Grave Danger

by Rachel Grant

  Her name was familiar. She’d mentioned living in Seattle, and he had a feeling he’d heard her name when he was on the Seattle police force. He dropped the idea of coffee at the firehouse and hurried to the police station. He wanted to run a background check on Libby Maitland.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LIBBY CURSED AS HER KEYS slipped from her fingers, bounced off the edge of the flowerpot, slid under the banister, and landed somewhere in the shrubs that bordered the back porch of the Shelby house. After a sleepless night, she should have known better than to handle keys before her morning coffee had kicked in.

  She was on her knees in the damp grass searching for her keys when she heard the insistent chirping of her cell phone. She toyed with the idea of ignoring it, but that ringtone meant it was a business call. Caller ID said it was Dan Parker, the Corps of Engineers archaeologist who had the power of God over Jack’s permit, and therefore over her excavation.

  “Hi, Dan, what’s up?” She tried to put some enthusiasm in her voice, but calls from Dan were rarely good.

  “Well, Libby, I’m pretty much reeling from a series of phone calls I’ve had this morning, starting with the one I received at six a.m. from the colonel. Do you know who he is?”

  “You’re not talking about the Kentucky Fried Chicken guy, are you?”

  “No. He doesn’t have my number. The colonel I’m referring to is the head of the Seattle District US Army Corps of Engineers. He called me at home. Care to guess how many times that’s happened in my twenty years at the Corps?”

  “I’d guess never, Dan.” Libby sat with a thump on the bottom step of the back porch staircase. Dan did not have a flair for the dramatic, making her certain something with huge fangs was about to bite her on the ass.

  “I always knew you were smart. The colonel called me at six, because the Kalahwamish tribal chairman called him at five to initiate some nation-to-nation consultation, and it was all about you. There’s a problem with the background section of your survey report.”

  Acid formed in her stomach. The report ran through her mind. She could think of nothing that would trigger a high-level, early-morning nation-to-nation confab. “The background was only preliminary. The scope of work states plainly a more detailed background section will be included in the final report, after we finish data recovery.”

  “I know, and I explained that to the colonel. The chairman was acting at Rosalie Warren’s bidding. She is requesting—insisting, really—that the background section state exactly the way the tribe was treated by Thorpe Log & Lumber for the nearly one hundred fifty years they were in operation. Specifically, she wants Lyle Montgomery’s abuses to be documented.”

  “Why?”

  “She wants his actions to be part of the public record.”

  Rosalie Warren was an elder of the Kalahwamish tribe, and considered a living treasure by all the Northwest tribes. Her favor or disfavor could shape an archaeologist’s career. Libby needed the Kalahwamish’s cooperation to remove the burial on her site, or her project was in the toilet. “Why now? Why my project?” she asked.

  “The burial you found yesterday gave the chairman leverage, but more important, Rosalie was admitted to the hospital earlier this week. She’s dying. I spoke to her this morning. She’d like to read your history before she goes.”

  Stunned, she groped for words. “I’m sorry.”

  “Look, Libby, I know this is highly unusual, but we’ve got no choice. You’ll get full cooperation from the tribe.”

  “It’s not the tribe I’m worried about. What does she want in the history?”

  “Everything. How mill development affected the tribe. The way the Kalahwamish were treated by the white settlers. The difference in pay and treatment between white and Indian mill workers. She wants everyone to know what a bastard Lyle Montgomery was. She doesn’t want anyone to ever consider naming a street or an elementary school after him.”

  “You need an historian to research and write that type of background history. I can recommend several.”

  “We don’t have time. You can give her what she wants.” Dan paused, and then said, “And I can force you to do this. I’ve got a permit application from your client, Jack Caruthers, sitting on my desk right now.”

  “But I’ll have to interview Lyle’s children. They’ll never cooperate, especially if they know I’m researching at Rosalie Warren’s request. Plus, I don’t have the budget for this kind of research.”

  “You’ll have to work that out with your client. Usually I’d call him first, but I wanted to give you the heads-up as soon as possible. I’m calling Jack next. I’m going to tell him that if you don’t do the work, we’re pulling the permit. I mean it.”

  She resisted the urge to bash her head against the banister.

  “And Libby, because of Rosalie’s health, I need a draft in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? But, Dan, I’ve got the burial to deal with. I can’t possibly—”

  “Two weeks is pushing it for Rosalie. She wants to talk to you. She can give you names of people to interview to speed things along. You need to meet with her today. She’s at the community hospital in Coho.”

  “I’m on my way to the site now. I can go there afterward.” She glanced at her watch: seven a.m. “I’ll be there by nine.”

  “Good. You need to come through on this one. I get calls from permit applicants all the time asking for the names of reputable consultants. Now, I can’t recommend anyone, but I can direct requests to the tribes who aren’t afraid to name their favorite archaeologists.”

  How like Dan Parker to offer her veiled references for lucrative contracts as he ruined her current one. She hung up and dialed Jack, wondering if he would pay for this additional work, or if he’d hold her to their original contract and she’d end up working for nothing.

  SIMONE ATHERTON SAT AT A TABLE in the small RV used as a field office by Evergreen Archaeological Consultants. Libby Maitland, her boss and closest friend since college, sat across from her. Together they gulped coffee while Libby gave her a hurried update on what happened last night. “So the cops aren’t doing anything about your truck?” Simone asked.

  “I think as far as the police chief is concerned, I’m a nutcase.”

  “But you think Aaron is stalking you again.”

  “It makes sense. The Anti-Harassment Order expired a month ago, and the new judge refused to issue a new one.” Libby stared into her coffee mug. “I’d almost prefer to be a nutcase. I can’t deal with Aaron again.”

  “Maybe the cops in Coho will be different,” Simone said, trying to find a hopeful note. Four years ago, Aaron Brady’s stalking had changed Libby. She had lived in fear for nearly a year, until a judge finally granted a restraining order. Only recently had Libby begun to return to her old confident self.

  “We really should be talking about Rosalie Warren’s report.”

  “I think the fact that Aaron may be stalking you again is more important. One is your job, the other your life.”

  “Listen, we’re screwed if I can’t do what Rosalie wants. If Jack can’t get his permit, we’ll never get another contract. From anyone.”

  “You need to tell the police about Aaron.”

  “After last night, I don’t think they’re going to believe me. Right now we need to work on the project. I’ve got another problem. I need to work on the background report, but, according to our agreement with the tribe, I’m the only person who can excavate burials. Neat trick, huh?” Libby began to chew on a thumbnail.

  Simone knew that was the first sign stress was getting the better of her friend. She pulled Libby’s hand away from her mouth and gave her fingers a squeeze. “I could work on the background.”

  Libby’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “I need you to oversee the excavation while I set up interviews with locals. Jack suggested his son might act as an intermediary so I can get the history from Lyle’s children. Being their grandnephew and an equal share owner of Thorpe Log & Lumber, Jason’
s pretty much the only person in Coho they trust. Jack’s one concern was that Jason might not have time—he’s juggling law offices in both Seattle and Coho—and is swamped.”

  “I bet he’ll make time,” Simone said. “He likes you. When he came out to the site last week, he hung on your every word.”

  “God, I hope he’s not interested in me.”

  “Are you crazy? He’s the sexiest millionaire playboy since Batman.”

  “He’s our client’s son. I’m not getting involved with the relative of a client again.”

  “Jason Caruthers is nothing like Aaron Brady. Stop comparing everyone you meet with Aaron. I’m sick of watching you go through the motions of living, Lib. You’ve taken what happened with Aaron and used that as a reason to stay away from men altogether. The contest of collecting phone numbers in bars was to try to force you out of your shell. Now you’ve got a drawer full of phone numbers, but you’ve never made a single call. You need to date again. Jason is available. That’s all.”

  “Maybe I’m not interested in dating right now. Lord knows I don’t have time. Did you talk to your previous bosses this way?”

  “Don’t try that boss bullshit with me. In college, I held your hair while you puked.”

  In spite of Libby’s obvious efforts to stifle it, a smile and a laugh broke through. “I knew it was a mistake to hire you. Just don’t pass your attitude on to the crew, okay?”

  Simone was relieved to see that Libby could still laugh. But the possibility that Aaron had fixated on her friend again had her very worried. She’d already planned to spend the weekend in Seattle, leaving right after work tonight. While in the city, she would check up on Aaron’s whereabouts.

  LIBBY PUSHED OPEN THE DOOR and entered Rosalie Warren’s hospital room. Rosalie lay sleeping in the bed. A male tribal member Libby didn’t recognize sat dozing in a nearby chair. The soft click of the door closing woke him. He looked up and signaled for Libby to stay, but held his finger to his lips.

  “No need for silence, Lou,” Rosalie said, her voice weak. “I’m awake. Just resting my eyes. Tell me, who is our visitor?”

  “Some white woman,” Lou answered, before Libby could speak.

  Libby stepped closer to the bed. “I’m Libby Maitland, Ms. Warren. I believe you were expecting me.”

  “Ahh, yes. The archaeologist.”

  Lou looked disgusted, not an unusual Indian reaction to her profession.

  Rosalie’s eyes remained closed. “Don’t mind him. Lou doesn’t believe archaeologists can tell us Indians anything we don’t already know about ourselves. But he’ll come around when he understands that you are going to be our voice.” Her lids lifted, revealing clear, sharp brown eyes in stark contrast to the woman’s emaciated body and frail voice. “You’re younger than I expected.”

  “I have a master’s degree in archaeology, and Simone Atherton, my senior staff archaeologist, has a PhD.”

  Rosalie raised a boney hand and waved Libby’s words away. “No matter. I was just surprised, is all. So, Libby Maitland, this is my grandnephew, Lou Warren. He is going to help you as much as he can. I understand you have found one of our ancestors during your excavation. Lou, here, will monitor the removal of the remains and perform a cleansing ceremony for the site.”

  Lou Warren studied her with glittering eyes. So far, nothing about the Cultural Center project had gone smoothly. The tribal monitor’s glare assured her that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

  “I read your report. The one you wrote after your survey for the Cultural Center. Not bad for a two-page summary of my people’s existence since the beginning of time,” Rosalie said.

  Libby hadn’t been aware a whisper could convey sarcasm so well. “It wasn’t intended to be complete,” she defended herself. “I’m working on a bigger history for the data recovery report.”

  Rosalie hit the button on her bed and brought herself up to a sitting position. “No matter. After reading your report, I realized you can serve a purpose for me. A quarter century ago, my mother, Frances Warren, encouraged an anthropologist, a woman she trusted, to study the Kalahwamish. She was granted interviews with the elders. The council gave her access to tribal papers, and even allowed her to observe some of our sacred ceremonies.” Rosalie caught her breath, and her frail fingers adjusted the oxygen tube beneath her nose.

  “My mother told me that the study was really for a greater purpose: to document Lyle Montgomery’s mistreatment of us—the Kalahwamish Indians. Lyle was still alive then. My mother wanted the study published, so the world would know of his treachery. The anthropologist was reliable; her work would not have been questioned.”

  “But any anthropologist’s work would be questioned, especially if the report appeared biased.”

  “Not in this instance. The anthropologist was Lyle’s own granddaughter.”

  “Lyle’s granddaughter?” Libby repeated. She’d studied the Thorpe/Montgomery family tree for the historical background section. As far as she could remember, Lyle Montgomery only had one granddaughter. “You mean Angela Caruthers? My client, Jack Caruthers’ wife?”

  Rosalie nodded. “She was Angela Montgomery longer than she was Angela Caruthers. But she disappeared before her work was finished, and my mother died not long after. Some say Angela just left one day and never came back. But that never rang true to me. She was a good woman who was devoted to her son. She would never have left him behind.” Rosalie began to cough. Violent spasms racked her body.

  Panic filled Libby as the most revered living elder in the Pacific Northwest gasped for breath. Should she get a doctor?

  “You should rest,” Lou said, adding a phrase Libby suspected was a form of “grandmother” in Salish. The word trailed off in a sound she couldn’t reproduce. “You can talk to the archaeologist later.”

  Rosalie took a sip of water and shook her head at her grandnephew. “No. I will talk now.” She turned to Libby. “I was disappointed Angela’s work wasn’t included in your report. Didn’t her husband provide you with her research?”

  “I didn’t even know she was an anthropologist.”

  “Get her husband to give you her research notes. Use them to write your report. Before I leave this earth, I want you to finish Angela’s work. Close the circle for my mother, myself, and my people.”

  So Libby remained by Rosalie’s bedside for another hour, interviewing the elder until she fell into an exhausted slumber. Before she left, Lou agreed to be at the site on Monday morning for the burial removal.

  She returned to the site and spent most of the day in the RV, developing new research questions for the more detailed background history, finalizing the protocol for burial removal, and arranging interviews with retired mill workers and tribal members. She talked to Jack, and he promised to search his Seattle house for Angela’s papers.

  At four o’clock, Libby’s cell phone rang; caller ID said it was Jason Caruthers. Hotshot lawyer, potential Bruce Wayne, and her client’s son, all rolled into one enticing and conflicted package. Simone believed he was interested in her, and now Libby desperately needed his help.

  “Good news,” Jason said. “It took some work, but I’ve gotten my aunt and uncles to agree to meet with you.”

  “You’re a lifesaver. When?”

  “Sunday, two o’clock.”

  “Do they know Rosalie Warren is behind this?”

  “No way. I just told them you’re doing an expanded background section.”

  “Every time I’ve requested an interview, they’ve refused. I’m impressed you managed to coerce them.”

  “We’ve got some plans in the works for the mill properties, and I used that as leverage. They will meet with you, and they’ve promised to talk. I’m going with you to make sure they follow through.”

  “I don’t care if you blackmailed them, Jason. I’m just grateful.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t have to go that far.”

  “Has your dad had any luck finding your mother’s papers?
”

  “No, but I’ve got some ideas about that—I think they’re in Coho. I had to return to Seattle this morning, but I’m on the ferry right now, heading back to Coho. I’ll be there all weekend and should be able to locate the boxes.”

  “You’re a peach. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I’m glad my mom’s work will be useful. It was important to her. Listen, Libby, before you delve into her papers, you should probably know more about her. I’ll be back in Coho in two hours. Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

  Was it a business dinner he was suggesting, or something else? This project was more important to her than anything she’d worked on before. She’d given up her home and office in Seattle for this job. If it went south, she was completely screwed. The silence stretched out as Libby floundered for a response.

  “I know it’s short notice, and on a Friday.”

  Simone’s words ran through her head. Jason wasn’t Aaron. Libby was being an idiot, and besides, it was only dinner. “Dinner would be…lovely.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  She hung up and breathed deeply. Whether he intended it as a date or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that she’d taken a step away from the past. She wasn’t going to let what happened before control her anymore.

  The crew finished digging for the day and dispersed, many, including Simone, heading to their apartments in Seattle for the weekend. The field technicians were largely temporary hires, and would leave Evergreen Archaeological Consultants as soon as the field phase of the project ended. Simone and three others had made the commitment to see the Coho project through to the end of the reporting phase and were in the process of moving to Coho for the duration, but only Libby had completed her move before the project began.