Past Malice Read online

  I nodded again. “These things do take time. But the way I figure it, the more people talk about the project, the more we get nice little articles in the paper like the one last week, the more interest is generated, the more people will stop by for a tour or to buy a book and the better that is for everyone.”

  There was general murmured agreement from the rest of the board.

  “You know, I was thinking,” Fee chirruped. “Those little bits of things you dig up?”

  I frowned. “Artifacts? Potsherds, glass, that sort of—?”

  She nodded. “Right, the little bits of pottery. I was wondering if we couldn’t scrub them up all nice and clean and then sell them, you know, as souvenirs? Fifty cents or a dollar, and the visitors can take home a little piece of history with them.”

  I blinked and then decided that she really was serious. Sell the artifacts? “Uh, well, can’t do that, I’m afraid. The laws are pretty strict about these things and the fact that the house is on the National Register means you’ve got to preserve these things for the future.”

  I didn’t expect the help I got, but it came from the best source possible. “And besides, Fee,” Aden said, “we discussed maybe having a little exhibit, one of those glassed-in table cases, to show the visitors what we’ve been finding. The Chandler family descendants are very keen on preserving the historical trust, as well.” And when Aden Fiske said something, you could pretty much count on it being the final word.

  Everyone around the tables nodded, even Fee, who still didn’t look convinced. She shrugged and bobbed her head up and down in an effort to put distance between her and the idea. “It was just a thought,” she said.

  I went on. “Well, as some of you might have observed, we’ve started opening a few test pits beside the house, the proposed location of the restrooms and gift shop. From what I’ve seen of the maps and documents I’ve been studying, this was the location of the wing of the house that burned down in the early part of the eighteenth century. It doesn’t look to me like it was ever rebuilt, which I think is strange—”

  “Why is that?” A man, the youngest person in the room besides me, probably in his thirties, spoke up. He had eye-catching good looks, very slim with brown wavy hair. I tried to remember his name from the short list Aden had rattled off for me: Daniel Voeller. It was worth remembering, I decided. I vaguely recalled that he was connected with the factory in the northern part of Stone Harbor up the coast from the Chandler House. It was a modern concern that had done a lot to bring employment to Stone Harbor by bidding for the assembly jobs of larger electronics companies—fairly low impact on the environment, lots of different work for the employees, and so far, very successful.

  “Because a house as high-style as this one, belonging to people as wealthy as the Chandlers usually was built with elite English ideas about classical symmetry,” I said. “There probably would have been wings on both sides of the house, the same number of windows on each side of the door, lots of geometry. You know, like Mount Vernon and Monticello were built later on in the century? Anyway, I’m surprised the Chandlers didn’t rebuild it, but maybe I’ll find out why as we work. We haven’t yet reached the burn layer in every unit—the depth at which we could actually observe fire-altered soil, a layer of ash and charcoal, things like that—but we are closing in on it. And we’ll also find out whether they had outbuildings of any sort nearby—barns, storage sheds, and the like. On one hand, the road has been in its present location since the house was built; the Chandlers needed a way to get into town and to get guests from their small dock up to the house. On the other hand, that side of the house would still be visible from the common, and therefore, the issue of aesthetics would certainly have come into play.”

  There were a few throats cleared here, and glances were being exchanged. I wondered what was going on.

  Aden Fiske filled in lightly, “As there seems to be today as well. Our only neighbors to the south of us, the Bellamys, have again voiced concerns about the, ah, ‘visual disruption’ that they claim your work presents. In point of fact, they’ve asked whether you can’t fill in your units and get rid of the blue tarps while they have their guests over next weekend.”

  I could feel myself slump; I’d met Mr. Bellamy once, and his complaints had been a nuisance as well as irrational, but this new one took me by surprise. Fill in the units, before the work was completed? That would be like gluing the marble chips back onto an unfinished sculpture. “I…really, it just isn’t possible—”

  Aden raised a hand. “No, of course not, and we would never ask you to. I have told them that we will put up some bunting or potted plants along the inside of our fence, as a neighborly gesture. But they do not seem to understand that we are well within our rights and their backyard doesn’t even line up with ours, so there isn’t really much to complain about.”

  “But you forget, Ade, that these are the people who wanted to live here for the view and the historical nature of the area, and then complain that there are tourists that want to come here in the summer for exactly the same reason.” Bray Chandler showed a rare bit of humor and the smile did a lot for him. “They’re capable of complaining about anything.”

  “First they were upset because they thought our old wooden fence—which would have shielded you from their view admirably—blocked their view to the north,” Aden explained to me. “So when it came time to replace it, we discussed it with them and went for a coated chain link fence. Nicer view, but now they complain because they can see the visitors on the grounds and insist that they didn’t move here to have herds of people outside their front door, which is actually nowhere near our grounds. So don’t worry about them, just be aware that they exist to make your life unpleasant.”

  This brought universal laughter, and I guessed that there was no love wasted on the Bellamys. I went on to explain that my work would be going on for another two weeks, that the finished report would be prepared within a few months, and that we were preparing a flyer to hand out to curious visitors. “If your guides are interested, we’ll keep them updated with what we find, so that they can answer any questions about the site.”

  “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we’re all looking forward to learning about your discoveries and adding to what we know of Stone Harbor’s history. No doubt this relationship is to our mutual benefit—” here Aden glanced around at the other board members, who nodded agreement “—to have someone of your caliber interested in our sites: We know we are getting the best for our properties, and it’s possible that as work is needed on Stone Harbor’s other historic properties, you’ll be in a position to get some real professional benefit from the job.”

  I smiled and nodded thanks, but inside, my thoughts were racing—and so was my pulse. Was Aden really doing what I thought he was doing, essentially establishing me as the go-to person for conducting archaeological research in Stone Harbor? If he was, and it was clear to me that was exactly what was going on, this could be the basis for research not only on the level of the Chandler household but of neighborhoods, and the whole community of Stone Harbor, longterm research that could cover the whole range of questions, from first settlement to industrialization, and the whole population, from the lowliest fisherman to the wealthiest landowner. Considering the number of two-and three-hundred-year-old structures still standing in Stone Harbor, with a good possibility of intact surfaces left to explore, this was a gift with a big red ribbon on the box. And although every archaeologist thinks that every project could potentially be the start of something big, longterm, and revolutionary, this really could be a shiny brass ring.

  “Thank you, Aden. I’m certainly looking forward to working with you all.” Which was a nicely ambiguous statement, possibly referring to either this project or the hypothetical projects to come after.

  “Right,” Aden announced, looking around. “I think that’s about—”

  Fee cleared her throat. “I think we have just one other issue to discuss, Ade
n? The one I brought up the other day?”

  Aden made a face. “Oh, Fee, do you think it’s necessary?”

  She bit her bottom lip and faced his obvious reluctance. “I really do.”

  Aden turned to the others. “Fee is concerned about the security here. She thinks that our present security is insufficient and that our most recent hire, Justin Fisher, is not up to the job. Any thoughts?”

  Daniel Voeller spoke up, his eyes hard and his words deliberately chosen and provocative. “And why is that, Fee? He’s been on time or early every shift, there’ve been no incidents. Why, exactly, do you think he should be replaced?”

  She didn’t meet his glance. “I think he’s just too young, is all, Danny. Not enough of a presence.”

  Aden looked around impatiently. If there were any others who came down on Fee’s side, they were not speaking up. “Well, perhaps we’ll give him another month, and see how he shapes up, shall we? That’s enough for tonight, people. I’ll see you all next week for the Chandler reunion meeting. Go home, get a gin and tonic, for God’s sake!”

  Everyone laughed, got up and stretched and shook hands, arranged to meet elsewhere, planned to get together for drinks, the way that people do who’ve been working familiarly with each other for years. Aden was in the thick of this, and as I packed up my notepad, I could hear him arrange for two cocktail parties and several barbecues. I noticed that his jokes, sometimes bawdy, sometimes barbed, were taken as marks of affection.

  “Good evening. I’m Bray Chandler.” The garden gnome introduced himself to me. “I found your talk of particular interest as I’m descended from Matthew Chandler.”

  “Really? And your family’s been here ever since? That’s so neat,” I said. “Which one of his children are you descended from?”

  “Nicholas Chandler.”

  I frowned, not remembering the name right off. “I’m not sure I….”

  “There are some sources that list him, some that don’t.” He waved his hand airily. “You know how these family genealogies can be.”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll go back and check my notes. It’s very nice to meet you, Bray.”

  Bray said he’d see me later, and Aden caught up with me in the hallway. He tried to speak, and then was interrupted as departing board members passed us calling good night. He waved but with an overexaggerated shrug gestured that I should follow him into the next room, where we could speak privately.

  “I just wanted to catch up and tell you how much I am looking forward to watching you and your crew at work. I’m sure everyone tells you how they always wanted to be an archaeologist—”

  “Yeah, but it’s okay, it’s nice to know people are interested in what you do,” I said.

  “—but I actually worked on a dig when I was in college, many, many years ago. In Greece, gorgeous place, all blue and white…” He grimaced and sighed, as if remembering just how many years ago it had been. “So while I would never want to get in your way, if there was a moment when I was free and there was some dirt to be sifted, well, I’d be delighted if you’d let someone show me what to look for. It would be a treat.”

  I nodded: The more he felt a part of the project, the better for us all. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Great.” He rubbed his hands together. “I didn’t want all the others pestering you, but I am glad I might be able to sneak in and help a little. RHIP—rank hath its privilege, you know, and I damned well make the most of it! You’re only here for a few weeks. Do you have other plans this summer? More work, I mean.”

  “I’ll probably be going up to Maine for a few weeks later on, to work on Fort Providence. It’s an early settlement I’ve spent some time on before.”

  “Yes, now I remember the name from looking at your vitae.” He frowned. “I seem to recall that there was some real unpleasantness up there. A news segment, some time ago.”

  I kept my face blank and looked out the window at the boats moored far out in the harbor. “A good friend of mine was killed. It wasn’t really anything to do with the site or my work, not really.” I still had trouble convincing myself of that fact, on some days. I swallowed. “Still, it’s good to get up there, remember her and why she loved the place.”

  Aden was instantly contrite. “Of course, of course, I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories. I’m sorry I asked. In any case, it’s good to know you’ve got lots to keep you busy this summer.”

  There was another awkward moment and then Aden led me down the stairs. “Oh, about the Chandler family reunion, on July Fourth? They would absolutely love it if you would do a little talk about your project here, before the big party. Now, you don’t have to, of course, but I know they would just be delighted—”

  “Oh, no problem, I’d be happy to,” I said. Aden locked up the house with a key he returned to his pocket. He immediately lit up a cigarette and inhaled greedily.

  “And you and your husband will join us for the dinner after. It will be a great feed. The Chandlers don’t skimp when it comes to their food.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. We were back outside now, walking the parking lot in front of the house. “Say, Aden? Can you tell me who owns the Mather House, offhand? You know, the abandoned place just to the north of here? I haven’t found out who the present owners are, and I’d like to talk to them about doing some work there, sometime. You know, comparative stuff.”

  “I couldn’t say, Emma, but if you—”

  A car pulled up to the lot, and we watched a young man get out. He waved to Daniel Voeller, who, upon seeing him, quickly said good-bye to the remaining board members and brushed past us.

  Aden leaned over to whisper in my ear. “That’s Danny Voeller’s Charles. Love’s young dream.” He rolled his eyes.

  “I would really love to stay for the Chandlers’ dinner,” I said, ignoring his unspoken comment, “but my sister is visiting and I promised her fireworks on the Fourth. But the talk, that’s fine.”

  “Bring her too, if you like, and we’ll have fireworks here. Won’t be a better seat in the house, unless you are on a boat.”

  I suddenly realized that Aden relished playing lord of the manor, and his humor and teasing were all part of that larger-than-life image.

  “Okay, great, thank you, I’ll think about it. Good night, Aden.” I shook his hand and dug out the keys to my Civic, which I wished looked a little less rough than it did. A wash, at least, would have made me feel a little more respectable, even if it wouldn’t have done any real good.

  “Good night, Emma.” He rapped the hood of the car with his knuckles as he walked by and called out to Justin, who was running up to us. “I’m heading out, Justin. You can finish closing up and set the alarms before you head out.”

  Justin was out of breath and looked unhappy. “Yes, but Mr. Fiske, I was trying to find you. I just took a call in the main office. It’s Perry, ah, Ms. Taylor.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I froze: Something in Justin’s face told me it was bad.

  “She’s in the hospital. She was hit by a car!”

  Aden went ashen. “My God, Perry! Is she hurt?”

  Justin nodded, still winded. “Broken bones and bad bruises. But you don’t know the worst of it.”

  “What worst, what’s happened?” I thought that Aden wobbled a little where he stood.

  Justin gasped out, “Ms. Taylor says…the car swerved toward her. Someone tried to run her over.”

  Chapter 2

  I PULLED UP INTO THE DRIVEWAY OF THE FUNNY Farm, our nineteenth-century house, which, with all the renovation work we were doing, was getting funnier by the day. My heart rate had slowed down over the course of the drive across two towns, and seeing the old white farmhouse with its connected buildings, only about two years in our possession, had a lot to do with it. “Big house, little house, back house, barn,” was the way the rhyme went, and the structures formed a courtyard on the driveway, with doors to each building leading out onto the gravel. It felt like a family compound, a
nd that sense of security was what I needed most at the moment.

  Relieved to see that the students hadn’t come back from their weekend yet, I grabbed my briefcase and headed toward the back door of the main house when something made me stop. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, and when you live on a tertiary country road with no neighbors within a quarter mile, that is a very spooky feeling indeed.

  I looked around, saw no one, then began to cross the drive when I felt compelled to stop again. Something drew my eyes down to the bushes by the side of the house and I saw what was disturbing me. A single yellow eye, bright as a lamp, was following me from the shadows; farther back I could just make out the slow twitch of the end of a tail betraying its owner’s interest in my progress.

  I relaxed, but only a little. “Evening, Quasi.”

  The big black and white coon-cat-mixed-with-who-knows-what didn’t say a word, of course, but now that I was aware of him, I could hear his tail rustling the dead leaves under the shrubbery. Even though it had been a good long while since Quasimodo, a stray Brian had rescued a year ago, had actually tried to claw a chunk out of me, I watched him as I began to step onto the low back porch. He stared right back, his one good eye intent on holding my gaze.

  Something was definitely wrong: I could swear that Quasi was grinning.

  That in itself was warning enough, and I looked down just in time to avoid stepping in the remains of a squirrel left on the step. Whether it was deposited there as a tribute for Brian or simply messy eating, I couldn’t have said, but I was ninety-nine percent certain that the cat was also hoping I would step in his leftovers. We have that kind of relationship.

  “Nice try, Quasi,” I called back to him, but all I saw was the disappearing snake of his bushy black tail as the cat slunk off into the undergrowth, thwarted. I nudged the former squirrel off the step for Quasi to finish later.