CHAPTER 8
n exasperated Oliver Wilde pulled his station wagon to a halt
in front of Bridewell Hall just as a volley of raindrops spattered
the windshield. He turned up his collar and loped across the
parking lot. Few students or teachers used the facility on Saturday
and his footsteps rang hollow in the cavernous lobby. As he neared
the archaeology lab, Doctor Enoch Bloodwyn’s plummy baritone
drifted through the open door.
“I suppose I can say that Wilde’s notes, while minimal, at least look reasonably accurate.”
The condescending tone had set Oliver’s nerves on edge before he had even made it into the lab. He paused and took a deep breath, then, somewhat braced, he headed inside.
“Oliver! Good morning!” chirped the dean.
Blustering, bespectacled, and nearly as wide as he was tall, Dean Donald Doone resembled a nearsighted pin-striped sofa pillow.
“I know under the circumstances, what with…the incident at your home last night… What I mean to say is…thank you for coming down here this morning to join us. Of course, you know our celebrated consultant.”
The dean gestured toward a languid figure draped against the oak work island on which the Wilberforce treasures were displayed. In contrast to the dean’s grey flannel and Oliver’s slightly rumpled brown tweed, the elegant intruder leafing idly through Casey’s notes and sketches wore a shawl collared black cashmere sweater. A mustard scarf looped around his neck in a Parisian knot. Tall and slim with sculpted cheekbones and an aquiline nose, the thirty-eight-year old Doctor Enoch Bloodwyn looked as though he’d been designed for traveling at high speeds underwater. He was as sleek and predatory as a barracuda.
“Are these all of your observations, Wilde?”
He waved some papers in Oliver’s direction without looking up. His tone made it unnecessary to point out the inadequacy of the notes.
“It’s a pleasure to see you too, Enoch,” said Oliver coldly. “Make yourself at home.”
Enoch Bloodwyn’s hooded eyes widened slightly in feigned surprise.
“My apologies, old man. Sometimes one forgets how important the social niceties are to…to many people,” said Bloodwyn. He managed to make good manners sound like a moral deficiency. “Of course it is always pleasant to see one’s old friends. And what an unexpected surprise that we should find ourselves reunited in this backwater.”
Dean Doone’s moon face reddened in indignation. “Backwater? Why, Doctor Bloodwyn, please remember that Arcayne College is…”
Bloodwyn scrutinized the dean as though considering some disappointing curio. The dean’s sputtering died away, and he began ostentatiously wiping his glasses. Bloodwyn sniffed dismissively and turned his attention back to Oliver.
“When I got word of the extraordinary artifacts being thrown in your lap, I just had to race up here and offer you my help,” said Doctor Bloodwyn casually as he circled the long oak island, peering at the artifacts. “It’s a mystery to me why any reputable archaeologist would dispatch discoveries such as these to Arcayne College instead of to the Munrovian, although I’ve long suspected that poor Victor was not quite right in the head.”
The mention of Enoch Bloodwyn’s association with the prestigious international research complex was one more thorn in Oliver’s side. It was rumored in academic circles that Bloodwyn had once blocked Oliver’s opportunity to work on a project for the Munrovian.
“Victor is well aware of your association with the Munrovian Foundation,” said Oliver. “And he is also well aware of the Munrovian’s vast resources, just as he is familiar with your reputation as an author and lecturer…”
“You flatter me, Wilde.”
“I wasn’t intending to. I am simply making the point that Victor knows exactly who you are,” said Oliver, making the comment sound like more of an accusation than an observation. “Your reputation is obviously why you were brought in to consult. However, Victor Wilberforce is a colleague who trusts me and trusts my ability, and he’s a good friend as well.”
Bloodwyn gave another dismissive sniff. He turned his attention back to the artifacts, and made a gesture toward the elaborately carved bow lying on the buckskin case. “I don’t see much in your notes about this. The shape of the bow and the symbols carved into it clearly indicate that it is Kokinoke, and it is as sophisticated and well preserved as any of the artifacts I’ve come across before.”
Oliver frowned thoughtfully. Very little was known about the ancient tribe, and other than a few shards of broken terracotta pottery, precious few Kokinoke relics had ever been discovered. He was about to ask where Doctor Bloodwyn had seen any artifacts at all when the dean pushed in closer, peering at the bow.
“So if this thing is from the Kokomo…” A blissful smile wreathed Dean Doone’s round face. “It may be a rather remarkable find.”
“Kokinoke,” corrected the doctor. “If these finds were not remarkable, Dean Doone, I would not be wasting my time here. Wilde, were any field notes sent along with it?”
“As a matter of fact, there were,” said Oliver. “His journal should have been right there next to the catalogued entries you are holding. My son and I both took a look at his notebook last night. I told him to just keep it with the records.”
Bloodwyn gave Oliver a quizzical look. He revolved leisurely in a small circle, pretending to search for the missing notebook, looked back at Oliver, held his empty hands out wide, and shook his head.
“Your son? You gave Victor Wilberforce’s notes to your nine-year-old son? How do you know he didn’t leave it at a hamburger stand?”
“Casey is a very capable and responsible boy, and you are well aware that he is not nine years old. He is thirteen. I’m sure the journal is safe, but whether it turns up or not, Victor will certainly be able to supply us with the information we require. In fact, I was planning to call him today.”
“You may find a Ouija board will be of more use than a telephone,” said Doctor Bloodwyn offhandedly.
“What does that mean?” asked Oliver.
“He’s dead.” Bloodwyn set Casey’s notes down on the table next to the bow then turned to face Oliver. “Victor was killed three days ago in New Mexico. His body was found at the base of a cliff at the site he was unearthing. Possibly the spot where the bow was discovered.”
Oliver turned toward Dean Doone, who stood gaping in dismay. “This is terrible, Oliver. I was under the impression that… I mean to say I was certain that you would have been informed.”
“The journal…” began Bloodwyn.
“What difference does it make about the stinking journal?” snarled Oliver. “The man is dead. I don’t understand how this could have happened.”
“Of course, Oliver,” offered the dean. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his glowing brow. “As I said, this is a dreadful thing…just dreadful. Still accidents do happen, and, unfortunately, this one happened to Victor Wilberforce.”
Enoch Bloodwyn brushed a speck of imaginary dust off an immaculate sleeve. When he spoke, his voice was cool and impersonal. “Of course you have my heartfelt condolences, Wilde, and I don’t mean to pressure you, but we must be professional. Carry on, you know? Do you recall anything specific about the journal?”
Oliver placed both hands on the rough surface of the work island and felt a slight weakening in his knees. What else could possibly go wrong? He considered the possibility of hitting Enoch Bloodwyn over the head with a Kokinoke pot. Instead, he slowly counted to ten and managed, just barely, to resist the temptation.
“There’s not much to say. The journal had been tucked into one of the crates. It was a jumble, more like chicken scratching than proper field notes,” said Oliver, his composure regained. “I had hoped to get some information on the maps and floor plans he had drawn.”
“Maps and floor plans?” Doctor Bloodwyn arched a lethal eyebrow. His voice was deceptively cool, but he gripped the top of the oak island with white knuckles.
“Yes, but it seemed unclear as to what they pertained. The handwriting was virtually illegible,” said Oliver. “I planned to ask about it when I phoned, but that is obviously not a possibility.”
Enoch Bloodwyn offered a slow poisonous smile. “In that case, might I suggest that we interview your stalwart young son as soon as possible?”
*
Oliver’s thoughts were dark as he headed home, maneuvering his Volvo station wagon slowly through rain slick streets careful not to splash the pedestrians who were braving such a nasty afternoon.
It was nearly five o’clock and the shops along Simoleon Street would soon be closing, but for now, they were still brightly lit.
Gone were the days when Simoleon Street had been a thriving shopping destination, if indeed they had ever existed. Many of the stores were boarded up or simply empty shells clogged with trash. Some of the surviving businesses seemed to be barely hanging on and others were vaguely disturbing. One of the bedraggled mannequins in Dresden’s House of Style was missing her hand and her wig, and the other had lost a foot. In the Chow Hound Diner, a lone customer stared in to space over a plate of creamed tuna fish and crackers. The sign on a dimly lit corner store read Gert’s Taxidermy—Sales and Rental. Oliver shuddered. He couldn’t imagine an occasion that would require him to rent a mounted coyote or a stuffed mole.
There were bright spots though. Gaudy Halloween costumes filled the window of the Busy Bee Variety, and, further down the block, a mechanical ghost popped in and out of a papier-mâché pumpkin in the window of Hausmacher’s Bakery.
Oliver stopped at a red light and glanced over at the display window of a furniture store where three televisions were simultaneously broadcasting an old vampire movie. He smiled cynically as he watched the hollow eyed villain slink towards his victim.
“Oh there you are, Enoch,” he muttered. “How are you enjoying Vermont so far?”
The sudden blast of a car horn made jump, and looking up quickly, he saw that the light had turned green. Oliver offered an apologetic wave and stepped on the gas before the cranky driver behind him could honk again.
As he drove, Oliver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and brooded. Such a strange story. It seemed unlikely that a seasoned professional like Victor Wilberforce would be careless enough to fall to his death at his own site. But after seeing the chaotic records he had kept, it did seem possible that poor old fellow was getting a little loopy.
Oliver himself had walked the precarious pathways that led to the Kokinoke cliff dwellings. True, an accident was possible. It was also possible that someone had helped Victor over the edge. The whole thing was highly irregular any way you looked at it.
A wicked little thought wormed its way into Oliver’s mind.
Had Enoch Bloodwyn been at Victor’s archeological dig in New Mexico? After all, where else could he have seen other Kokinoke relics when so few were known to exist? The relics he claimed to have seen could have been additional discoveries that Victor had earmarked for another shipment to Vermont. Had Bloodwyn plundered the dig after the accident? Perhaps even witnessed Victor’s fall?
More to the point, had Bloodwyn pushed him?
Oliver decided to keep his dangerous conjectures to himself. It was unlikely that a noted and wealthy scientist would push a colleague off a cliff. Unlikely, but not impossible. He decided to watch every move Bloodwyn made from now on.
At best, Enoch Bloodwyn was a pompous windbag who had some explaining to do.
And, at worst…well, that remained to be discovered.