by Alex Archer
And then she would delve uninterrupted into Edgar’s death.
She felt an urge to summon her sword. Maybe a hint that trouble was going to find her?
Out in the lobby, she stopped in her tracks to see Peter Chiapont being led out the front door in handcuffs, prodded along by Detective Greene.
Just what the hell was going on in Madison, Wisconsin? she wondered again.
“Annja—” Rembert was right behind her, camera bag on his shoulder. He was filming Dr. Chiapont being helped into a squad car. “Just heard you’re up next. I think I should—”
“—get a clip? Yeah, Doug would appreciate it.” Before you go shopping the rest of your footage, she thought. “Upstairs, first conference room on the left.”
She took the stairs two at a time, welcoming the brief activity and pleased to put some distance between herself and Rembert. Between herself and everyone, actually, if only for a few moments. The hall upstairs was empty, and she breathed deeply, appreciating the scented air courtesy of a grand arrangement of flowers on the table—a mix of orange lilies, small pink carnations, yellow solidago and purple iris.
This place was indeed swanky, she thought. Ritzy, to use Rembert’s grandfatherspeak.
She stared at the flowers; they could have passed for an elaborate funeral arrangement. She scolded herself, unable to keep thoughts of Edgar’s death at bay even for a little while. Was one of his sons coming here? To claim the body? Or would they have it—
“I should’ve taken the elevator.” Rembert was with her again, huffing from his jaunt up the steep staircase. He took a comb out of his pocket and used it on Annja. “There. Perfect.”
She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“After you,” he said, extending his hand toward the conference-room doorway.
She stepped past him, expecting an empty room, as it was twenty minutes before the hour and her topic was originally scheduled for tomorrow. But the room was close to full, easily eighty or ninety people waiting for her words of wisdom. She doubted that it was the subject that brought them, most likely the picture on the inside front cover of the program. Her celebrity had lured them here.
She would start a few minutes early. Better than sitting quietly at the front, locking eyes with the attendees and continuing to ruminate about Edgar. A deep breath, the air still tinged with the flowers from the hall but also filled with the various colognes and perfumes the men and women wore.
Voices were low, some of them talking about Mrs. Hapgood keeling over at breakfast, some of them mentioning Annja and her photograph in the book. One noted that a videographer was present.
“Will we be on television?” This from the hawk-nosed woman. Olivia Rouse, her badge read. She was sitting on the end of a row near the middle of the room.
“Maybe,” Rembert answered. He put on a wide-angle lens and filmed the audience while Annja took her position at the podium.
Annja gave a brief introduction and started discussing her adventures in Thailand and discovering spirit caves that had been lost to the centuries. Rembert changed lenses and recorded her. The talk was actually doing her a little good, she realized, helping shake off a smidgen of her sadness. She truly loved archaeology.
More people filtered in, some standing at the back because there were no more empty chairs.
One man in particular caught her eye.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue the lecture.
He was more than six feet tall, with the broad shoulders of a swimmer. Impeccably dressed in a black leather jacket over a vanilla-colored shirt, eyes and hair as black as a starless sky; he had a square-cut jaw and was ruggedly handsome. His age was difficult to determine, but Annja knew he was at least five hundred years older than her.
He’d been one of Joan of Arc’s protectors, though he’d ultimately failed to save her from her fiery death. Annja knew he had no interest in Tham Lod’s spirit caves or with archaeology in general. But he had a vested interest in her—when he was not distracted by his own machinations—because she carried Joan’s sword. They crossed paths frequently, but never before at a function such as this. It couldn’t be good news to see him here.
Annja did her best to avoid him when the lecture was done and she attempted to leave the room.
Too many people, too many questions and a press of bodies that was difficult to work through thwarted her plan. He was there, just beyond the doorway, waiting, his face implacable, eyes aimed at her.
He let most of the attendees filter out before stepping forward to block her way.
“Annja Creed,” he said.
“Garin Braden,” she returned, noting that his conference name badge read Gary Knight. “What brings you to Madison, Wisconsin?”
“I’ve always wanted to attend the Great Lakes States Archaeological Conference,” he said.
She noted the blatant insincerity in his otherwise appealing voice. “I don’t want you here, Gary,” she said, half-surprised that she’d spoken that aloud where others might have heard her.
“That’s funny. I don’t want you here, either.” Garin’s eyes twinkled darkly. “In fact, it would probably be much healthier for you if you packed your suitcase and went back to New York. There’s nothing for you here, Annja. Nothing but things that don’t concern you. And nothing, if you listen to all the gossip in the halls, but death.”
He politely nodded and turned away, pausing at the flower arrangement to pluck out a pink carnation, snap off the stem and slip the bloom into the lapel of his jacket.
Chapter 7
“The Thai salad with lobster and shrimp cakes, and the club sandwich on sourdough.” Garin folded the menu and handed it back to the waitress. “And a glass of white soda, whatever brand you carry, no ice.”
She filled his water glass and took his order to the kitchen. The restaurant was upscale and understated at the same time; a place he could recommend if the food lived up to its hype. Linen tablecloths everywhere, linen napkins expertly folded to look like swans, instrumental music so soft it was just above a whisper to not intrude on the diners’ conversations. He stared at the lemon impaled on the rim of his glass.
He’d chosen a table off to the side, but where he could still have a view of the lobby. Annja had left the hotel minutes ago, her cameraman on her heels. Apparently he wasn’t fast enough to catch her or persuasive enough to share her company as the man had returned, shaking his head and disappearing out of sight.
Garin took a sip; the chilled water felt pleasant on his tongue.
It was a mistake, he thought—not by any means coming to the conference, but showing up during her lecture, announcing his presence. And then saying such ominous things. He hadn’t intended to do that. But seeing her picture inside the program book, hearing people talk about “that Annja Creed,” had made him act impulsively. He was amused, listening to the gossip, some admiring Annja and thinking she was a great role model for young people considering careers in archaeology, others saying she was a sham specializing in fringe topics and shouldn’t have been given speaking slots.
None of them, he suspected, knew just how intelligent and talented...and how dangerous...Annja Creed really was. He certainly didn’t underestimate her.
“Damn it all,” he said and downed the water in one long pull, then sucked on the piece of lemon. He’d allowed his ego to come to the fore. He could have let the weekend pass quietly, meeting with his contacts under her nose and out of her sight, all the while keeping tabs on her to make sure she didn’t interfere with his plans. He hadn’t needed to stand at the back of her room so she would be certain to spot him.
Nothing but things that don’t concern you. And nothing, if you listen to all the gossip in the halls, but death. Yeah, that statement would surely get her to leave Wisconsin—not.
Coincidence that they both were in Madison this weekend? A divine accident? He needed to be here, that was given. But her?
She was here...for what? To speak to pe
ers, many of whom didn’t respect her? To escape Chasing History’s Monsters and her television-host duties for a time? Or could she—possibly—be aware of what might transpire in the shadow of this conference? Had she caught on to it, and was that the real reason she was here?
To foul his plans?
The server placed the soda and salad in front of him, added a little ground pepper. He drank the soda quickly, thirsty for whatever reason today. Nerves? Over Annja? Hardly, he thought. Garin speared a lobster cake and chewed on it slowly, letting the flavors seep onto his tongue. He appreciated a good meal, among the other fine things his long life had afforded him.
And Garin had been enjoying his life immensely. He’d been cursed with eternal life ever since he’d failed to protect Joan. A curse? He’d only considered it that in the beginning. Now it was a blessing, one he didn’t want to give up. If he had his way, Annja’s sword would be broken up again if it would guarantee he’d never die. He wanted her alive, so that someday that might come to pass. Dead, who knew where the sword would end up? He was as much tied to it as Annja.
But why did she have to be here? This weekend?
“The salad is quite good,” he told the server when she brought his club sandwich.
“One of our specialties,” she said, smiling kindly.
“And another soda, please.”
She took his empty glass and disappeared.
Maybe it hadn’t been a bad play after all, revealing his presence to Annja and making the quip. If she didn’t already know about the dark side to this conference, his appearance might rattle her enough she wouldn’t catch on and discover why he was really here. And she had these deaths to deal with; he’d never known her to let something like a little mystery just sit. One of the victims apparently had been a friend of hers. She’d be focused on solving that, leaving Garin to his business.
“Pity,” he said as he wrapped his mouth around the sandwich. “Pity to be forced to mourn a friend.”
However, if, by chance, she knew why he was really here, knew about the shadowy bits, all the more fun he might have. Garin enjoyed a good game and the opportunity to outplay Annja Creed.
And he especially enjoyed winning.
He was nearly finished with his meal when he saw a particular fellow cut through the lobby.
Garin dropped two twenties on the table, dabbed at his lips with the napkin and sauntered out.
Chapter 8
Annja paced in the lobby of the police station. It had taken her a few calls to find out where Peter was taken, and then she had to hail a cab to take her there. Madison boasted five police districts, and he was at the one on South Carroll.
“Good thing it’s tile and not carpet,” said a young officer at the desk. His badge read Phillip deSpain. “You’d have a strip wore off.”
“Sorry.” Annja stopped in front of a bulletin board. She read one of the announcements:
The Madison Police Department’s Traffic Enforcement Safety Team (T.E.S.T.), in addition to other enforcement efforts, will be specifically addressing traffic violations this week in the following areas: Tuesday, East District, Atwood Ave. at Oakridge Ave. (Detour Area Enforcement); Wednesday, South District, 3800 Block Speedway Road (Speed Enforcement).
There was more to it, but the words swam in front of her eyes.
“I have your information, ma’am,” the officer said. He replaced his phone in the cradle. “Peter Chiapont was brought here about an hour ago. They just finished a preliminary interview, so now he’s across the street.”
“What?” Annja said.
“At the sheriff’s department.” He paused. “For fingerprinting.”
“So he’s actually been arrested?”
“I don’t have that information, ma’am. It’s part of an ongoing investigation, so I don’t expect to have anything for a while. The blotter gets updated in the afternoon. But you can go across the street to the Dane County Sheriff’s Department and—”
Annja was out the door before he could finish.
They were not quite as helpful or friendly as Officer deSpain, but she soon learned that the city police department, though it had holding cells, used the sheriff’s jail. Annja talked to one deputy after the next, finally finding someone who could both assist her and was a fan of Chasing History’s Monsters. Her celebrity was convenient sometimes.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” a deputy told her. “We don’t usually do this so early in a case, but Detective Rizzo gave the okay.”
Detective Rizzo? Was he here? Annja would try to find him after she talked to Peter.
The deputy put her in a small room divided in two by a thick piece of Plexiglas. She sat at the counter on an uncomfortable stool, stared at the phone in front of her and waited. Putting her wrist to her nose, she could smell what trace of perfume she had left. Not enough to mask the smell of this place. It had the pong of previous visitors, cleansers that weren’t used often enough and desperation.
A tap on the Plexiglas roused her.
Peter was disheveled and looked tired and quite a bit older than his forty years. He slumped on his stool and gestured to her phone, picking his up awkwardly because he was handcuffed.
“Peter, what’s going on?” There were a dozen other questions churning in her head, but she started with that. “What have they arrested you for? What’s the charge?”
His voice was thick. “Good to see you.” He paused. “But why...why did you come? Were you appointed, to bring back the scandalous news to the conference?”
Maybe he hadn’t heard her. She tried again. “Peter, what’s going on? What have they arrested you for?”
He held the phone away from his face for a moment, as if considering his answer. She was afraid he’d put it down and walk away, leaving all of her questions unanswered.
“They think I killed Edgar,” he finally said. “They think I—”
“Preposterous,” Annja cut back. Someone killed Edgar, certainly, but it wasn’t Peter Chiapont. “Whatever would make them suspect you?” She remembered the comment someone made about his arguing with Edgar. “You and Edgar are...were...friends. Have they officially charged you with murder?”
He shook his head, again holding the phone away. He closed his eyes and let out a breath that steamed the Plexiglas. “Annja—”
“What?”
“They’ve not arrested me for that...yet. And of course I didn’t kill Edgar. I wouldn’t kill anyone. And...Edgar, he was a friend.”
“What are they holding you on, then?” He was in an orange jumpsuit; he’d been charged with something, hadn’t he?
More waiting. “I have a...” He scowled, clearly uncomfortable with what he was going to tell her. “I have a previous assault charge against me. I was...am...on probation. They can hold me because of my priors. At least hold me for a while.”
Priors. More than one. Priors...a term someone used who was either in law enforcement or the courts, or who was on the other side—like the other side of this Plexiglas. She realized she didn’t know Peter Chiapont as well as she thought. More questions warred inside her. Annja wanted to ask him about those “priors,” but that would have to wait. Besides, she could probably find out via public records and an internet search.
“What were you arguing about, you and Edgar?”
He sat forward and dropped the phone on its cradle. Annja furiously tapped the glass, and his shoulders sagged. But he relented and picked up the receiver again.
“Ridiculous stuff, Annja,” he said wearily. “Really ridiculous, unbelievable stuff. Edgar thought he was onto something because of what he found at one of his New Mexico digs. I don’t know what. Or because of what he heard from another archaeologist visiting there. Something to that effect. Thought this ‘great thing’ was tied to up here.”
“In Wisconsin?”
“Yeah.”
“The Anasazi? In Wisconsin?”
Peter shook his head.
“No, the Mayans. Edgar’s specialty
was the Anasazi, but he got onto an ancient Mayan kick because of what he heard or came across when he and Papa were together. He was like a father to Gregor, you know? Edgar’s the one who encouraged him to go after his doctorate. They go way back.”
Annja straightened, cradling the phone against her face with both hands. “And you argued about...Mayans?”
“In Wisconsin.”
“You argued about Mayans in Wisconsin?”
“No. No. No. Not exactly. We argued about fringe archaeology. About not being taken seriously. Edgar thought this Mayan revelation would be his glorious find, get him into the history books, get him on television, in Newsweek and Archaeology Today. Make him and Papa famous. What was it he said to me...? Something to mark his presence on the planet, something to prove he mattered, something to leave behind. I told him it would make him a laughingstock. That’s what we argued about. I told him everyone would call him a fool.”
“How bad of an argument?”
He shrugged.
“Bad enough to be overheard, obviously, Peter.”
“Well, yes. Or I wouldn’t be sitting here and wearing this. I stupidly said I ought to bash his fool head in, or was going to bash his fool head in. It was the heat of the moment. That the medical examiner is claiming a cracked skull killed him doesn’t look too good for me, huh? They tell me she’s changing her report from accidental death to homicide.”
“You have no alibi?”
“Depends on what time they think he died, I guess. I was with...someone...for part of last night. And it depends on whether she’ll admit she was with me.” He hunched forward, like a turtle tucking into its shell. “She’s married.”
“This Mayan thing, Peter, do you think someone would kill Edgar over that?”
“Ha!” Peter rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Edgar was an old idiot. It was crazy stuff. He and Gregor thought they’d—”
“He’s dead, you know, Dr. Papadopoulos.”
“Papa, I know. Of a heart attack in his sleep. He should’ve watched his diet, exercised.”
