Chapter Eighteen

Kate was still in shock over the voice-mail message about the money when she dialed Dr. Hosea. She tried to push it from her mind as she waited for him to pick up.

He finally answered on the fourth ring. Again he apologized for not getting back to her. He was professional, yet surprisingly warm and cordial as they spoke, and when she suggested he travel to Copper Mill from southern Tennessee to examine the urn in person, he readily agreed. Kate bit back her disappointment when he said he was booked for a couple of weeks. Then after a moment’s pause, he added, “Though if I can rearrange some appointments and meetings, perhaps I can come up tomorrow.”

Kate let out a pent-up sigh of relief. “That would be great.” She started to give him directions to Faith Briar.

He surprised her by saying, “No need. I already know where it is.” Before Kate could react to that curious news, he laughed and added, “My GPS. I never leave home without it.”

WEDNESDAY MORNING, just before ten o’clock, Kate turned the Honda into the parking lot at Faith Briar. At the same time, a nondescript minivan approached from the opposite direction and pulled in to park beside her.

She exited her car and waited as a rumpled-appearing man with a round face and rather unkempt beard got out of the minivan. He wore khakis and a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled midforearm, and an Indiana Jones hat. Central casting couldn’t have chosen a better look for an archaeologist.

Kate couldn’t help smiling. “Dr. Hosea?”

He assessed her with piercing blue-gray eyes and an engaging smile. “Yes, and you must be Mrs. Hanlon.”

“Please, call me Kate.”

“Well, thank you, Kate. And please call me Reg.” He laughed heartily. “Reg as in ‘I pledge’ to present you with the best information possible about this interesting urn that’s landed in Copper Mill, Tennessee.” His accent was intriguing. A bit Southern, a bit British, or possibly Australian.

He rounded the van, opened the sliding side door and reached inside. When he came back around where Kate was standing, he was carrying a worn leather satchel, the size and shape of a pilot’s flight bag. “All right, then. I’m ready.”

As they headed toward the church, Kate said, “Oh, and Dr. Hosea, I’d appreciate your discretion, because I haven’t yet told the owner about the urn’s potential value.”

He raised a bushy brow. “I’m quite aware you mean Renee Lambert. And I’m assuming you’ve also not told her it might have been stolen?”

Kate drew in a sharp breath. “You know about that?”

“Oh yes, of course.” He paused when they reached the church entrance. “I’ve been following the reports very closely.” He held the door open for Kate, and she stepped through.

The spotlight in the glass case cast an ethereal glow on the urn, and Kate noticed that Reg was as taken by it as she had been. Perhaps even more, judging from his expression.

Kate excused herself momentarily to go to Millie’s office to get the key, while Reg set his satchel on the floor by the case.

“May I?” Reg shot Kate a questioning look after she opened the door.

“Of course. You can remove it from the case if you’d like.”

Instead of removing it, however, he cautiously touched the urn. His expression told Kate that he took great pleasure in his work. Without removing the urn, he turned it slightly to the right, inspected it closely, then continued to turn it a fraction of an inch at a time until he had studied the relief art on the two longer sides as well as on each end beneath the cherubim guardians. He moved the piece, touching the figures of Francis and Clare with his fingertips, as if assessing how they might have been carved. Or perhaps if they had been carved, which she wondered might indicate the urn’s age.

He turned to the satchel, clicked it open, and then pulled out a small folding table and set it up with a snap. Next, he put together a telescoping stand, attached a spotlight, and arranged it so that it brightly illuminated the table. Kate spotted various containers at the bottom of the satchel, and a separate open compartment containing tools and brushes. She was impressed with the array of testing materials.

Finally, Reg covered the small table with a thick padded top that appeared to be made of black felt.

“Now, let’s see what we’ve got,” he breathed as he went back to the glass case.

He lifted the urn from its glass shelf and, moving slowly, placed it on the table, adjusted the light, and then picked up a magnifying glass.

“What do you make of the symbols?” Kate asked. “They strike me as odd.”

“They are unique, and not many people can interpret them. But after studying the photographs you sent, and now that I see the urn, I’ve identified at least some of the symbols and have translated a portion of the writings.”

“Does it tell the story of Francis and Clare, their relationship, I mean?”

“That’s exactly what it tells, though not in detail, of course.” He turned to look up at her. “No one knows the true story.”

For a half hour, Reg remained bent over the urn. He seldom spoke but kept working in a rhythmic fashion as if he’d done this thing dozens, if not hundreds, of times. Every few minutes he reached for a different tool or brush, opened a bottle of this or a jar of that, applied a minute dab of chemical or powder, then sat back as if to watch some sort of reaction from the alabaster that Kate couldn’t see.

Kate gave him plenty of room to work so he wouldn’t feel like she was breathing down his neck. She was particularly curious to see if he would try to open the urn by pressing on the cherubim and wondered if he knew about the secret steps to opening the urn.

Finally, he sat back and shot her a pleased look. “This is preliminary, of course, and we can’t know without further testing if it’s the crematory urn missing from the Exeter. At this point, I can’t even tell you the age. Of course, I can give you some parameters, but not anything substantive.

“I would like to take it with me, with your permission, of course, to run a more thorough test. I believe it’s simply a good copy, but we can’t know for certain.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible. We would need to get Mrs. Lambert’s permission,” Kate said. “And knowing her, I really doubt she’d let it go.”

Just then, Paul opened the door between the foyer and the church offices and looked in. “How’s it going?”

Reg glanced up from his work and gave Paul a nod. Kate thought she saw a shadow of irritation.

It disappeared when she said, “Reg, this is my husband, Pastor Paul Hanlon.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were the minister’s wife,” Reg said. He stood and shook Paul’s hand.

“One and the same,” Kate said.

“How did you get involved with the details of the urn?”

“Kate’s an amateur sleuth.” Paul shot her a proud smile.

“And Collin Wellington is a friend of mine.”

A lightbulb went on in Kate’s head. “Do you know Collin?”

Reg laughed. “Everyone who’s anyone in our related fields knows the great Sir Wellington.”

Kate gasped. “Sir Wellington?”

Reg laughed. “In his dreams. He’s been after the Queen to bestow knighthood on him for years. It’s no secret. Actually, he’d be the first to admit it.”

Reg began putting his satchel back together. “I was just telling your wife that until I do further testing, and other experts have a look at the urn, we really don’t know much more than when I arrived. So far it appears to be an incredibly clever copy.”

“Is Collin Wellington trustworthy in your opinion?” Kate asked as Reg returned the urn to the glass shelf.

He adjusted it slightly so the spotlight illumined it with the glow that seemed to emanate from inside, then turned back to Kate. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, I suppose,” she said quickly.

He didn’t answer right away, then furrowing his brow, he said, “His reputation is spotless in his field. But there have been rumors lately about him getting himself into some sort of financial difficulty.” He paused. “I take it you’re asking because of the romance between your friend and Wellington. I don’t like to pass along hearsay, but in this case, I believe it’s warranted. If I were you, I would advise her to go slowly, get to know him well before making any commitment. You never know what a person might do when he’s got money troubles.”

Kate exchanged glances with Paul, who raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for your honesty,” she said to Reg after a brief hesitation.

“When I read the story in your Chronicle about how they met, I wondered about its coincidence,” he said.

“So did we,” Kate said.

“Well, folks, it’s been good to meet you.” He reached out to shake Kate’s hand, then Paul’s. “I hope you understand that I have to report this to the FBI. I believe what you have here is a copy, a very good one, but the uncertainty of my preliminary findings, plus the museum robberies, make it necessary.”

“Does that mean they’ll be coming for it?” Paul asked.

“I really don’t know. I don’t work closely with them. I’m just required to report findings such as this. However, I will be letting them know about today’s tests. They may well require you to give up the piece for further testing.” He shrugged. “I really can’t say.”

He said his good-byes, wished them luck, then with satchel in hand, he headed back to the minivan. Kate and Paul stood at the entrance of the church, watching him cross the parking lot. Before he reached his vehicle, he was in deep conversation on his cell phone.

Kate sighed. “We really don’t know much more about the urn than we did before he got here.”

“I know you’re disappointed.”

She smiled. “It’s true I was expecting an easy end to at least part of the mystery of the urn’s origins. I just had the feeling he wasn’t telling me everything he knows about the urn.”

“How did you pick up on that?”

She considered the question as she watched Reg climb into his vehicle. “More from what he didn’t say than what he did say. And the FBI comment. If there was any doubt that this wasn’t a copy, don’t you think he’d have them over here before we could say Rumpelstiltskin?” She thought about it for a moment. “Perhaps even have brought an agent with him?”

Her husband laughed and circled his arm around her shoulders. They waved as the archaeologist, Indiana Jones hat pulled low over his forehead, drove off in the minivan.

“That’s another thing I love about you.”

She wrinkled her nose, looking up at him. “What?”

“The hypotheses you toss in my direction when you’re sleuthing. You keep my brain doing calisthenics.”

“By the way,” she said. The voice message concerning the thousands of dollars they owed weighed heavily on her mind. But as she looked into his eyes, she didn’t want to break her promise, or see that sparkle of fun and love disappear, so she just smiled and gave him a quick kiss before trotting to her car.

As she pulled out of the parking lot and turned right on Mountain Laurel, she spotted Reg’s van and hurried to catch up with it.

She wasn’t intending to tail him, but when it came time for her to turn onto Smoky Mountain Road, she decided against it and followed him into town.

He parked right in front of the diner. Nothing unusual in that. Except when she slowed to pull to the side of the road, she saw the GTO in the nearby library parking lot.

Her heart slammed into her ribs. Could there be a connection between Dr. Hosea and the Carrot-top and Curly duo?

She got out of the car and hesitated, wondering if she should look around inside the diner or wait to see who might emerge.

But before she could decide, the door of the diner opened, and the Diner Duo waltzed out, arguing about who was going to drive.

Seconds later, Reg exited with a takeout bag and a Styrofoam cup.

Reg didn’t even give so much as a glance toward the GTO as it revved its engine and roared down the street.

But before the car disappeared, Curly, who was in the passenger seat, turned and looked back.

And it appeared he was looking straight at Reg.