by Jenn Bennett
Bo laughed. The low, velvety sound surrounded her like an embrace and sent flutters through her stomach. “Everyone is ‘bride of devil’ to Greta. Was the tea awful?”
“I got it down by holding my nose. I thought it might make me sick, but I actually think I might feel better today. I wonder if my aura has cleared up.”
He squinted and skimmed a finger around her head and shoulder, a phantom touch that never made contact with her, but she felt it nonetheless. “I’m seeing . . . a golden sort of light. Oh wait, that’s just wattage from the bulb above you.”
Playful. But was that Bo’s normal lighthearted playfulness, or something more? He withdrew his hand and stuck it in his pocket, giving her no insight into his feelings. She wanted to scream out: What were you going to tell me last night, huh? For the love of Pete, what was it? But doubt made her hesitate.
More awkwardness stretched between them.
When she couldn’t take it anymore, she finally said, “Speaking of strange phenomena . . .”
“Yes?” He settled one polished shoe on the step next to hers. Very close. This made her so jittery, she almost forgot what she was going to say.
“I thought of someone who might be able to tell us something about that idol,” she finally managed to get out.
His brow lowered. “I don’t like the sound of that. Is this one of your schemes?”
“I don’t scheme.”
“You’re a Magnusson. You’re all schemers.”
That was . . . absolutely true.
“It’s nothing risky,” she promised. “I’m talking about legitimate academic help. As in, my sister-in-law.”
“Hadley?” His eyes scrunched up momentarily and then relaxed. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. She might be able to shed some light on its origins. Either her or Lowe.”
They both looked at each other and agreed in chorus, “Hadley.”
Besides, Astrid needed her sister-in-law for more than just her ancient history expertise, but she couldn’t tell Bo this.
“I have a little free time this morning before I have to head in to the warehouse,” he said. “Depends on the flooding, of course, but we could see if we could make it to Hadley. If you’re game.”
“Oh, I’m game,” she said a little too enthusiastically, and cleared her throat. “I’m free, too. My datebook is completely clear this morning.”
“No dancing penciled in?”
“None whatsoever,” she said. “Will we will be riding in the oh-so-lovely Sylvia?”
The corner of his mouth twisted. “Not letting that one go, either, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Fair enough. When can you be ready to go?”
—
It turned out Hadley was not working at the de Young Museum that day, but was instead assisting her husband, Astrid’s brother Lowe, at a lecture in a nearby neighborhood that overlooked Golden Gate Park. As long as Astrid got to speak to her in private, she didn’t care where they met.
Parnassus Avenue was home to the Affiliated Colleges of the University of California. Driving toward the ocean, Bo and Astrid passed the Romanesque stone facade of the College of Medicine and stopped at building with a large totem pole standing near the front steps: the university’s Anthropology annex.
The inside of the building was rather dim and smelled of old stone and dust. No one was there to greet visitors, so they walked around mostly deserted rooms filled with bits of pottery and rusting ancient tools until they found someone who pointed them to the second floor. In a corner room that housed a small Egyptian collection, Astrid heard her brother’s cocky voice and peeked inside the open door.
“And that, my dear people, is how you defend a dig site from wild dogs.”
A ripple of mumbling went through the students attending the class, which was nothing more than a couple dozen wooden chairs lined up in front of a lectern and a rolling chalkboard filled with scribbled drawings and hieroglyphs. Locked cases of broken artifacts sat along the outer walls, as well as a table filled with labeled teaching replicas of Middle Kingdom pottery.
Lording over all of this was Lowe. Several years younger than Winter, he was handsome and dashing and, like Astrid, he shared their mother’s blond hair. He was educated, well traveled, and his absurd stories were the stuff of legends.
A student raised his hand. “Will this be on the test next week, Mr. Magnusson?”
“Absolutely,” Lowe said, switching off the small light above his notes. “Don’t study anything in chapter eight about field methods. That would be a complete waste of your time.”
“But—”
Lowe gestured toward the tall, dark-haired woman standing next to him, dressed in black and strikingly attractive, if not intimidating. “And I only brought Mrs. Bacall out here for you to ogle. Disregard everything she told you about Egyptian funerary customs. Sure, she may very well be the most knowledgeable curator on this subject in the entire state, and yes, she holds a Stanford degree and a directorship at one of the most prestigious museums in the city, but you are paying gobs of cash to the university for more important matters, like drinking bathtub gin and getting rejected at petting parties.”
Soft chuckling followed. The students packed up their things and began shuffling out the door. Astrid moved aside and waited for everyone to leave. Her eyes surreptitiously tracked Bo, who was strolling down the hall and studying photographs that crammed the walls. When the last student exited, he looped around and met up with her, and they headed inside the classroom . . . only to stop short.
Astrid couldn’t tell who was the instigator, but Lowe was either pressing Hadley against the chalkboard or Hadley was pulling him against her. Either way, they had their hands all over each other in the least professional way possible.
Nothing like catching your brother with his tongue down his wife’s throat.
Astrid was simultaneously unsettled to see them act like randy animals and transfixed by their enthusiasm. She was also a little envious. Lowe said something that made Hadley laugh—a sound more intimate than Lowe’s hand, which was most certainly heading to cup Hadley’s breast.
And as she watched this unfolding, Astrid was acutely aware of Bo’s presence. She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered if he ever thought about putting his hands on Astrid like that.
She certainly had.
She chanced a quick look at Bo’s face and found his eyes titled toward hers. She looked away. Heat washed over her cheeks. Bo cleared his throat loudly.
Lowe and Hadley stopped but didn’t break apart. Hadley’s eyes just peered around Lowe’s shoulder, and when she spotted Astrid and Bo, the rest of her face followed.
“The youngest Magnusson has returned to the fold,” the black-haired curator said with a warm smile and slid away from Lowe. Astrid strode forward to meet her, eager to get away from Bo and her wild feelings.
“I missed you,” Astrid said, hugging Hadley’s slender frame.
“And not your own flesh and blood?” Lowe asked. “I’m wounded.”
Astrid hugged him, too, clinging a little longer. When their parents died, Lowe seemed to handle everything better. He had Egypt and his friends. He didn’t have Winter’s burden of being the driver in the accident—or the obligation to take over Pappa’s businesses, both legal and illegal. Lowe was the freest of the family, and Astrid always admired that. She longed for his easygoing nature and optimism. His good humor. She’d spent the last few years wishing he wasn’t so far away, always trotting off to exotic locations. When he’d settled down with Hadley and Stella, she’d hoped she’d have a little more of him more often, but then she was the one running off to college.
“Hey,” he murmured in a reassuring voice, pulling her back to study her face. “Glad to see you, too, baby sister. You look older and wiser. Far too pretty. I thought it had only been a few months
. What happened to the towheaded yapper I gave piggyback rides?”
“Funny how getting older works, isn’t it?” she said with a smile.
“Ruins all of us,” he agreed, and reached beyond her to give Bo a hearty slap on the shoulder. “How’s the warehouse, Bo?”
“Still standing and sandbagged deep enough to keep out Poseidon, at least for now. Stella okay?”
“High and dry on Telegraph Hill with her nanny. She’s a little sad about the rain chasing all the parrots away, but we’ve assured her they’ll come back and that Number Five hasn’t eaten them.”
Number Five was Hadley’s lucky, death-proof black cat. He used to be Number Four until this past summer; whatever happened, they didn’t speak of it.
After small talk about their upcoming trip to Egypt (Bo was right about; Hadley practically glowed at the mention of it), the subject of the idol was raised. Astrid and Bo quickly told the story of the yacht once more. Lowe’s concern over Astrid’s well-being lessened when she told him about Velma’s tea—and then was temporarily forgotten when Bo brought out the polished turquoise figurine for their inspection.
“We think it’s solid turquoise,” Bo explained. “But we don’t know where it came from or what it’s for.”
Lowe whistled.
“Fascinating,” Hadley agreed. “I felt the vibration of it when you walked in.”
Lowe slowly lifted his hand away. “What kind of vibration?”
“Velma didn’t feel any magic,” Astrid argued.
Her sister-in-law shook her head. “Not magic, exactly. Just some sort of energy.”
Hadley’s ability to feel strange energies stemmed from something bigger. Hadley’s mother, a former archaeologist, had contracted a dark Egyptian curse that she passed along to Hadley. Mori specters—Sheuts. Shadowy hounds of hell that materialized when Hadley became upset. Few could see them, apparently. Lowe couldn’t, but he claimed Hadley’s specters had nearly killed him “a hundred times”—which was, of course, an exaggeration, like everything else out of her brother’s mouth. Even it were partially true, he likely deserved whatever he got, and it certainly hadn’t deterred him from marrying Hadley . . . or keeping his hands off of her in public places.
Hadley now lifted her head and squinted at Astrid. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Now that I’m listening for it, I think perhaps the energy is coming from you—not the idol.”
“Rats!” Astrid said. “Can you see a shadow on my aura?”
“I don’t see auras,” she said. “Ask Aida.”
“I already did. She only sees ghosts.”
“We like our women bizarre and dangerous, eh, Bo?” Lowe mumbled.
Bo stilled. Just for a moment. No one seemed to notice but Astrid. And Lowe was already muttering something else about ancient turquoise mines in California and Mexico. But all Astrid could think was: did Lowe know something about Bo’s feelings toward her? She remembered Bo’s letter this fall that made her so angry: Teachers should not be staying in hotels with students. Lowe, being a professor himself, agrees with me.
Or maybe she was being irrational. Lowe might be making small talk.
But then, why would Bo react like that?
Like that, and like this, now, which was to ask a question instead of answering Lowe. “Can you identify what sort of culture the idol comes from?”
“Aztec, I’d say. And it looks genuine. Hadley?”
“Aztec,” she confirmed. “Not solid turquoise. It’s a mosaic. Small chips of turquoise carefully fitted together and polished.”
“Really? I thought it was just cracked,” Bo said. “Except on the back, see?”
“Yes, now that is a solid piece,” Hadley said. “Someone has altered the engraving. What a shame.”
Lowe carried it to a nearby table. They all crowded behind him as he sat down and studied it more carefully under magnification. “The gold inlay on the eyes and the disk is real, though it looks odd. Times like this, I wish Adam was still around,” he mumbled. His best friend, and Stella’s father. Adam died almost a year ago.
Hadley squeezed his shoulder. He patted her hand. And Astrid was once again envious of their bond. She glanced at Bo, but quickly lowered her eyes when she found him already looking at her. Stars, there were too many emotions floating around. Or maybe she was overly sensitive. She did her best to brush it all aside and concentrate on the idol.
“Definitely altered,” Lowe said when he looked closer. “The flat space has been chiseled down and the word ‘NANCE’ engraved with modern tools. I can see traces of another engraving beneath it. Another word, perhaps. But it’s too fragmented to be able to tell what it was.”
“Is it a replica?” Astrid asked.
“Your brother would know nothing at all about treasure forgery,” Hadley said with heavy sarcasm.
Lowe let out a nervous laugh and scratched his chin. “Yes, well. That’s all in the past. Much like this idol, which seems to be genuine, if I had to guess.”
“My straight-and-narrow husband is correct. It does appear to be authentic,” Hadley said, giving Lowe the barest of smiles.
“And now the million-dollar question,” Bo said. “What purpose does it serve?”
Lowe sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Hell if I know. It’s not fertility, and I have no idea about this symbol on the front. I know turquoise was prized by the Aztecs and often used in ritual items. They traded with the Pueblo people, who mined it in the Southwest states. But beyond that, I’ve got no clue.”
Astrid and Bo looked at Hadley. “Hate to say it, but I don’t know, either. This isn’t inside our wheelhouse. I can identify some of the major Aztec gods, like Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, for example. But this—”
Bo stopped her. “Hold on a second. Did you say feathered serpent? Would that be the same as a plumed serpent?”
“Why, yes.”
Bo looked at Astrid. “The yacht’s name. That’s a mighty big coincidence.”
“Too big. I’d wager that yacht owner, Mrs. Cushing, knows something about the ritual,” Astrid said. “What in heaven’s name is going on?”
“Whatever it is, stay out of it,” Lowe said, handing Bo the idol back. “I’m speaking from experience. Tell them, Hadley.”
She nodded. “It’s true. You should probably just put this back where you found it. But, in the meantime, if you want to find out more about the symbolism and design—”
Lowe sighed heavily.
Hadley ignored him. “—then the person in town you need to talk to is Dr. Maria Navarro.”
“Ah yes. One half of the Wicked Wenches,” Lowe said and gave Hadley an innocent look. “What? They love that moniker.”
Hadley ignored him. “Both Dr. Navarro and her colleague, Miss King, are experts on Aztec and Mayan culture. Retired anthropologists and friends of my father. Have written several books together.”
“How do we get in touch with these anthropologists?” Bo asked.
Hadley smiled. “I can contact Dr. Navarro and see if they’d be willing to meet with you.”
“As soon as possible,” Bo said, and then smiled back. “If you don’t mind.”
—
After lodging his arguments against pursuing more information on the idol, Lowe began probing Bo for mechanical advice about his motorcycle engine. That was Astrid’s chance to speak to Hadley alone, and she took it, urging her aside for a private conversation.
Hadley was the single most intelligent woman Astrid knew. The most educated and influential. Hadley was also very rational and had on a couple of occasions backed Astrid’s pleas for independence when the rest of the family was busy telling her “no.” The two of them weren’t what Astrid would call close. Astrid felt a stronger emotional sisterly bond to Aida. But Astrid needed someone who wouldn�
�t let emotions color her advice. Someone who treated Astrid fairly and logically.
Someone who could be trusted not to blab to Winter.
“So,” Hadley said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I got your telegram, obviously, and you got mine.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m not sure what I can do to help.” She pulled out an envelope from the pocket of her skirt and unfolded the letter inside. “The university seems to have successfully changed your address to my office at the museum, so you’re safe from Winter finding out. At least for the time being. I received this two days ago.”
Astrid scanned the letter. It was a very cold, matter-of-fact letter from the president’s office, explaining that she was now on academic probation due to her poor grades and attendance, and if she failed to improve next semester, she would be dismissed from the university. She would also need to meet with an academic counselor to discuss—
“What does this last part mean?” she whispered.
“It means they don’t think you have a specific degree in mind, and though they’d like to keep taking your family’s money, they have a reputation to uphold.”
“They know we’re bootleggers?”
“Most likely. Berkeley knows. That didn’t stop them from allowing Lowe to attend—or from hiring him, for that matter. But Lowe is an excellent teacher with field experience. And when he was your age, he was an excellent student and graduated with honors.”
“Unlike me. You’re saying this is my fault for being a dud, not my family’s reputation.” Astrid groaned and folded up the letter. “My mother is probably rolling over in her grave right now with disappointment. Please don’t tell anyone, Hadley. Not until I figure out how to handle it, all right?”
Hadley sighed heavily. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Astrid said, massaging her palm with one thumb. “I went down there to prove myself. I wanted to do it without Winter’s help or Lowe’s influence at Berkeley. I just wanted to do something on my own.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. Very noble, I’d say.”
