Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel

by Beverly Connor

  "You're fast, Dr. Chamberlain," said Robin, watching Lindsay work.

  "That's why I get paid the big bucks." Lindsay smiled at her and put the bones of a frog in a box.

  "There's another thing," said Robin, handing several pieces of paper to Lindsay. They were sheets reporting bone count and MNI-minimum number of individuals.

  Lindsay examined each sheet. "The MNI looks too high. Is that your concern?"

  "Yes," Robin said.

  For some reason unknown to Lindsay, the concept of minimum number of individuals was one of the hardest for her beginning students. Determining the MNI is more than counting the bones, she told them. A left and a right deer femur the same size together indicate at least one deer. They may also represent two different individuals, but you can't know for sure. One, you know for sure. You know two left femurs means two individuals. Amy knew how to calculate the correct number, or Lindsay wouldn't have let her work in the faunal lab. She was either careless, or simply put something down in order to hurry through her work.

  "I don't want to get Amy in trouble," Robin said, "but, well-"

  "You're not. If she's in trouble, she did it to herself. We can't have the faunal lab producing bad data." Lindsay took one of the data sheets and figured MNI for a feature. Amy's count was way too high. "What about her identification of the bones?" asked Lindsay.

  Robin shrugged.

  Lindsay's chair scraped across the floor as she got up. "These are the identified bones?" She pointed to the shelf space behind the table. Robin nodded. Lindsay pulled several boxes down to check them. She could not help but hear the students talking at the other tables.

  "I'm sorry about what happened, Luke. I know it must be hard. How are you doing?" asked Bethany.

  "Yeah," agreed Brandon, "that was tough luck."

  He nodded. "It's hard. I wrote a letter to her parents. I don't know if that was a help to them or not. I hope so."

  "I'm sure it was," Liza said.

  "The worst part," said Luke, "is the dreams. Three out of the last five nights I've had the same damn dream."

  "I'm good with dreams," Robin said. "If you feel like it, tell it to me."

  Lindsay was beginning to rethink the idea of allowing Luke to work in the lab, but she couldn't very well monitor what the students talked about. Perhaps she was the only one who was squeamish. She'd been too close to death the last few days and didn't want to hear about it here.

  "I'm driving the bus, and I ... and it happens. I jump out and suddenly I'm Hercules dressed in this red cape. I don't know why Hercules and not Superman, but that's who I turn into in the dream." He looked sheepish telling the story. "I have this cape, white tunic, and a gold headband on. I get out of the bus and she is there under the wheel."

  Lindsay took a deep breath.

  "Oh, how awful for you," said Bethany.

  "It was. I mean, it didn't really happen that way. She was actually, uh, knocked several feet from the bus. But in the dream there she is, and I'm trying to lift the bus off her and I can't, even though I'm Hercules. It's the same each time. I wake up in a cold sweat."

  "That's an easy one," said Robin. "You feel guilty because you couldn't save her and in your dream you try. You even transform yourself into a superhero to try."

  "That makes sense," said Brandon.

  Lindsay had to admit to herself that it did. It must be a terrible thing to have killed someone, if you have any con science at all, even if the death was an accident. Lindsay wondered if the killer of Shirley Foster was experiencing feelings of guilt. She wondered what his-or her-dreams were like.

  "It looks like Amy sorted the bones correctly," said Lindsay, returning the bones to the shelf. "That's a relief. Just the calculations are wrong."

  "What's the deal with Amy, anyway?" Liza asked. "She's missed a few of Dr. Cavanaugh's classes, too, and he hasn't been happy. You know how he is-he expects you to come to class."

  "She's met this guy," said Robin. "She's crazy about him and he lives in Atlanta. She's been going up there a lot. He comes from this old Atlanta family."

  "That's a hard society to crack," Liza said. "Those old families are an exclusive bunch in Atlanta. Savannah, too. I guess every city has them."

  "All families are old," Lindsay said, without looking up from her work, "and basically the same age."

  "What do you mean?" asked Brandon. "My family sure isn't one of those old guards."

  "You just don't know your ancestors, and they haven't lived in the same place for generations. That's the difference. All people alive today are the product of an unbroken line from the beginning of humankind. That seems incredible to think about, but it's true," Lindsay said. She was glad to be off the topic of Luke's dreams.

  "Yeah," said Liza, as if she had never thought of it that way. "That's so obvious."

  "You're right about so-called old families, though," Lindsay said. "They do maintain their boundaries in society."

  "I'd just be glad to know anything about my family," Bethany said. "My parents adopted me. I was left on a church doorstep and there aren't any records of where I came from."

  "There's one thing," Lindsay said. "You may not know your near relatives, but you know that your distant ancestors were Celtic."

  Bethany looked at her wide-eyed.

  "How's that?" Brandon asked.

  "Because the genes for red hair are only carried by the Celts. That's one of the ways their spread throughout Europe is traced. If you have red hair, you have some Celtic blood." Lindsay was surprised by the look on Bethany's face. It was as if she had given her a great gift. "You know, you can take a course in Celtic history in the History Department. Brenna Tremayne is very good. Why don't you take it one quarter?"

  "Yes, I will. Thank you, Dr. Chamberlain, thank you."

  "Dr. Chamberlain?" Lindsay looked up to see a teenage girl walking toward her. "My name is Monica Foster. May I speak with you?"

  Lindsay took a moment to respond. "Yes. We'll go to my office. Robin, when Sally comes in, tell her the problem with the backlog and see if she has time to help. I'll do some more when I can. And when you see Amy, tell her I want to see her."

  Monica Foster's damp blonde hair curled in a multitude of tiny ringlets around her face. She smelled faintly of chlorine. She must have come from an early morning swim, thought Lindsay. Shirley Foster's daughter was a petite, athletic-looking girl, not nearly as tall as either of her parents.

  "My office is in here." She showed Monica in and motioned her toward a chair. "I'm very sorry about your mother."

  "I'm glad you found her. Not knowing what happenedthat was hard."

  "What can I do for you?"

  "I know my grandparents came to see you yesterday."

  "Yes."

  "Mother never told them that I was adopted."

  Lindsay opened her mouth, then shut it.

  "She told me, of course, but she just didn't want Gran and Grampa to know that she and Daddy couldn't have any children. I don't know why, really. It was silly. It was Daddy, anyway. He had the mumps or something."

  "I see." Though she didn't completely.

  "I guess you're wondering why I'm telling you this?"

  "It had crossed my mind." Lindsay smiled at her.

  "I was able to sneak a look at some of the report. Dad, Gran, and Grampa don't know it. They don't want me to know the details. I was twelve when she disappeared and they often think that's still how old I am." She stopped and took a breath. "You were right about so many things. Mother told me she quit ballet because her feet hurt. And the bulimia thing, I knew about that, too. Mother told me because she wanted me to learn from her mistakes. She told me what she did when she was in ballet, trying to keep her weight down and being hungry all the time and afraid of growing taller. Anyway, you knew all of that."

  "What is it you want?" asked Lindsay as gently as she could.

  "I want you to find out who killed my mother. Every- one's saying it was Daddy, but I know it wasn't. He's
not a murderer. He wouldn't have done it. I want you to find out who did. I know my grandparents think it was him, but I know it wasn't. He loved Mother."

  "I'm not a detective."

  "You've solved crimes. I've read about them."

  Lindsay winced. "This is an open case handled by Dover County. Specifically, it's Sheriff Irene Varnadore's case."

  Monica frowned. "Irene's all right. At least she isn't going to hang it on Daddy, unless someone makes her."

  "I really can't do anything while the authorities are investigating. Besides, I've already spent my expertise by examining the remains. That's about all I can do."

  "You won't help me?"

  "I have no authority."

  Monica looked at Lindsay's bookshelves, as if searching for an argument among the books and journals. "I don't know what to do," she said finally.

  "They won't arrest your father unless they find a lot of evidence pointing toward him," Lindsay said.

  "You don't understand. It's what people think that's important. I don't want them to think Daddy did it. And if he's the only suspect, then the police won't look for anyone else."

  "Who do you think did it?"

  Monica's face brightened, as though the asking of the question meant Lindsay would reconsider, then her shoulders sagged. "I don't have any idea. I've thought about it a lot-when she disappeared and now. I've listed all her friends. I've tried to think about who didn't like her, but everybody liked Mother."

  Lindsay felt the temptation, like prickly sensations in her brain. Then the image of Derrick, looking disapprovingly, intruded into her mind. Derrick's over, she thought.

  "You'll consider, then?" Monica's voice brought Lindsay out of her reverie.

  "Do you know Will Patterson?"

  Monica slumped farther in her chair. "He thinks Daddy did it."

  "But you know him. He's been working on your mother's case for a long time. It was he who brought me in. Whatever he thinks of your father, I believe he wants to find out who killed your mother. Besides, it's my understanding he and your dad used to be friends."

  "A long time ago. Mother and Will were still pretty good friends when she died. They were engaged once, you know."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Yeah. Gran and Grampa didn't want Mother to marry him. They had Daddy picked out for her."

  "How did Will feel about that?"

  "You don't think Will did it-after all that time? Surely not." Monica shook her head. "That was in high school. Both of them got over it."

  "What about Irene Varnadore?" asked Lindsay.

  "She didn't like Mother. You know how it is. Mother was the prom queen, got a Ph.D. and Daddy. Irene was jealous, but I can't imagine her murdering Mother." Monica shook her head. "Everyone who knew Mother-her friends and family-they all loved her. A stranger did this. Maybe if the police looked for, you know, similar murders, they would see that some serial killer did it."

  "Is that what you believe?" Lindsay asked, and Monica nodded. "Was it a coincidence that the stranger buried the body on your father's family land?"

  Monica was taken aback for a moment. "The killer could've stalked her. He could have known about Daddy's land."

  "What about the other relatives? Your father's people?"

  "Now there's a thought. Georgina didn't like Daddy either-they're cousins. Georgina's a secretary here at UGA. Daddy's brother is mad at Daddy, because of the land. And there's another cousin. All of them are fighting over Daddy's property. They could have done something to Mother to get back at him."

  Lindsay was unable to simply say no to Monica. "I'll tell you what. I'll ask someone if they've searched the records for similar patterns, and I'll talk with Will Patterson. That's all I can do right now."

  "Thank you, Dr. Chamberlain. Maybe something will come of that." Monica stood up and held out her hand. Lindsay shook it and ushered her out the door.

  Sally had arrived and had commandeered Brandon. They were busy looking over her grandfather's crates for stencils and other markings, copying them down.

  Lindsay turned her attention to the crates. It seemed impossible that her grandfather would forget about having stored five crates of artifacts. She tried to remember the times when he was in his workshop. It wasn't often. He always said he wanted to retire and be a cabinetmaker, but he never did. His love of archaeology was too deep. She tried to remember the building behind the workshop. All she remembered was the kudzu.

  "This is the crate opened by your father," said Sally. "He re-nailed it. Do you want to start with it?"

  "Yes. What we'll do is unpack and record everything. Brandon, get a camera from the main office and photograph each artifact. We can do a more thorough cataloging later."

  "I'll use mine. It's an old-fashioned 35 millimeter and takes great pictures," said Brandon, fishing in his backpack.

  They moved the crate close to a table and Sally pried it open. Sitting amid shredded paper and old newspaper packing material was a large, cord-marked ceramic jar with a globular body and two ceramic strap handles on a tapered neck.

  "This is really nice," said Sally.

  "What kind is it?" asked Brandon

  "I don't know," Sally said, looking at Lindsay.

  "It looks like a Fort Ancient jar."

  "Fort Ancient?" asked Brandon.

  "Late prehistoric culture in Kentucky," said Lindsay.

  "Kentucky?" Sally asked. "I thought these were from Georgia."

  "This one isn't," said Lindsay. "The only reason that we thought it might be from Georgia was that the stenciling on one of the crates seemed to indicate it."

  Brandon snapped a picture of it and Sally wrote a description on an item list.

  "If you find any notes or papers, be sure to handle them with care. By this time I'm sure they will be brittle and fragile. Put the newspapers in a box carefully and let Greg take care of them when he comes in," Lindsay told them.

  They found two more ceramic pots and a cache of triangular projectile points. The next crate contained two chipped stone maces, a pair of yellow pine figurines of a seated man and woman, five engraved conch shell gorgets, and three tetrapod bottles-all Mississippian and all, Lindsay believed, from Kentucky.

  "Where are the newspapers from?" she asked Sally.

  Sally carefully took one of the old packing papers from the box and looked at the masthead. "One says: Macon Telegraph, June 18, 1935." She picked up another one. "This one's from the Kentucky Herald, August 5, 1934."

  "Let's get the others unpacked and recorded," said Lindsay uneasily.

  The next crate had similar Mississippian artifacts. The fourth contained hundreds of smaller items: copper bracelets, clay platform pipes, ceremonial knives, chipped stone hoes, stone celts, engraved stone tablets, mica and copper crescent headdresses, numerous ground stone gorgets, and a large, beautiful shiny mica cutout of a hand with an eye etched in the center.

  "Wow," said Brandon. "Nice. I'm doing my honors paper on Mississippian eye motifs. I'd like to use a photograph of this." Sally held it for him and he took several pictures, having Sally turn it one way and another.

  "Don't use up all the film on this one piece," said Lindsay.

  Brandon grinned and patted his backpack. "I've got plenty of film."

  "What's your paper about, exactly?" asked Sally.

  "Some articles say that the hand-eye motif may symbolize the holding of a crystal in the hand to foretell the future, the way some southeastern Indians did. I'm hypothesizing that the crystal was a kind of primitive remote sensing, like finding where game is located." Brandon eyed the mica as though wondering if he had taken enough photographs. "Anyway, I'm comparing the onset, frequency, and disappearance of the motifs in the archaeological record with weather patterns of that time. I know that's the hard part, and I don't know if I can find that data, but I think it's a neat idea."

  "It is a neat idea," said Sally. "I'd like to see what you come up with."

  "You might check with Ronan in Ge
ography and Hoff- stedder in Botany," said Lindsay.

  "Great. Thanks, Dr. Chamberlain."

  "What's this?" Sally held up what looked like a paddle with animal teeth at one end.

  "It's a cut animal jaw. It's thought that it was inserted into the mouth of a skull, something to do with burial practice," said Lindsay absently. "All these are Adena artifacts, also, I think, from Kentucky."

  "These are really valuable, aren't they?" said Brandon, "and they're in such good condition."

  "Yes, they are," said Lindsay. She noted that neither Brandon nor Sally asked why the artifacts had been stored by her grandfather all those years ago.

  It was getting late in the day. Brandon kept checking his watch and Lindsay was tired. She decided to wait until tomorrow to open the last crate. She locked the storage room and sent the students home.

  "Is your brother going to stay a few days with you?" asked Sally as she helped Lindsay clean up.

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "I'll put this box of old newspapers in my workspace," said Sally.

  Lindsay nodded in agreement.

  "He's a great-looking guy," Sally said.

  "I've always thought so."

  "I don't suppose he's talked about me?"

  Lindsay smiled. "Well, he did say you're a nice kid."

  "Kid? He said I'm a nice kid?" She stopped and turned to Lindsay, her arms around the box full of old newspapers.

  "Well, he is thirty-six," said Lindsay.

  "That's not old," Sally answered.

  "No, but how old are you?"

  "Twenty-one-and a half. I'm not all that much younger than you."

  "He thinks I'm a kid, too."

  "How long do you think he'll stay?"

  "I hope it's a while. I don't know when he has to get back to his job."

  Sally put the box on the shelf next to her lab space. "What does he do?" she shouted across the room.

  Lindsay didn't answer until Sally returned. "He's a smokejumper."

  "A smokejumper? What's that?" Sally threaded her arms through her backpack and strapped her bicycle helmet on her head.