Chapter Three

 

My first instinct had been to yell for help. As that was a scrub, I swung my sights toward a more realistic solution for my mounting problems.

No doubt your standard issue solid citizen would have promptly summoned Sheriff Billingsly and his tobacco-spewing sidekick. But experiences with the local law had impressed upon me the awe-inspiring dearth of imagination there. I started remembering search and seizure horror stories where innocent landowners had their property confiscated by the state because of dope-dealing tenants and guests.

On the other hand, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I had hashish growing on the North Forty. Not the easiest thing in the world to conceal either. I considered a controlled burn and briefly dwelt on the mental picture of my stoned woodland friends falling out of trees and sky. Uh-uh, as my erstwhile pal Riordan would have said.

What I needed was some legal advice, so I placed a long distance call to dear old Mr. Gracen, the last surviving partner of the illustrious firm of Hitchcock & Gracen. It being Saturday my legal advisor was not in. The answering service asked if this was an emergency? I said I wasn’t sure, left my number, and resumed my restless pacing.

After a couple of miles up and down the oak floors I realized I was as aggravated over what I was not letting myself think about — Jake — as I was over the marijuana. Since I couldn’t do anything about either at the moment it seemed pointless to go on worrying. I told myself this several times.

Impelled by the kind of horrible fascination that draws people to the scenes of accidents, I scaled the hill once more and studied my former caretaker’s vision of God’s Little Acre. If Ted Harvey had planted this cash crop I didn’t believe he would willingly walk away. So either he was due back shortly or he was indeed my now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t dead man. Vaguely I considered drug deals gone wrong. Surely that kind of thing happened after the harvest?

As I stood there fretting and fuming I noticed a wisp of white smoke drifting from the valley on the other side of the mountain. Spaniard’s Hollow. I’d forgotten the local legend if I ever knew it, but I remembered that on the steep vertical rocks above the glen were petroglyphs, Indian symbols carved into stone. Way back in the days before the stage stop had been built, even before the gold miners had arrived, the Kuksu, a secret Indian society, used to hold religious ceremonies in these hills. Deep in the hills, in the dark caves hidden in the ridges and crevices.

Naturally I was curious. Mainly because Spaniard’s Hollow is still part of Pine Shadow property, not a campground.

I started down the uneven hillside, cutting a path through the trees. It was quite a climb for a guy whose extent of daily physical activity consists of running up and down a flight of stairs. As I chose my way down the slope I spied the tops of pitched tents and the topaz gleam of Lake Senex. I could see a couple of Land Rovers and a green pickup truck at the edge of the camp. A number of people moved between the tents. No one seemed concerned with concealment.

A branch cracked behind me and I turned.

“Stop right there!” a female voice commanded.

Halting mid-turn, I slid a few inches in the pine needles and loose soil.

Hold it!” she shrilled.

I had an impression of dark hair, spectacles and a purple Icelandic sweater. She was a small girl but she was holding a big gun.

I retorted, “I’m trying.”

“Put your hands up.”

I put my hands up, slid again and grabbed for the low hanging branch of a pine tree.

There was a loud explosion and something tore through the branches over my head sending splinters and bits of pine everywhere.

“Whoops!” squealed the girl.

“Jesus!” I yelled, cowering behind the all too skinny tree trunk. “Are you crazy?”

“It just went off.”

From the camp below us resounded sounds of alarm, and several flannel-shirted people swarmed up the hillside toward us, voices echoing in the hollow hills.

“Amy? Amy? Where are you?” Their voices drifted up to us.

“Here!” cried Amy. The gun wavered wildly in my direction.

We were reached first by a tall, gaunt middle-aged man wearing glasses, and a young, capable-looking guy in jeans and a camouflage vest.

I stepped from behind the tree. “What the hell is —?”

I barely had time to get the words out before the young guy grabbed and planted me face down in the dried pine needles with a speed and efficiency that left me speechless.

“Okay, Amy?” he demanded over my belated objections.

The older man was questioning, “What happened?” Trying to make himself heard over the general confusion.

“I found him trespassing,” Amy informed them excitedly. “The gun just went off.”

Gun? What gun?” exclaimed the older man. The owner of the knee in my spine echoed that dismay. He relaxed his arm lock for a moment.

I wriggled free, rolled over and sat up, spitting out moldering tree bark and swear words.

Trespassing? This is my property. Who the hell are you maniacs?”

The older man made ineffectual shushing motions. Amy pointed the gun at me again; it was snatched from her by the younger man who vaguely reminded me of Riordan with his blond, built-for-action look.

“Hey!” protested Amy.

“Hey yourself,” he shot back. “You know you’re not supposed to be packing.”

Be packing? Was that the way college kids talk nowadays? Were weapons that common on campus?

Oh yeah, I had them pegged for academics despite the hardware; the possible exception was the young tough who had manhandled me so efficiently.

His eyes met mine. They were green and apologetic. I don’t subscribe to the gaydar theory but as our gazes locked, a flash of recognition went through me like a light turning on.

The older man was asking who I was as we were joined by two more field trip escapees: a middle-aged woman wearing a red bandanna, and a handsome silver-haired man who appeared to have just set off on safari.

“My name is English,” I bit out. “I own this land. Who are you?”

“Dr. Philip Marquez. This is Amy —”

“Dr. Lawrence Shoup,” the chap in the safari hat interrupted in one of those imperious English accents.

Neither of us offered to shake hands as we looked each other up and down; granted he had the advantage since I was still on my ass.

When the Snub Direct had reached a stalemate, the woman in the bandanna said, “But if you’re Mr. English, you gave us permission to dig here.”

“I gave you permission to dig? Dig what? Who are you people?” I made to stand and the blond guy gave me a hand up. We hurriedly disengaged.

“Dr. Philip Marquez,” Marquez began again patiently. He was stopped short by Stewart Granger.

I am in charge of this expedition,” Dr. Shoup announced, “in the absence of Dr. Livingston. Dr. Livingston, the site supervisor, is the one who wrote you.”

“Wrote me? Wrote me about what?” I paused in brushing down my clothes. Pine needles in my boots. Pine sap in my hair. I hated these people whoever they were.

Dr. Shoup frowned. “Regarding the excavation. The site. We are attempting to reconstruct the original site of the Red Rover mining camp.”

At my incredulous look he said testily, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten? I assure you the proper forms have been filled out and documented with the Department of Parks and Recreation.”

“This is private property, not state land.”

“Well ... that is, well ....” I could see he wasn’t used to being contradicted.

“Can I see these consent forms or whatever they are?”

“They are at the university.”

“What university?”

“He means the local JC,” the blond said dryly. “Tuolumne College.”

“Yes, quite right,” Shoup said as though this were a point for his side.

“They might be in Dr. Livingston’s papers,” put in Amy, teacher’s trigger happy pet.

“Dr. Livingston took his briefcase with him,” the middle-aged woman said.

“Not all his papers were in the briefcase, Bernice.”

“Let’s discuss this at base camp, shall we?” Dr. Shoup suggested.

* * * * *

At base camp I was issued a folding stool, a cup of chicory coffee and an explanation of sorts from Kevin, the blond grad student, while Bernice, Marquez, and Amy searched the site supervisor’s papers for proof that I had granted permission to dig the test pits now pockmarking the face of the hillside.

“I guess we’re all jumpy,” Kevin apologized. “Some weird things have happened lately.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Let’s not bore Mr. English with our problems, O’Reilly,” Dr. Shoup put in.

Naturally this made me curious. “What kinds of weird things have happened?”

Kevin and Dr. Shoup exchanged one of those sliding glances people share when they aren’t sure their stories will match.

Kevin said, “Noises and stuff.”

“Coyotes,” Dr. Shoup said.

The things coyotes took the rap for in these parts were quite extraordinary.

“Practical jokes in all probability,” Dr. Shoup added.

“My dog was killed,” Kevin said.

“That was certainly coyotes, O’Reilly.”

Kevin looked unconvinced.

“What kind of dog?” I asked. Not that it was pertinent; I just wondered.

“Border collie. He was young and healthy and he’d been in fights before. I’ve never seen coyotes do that to a dog.”

“Do what?”

“Tore him to pieces.”

Shoup made an impatient movement. Kevin said, “Okay, what about the chanting?”

“Chanting?”

“Local yokels,” opined Dr. Shoup. With that attitude he must be a real hit here in Hicksville.

About this time Dr. Marquez and his cohorts returned triumphantly waving a sheet of paper.

“I knew I’d seen it,” Bernice announced.

Taking the letter, I studied it. There on a Xeroxed copy of my letterhead, someone had typed in effect that, for the sum of $50.00 a week, the Archeology Department of Tuolumne Junior College had permission to dig for the Red Rover mining camp. There were no conditions and no restrictions.

“I never wrote this. That’s not my signature.” It was not my signature but it looked like a rough tracing of it. I scrutinized the date.

“This is p-preposterous,” Dr. Shoup stuttered into the silence that followed my words.

“I agree.”

“It’s got your name on it,” Amy informed me.

“I see that.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Dr. Marquez said, slowly scratching what appeared to be an impressive hickey on his throat. “Lawrence?”

“Lawrence” appeared to be Dr. Shoup, who lost no time launching his offensive. “What exactly are you trying to pull here young man?” he said to me.

“What is your precious Dr. Livingston trying to pull?” I retorted nastily. I’d had a bitch of a day, and getting shot at and thrown down a hillside had not improved my mindset. There were horrified gasps from the womenfolk as though I’d accused Louis Leakey of salting the fossil beds.

“Do you realize what you’re suggesting, sir?”

“There’s probably a simple explanation,” Kevin interjected.

“Sure. It’s a forgery.”

They stared at me — or glared, as dispositions warranted — and I could see it cross a couple of minds that they should have let Amy shoot me back there in the trees.

Which reminded me of the man who had been shot. Suppose Annie Oakley had got carried away on guard duty and the others were covering for her?

Okay, thin, but I had seen a dead man in the middle of my dirt road and he had disappeared without a trace an hour later. Who shot him? Why? And what had become of his body? These folks were my nearest neighbors.

I said, “I never received this letter. I sure as hell never wrote this reply. Look, they’ve misspelled ‘gratuity.’” As though this were conclusive proof.

“Who did?” Kevin O’Reilly looked sheepish as soon as the words left his mouth.

“It looks to me like someone took a copy of a letter I sent them, typed their own message in the blanked out body, and then traced my signature.”

“Who?” asked Amy and Bernice, still kind of missing the point.

“Why?” Marquez and Kevin chorused at the same time.

I felt like I’d stumbled into an episode of Scooby-Doo.

“I don’t know. Someone who wanted fifty bucks a week.” I believed I had a pretty good idea, since I recalled mailing a check in February to my legendary caretaker, Ted Harvey.

“I suppose you’re going to try and renege on your agreement,” Dr. Shoup said.

“I’m not reneging on anything. I don’t know that I want you digging holes in the scenery until I hear more about your little venture.”

“‘Little venture?’” The woman in the red bandana repeated indignantly. How to win friends and influence people: that was me.

“When Dr. Livingston returns, he’ll straighten this out,” Amy huffed. The rest of them looked less certain.

“I shall contact the university’s legal department,” Dr. Shoup informed me grandly.

I thought of dear old Mr. Gracen, our family solicitor, who’d spent the last sixty years writing and rewriting wills for clients even more aged and infirm than himself. I tried to picture him going toe-to-toe with lawyers who actually litigated for a living. I hoped the stress wouldn’t finish him. I said, “Fine. Maybe you can get together your paperwork so I can get an idea of what you’re trying to do here.”

“Accomplish” might have been a more tactful word, I realized, as they bristled and muttered amongst themselves.

Our meeting ended. In distrust and suspicion they watched me hike up the hill escorted by Kevin O’Reilly, who appeared uncomfortable in the role of bouncer.

At the crest of the hill Kevin said, “Uh … sorry about this.”

“Me too.” Somehow I never pictured myself standing in the way of higher education. “It could still work out, but I need a clearer picture of your operation. I’ve never heard of the Red Rover mine.” (It would have made more sense if they were exploring the Indian caves — not that I would have agreed to that either).

“I guess Dr. Shoup rubbed you the wrong way. He rubs everyone the wrong way, but he’s the real thing.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” A card-carrying prick if I ever met one.

“I mean, he’s got the credentials. He trained at Oxford. He worked at the British Museum. He’s a member of every society you can name: the Society of Historical Archeology, the National Science Foundation. He writes for National Geographic.”

Uh huh.

“Anyway, Livingston’s in charge here. He’s cool. You’ll see.”

The boyish enthusiasm was kind of cute. “Sure.”

Kevin hesitated. “So — last night that was probably you blasting the opera?”

The hills are alive with the sound of Muzak.

“I thought I was alone out here.”

He was smiling at me in a steady appreciative way and I quipped idiotically, “My mating call.”

“Yeah?”

“No.”

We both laughed and I trudged down my side of the mountain.

* * * * *

The rest of the day passed uneventfully and unprofitably. After lunch I got ambitious and hunted down the goose-feather mattresses, which had been wrapped in plastic and stored in the attic. After a wrestling match during which the mattress nearly threw me down the narrow stairs, I dragged its lumpy carcass into the bedroom I had used when I was a kid. Master of this house I might be, but I didn’t feel ready to claim my grandmother’s room as my own. I still felt like a visitor here.

The ground floor room had a stunning view of the distant snowy mountains. I made up the four-poster bed and spent the next couple of hours clearing bird nests out the chimney flue. Not that it didn’t need doing, but I’d supposedly come up here to write and I’d yet to open my laptop.

When I’d finished amusing myself with mops and disinfectant, I settled down to inventorying the books in the cases. I worked for several hours checking and listing copyright dates and printings, and then I made the discovery that Zenith Ford Brown, a.k.a. Leslie Ford, had developed a second, masculine pseudonym. Under the nom de plume, “David Frome” she wrote a dozen mysteries featuring a frail male sleuth named Mr. Pinkerton who, with the help of a stalwart Scotland Yard inspector, solved a variety of homicides. Comparisons were inevitable and depressing.

Fed up with Leslie and myself, I tossed aside Mr. Pinkerton Finds a Body and finally warmed up the laptop.

Several pages of data entry later, I concluded that the change of scenery had not improved my masterpiece. I was beginning to wonder if anything could.

The foil rolled drunkenly across the floor, the hilt nudging Jason’s toe.

Pick it up,” ordered Lucius.

Pick it up yourself.”

“Jeez, Jason. You can do better than that,” I muttered.

Are you sure you want to do this?” I typed.

Was I? Definitely not. Maybe a quote from the bard? I reached for my copy of Titus

?!

My copy of Titus was still in LA. I dealt with that for a moment, decided it probably wasn’t really the last straw, and resumed word-smithing.

On I slogged till about ten-thirty, developing carpal tunnel syndrome if nothing else.

Stopping for a breather, I ended up in the kitchen. I was pouring myself a glass of Merlot from one of the local wineries when I noticed the light was back on in Ted Harvey’s trailer.

Had the prodigal returned? I grabbed my jacket and trucked on out to the trailer. I was halfway across the yard when the light went out. I peered at my watch in the moonlight: 11:45.

Late for a social call, but I was way past the social niceties.

Reaching the trailer, I hammered on the door.

Nothing happened.

I pounded again and then I tried the handle. The door opened, hinges protesting loudly.

Dimly, I had an impression of movement above me and then an explosion of pain blew through my head.

Blackness descended like an anvil.