drew have anything to do with Claire’s . . . with Claire?” asked Kelsey.
“I don’t want to speculate,” said Lewis. “I know this has to be preying on your minds, but let the authorities handle it.”
“It’s some coincidence that she left just as Claire was found murdered,” said Dillon. He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder as if for comfort.
“Did she kill my aunt?” asked Erin.
Lewis looked to Lindsay. She wished he hadn’t, for everyone looked her way for an answer.
“Erin, have you talked with your parents today?”
“No. Why?” Erin looked at her suspiciously. “What’s happened?”
Might as well tell some of the truth, Lindsay thought. They all need some kind of debriefing after news like this.
“Sheriff Ramsey is going to have your aunt’s body exhumed and an autopsy preformed at the request of Dr. McBride.”
Sharon gave a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, my God. Did Drew really . . .?”
“I don’t know,” said Lindsay. “There have just been new developments. I know all of you have questions. I do, too, and so does Lewis. None of us have many answers. When the authorities ask you questions about Claire or anything else, try to remember everything you can that seems even remotely suspicious. That’s the best way you can help.”
“We can’t help but speculate,” said Joel. “I mean, like Byron said . . . Claire murdered, Drew skipped out, our survey informant, Miss Tidwell, is being exhumed. Things like
this just don’t happen in real life.”
“I know you need answers,” repeated Lindsay. Jump in any time, Lewis, she thought. “Neither Lewis nor I have any right now.”
“Does anyone suspect us?” asked Kelsey.
“Not as far as I know. The sheriff will question all of us about Claire, including me, Dr. Lewis, and the Laurenses.”
“Who was the last person to see her alive?” asked Dillon.
“I suppose I was,” said Lindsay.
“But that doesn’t mean anything,” said Erin. “Does it?”
“Of course not,” said Marina. “Any of us could have been the last person to see her.”
“Let’s get things back on track with the site and take all this other . . .” Adam groped for the right words and failed. “Let’s just do the best we can with the situation. Lewis is right. We need to discuss how to proceed with the site. I know we have some money to do some extra excavation, like in the outhouse, for example, and maybe get Marina some help in cataloging the artifacts.”
“Now there’s an idea,” agreed Marina.
They trooped back to the house, mostly in silence. Occasionally someone exclaimed their disbelief. Mrs. Laurens had an early dinner on the table when they arrived.
“I thought some food would do you all some good,” she said. “I was real sorry to hear about Claire. It’s so sad when the young die.”
Lindsay wasn’t particularly hungry. Something was nagging at her. What she really wanted to do was sit quietly and think.
Luke was leaving after dinner. She walked outside with John to see him off.
“Thanks, Luke. You’ve been a great friend. Really going above and beyond.” She leaned through the window and kissed him on the cheek.
“You’ll be sure to tell Bobbie what a great, sensitive guy I am, won’t you?”
“I certainly will.”
Lindsay felt safer somehow, now that Drew was gone and Miss Tidwell was being exhumed. Regaining her full memory was like finding an old friend—her self-confidence.
When Luke was gone, she and John joined the others in the living room. John actually seemed to find discussing the site interesting. John, an archaeologist—she smiled at the thought.
Airtight Case Page 38
