by MJ Rodgers
Octavia picked up one of the completed dolls, examined its thin, ashen-colored hair, tiny dark eyes, sour puss, baggy olive pants and green-and-black-checkered suspenders, and chuckled.
“This doll looks exactly like Scroogen.”
“Squeeze it,” Mab urged.
Octavia did. “Read it and weep, I’m raising your rent.”
Octavia laughed. “It sounds exactly like him, too.”
“John Winslow did the voice. He’s very good at mimicking.”
“When do they go on sale?”
“Today. I’m advertising them on the radio this afternoon. We’re calling it the Scroogen Doll.”
Octavia shook her head as she set the sour-pussed, eight-inch specimen back on the table. “No, could be a legal problem there. Better call it the Scrooge Doll.”
“But we want people to associate it with Scroogen,” Mab protested.
“You think someone could mistake it for anyone else?”
“I guess not. The design is ours, a couple of our members got the materials wholesale, and the rest of our members are doing all the assembly. Our profit is nearly eighty-five percent on each doll. If we can just sell enough of them, we can stave off the Scrooge’s kicking us out for another two months.”
“You’re a marvel, Mab.”
“But as I said, Octavia, it’s only a stopgap measure. We need to find a substantial and consistent money-maker to meet the Scrooge’s ridiculous rent. Although, I must tell you, it galls me to think the money we’re working so hard to raise is all going to line that man’s pockets.”
“Yes, it galls me, too,” Octavia agreed.
“Have you thought of a way to stop him?”
“Let’s just say I’m working on it.”
“What is it, Octavia?”
“What’s what, Mab?”
“Ever since you arrived at my house this morning with your bags and a promise to stay awhile, you’ve been deliberately deflecting my every question about what you did yesterday, and you’ve been purposely vague about how you plan to attack this problem.”
“Have I?”
“Octavia, you’re only vague when you’re involved in something you don’t want me to know about. What is it? And why do you keep looking at your watch?”
Octavia refocused her eyes back on Mab’s face as she wrapped an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders.
“It’s just after nine. Let’s go see that engineering marvel of a greenhouse now.”
“You’re not going to tell me what you’re up to, are you.”
“You are a wise and perceptive lady.”
“And you are an exasperating one.”
Octavia chuckled.
“Oh, come on,” Mab said, her tone resigned. “The greenhouse is this way.”
They stepped out of the brightness of the center into a heavy, overcast day and made their way up a rise and along a graveled path to the large and lovely white-and-glass English-style conservatory that spread elegantly over an entire acre.
“Oh, that is marvelous,” Octavia said in appreciation at the classical, elegant lines of the structure. “When you said greenhouse, I was thinking utilitarian. But using the classic design of an English conservatory makes it absolutely charming.”
“Yes,” Mab agreed mechanically. Her head was turned and she obviously wasn’t listening to her granddaughter.
“What’s going on over there?” Mab asked finally, pointing to the adjacent property where a bulldozer lay idle as several workers stood looking down into a muddy pit.
Octavia leisurely turned in the direction of Mab’s pointing finger. Then her eyes swung immediately to the brand-new bronze Bentley with the license plate reading LAW MAN pulling up to the side of the curb. She smiled as she watched Brett Merlin get out of the driver’s side and Dole Scroogen exit the passenger door.
“The workers seem to have found something,” Mab said, her eyes still fixed on the construction crew.
“Have they? Well, why don’t we go see what it is?” Octavia suggested as she gently steered Mab into the direction of the workers and the pit.
* * *
BRETT SAW OCTAVIA the instant he swung out of the driver’s seat of his Bentley. She wore a turquoise suit with gold trim today, as classy and colorful as the lady herself. Her long flowing hair as before was unfettered, her heels as usual were high. Yet despite those high heels, she somehow seemed to glide across the soft earth toward the construction site.
Brett and Dole reached the construction workers as Octavia and her grandmother strolled up over the slight rise.
“Good morning,” Octavia said with a vivid graciousness that sprayed out like luminous paint over the canvas of the dull day. She was as stunning and self-composed as she had been in his hotel room the night before. Brett found himself instantly on guard. He returned her gracious greeting with a simple nod of the head.
He watched as the grubby workmen around the pit turned to stare at the beautifully groomed woman with the flame-red hair. They quickly got off their knees and onto their feet.
“Morning, ma’am,” they murmured.
Octavia continued to smile as she moved to the edge of the pit and looked over its side at the lone workman at its bottom.
“You seem to have found something there,” she said.
“I don’t appreciate being called and told to drop everything to come out here, George,” Scroogen shouted before the man had a chance to answer Octavia. “What’s going on?”
The stocky, black-haired man in the pit lost the smile he had flashed at Octavia the moment he turned to face Scroogen. “We found this.”
He pointed to a large black stone sticking up out of the pit.
“Well, what is it?” Dole asked.
“It looks like something’s been carved on that stone,” Octavia said, peering down. “You don’t suppose it’s early native American handiwork, do you?”
“I believe it is,” the foreman said, his black eyes glowing above his high cheekbones.
“How would you know?” Scroogen challenged.
“I am Suquamish, the tribe of Chief Sealth for whom Seattle was named. My people hunted and fished this land long before the white man came.”
“So you found this beautiful and important symbol of early native American culture right here?” Octavia asked, the awe clearly in her voice.
“The rain last night must have washed some of the covering dirt away,” the foreman explained. “We only realized it was buried here when we arrived this morning and the jaws of the bulldozer started to lift it out of the mud. I withdrew the machinery immediately when I saw the carving.”
Brett moved around Scroogen to get a better look at the gray scars on the dark stone that stuck out of the mud. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a dozen or so seniors emerging from the community center and heading in the direction of the pit. He felt distinctly uneasy with this find and the crowd gathering to view it. And with the less-than-languid smile that played around Octavia’s lips.
“This place has nothing to do with Indians,” Scroogen protested, irritation making his tone even whinier than usual. “This was all farmland before those rinky-dink houses were put up after World War II.”
“Their foundations did not go very deep, Mr. Scroogen,” George said. “We have had to dig far deeper to accommodate the foundation for the condominium and underground parking structure. It is at this greater depth that this carved stone has been uncovered.”
The curious seniors arrived then and crowded behind Octavia and Mab Osborne, asking what was going on and trying to get a better look.
“Is that what the workmen dug up?” a voice suddenly asked from beside Brett. Brett looked over in surprise to see the young, eager eyes of a man with a reporter’s badge on the flap of his windbreaker and a 35-mm camera slung over his shoulder.
“Where did you come from?” Brett asked.
“I’m with the Bremerton newspaper. We got a call that you guys dug up some ancient India
n stuff.”
The reporter turned to the workman beside the stone. “What do those markings mean?”
“We do not know,” George said.
Brett tried to get the reporter’s attention. “Who called you and when?”
“We got an anonymous tip about thirty minutes ago.” The reporter turned back toward the foreman. “You the one who found this?”
“Yes. I’m the construction foreman, Keneth George.”
The reporter slung his camera around and started to take pictures. “Can you get rid of the rest of the dirt to see if there is more carving farther down the stone?”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Octavia said. “If this is a previously unknown site of early native American habitation, professionals need to be called in to excavate properly. It would be best to stop all work here immediately.”
“Yes,” the foreman said as he nodded toward Octavia. “As I told Mr. Scroogen when I phoned him, we must stop all work.”
“The hell you will,” Scroogen protested. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. This land has to be excavated and graded by next week. Dig that damn thing up and send it to whoever has to decide what it is.”
“That is not how the law works, Mr. Scroogen,” Octavia said. “Artifacts must be examined at the site of their unearthing by the proper authorities. There may be other precious native American objects buried here. I’m certain your attorney would not advise you to do anything against the law.”
She turned to Brett, that elusive smile just lifting the sides of her ample lips. Out of the corner of his eye, Brett could see the reporter stepping back to take a shot of the crowd.
“Isn’t that right, Mr. Merlin?” she asked.
“Only if it is a bona fide artifact,” Brett said, doubting it more and more by the second. From that smile on Octavia’s face and the way he had watched her orchestrating this little scene, Brett was certain that somehow she had to be behind this far too “coincidental” find and the call to the newspaper. He didn’t like this. Not at all.
“I will call in my tribe’s cultural expert,” George said.
“No, you won’t,” Scroogen protested. “I’m not stopping these bulldozers just because you’ve dug up some stupid stone.”
George’s face darkened perceptively. He scrambled up the sloping, five-foot-high muddy pit wall to stand before Scroogen.
“The stone must be examined,” George said, anger in his eyes and voice.
Brett stepped between the two men, hearing the click of the news reporter’s camera. If he didn’t take control of this situation now, it could quickly escalate beyond anyone’s control.
“Mr. George, I’m Brett Merlin, Mr. Scroogen’s attorney. Mr. Scroogen is merely skeptical about the authenticity of this stone carving, as am I. We’d both appreciate your calling your tribe’s professional archaeologist to settle the matter.”
“Mr. Merlin, I’m surprised you would suggest such a thing,” Octavia said. “Surely you know that is not the proper legal procedure in a case like this.”
“Oh?” Brett said, turning to her. “And what would you know of the proper legal procedure?”
“Mr. Scroogen must first report this find to the group issuing the building permit for this site—namely, Bremerton’s Community Development Department. They in turn will have to contact the state representative of the Archaeology and Historical Preservation Department in Olympia, who will then contact the professional archaeologists from the tribes so they can visit this site to do a thorough examination.”
She knew the proper legal procedure, all right. Too well. It was just as Brett had suspected from the first. She had to be behind this business.
He stepped closer and faced her squarely. “How do you know this?” he challenged.
“Because I’m a lawyer.”
She was a lawyer?
Brett watched the satisfied smile on Octavia’s face as she delivered that piece of unexpected news. He couldn’t be more surprised—or more annoyed—to realize how completely off-guard she had caught him.
But what irritated him most was that he knew she had expected the error. She knew he had not taken her threats seriously. She knew he had been misled and bamboozled by her beauty, just like probably every other poor sap who had met her. She knew it, and she had counted on it.
It seemed he had made a couple of very serious errors when it came to this lady. He gave himself a moment to regroup his thoughts before going on the offensive to save what he could from the situation.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he demanded. “Why have you hidden the fact that you are an attorney?”
A single eyebrow arched up her forehead. “You, Brett Merlin, accuse me of hiding the fact that I’m an attorney? You, who marched into my grandmother’s radio station yesterday and handed her a fallacious complaint you sent to the FCC without mentioning the fact that you were only doing it because you are a high-powered attorney hired by Scroogen to make trouble for her?”
She paused in her ultra-composed—and obviously rehearsed—indignation to turn to the reporter standing just beside her.
“You did get all that, didn’t you?” she asked sweetly.
“Every word,” he answered as he pointed at the tape recorder that had suddenly materialized in his hand. The young man then turned and shoved the mike into Brett’s face.
“Is what Ms. Osborne said true? Is your FCC complaint against Mab Osborne merely an attempt to make trouble for her?”
“Let’s not get off the subject here,” Brett said quickly. “We are at the future site of an exciting new condominium complex that will bring both jobs and prosperity to this community, a complex that could be delayed by the discovery of this stone carving. The question you should be asking is, who might be responsible for putting the carving on this stone?”
“Are you saying you don’t believe this is an Indian relic, Mr. Merlin?” the reporter asked, the inflection in his voice obviously hoping Brett would say just that.
“I’m saying that no one here is qualified to make such a determination,” Brett answered cautiously.
“Is the legal procedure that Ms. Osborne delineated accurate, as you understand it?” the reporter pressed.
“Only if this really is an ancient native American artifact,” Brett said.
Brett turned back to the foreman. “Mr. George, would you ask your tribe’s cultural representative to come over now? If he looks at the carving and says it isn’t early native American, it would be a quick and easy solution that would save a lot of time and needless involvement of others.”
“I’ll use the phone in my truck,” George said, and quickly made for his vehicle parked at the curb.
“This carving may originate with another tribe and, therefore, be beyond the expertise of a Suquamish cultural anthropologist,” Octavia said. “No, Mr. Merlin. Quick and easy will not suffice. This find must be reported and handled according to the prescribed law for its protection.”
Octavia then turned to the reporter. “You appear to be in on the beginning of what could be a major new native American find. This could make an excellent continuing story.”
Her words had the effect of redoubling the young man’s photographic efforts. With every picture the news reporter snapped, Brett watched Octavia’s smile grow.
“Stop this,” Scroogen yelled at the reporter, and then waved his arms at the seniors. “Get out of here. You’re trespassing. The rest of you construction workers, get back to work.”
“Wait, Dole,” Brett said, wondering if this wasn’t exactly what Octavia Osborne wanted Scroogen to do—right in front of a reporter.
“I can’t wait!” Scroogen protested.
Brett grabbed Dole’s arm and lowered his voice so the others couldn’t hear.
“Legally, you have to wait, Dole.”
“I’m under time-sensitive contracts to develop this land. If I renege on those contracts, I’ll be ruined!”
“Keep your voice
down and slow down. A little delay will not ruin you, Dole, so save the dramatics. I very much doubt this so-called ancient carving is legitimate. Far more likely it is a contemporary artistic endeavor.”
Brett paused to look directly at Octavia, who was urging the reporter to take even more pictures.
He returned his attention to his recalcitrant client. “Look, Dole, you have no choice now but to report this as prescribed by law. But if what I suspect is true, it won’t take long before this supposed relic is relegated to the trash bin as a phony. At the most, it should only be a few days’ delay. A few days won’t jeopardize your schedule.”
“But—”
Brett poked Dole in the ribs before conveying the rest of his caution beneath his breath. “Would you rather someone serve you with a court order to cease and desist all your building operations, giving the media a chance to turn this so called ‘find’ and your construction site into a real sideshow?”
“That could happen?”
“I’ve no doubt that Octavia Osborne would see to it,” Brett said. “Dole, don’t you get it? This attorney wants you to screw up and turn this into a fight. That’s why she made sure that damn reporter is on hand. This has all been carefully orchestrated to cause you trouble.”
“I thought you told me less than an hour ago that Octavia Osborne couldn’t cause me any trouble?”
“Yes, well, I admit I underestimated the lady and the foolish lengths she’d go to. Still, she’ll find she’s caused more trouble for herself than you. Now, use the car phone to call the Community Development Department and report this ‘find.’”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Because you’re the developer. And because I’m going to be having a word with this reckless attorney and put the fear of God into her, so we don’t find ourselves facing any more of this kind of foolishness. Go, Dole. The sooner you make the call, the sooner we can put an end to this delay.”
As soon as Dole obediently, albeit reluctantly, turned toward the direction of the car, Brett turned toward Octavia. She stood in the middle of the seniors and the workmen and the reporter, jabbering confidently.
He could have understood her taking any legal avenue available to protect her grandmother’s interests. But not this flagrant disregard for the law.
