He addressed Farber again. “Do you need a hand over there? Maybe Dunk would temporarily reassign us to your trench.”
“No, Father Giampiero and I can handle it. Your place is here in the purgatorium.”
With that, he stood up and walked away.
Chaz looked at Winnie, raising an eyebrow. “And it will always be our place, if it’s up to him.”
She laughed. Standing up, she brushed off her hands. “I’d better let Dunk know that our boss says there could be scrolls in the lodging, just in case.”
“We should be so lucky.” He went back to cleaning the artifact he’d found.
She climbed out of the trench and walked toward the temple through the now-familiar hive of activity. Checking all of Dunk’s favorite backdrops, she spotted him near the temple entrance. He and Amara stood to one side, watching, as Hank filmed Jack pointing to a geophysics graph and speaking directly to the camera.
Winnie tapped Dunk on the shoulder. “Can I have a quick word in private?”
“Sure.” He gestured for her to follow him around the corner of the building. Eyes on the set, Amara didn’t react to their leaving.
Around the side, Winnie made sure no one else was listening, then asked in a low voice, “You heard about the lower floor in the lodging, right? Has Will told you that he thinks there may be scrolls there?”
He nodded. “He has, and I’m monitoring that trench closely. We’ll get the camera over there next and document what they’re doing.”
She felt a little foolish. “I figured you’d be aware, but I wanted to be sure.”
“Cheers. How are things in Trench 2?”
“Going well. Chaz found a small bucket, which supports the idea that we’re working on a purgatorium. We’ll be inside tomorrow.”
“Brilliant.” He dimpled at her. “By the way, we’re postponing the reenactment another night because of the robbery. Domenico has a security team coming in this evening to make sure the property is safe.”
“Oh, OK.” At this rate, maybe they wouldn’t even get around to acting out the rites. She didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or worry about having another cozy dinner with Chaz. “Are we eating casually again tonight then?”
“Somewhat, but I want everyone in the dining room at eight anyway, so we can go over our plans for the reenactment. Be there or be square.” He winked at her and headed back toward Amara and Jack.
So, she would escape the quiet meal with Chaz. To her dismay, she found she felt disappointed.
Ugh. Did she actually want to seduce a student?
TREDICI
BURROWING INTO THE purgatorium got more difficult as Winnie and Chaz worked their way into the bottleneck of the entrance. Both eager to get as much done as possible, they resorted to digging with one person standing and one sitting. Though they traded places every so often, neither position was ideal. The person below got peppered with crumbs of lapilli, while the one above had the disadvantage of standing.
Luckily, whenever one of them uncovered something, working conditions improved. The finder would lift the artifact out of the ground along with a large chunk of the surrounding soil, then take it aside to clean it up, while the other person continued with the heavier digging.
Artifacts didn’t come often enough, though, and the afternoon began to drag, especially since Winnie couldn’t wait to get back to the house and see if her package from Dr. Lombardo had arrived.
At five-thirty – a half-hour earlier than usual – she began packing up her tools. “I apologize, but I’m not hanging around tonight. I’m too anxious to see what’s in that package.”
“No worries.” Chaz exchanged his trowel for a full-size shovel and scooped a bladeful of lapilli out of the archway into a bucket. “I’ll work a while longer. See you at dinner.”
Farber happened to be going back to the house at the same time. Since Winnie was in a hurry, she hitched a ride with him in the back of Domenico’s Quattroporte. During the drive, he tried again to talk her out of doing the reenactment. She stood her ground but was thankful that the trip was a short one.
As they pulled up to the house, he said, “Dunk tells me he’s arranging for a Roman dinner at the temple tomorrow before the rites. Father Giampiero and I have no objection to that and will attend. When we get up to leave, however, I plan to make a disclaimer that the rites the rest of you are staging are not authentic.”
“Good idea.” She climbed out of the car, anxious to get away from him. No doubt Father Giampiero would have his own disclaimer to add to Farber’s. Then the production team for “The Dig” would wisely edit both pompous declarations out of the program.
At the door, Signora Vaccula greeted them and asked about their day. While her boss went upstairs, Winnie stayed and exchanged pleasantries with the housekeeper before asking whether her package had arrived.
The older woman frowned. “I’m sorry, dottore, but we have received nothing for you today. A few small packages have come for the signore, but nothing more.”
“Oh, no.” She would have to wait another day – at least. Her shoulders sagged. “Well, thank you, anyway.”
As she started up the stairs, Signora Vaccula called after her, “I’ll ask the signore if one of the packages he received might have been for you.”
“Grazie, Signora.” She dragged her feet up to her room. Just in case Dr. Lombardo had tried to contact her, she checked e-mail and voice-mail. Eventually, she mustered up the energy to get ready for dinner.
When she sat down at the table, she noticed that the others all looked as tired as she felt. Even Domenico’s posture sagged after a day of dealing with security issues.
While everyone got started on the antipasto, Dunk told them about the meal they would have the next night. “Signore Vaccula has kindly offered to oversee the creation of recipes from an ancient cookbook called Apicius. We’ll have the cult room set up to look like a triclinium or Roman dining room. And we’re all going to come in classical costume. Your tunics or togas will be delivered to your rooms tomorrow.”
Father Giampiero paused with a forkful of rolled salami and cheese in midair. “I will wear my normal robes.”
Dunk nodded to him but looked like he was trying not to smirk. “I daresay your robes are ancient enough in design that they won’t prove a distraction.”
“I assume a suit will do for those of us who want to retain our dignity,” Farber said, pouring himself a second glass of Chianti.
A grin crept across the TV host’s face. “Anyone with dignity is welcome to wear a suit, but only for dinner. You conscientious objectors will have to leave before the rites start. We want them to be as authentic as possible, lest we displease the goddess and lose our livers and lungs.”
Father Giampiero and Farber both snorted but neither bothered to walk out in a huff, apparently enjoying the meal too much to take much offense.
The addition of costumes in the mix didn’t excite Winnie, giving the reenactment all the more potential to be embarrassing. But after the stand she had taken with her boss earlier, she didn’t want to show reluctance now. Instead, she made an attempt at humor. “Ancient Roman clothing was usually made of wool. I hope our authentic costumes won’t be itchy.”
Dunk laughed. “I’m fairly certain our ones won’t be wool. Polyester, maybe, but certainly not wool.”
Enza pouted at her father. “I wish we were involved, Papa. I want to wear a cute Roman tunic.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Then wear one to the Roman dinner. But afterwards, you and I will leave.”
Winnie didn’t like that much, either. With the Rentinos, Giampiero and Farber all bailing out of the reenactment, the remaining cast would be minimal, and that meant a bigger part for her. She looked at Dunk. “What happens after they go?”
“The rest of us will act out some of the scenes from the frescoes. You’ll portray the priestess; Amara and Chaz, the young initiates; and Jack will be the satyr.”
“What about you
?”
He dabbed a napkin at his lips then smiled. “I’ll be a general congregant. Someone has to narrate and explain what’s going on.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How nice for you. And what do I say during the rites?”
“I’m working on the script,” Amara said. “I’ll get your lines to you by lunchtime tomorrow.”
Dunk’s dimples deepened. “It will be a piece of cake, especially since we’ll all be drunk on my purple-wheat beer. I sampled it last night, and it has quite a kick.”
Chuckles erupted around the table.
Winnie had a feeling she would need the beer to lend her some nerve. “I hope it does.”
At the end of dinner, Domenico went to the sideboard and retrieved a brown-paper package and a folded sheet of stationery. “I nearly forgot. Winnie, this package came for you today, addressed to my care. The sender is a Dr. Lombardo.”
“Oh! Thank you.” Her heart beat wildly as he handed it to her. She ripped off the paper and was shocked to recognize the worn red moleskin cover of her father’s journal. Joyful disbelief made her lightheaded. “Holy cow! It can’t be.”
Flipping through the pages, she confirmed it contained his handwriting, alongside meticulously sketched renderings of artifacts. Her mouth went dry. She glanced around the table and saw everyone staring at her. “It’s my late father’s journal. We thought it was lost forever.”
Chaz leaned close and looked over her shoulder at the book. “Did Dr. Lombardo attach a note explaining how he came to have it in his possession?”
She searched inside the front and back, then looked in the packaging. It held nothing else. “No. I’ll have to contact him and ask. Right now, I almost don’t care. I’m so excited.”
“Mamma mia.” Domenico slapped his palm against his forehead. “If I had realized how important the package was, I would have given it to you as soon as I received it. I apologize.”
She shook her head. “How could you know? Dr. Lombardo contacted Dr. Farber yesterday looking for me. I had hoped he knew something about my father, but I never imagined this journal could be recovered. Dad kept all his archaeological notes in here. He planned to write a book one day but died before he completed his research.”
“You must be very anxious to read it, but before you retire, I also wanted to give you this.” He handed her the folded piece of paper. “It’s not as precious as your father’s journal, but I thought you might want the letter of recommendation Will wrote me when he sent me your book.”
Confused, she looked at her boss.
He frowned at her. Turning to Domenico, he said, “I didn’t send you Winifred’s book.”
She unfolded the letter and skimmed it. Written on the department letterhead, it brimmed with overblown praise for her and her book. Nothing about it sounded like her boss, and the signature, “William Farber,” bore no resemblance to his handwriting. She shook her head. “Will did not write this letter.”
“Then you didn’t write mine either?” Dunk asked the chairman. “I got a copy of Winnie’s book with a letter like that, too.”
“Presumably so did the conference organizers who invited us to speak.” Farber reached across the table and swiped the paper from her hands. He studied it. “This is a forgery, but the letterhead looks authentic. Clearly you wrote it yourself, Winifred. I should fire you for this, perhaps even press charges.”
“I didn’t write it!” She stared at him, stunned. “I didn’t know about Domenico or his ruins until our trip here. I had never met Dunk. I wasn’t even a fan of ‘The Five-Day Dig.’ And I didn’t contact the Conferenza looking to present there. Given my history, I had doubts about coming back to Italy at all.”
“How many people have access to our department stationery?” He pointed to the letter. “How many even know what it looks like? And who, other than you, would benefit from evangelizing your books?”
“I don’t know.” In her brain, she ran through the short list of people who frequented the department. The administrative assistant had no reason – and probably no time – to pull a stunt like this. None of her fellow professors had a stake in her career. Then there was Chaz, but he didn’t stand to gain anything from the letters.
Except he had gained something from them. Reluctant to consider the awful thought, she avoided looking at him. She had to acknowledge that as her teaching assistant, he was the natural choice to accompany her to the conference and on “The Five-Day Dig.” He was a longtime fan of the show, so he had been familiar with Dunk for years. And he had worked in Pompeii, so he could have heard about Domenico’s property then.
The realizations made her feel sick. Who else could have done it?
“Your silence incriminates you,” Farber said. “I’m very disappointed, to say the least.”
Chaz stood up. “Now, wait a minute. We wouldn’t be here if Dunk and Signore Rentino hadn’t read Winnie’s books and been impressed by her insights. Regardless of where the letters came from, her research and her intellect got us here legitimately.”
“True,” Dunk said. “I’m happy to have all three of you on my team, forged letters or not.”
The chairman glared. “If she forged the letters, who is to say she didn’t plagiarize her books, as well?”
“How can you even suggest that?” She jumped up, her chair screeching on the tile floor. “You know what kind of work I put into those books. Each of them took me years to write, and over that time, I bounced countless ideas off you. You were a witness to the whole process.”
He gave her a look of contempt. “How do I know that wasn’t all an elaborate hoax?”
“That’s it. I’m not listening to this.” She shoved her chair aside and headed for the door. “Mi scusi.”
“Winnie, wait!” Chaz hurried after her.
She ignored him and ran up the stairs, hugging the moleskin notebook to her chest. Thank goodness she had the journal. Compared to getting back her father’s life’s work, what else really mattered? Definitely not Farber and his outrageous assumptions about her. Not even her loss of respect for a teaching assistant with whom she’d almost had a disastrous affair.
As she fumbled to open her door, he caught up with her. “Winnie, I need to talk to you.”
She froze. Was he going to confess to writing the letters? What would she say to him? The idea of having him confirm he didn’t have the integrity she’d thought he had seemed unbearable. Apparently, he meant more to her than she had let herself believe. She couldn’t imagine anything he could say that would excuse his behavior.
But she had to hear him out.
Grabbing his arm, she pulled him inside her room and closed the door. She sat down on the bed and held her head with one hand, still grasping her father’s journal with the other. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
She met his gaze. He looked even more pale than usual, his eyes wide with alarm.
“Write the letters,” she said. “I wish I could excuse you for it, but I don’t know how.”
“Me?” His eyes got even bigger. “I didn’t write them!”
She shook her head. “You’re a big fan of Dunk’s, and you must have heard about Domenico and his ruins when you worked in Pompeii. Who else had access to the department letterhead and would benefit from the letters?”
He jutted out his chin. “You would benefit most.”
She stared at him, disgusted. “Now you’re trying to blame me? I didn’t even want to do ‘The Five-Day Dig.’”
“So you claim. But you accepted Dunk’s offer without hesitation. You say you didn’t know Rentino, but you’ve been flirting with him since our first night in Italy. From the start, you two have acted quite cozy with each other.”
Her jaw dropped. They glared at each other. A mix of emotions flickered across his face – anger, regret, pain – the same feelings churning in her own gut.
Finally, she said, “You’d better leave.”
“I shall.” He opened the door. “I th
ought I knew you.”
“I thought I knew you!”
He left and slammed the door behind him.
She burst into tears. Hiding her face in the pillow, she sobbed like a lovesick schoolgirl. Her mind raced in circles. She didn’t want to believe he could commit fraud. If he were going to forge something, why not something directly related to him? Had he really gained much riding on her coattails? Neither of them had much of a role in the show, and the trip to Italy wasn’t that big a deal for him when his family lived in England – not all that far away.
Or was she just desperate to come up with some way to clear him in her mind?
Was it possible anyone other than him had written the letters? Who else would benefit from her book being promoted? Her editor? Someone else at the publishing house? But they didn’t have access to the Growden Classical Studies letterhead. Could Farber have done it himself and set her up to look like a fraud? Why would he?
No explanation made sense.
Her phone rang. She dug it out of her handbag and saw Chaz’s name. Her heart pounded. She punched “Talk” and said, “Hello,” in a throaty voice.
“We’ll find out who did it,” he said firmly. “It wasn’t me, and I know it wasn’t you, either.”
Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. He believed her. And she wanted to believe him. She didn’t know if she should, but for now she would give him the benefit of the doubt. She couldn’t stand not to. “OK. ... Yes.”
“I’ll put some thought into it tonight while you read your father’s journal.”
She swallowed. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Do you still have the letter?”
“No, Farber took it from me.”
“I’ll ask him for it.” He hesitated. “If he won’t give it to me, I’ll see if I can get the one Dunk has.”
A shade of doubt crossed her mind. Could he be planning to destroy the evidence of his guilt? “I’ll ask Dunk for his letter,” she said. “Hopefully, you can get the other one from Farber. Then we’ll each have a copy to comb for clues.”
“Or to hold against each other?” he asked.
The Five-Day Dig Page 13
