The anthropologist stayed cool, nodding her empathy. “That’s in the records, too. Your generosity. I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t love to see anything your daughter found. But later, when you’ve rested. Can I call you? Thing is, I don’t have your number.”
Della made a sound of exasperation and opened her purse to find a pen and paper. “You scientific types,” she said, “you never get tired of asking.”
A couple of people had stopped close enough to listen: two other women I assumed were journalists, including the one in the caftan who now had a little camera in one hand while she waved for attention with the other, calling, “Mrs. Copeland? Mrs. Copeland! The thing the gentleman’s holding”—she pointed to me—“why’s it wrapped in a handkerchief?”
Della took a deep drag on her cigarette as she handed her number to the anthropologist, dark eyes focusing. “‘Cause maybe what my friend’s got there is private. Maybe something just between my little girl and me. Which means it’s nobody’s business but my own, lady, and sure ’nuff none of yours.”
The woman’s voice had a bellows quality that I have come to associate with a predisposition to hysteria, neutered cats and astrology. “Your friend took something from your daughter’s casket. Is that what you’re telling us?”
“Lady, what I’m telling you is, it’s none of your affair.”
Speaking more firmly, letting everyone hear her reporter’s voice, she said, “Please don’t be that way. Why the secrecy? I believe your daughter actually possessed real psychic powers. I want to write about her for one of the biggest papers in the nation. I’m psychic myself. It’s what I do.”
“You’re a psychic?”
“That’s right.”
“Then why bother asking questions? Read my mind, get your own answers. Maybe you’ll see a real butt-whipping, you look hard enough.”
Caftan-woman’s reply was an insincere smile that was a parody of patience. “I’m not the enemy, I’m your friend, Mrs. Copeland. It was the golden medallion, wasn’t it? That’s what you hid in Dorothy’s coffin.”
“My daughter’s coffin is none of your business, lady!”
“You’re upset, I can feel it. But people have a right to know. No matter what you think, readers have rights.” Caftan waved the little camera. “How about letting me take just a quick picture? Maybe you holding the medallion and standing by your dear daughter’s casket.”
I was aware of a soft growling sound, a feral-like purring, and realized it was coming from Della who had begun to move slowly toward the woman in the caftan.
Time for someone to step in and take charge.
I touched Della’s elbow, gave it a meaningful squeeze. It stopped her. I waited for a moment before I put my lips to her ear and whispered, “Trust me, trust what I’m going to do,” before I said to everyone close enough to hear: “This lady has a pretty good point. Ms. Copeland is understandably upset, but we have no desire to be secretive. Della? Do you mind if I show them?”
“I think the fat tramp better watch her mouth, is what I think.”
I chuckled as if she were joking. “Then I have your permission.”
“Whatever you want. But me, I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
I became a public speaker for the little group and others still coming from the cemetery who lingered to listen. Teddy Bauerstock and his father were pulling away in the black Humvee, but the rockers were still there. So was the man in the Hawaiian shirt.
I told them, “The late Dorothy Copeland found many artifacts. You think you’ve read about all of them? Believe me, you haven’t, not even close. Ms. Copeland still has a number of items in storage. But the artifact that Dorothy treasured most was this”—I took the handkerchief away, held the wooden totem up briefly, then handed it to Tomlinson before anyone had a chance to snap my photograph—“a very valuable carving which we will be taking back to Ms. Copeland’s home in Key Largo.” I turned to Della. “What marina will we be staying at? In case the reporters need to contact us.”
Her expression described puzzlement. Did I really want them to know? I nodded that, yes, I wanted them to know. “At the Mandalay,” she said slowly. “Mandalay Marina and Tiki Bar. Little place on the ocean side.”
“At the Mandalay Marina,” I repeated. “We don’t know what the symbols on the carving mean. You’ll have to ask an archaeologist about that. All Ms. Copeland knows is that Dorothy treasured it. Even slept with it at night. It gave her great comfort. Which is why Ms. Copeland placed it in her daughter’s hands fifteen years ago.
“We don’t want there to be a third burial. That’s the reason I’m speaking to you now. We don’t want Dorothy disturbed again. There’s nothing else to find, and we want it known publicly. We’re asking whoever did this, please leave the girl in peace.”
I told them that was the end of the statement, but caftan-woman pressed questions on me. Then a couple of legitimate journalists—they’d put a lot of distance between themselves and her—began to ask questions, too.
I answered them all politely.
Made sure to mention the Mandalay Marina, Key Largo, several times. It troubled me that I’d never seen the place, didn’t know the layout. I had no idea what the security problems would be, or the ambush potential, and I wouldn’t know until I got there and did my own quiet survey.
It didn’t matter. I wanted it in print. I wanted anyone with a personal interest to know where they could find the totem. I wanted them to know where they could find me.
Not that I had some fatal intent, no. What the thieves had done so far constituted small-time theft and a monstrous indifference to the feelings of others.
Yet, there are some acts that transcend legalities.
I wanted to confront them. I wanted to bait them, isolate them and give them a very serious scare before telephoning Detective Parrish, saying to him, “Guess who wants to confess to you….”
They maybe didn’t belong in jail, but they sure as hell belonged in court. Or a psych ward….
As I spoke to the reporters, I became aware of anthropologist Nora Chung’s expression of distaste. Perhaps even disgust. Her standing there on the periphery, hands in pockets, sullen-faced, listening.
Was the expression a reaction to me?
Yes. Not much doubt about it, judging from the way she turned away, shaking her head.
She made it even clearer a few minutes later. As I was accompanying Della, JoAnn, Betty Lynn and Tomlinson to the parking lot, she caught up to us, saying, “Hey, look, I’m sorry to intrude again, and my timing’s rotten, but I have to respond to what you just did back there. That little press conference you just held.” Disapproval was in her voice; some anger, too.
I stopped. “Oh?”
“Yes. I’m not blaming you, Mrs. Copeland, don’t misunderstand. But what this gentleman did, showing a very rare artifact to a bunch of reporters, letting them take pictures. Then implying that Dorothy found it along with lots of other valuable artifacts in the mounds demonstrates a complete lack of … well, let’s just say that I don’t think you appreciate the kind of damage you’ll cause when newspapers run that story.”
Listening to Teddy Bauerstock’s slick act, then dealing with caftan-woman had depleted my reserve of patience. Also, the inexplicable sadness I felt had metamorphosed into a sort of vengeful anger. Anyone who violates a defenseless young woman deserves punishment, right?
Right.
So I was already focused, on attack mode, and in no mood for criticism from a self-righteous twenty-year-old. I said, “You’re quite correct, Ms. Chung. Your timing’s rotten. Check back when your judgment improves,” and moved past her.
She started to speak, but, instead, reached, grabbed and held my wrist. Her intent was to stop me, so I stopped. Then I turned my head very, very slowly and stared at her until she removed it. It didn’t take long.
Reacting to my expression, she stammered, “I’m … I’m sorry. I am very sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
/>
“Yeah. You certainly should not have done that. Take my advice: don’t ever try it again.” I resumed walking.
“At least listen to what I have to say!”
I hesitated, then stopped once more, and motioned for Della, JoAnn and Betty Lynn to walk ahead. Tomlinson shrugged and stood quietly beside me, him with the carving in his bony hands, me holding the keys to my truck.
“Okay. Talk. We’ll listen while you explain to Dr. Tomlinson and myself about our complete lack of knowledge. That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? And our lack of understanding.”
I think it’s silly for Ph.D.’s and the skippers of small boats to affect titles in public places. But this seemed a rare and appropriate occasion, and I watched it set her back a bit. It leached some of the anger from her voice.
She said, “I apologize for making assumptions. I don’t know who you are, and I shouldn’t judge.”
“Like I told you: we all make mistakes.”
“It’s just that I’m so passionate about the subject.”
“So explain to us how passion excuses rudeness.”
She had the nervous habit of combing fingers through hair so short it didn’t need combing. A way of gaining a few seconds to think. Her eyes, I noticed for the first time, were a lucent shade of amber. Striking enough to suggest contact lenses, but there was no telltale demarcation between lens and iris. A pleasant-looking woman; part jock, part academian.
She was not the type to remain defensive and apologetic for long.
“I can tell you from personal experience,” she said, “that every idiot with a boat and shovel is going to find a local mound and start digging if they read about that totem. It’s bad enough when developers do it. At least some of them give us time to do quick-and-dirty survey digs before they start pouring asphalt. I get so upset because there’s not much left to save.”
When I didn’t reply, she took a deep breath, let it out. “Know what the saddest thing is? Dorothy didn’t find anything in the mounds. Know why? Because there’s nothing to find. Nothing except lots of shell, bits of fish bones, traces of pollen, tiny little pottery shards. Things that, mapped in context, can tell us a lot about how the water level’s changed, about the weather, about if there really is global warming, about what the Calusa ate to survive.
“It’s all worthless to a treasure hunter, but that’s what they’ll be destroying with their picks and shovels. They’ll be out there digging up history, ruining more mounds.”
“All because of me,” I said. “That’s quite a burden.”
“Um-huh, I’m sure. I recognize sarcasm when I hear it.”
“Then I’ll try to be a little more subtle next time. Out of respect.”
She turned to Tomlinson. “Judging from the eulogy, you, at least, are an intelligent, sensitive man.”
“Oh, yes, I am. You are a superb judge of character, young lady. I am both those things.”
Chung had an endearing smile when she chose to use it. “Then you, at least, can appreciate what I’m saying.”
Tomlinson gave an open-palmed it’s-out-of-my-control gesture. “I do, I certainly do. But my friend here tends to be the proactive one. Don’t let his lack of sensitivity fool you. He’s equally impersonal and obsessive. So I just kind of sit back and watch.”
“So I see.”
“Everything he does, though, there’s a reason. Just like gravity. He can put on quite a show.”
Looking at me, she said, “I don’t doubt it.”
It was possible that Nora Chung had information that might be useful to me….
I told her I had a question—if she’d finished lecturing us.
She sighed, frustrated by my lack of remorse. “Yes. End of lecture.”
“Okay, the question is this: from what I see, the mounds on Marco are already covered with houses. So why’re you worried? What’s left to ruin?”
“You’re right. There’s not much left here. But Dorothy didn’t make her discoveries on Marco.”
JoAnn had already told me that. I wanted to know the exact spot so I could check to see if it’d had recent visitors.
“Really? Then where?”
Her voice was no longer flexible and expressive. It became a flat bureaucratic barrier. “I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to give out that information.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Let’s say both so there’s nothing to argue about.”
“Ms. Chung, if you want Della Copeland to grant you an interview, you’re going to have to be willing to do a small favor or two for her friends.”
“Meaning you.”
“Exactly right.”
“At the site we’re discussing, Dorothy Copeland found … I can’t remember all that she found, but I have the list in my car. Something like twenty significant wooden carvings, the gold medallion, the totem Dr. Tomlinson is holding, plus smaller things. Tell the truth, do you think it would be wise for us to release the dig site to the public?”
I said, “For one thing, I’m not the public. For another, if artifact hunters risked digging in a city cemetery, do you think they’d hesitate to destroy an archaeological site? You can bet they did the research and found out where Dorothy was. Maybe not the exact place. But close enough.”
I watched her put a determined chin on her fist and mull it over, weighing the possibilities.
“It’s possible, I guess.”
“No, it’s close to being a certainty. When’s the last time you visited that island?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been working in the Bahamas and Haiti; they just transferred me back to the states two weeks ago. Because of my promotion.”
“You’ve never been there?”
“Well … no. Not yet. But I’ve been through the files. I’ve studied the photographs. And I have plans to go. Soon.”
I nodded, enjoying her discomfort. “Don’t you think you have a professional obligation to find out if looters are tearing the place apart?”
“I plan to!”
“Then take me along. Not for artifacts. I want to find the people who violated Dorothy’s grave. If they’re out there, they maybe left something behind that will tell me who they are. Will you show me?”
She’d taken a step or two back, as if trying to create some space between herself and my sudden offer. “I can give it some thought. Tomorrow … no, tomorrow’s Sunday. Monday I can check with my boss, give Fort Myers a call and ask—”
“Nope. I want to go today. Now.”
She was shaking her head, grimacing at my persistence. “Look, mister. I don’t even know your name. Besides, I can’t take you today. I don’t have a boat.”
Tomlinson interrupted. “Ms. Chung, you mind some advice from an intelligent, sensitive man? When choosing between two evils, always pick the one you’ve never tried. It keeps things interesting.”
“Well … I guess it wouldn’t hurt….”
I said, “My name’s Ford.” Then I pointed to the street where my truck was parked. “We’ve got a boat.”
11
It was a small island just a quarter mile across the bay from Marco, maybe a hundred acres counting mangroves, with a nice little stretch of beach backed by a high tree canopy, vines and shadows.
Seen from the water, the mounds were a distinctive elevation, humpbacked like a turtle, with a dome of gumbo limbo trees above the mangrove hedge.
The gumbo leaves were parrot-green, amber branches showing through the foliage.
To Nora Chung, I said, “This is better than driving, isn’t it?”
I was at the wheel of my skiff. She was beside me. Without much enthusiasm, she said, “I’ll let you know when we’re safely back on land.”
That would be awhile.
When it comes to moving boats and cars, logistics are never easy. After the funeral, we’d stood in the parking lot discussing who’d drive what to where, and who would wait for whom until I said to Della, “You three drive to Key Largo, don’t worry
about me. I’ll run the boat across Florida Bay. Either way, land or water, it’s about the same distance. I might even get there before you do.”
Florida Bay is the waterspace which separates mainland Florida from the Keys; a tricky series of banks and twisting channels through water that is seldom more than waist deep. It was a nice day for crossing. Slick out there on the water. As if the Gulf was lifting and falling beneath a sheet of pliofilm.
I stood there listening to them sort it out, looking through the trees. There was Dorothy’s casket. It appeared smaller in the filtered light, a distinctive shape; it reminded me of a box that had been abandoned in an open field.
Two city employees were erecting the canvas screen again, waiting for the funeral party to leave so they could finish their day’s work.
I noted that Della took pains not to turn her head in the direction of the cemetery.
First things first, Betty Lynn said. Was the anthropologist willing to guide me to Dorothy’s dig site in exchange for an interview with Della?
Chung was reluctant, but agreed.
In that case, there was a way to get all the cars to Key Largo without anyone having to wait. Tomlinson would drive my truck, Della would drive her own car, and Betty Lynn would drive Nora’s little Honda Accord. That way, Nora could travel to Key Largo by water with me, ask Della all the questions she wanted, then drive back at her convenience.
Which seemed to make the anthropologist uneasy.
“You don’t have to worry a thing about Doc,” Della reassured her. “A friend of mine’s told me about him for years. He’s just a big ol’ puppy dog. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I don’t know…. What about boating experience?” Asking JoAnn, Tomlinson, everyone but me.
“I get out when I can,” I told her.
“Unless you know your way across Florida Bay, I don’t think I should go. I hear those waters are very dangerous.”
Ten Thousand Islands Page 10
