Sawyer Price had risen at his usual early hour and stepped out of his tent. He spotted the dusty white car immediately. He returned to his tent, picked up his Glock and tucked it into his elastic bellyband, then quietly approached the vehicle.
He’d broken the news to the professor that his investigation here at the Kéyah site was over. The brief flurry of thefts came under the jurisdiction of both the Native American police as well as the FBI. Once he’d shown up, even though undercover, the thefts had stopped. Something still nagged at him about the entire setup, and he’d been hypervigilant because of it. He hoped the unexpected appearance of the car was just another lost scholar looking for the graduate-student campsite.
He’d pulled out his Glock and tapped on the tinted window. When Evelyn McTavish had leaped from the car, his mouth dropped. Now that’s what I call a great early-morning wake-up call.
Wisps of hair floated around her face, her clothes were wrinkled, and her lips held a slight bluish tinge from the cold. She was trembling slightly in the early-morning air. Now, as he led her toward the site, he said, “We’ll figure this out. Let’s get you warmed up and some breakfast in you.”
She didn’t argue when he lightly touched her elbow to guide her to the campsite. The meal tent was fifteen by twenty feet, open-sided, and held the food and cooking supplies. Several resin folding tables and chairs were scattered about, and blue plastic water containers were stacked at one end. Quickly he filled the enamelware percolator with coffee and water, then set it on the freestanding propane cookstove. While the coffee brewed, he retrieved a jacket from his tent and brought it to her. “I’m Sawyer Price, by the way.”
“Thank you, Mr. Price.” She pulled it on.
“Call me Sawyer.”
“If you call me Tavish. Stupid of me to forget a warm coat.”
The coffee finished brewing and he poured two cups. “This is my special coffee, shipped in from Germany. Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.” She wrapped her hands around the mug as if absorbing the heat.
“You drove all the way out here to investigate a murder? I thought you were an artist.”
“I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“I did. But . . . well, it’s complicated.” She sipped the coffee. “This is good.”
“I told you so. Tell me about your homicide.”
“Oh my. Murder?” A slender, gray-haired woman entered the tent. She wore khaki slacks, a thick overcoat over a salmon-colored sweater, and hiking boots. A leopard-print scarf encircled her neck. She smiled, adding a dozen more wrinkles to her well-lined face.
“Professor Caron, this is Evelyn McTavish.” Sawyer poured the woman a cup of coffee. “Tavish, meet Dr. Caron.”
Patricia took the chair across the table from Tavish and leaned forward. “This makes for an interesting start to the day. Who’s dead?”
Tavish blushed but explained the microchip, discovery of John’s body, Fake Cop, missing Kevin, reappearing car, and home break-in. Patricia propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. Every so often she’d shake her head.
Sawyer pulled eggs, bacon, and butter from the portable refrigerator. Marley had decided he held more promise for handouts and was sitting beside the camp stove. He dropped the dog a day-old biscuit.
Tavish finished and slumped in her chair. “I know this all sounds crazy—”
“Some of it sounds decidedly singular.” Patricia straightened, took a sip of coffee, then cleared her throat. “You said this John Coyote claimed he worked at this dig and was an archaeologist, a peer of mine. Why did he tell you that?”
Tavish explained the commissioned art. “At our last meeting we met at his house in the Tijeras Canyon. He pointed to some photos on the wall of the Kéyah site and said he wanted to—how did he put it?—‘weave some of his past into the negative space.’” She made quotes in the air. “He couldn’t decide what he wanted, so eventually he asked to hold on to the preliminary drawing so he could ponder it. He paid me in full.”
“I see. Describe his home.”
“Pueblo Revival–style.”
Dr. Caron nodded. “Was the address of the house 75644 Loco Drive?”
“Yes, but how—”
“I own that place.” The older woman frowned. “Your description sounded similar, and the photos on the wall were the final clue.” She glanced at Sawyer, then back at Tavish. “When I started this project, I secured an agency to rent it out for me. I had no idea this all would take close to two years. For the past couple of months, I haven’t even had a tenant. I should have just sold it.”
“So you think Coyote found your empty house and moved in, made up a story?” Sawyer added bacon to the sizzling cast-iron pan, filling the tent with mouthwatering fragrance. “I want to think about that some more.” He put a lid on the spattering bacon. “What about the man Tavish said was outside the house when she went back to check? The one with the mustache?”
“I don’t know. Could be a neighbor. You didn’t actually see him in the house, did you?” Patricia took a sip of coffee as Tavish shook her head.
“I’m glad at least one part of this mystery has a logical answer,” Tavish said. “But what about the murder? The microchip with my name on it? Kevin’s disappearance? What could they be looking for at my house? And what about—”
Sawyer placed a plate of bacon, eggs, and hash browns in front of her. “What about some breakfast?” He placed a second plate in front of Patricia.
“I’m vegan,” Tavish said softly.
“Not today.” Sawyer joined them with a mound of food. “Dig in.”
Tavish tried to smile at him. “I appreciate all the work you went through to cook this. I’ll just grab a bite to eat on my way home—”
“Not today.” Patricia touched her mouth with a napkin. “All that rain last night will have flooded the road.”
Sawyer grinned at Tavish’s expression. “You’re stuck here until things dry out, which should be sometime tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Tavish grew pale.
“Yep.” He took a bite of bacon.
Tavish picked up her fork. “Maybe I will eat the hash browns . . .”
“Cooked in butter. Yum.” He grinned at her. Even looking cold and tired, she was the best bit of landscape he’d seen since coming to New Mexico.
She slowly lowered her fork.
Patricia reached over and rapped him on the arm. “Stop torturing the poor girl. I think we have some fruit, and she can lie down on my cot and catch up on some sleep. I’m sure her car wasn’t that comfortable to nap in.”
He was about to protest his innocence, but the look of gratitude on Tavish’s face shut him up. “Fine. We talk more about the murder when you get up, okay, Tavish?”
She nodded, then yawned.
“Come along.” Patricia popped the last piece of bacon into her mouth, stood, and motioned to Tavish. “If that walking black mop over there is your dog, bring her too.”
Patricia reached into the small refrigerator, pulled out an apple, and handed it to Tavish. Grabbing her purse, Tavish followed Patricia toward the professor’s personal tent. Tavish devoured the apple before they arrived.
Sawyer stood and started cleaning the breakfast dishes. Shortly Patricia returned, helping herself to another cup of coffee. “What do you think of her story?”
He left the dishes soaking in a bucket of hot water, dumped the last of the coffee into his cup, and joined her at the table. “I don’t know what to think.”
“We have today to try and sort it out. None of the students and volunteers will be able to get up the road to work. The ground is too wet even if they could.”
“I figured as much.”
“This will delay your departure as well.” Patricia smiled at him. “I can’t say that’s a bad thing. I enjoy your cooking . . . and your company.”
“In that order?” He smiled back. The sun made a brief appearance through a break in the clouds and just as quickly disappeared. The scent of some flowering desert plant perfumed the air.
“I didn’t ask you how it went in Albuquerque.”
“The business card was to a real art gallery, and the clerk there easily could have been providing drugs to the students. I spotted someone from the drug task force watching him, though, so I backed off until I can talk to them.”
“You didn’t arrest the clerk for selling drugs?”
He patted her hand. “Not my jurisdiction. Only in certain cases does the FBI step in. But as far as the sting operation here and stolen artifacts, that gallery business card seems to be a dead end. No sign of any Anasazi pottery, either legal or stolen.” He stood. “I did widen my search and came up with a few cases I’d like you to look at. See if any of the recovered items could be related to this site.” He headed to his car and pulled out his briefcase, then returned to the tent. He placed the briefcase on the table and removed a few case files containing photographs.
She took the photos from him and studied each one, finally setting two on the side. “These are possibilities. Where are they from?”
“About three or four weeks ago there was a shootout up in the Four Corners section of New Mexico. The thief was killed. Several stolen paintings were recovered and those two pieces of pottery. The timing is about right. The paintings were returned, but no one had circulated the pottery photos until a few days ago. They just came across my desk. The thief was killed, so if he was fencing these for someone else, I have yet another dead end, if you pardon the expression.”
Dr. Caron nodded. “I suppose I should be grateful that the stealing has stopped.”
Sawyer leaned back in his chair and drummed his nails on the table for a moment.
“What are you pondering?”
“I was just thinking about the strange coincidence that a business card would lead me to that gallery, where I’d meet Tavish, who just happened to see a murdered man in your house. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Quite frankly, there’s not a darn thing I can do. Everything Tavish told us is a matter for the local police.”
“Who don’t seem to be all that interested.”
“Unfortunately. But once again, I can’t just jump into something that isn’t my jurisdiction without an invitation. At this point I’m mopping up loose ends on this case unless something else turns up. I’ve checked out almost all the students who’ve worked here in the last eight months. I’m finishing that in the next day or so. The only fenced pieces positively identified have been recovered, and the scumbag is enjoying the view of his jail cell.” He held up the photos. “I’ll put out an inquiry on these two pieces and see what shows up.”
They were silent for a few moments. A coyote yipped in the distance.
Patricia jerked her thumb toward her tent. “Do you think she might be . . . unstable?”
He thought about her actions at the gallery. “Not unstable. Under a lot of stress.”
“She’s wearing a crystal. It could be just jewelry, but she might be into some New Age stuff. Conspiracy theories, Elvis sightings, and maybe she thinks the rest is alien abductions.”
He grinned at her. “You’re kidding. All that from just a necklace?”
“Don’t you ever listen to late-night radio? Ask her about the crystal at any rate.”
“I will.”
She straightened in her chair. “If she’s unstable, could she be dangerous?”
He patted Pat’s arm. “Unless that dog is a Rottweiler in disguise, no, I don’t think she’s dangerous. But just to reassure you, I’ll check out her car while she’s sleeping.”
Patricia gave him a quick grin. “Can you do that legally?”
“Probable cause? I’ll figure out something.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in the work tent if you need me.” She headed toward the largest of the structures at the campsite where she kept her notes, research, maps, computer, and other equipment. All recovered artifacts were recorded, photographed, and kept locked up and away from the actual excavation. The stolen artifacts were not taken from the formally recovered items, which were so carefully documented. They’d been looted from the periphery of several established archaeological sites.
He still hadn’t figured out how the looted items had been transported from the individual sites without being detected.
He thought about Tavish’s odd story for a moment. Jurisdiction or not . . . He took out a small notepad, opened it, and jotted down Do a background check on John Coyote. And Evelyn McTavish.
Sawyer stood, finished washing the dishes, then sauntered to Tavish’s Audi. Though now covered in dust, it appeared she usually kept it immaculate. She’d also left it unlocked.
A crime-scene team would be able to fingerprint, vacuum, sweep, photograph, and go over every square inch of the car. He didn’t have that luxury. He found the bullet hole in the bumper as she’d described. No sign of the bullet inside the car, but the trunk had scuff marks and a dirty area, also as she’d pointed out. Inside the car, he searched under the seats, opened the glove box, and pulled out the contents. Her registration and insurance form, service record, and receipts were neatly arranged in a leather book . . . but the registration card was upside down in its plastic window. He replaced everything.
On a hunch, he ran his hand under the dashboard. His fingers swiftly discovered a tiny tracking device. “Well, well, well.” He removed it and placed it in his pocket.
So far her story checked out. Of course, she could have come up with the details to match the evidence. But someone wanted to know where she was going. It might be interesting to see who showed up. The tracking device wouldn’t work here, but it would resume once off the mountain.
The sun burst through the clouds, spotlighting the surrounding hills and painting them red under cloud-shaped Prussian-blue shadows. A light breeze rustled the pale yellow grasses. At this rate the water would rapidly recede off the road—a fact he planned on keeping from Tavish.
He had a lot of questions he needed to ask her.