Dancing on Her Grave

by Cate Dean

  She leaned against him, her head not quite reaching his shoulder, even with the two inch heels on her boots. He kissed the top of her head, letting go of her hand to wrap his arm around her. With a sigh, she turned into him and pressed her face against his chest.

  “I know you have to go, but I don’t want you to go,” she whispered.

  “I will miss you as well, love.”

  She let out a watery laugh, and looked up at him. “Call me when you get there.”

  “I promise.” He gently tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Now I want you to give me a promise.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  His chuckle rumbled through her. “Ah, my suspicious Yank.” He cradled her cheek. “I want you to try to not worry about me, to put all that potential energy into the shop.”

  “I can’t promise not to worry about you. But I’ll try and keep it to a minimum. How about if I schedule it? Fifteen minutes in the morning to worry about Martin, half an hour in the afternoon.” He was laughing by the time she finished. “This is serious stuff, mister. My calendar is pretty full, so squeezing in worry time will be—”

  Martin cut her off with a kiss.

  The rumble of the incoming train interrupted them. Martin kissed her again, hard and fast, then picked up his satchel, slinging the long strap over his shoulder. He took Maggie’s hand, and they watched the train pull into the station.

  “I love you, Mrs. Martin.”

  “I love you back, Mr. Martin.”

  He kissed her hand before he let it go. “Try not to sideswipe anyone on the way home.”

  “Martin!”

  His grin had her shaking her head. She watched him board the train, tracked him as he walked along the car. When he sat, he pressed his hand against the window. She reached up, and pressed her hand on the wet, icy glass. He mouthed “I love you” just before the train started moving.

  Maggie waved at him until the train rolled out of sight. With a sigh, she hugged herself, already missing him. Her mobile rang, startling her. She pulled it out of her coat pocket—and smiled when she saw Martin’s name on the screen.

  “Hello—did you forget something?”

  “I did,” he said. “I forgot to tell you just how happy you make me, Maggie Mulgrew Martin.”

  “Martin—” She felt heat flush her cheeks, glad that she was alone on the platform.

  “My life changed the moment I walked into your antique shop. I didn’t know it at the time, but I thank the fates every day for placing you in my path.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “You make me feel treasured, Martin. I’m glad I bought your stolen box, that I didn’t take you at face value, that I saw the man behind the curtain.”

  His shout of laughter made her smile. “I did come off as something of a wanker at our first meeting.”

  “Since I’d almost run you over with my giant car, I understood. After. I was more than a little star struck.”

  “I am going to miss our banter, love. I have to ring off, the ticket inspector is headed my way. I love you, Maggie.”

  “I love you.”

  She clutched her phone after he ended the call, and took a few deep breaths. The cold air helped compose her, each breath clearing her head. She missed Martin, so much it ached. But she also knew she would be fine.

  She had friends, people she considered family, and a thriving business. All of them would help keep her from moping, too much.

  Martin may be gone, but Maggie knew she was truly blessed. When he came back, the life she had dreamed of while sitting in the library window seat, listening to Aunt Irene mutter about her latest problem customer, would finally become real.

  Four

  Martin had barely arrived at the Yorkshire site when Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington, the archaeologist in charge of the dig, dragged him into the main tent.

  “What took you so long, Pembroke?”

  Martin stifled a sigh. “You rang me just this morning, Geoffrey.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” He scrubbed at his face. “I have been at sixes and sevens since I discovered the theft.”

  “Understandable.” Martin set his satchel on the table, shrugging the stiffness out of his shoulders. He ignored the warning twinge in his right shoulder; he would be doing little in the way of lifting or digging. “Do you have a list of what is missing?”

  Geoffrey handed him a clipboard, then left him alone.

  Taking advantage of the quiet, Martin lowered himself to a chair and read the list, flinching at some of the missing artifacts. Whoever had raided the site had known what to take.

  Not for the first time, he wished Maggie was with him. He missed her terribly, but he could also use her keen observation, her quick mind, and her penchant for lists. The last made him smile. Maggie did love her lists; he had found them all over the flat above the shop, in the back room of the shop, and in her house.

  “Our house, now,” he muttered.

  He still had reservations about moving into her home. As for her inheritance—they had argued that topic more than once. Martin did not live off another person. He had made his way since leaving the family estate in Northumberland for good. As much as Maggie wanted to share her fortune with him, he refused every time she brought it up.

  With an effort, he turned his attention back to the list, and started making notes of what he wanted to check while he walked the site. Fortunately, the rain had not followed him here, though it was at least ten degrees colder.

  He stood, pulled a woolen scarf out of his satchel, and looped it around his neck before he headed back outside. The constant wind slapped him, and he flipped up the collar of his coat, tucking the clipboard under his arm so he could slip his hands into his pockets.

  Geoffrey waited for him next to the main dig, arguing with a shorter figure. As Martin approached, the figure turned, and he halted, surprised.

  Ian Reynolds waved him over.

  When Martin joined him, Geoffrey started blustering again. “I told you, Constable—”

  “Inspector,” Ian corrected, his voice mild.

  “Inspector. I told you that I have the investigation sorted.”

  “By a man who is now on leave. I have been sent to replace him, sir, so you’ll be dealing with me, whether you want to or not.”

  Geoffrey let out a long-suffering sigh, and opened his mouth.

  Martin spoke before the man made an even greater fool of himself. “Ian. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Martin. If I’d known you were headed this way, I would have given you a ride, saved you two extra hours.”

  “No need to put yourself out. I enjoy the train.” He bit back a smile when Geoffrey shuddered. The man abhorred public transport of any kind. “Have you learned anything?”

  “Your thief is a professional.” Ian rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He left little behind, except this.”

  He handed Martin an evidence bag. It held a thin leather glove.

  Martin returned the bag. “Will you be able to determine the owner from that? Run some forensic tests?”

  Ian smiled. “You’ve been spending too much time with Maggie.” His smile faded as he glanced down at the bag. “It is a possibility, unless the thief wore a latex glove under this one. I’ll be sending it to London, as I’ve a feeling their thief, and your thief, are one and the same.”

  Five

  Maggie was going to kill her.

  Too bad the subject of her intended violence was already dead.

  Her ghost was redecorating the house again. She had been, almost nonstop, since Martin had left.

  With a sigh, Maggie stomped down the stairs—and skidded to a halt when one of the heavy silver candlesticks that usually sat on the mantle flew past her.

  “Enough.” Her breath plumed out, and she pulled her wool robe tighter. The candlestick wobbled, like Maggie had surprised her, but it kept going. “I mean it, Anthea. Either tell me what you want, or leave me alone.”

  To her surprise, the
candlestick moved back to its place on the mantle. A second later, Anthea appeared, in the middle of the living room. Maggie approached her, slowly. More often than not, the ghost disappeared before revealing the reason for her visit.

  This time, Maggie was determined to find out why she was wreaking havoc.

  “Okay.” Maggie stopped out of arm’s reach. “Why are you doing all this? Can you show me?” The ghost nodded, and glided out of the room. Excitement built as Maggie followed her to the library. “I wish Martin was here.”

  Anthea moved around the roomy library, like she was scanning the ceiling high bookcases. Great Aunt Irene had loved to read, instilling that love in Maggie from her first visit. This library was one of Maggie’s favorite rooms.

  She followed Anthea, keeping her distance—until the ghost crouched, reaching her hand through the books on a bottom shelf. She looked over her shoulder at Maggie.

  “Did you want me to—touch something? Move something? Open something?”

  Anthea nodded vigorously at her last question. Taking a deep breath, Maggie stepped to her side and knelt.

  All she saw was one of the encyclopedia sets Aunt Irene had scattered around the library. She had bought from every salesman who came to her door, claiming that certain information never changed.

  “They’re just books, Anthea.” The ghost tilted her head and studied Maggie, obviously questioning her intelligence. Maggie shoved down the need to curse. “Is it behind the books?”

  Anthea nodded, and reached through the books again. Braced for cold, Maggie reached in, over the books, gasping when she brushed against Anthea’s arm.

  After fumbling for a few minutes, she was ready to give up, sure the ghost was teasing her. “I don’t—wait.” The tip of her pinky had touched a protrusion. She twisted, reaching in until she could slide her hand down the back wall of the bookcase. “There’s some kind of knob.”

  Anthea shocked the breath out of Maggie when her head appeared above the books. Right next to Maggie. Once she could breathe again, and her heart stopped trying to pound out of her chest, she met Anthea’s gaze.

  “Do I turn it?”

  Anthea nodded, her hand popping up, twisting to the right.

  “To the right. Got it.”

  Maggie closed her eyes, shivering as the ghost’s close proximity wrapped around her, and closed her fingers around the knob. She turned it, clenching her jaw when it stuck. In her awkward position, she couldn’t get enough leverage.

  She pressed her forehead against the top of the books, stretched her arm until the muscles in her shoulder protested, and jerked her wrist.

  The knob moved, grudgingly. A rough scraping told her why. She kept adding pressure, ignored the growing ache in her arm as the knob kept twisting. A different kind of cold licked at her fingers; she almost snatched her hand away, but she realized the cold came from the opening. It was next to the knob, widening with every inch.

  When she couldn’t move the knob anymore, she brailled her way to the opening. Her heart skipped as her fingers brushed over fabric. She closed them around what felt like a book, her hand shaking, and carefully pulled it free.

  Once she could, she set the bundle on top of the books and shook out her right arm. Anthea fidgeted like an anxious child.

  “Give me a minute.” When the ghost gave her what was closer to a glare than Maggie had ever seen, Maggie shook her head. “Okay, okay. I’ll use my left hand.”

  She slipped the bundle off the books and set it in her lap. The fabric, a faded blue and gold damask that looked eerily familiar, slid halfway off the book. It was a journal, almost identical to the one that had been tucked in a box of items she’d bought at a charity sale.

  Maggie looked at Anthea. “This is yours, isn’t it?” The ghost nodded, flickering in and out, like she was agitated. Swallowing, Maggie gently lifted the fabric off the book, and opened the cover.

  On the first page, in Anthea’s familiar handwriting, was a single sentence.

  Dear Reader ~ if you have found this journal, hidden in the library of my dearest friend, then I have been murdered.

  Maggie was glad to be sitting; her legs wouldn’t have held her up. More than ever, she wished Martin was here.

  “Did you know?” she whispered, looking at Anthea. “That someone wanted you dead?”

  The ghost nodded, her hands clasped in front of her full skirt. Startled, Maggie realized that she could see more details, and less of the wall behind Anthea.

  “I’m going to read your journal, but I can’t promise anything.” The temperature in the room dropped. “I won’t know if I can help until after I’ve read it.” And she had the promise she’d made to herself. But this was a centuries-old murder; no one would be coming after her this time, demanding how she’d figured it out. “Give me the time, Anthea. I do promise this—I’ll do what I can.”

  The ghost nodded, and winked out of sight.

  Letting out a shaky breath, Maggie set the journal down and rubbed her arms. She would have to take a long, hot shower to warm herself again. On the plus side, she would have a puzzle to occupy herself.

  It would also give her the chance to help the ancestor who had changed her life.

  Six

  Ian returned to the site early the following morning. The rain had finally caught them up, forcing a quick end to the investigation. Now, the three men stood in the same spot, mud sucking at their boots, as Geoffrey took over and gave Ian his theory. In excruciating detail.

  Little irritated Martin as much as hearing his given name repeated every other sentence.

  The first time Geoffrey used it, Ian glanced over at him, both eyebrows raised. Martin shook his head; he would explain the hate for his given name to the inspector later.

  “This is where I believe the nasty culprit hatched his devious plans.” Geoffrey waved dramatically at a muddy spot behind the main tent. It took all of Martin’s quickly fading control not to make a sarcastic comment. “He knew there was treasure to be found inside, and he—ˮ

  “If I may interrupt, sir.” Ian tapped his pen against the small pad he used to take notes. “I would appreciate it if you stick to the facts.”

  “I—of course, Inspector.” Geoffrey recovered quickly, striding over to the pit. It was considerably bigger since Martin had been here last. Which meant there had been more artifacts for the thief to pick over. “We have made incredible discoveries here. History-changing, discoveries. Haven’t we, Pembroke?”

  “Yes, Geoff.”

  Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. He abhorred any use of shortened names, or nicknames. “Er, as I was saying, history-changing discoveries. Fortunately, the thief did not know the smaller trinkets he left behind were some of the most important. He did, however, take the seal box.”

  Martin closed his eyes. He had been afraid of that, when Geoffrey called him about the theft. The fool had talked to every journalist he could find, showing off the Roman seal box, and bragging on the implications of its discovery.

  “This box,” Ian said, writing on his pad. “Would it be easy to sell?”

  “Such a priceless object—ˮ

  “Yes,” Martin said, interrupting Geoffrey before he went on and on about never being able to put a price on the box. “If this is the same thief who has been nicking art objects in London, they would know how to offer it to the right type of buyer.”

  Geoffrey sniffed. “You would know, Pembroke, having dealt with such—people.”

  With a sigh, Martin ran one hand through his hair. Time away from the pompous archaeologist merely highlighted what Martin disliked about him.

  Ian turned to Martin, interest in his eyes. “You’ve dealt with this type?”

  “I’ve spent my life on digs. My mother loved Egyptian history, and her status allowed her access to excavations the average person would never get near.” She had taken Martin with her, and his love of the past was found on those arid, foreign sites. “Artifact hunting was a way for the locals to make some money.
So, yes, I have had dealings with the type, usually to buy back a rare object that had been smuggled from a site by a worker, and sold to such a person.”

  “You’ve had an interesting life, Martin. I would enjoy sitting down with you one day and hearing more about it.”

  Geoffrey huffed before Martin could open his mouth to respond. “If you want to speak to a real archaeologist, Inspector, I would be the ideal candidate.”

  “Of course, sir,” Ian said, focused on his small pad. From his vantage point, Martin caught the smile on the inspector’s face before it disappeared. “I believe I have all I need.” He flipped the pad closed, tucked it and the pen in his coat pocket, and turned to Martin. “Will you be staying here, Professor?”

  “I don’t see a need for it.” He continued, talking over Geoffrey’s bluster. “You have students here, who have already inventoried what is missing. I can’t dig, or spend much time outside, not until my shoulder heals.” He decided to blame his desperate need to distance himself from Geoffrey on his injury. “I was hoping you would understand, Geoffrey.”

  “Why, of course I do, old boy.” He smiled, and Martin braced himself for the man’s next words. “In your weakened, state, Pembroke, you will be of little use here. I trust I can call on you if I need consultation on any new finds.”

  “Of course. Thank you for the opportunity, Geoffrey.”

  They shook hands, like civilized men, Geoffrey a little too enthusiastic. By the time he finally let go, Martin’s shoulder ached from more than the cold.

  He and Ian walked toward Ian’s sedan, parked on the road built to accommodate the trucks and equipment necessary on a long term dig.

  “We will need to pick up my bag at the B&B in town,” Martin said. “And check me out.”

  “No worries. I had planned to head through town on my way out, check in with the local police. I have one last question for you, Professor.” Ian glanced over at him. “How do you stand spending any time with him?”