“Four, probably more, they’ve been coming here for years,” I said. “I trust them. Two drove down from Gainesville when they heard about the bulldozer. And Dr. Caren-you’ll meet her, she’s great-Caren cried like a baby, she was so upset. But there was nothing they could do to stop the digging.”
The redhead camouflaged her cop cynicism with an open-minded shrug, then tested my naïvety by asking, “Did you know the Candors donated ten grand to the archaeology foundation that funds research here? That was before they started construction. Friends of The First People, that’s the foundation’s name.”
I felt my face coloring because I don’t like to be tested. “You did your homework, I’ll give you that,” I said, “but don’t get tricky. If you researched the foundation, you saw my name on the members’ list. Sure, I know they donated money. But hindsight is a hundred percent, and I guarantee you the board and archaeologists are embarrassed about it after what happened to the mound.”
“Just a silly mistake,” the redhead said, as if she was being dense.
“I don’t appreciate sarcasm either,” I told her. “The Candors saw it as a bribe, I don’t doubt that. But you don’t know the archaeologists. I do. The foundation’s screwup was not knowing that people like the Candors exist.”
Tupplemeyer’s expression changed. “You’ve got a temper.”
“I’ll introduce you to Dr. Williams,” I replied. “He’s the head guy. Dr. Caren, too. You’ve never met finer people, but judge for yourself.”
The deputy seemed temporarily convinced but said again, “You still can’t say a word about what we’re doing. One of the reasons I switched to law enforcement is because archaeology is so damn dependent on public funding. A ten-thousand-dollar donation? Yeah, of course they took it, I can understand that. But”-she paused to warn me about what came next-“don’t get mad again, okay?”
I replied, “If I get mad, you’ll know it… Birdy,” using her nickname to see how it felt and it felt okay once I’d said it.
“I’m convinced,” she said. “What you don’t know about academics is that making waves is the fastest way to lose funding. But, as a cop, I can actually do something-but not until someone files a complaint.”
Now she was getting down to what was actually on her mind.
“I have the name of the trucking company written somewhere,” I said, “unless you already know where they dumped the fill.”
Tupplemeyer did the thing with her hair again, but this time in a more natural way that didn’t quite fit her sly expression. “I knew you’d come through. You should have seen your face when you first told me about them bulldozing that mound. Damn, you were mad. Yeah, I’ve got it narrowed down to four or five dump spots, but, when we search, it has to be at night. Three are county-owned landfills, and my ass would be in a sling if we get caught.”
I liked the woman’s spunk but finally had to say, “Tell me something. Talking about your mother was a way of softening me up, wasn’t it?”
“No,” she replied, offended, “I did it because my mom drives me insane. It was nice to vent to someone who… Well, I don’t have many female friends. And why would the guys I work with care?”
That seemed honest enough, although I was still suspicious-but about something else now. Birdy Tupplemeyer was feminine in her mannerisms and dress, but she also wore pants five days a week and carried a gun. I wanted to make my own interests clear. “I don’t have many women friends myself,” I began. “Not close anyway. The man I’m dating keeps me busy most nights. He’s a marine biologist, but he’s out of town this week. That’s probably why I’m a little on edge.”
“Really,” Birdy replied, the cop cynicism fresh in her voice. “How long you been dating?”
Three days, officially, but that wouldn’t have gotten my message across. “Awhile,” I responded, then told her a little about my late husband, who had been drunk when he stepped into traffic but omitted the fact we had spent only one night together before he was shipped overseas. As final proof, I alluded to a gift certificate from Saks and suggested we do some shopping on her next day off.
The redhead found that all very amusing for some reason and gave a snorting sort of laugh. “Relax, for christ’s sake. I’m not gay. I’m not even bi.”
“Who cares if you are?” I shot back.
“I care, and I get that question a lot. You probably get it even more.” She eyed me, sizing me up. “What are you, five-ten, six-foot? Blue’s a good color for you, and I like the cargo shorts, but a woman your size who wears tools on her belt?” She was still chuckling.
“They’re fishing pliers,” I replied, showing her. “I had a charter this morning, but my client canceled.” I slipped the pliers back. “Your personal life is none of my business. It never crossed my mind that you’re-”
“Oh, stop it.” Birdy made a shushing motion, already tired of the topic, then patted the steering console of my skiff. “You’ve got the day off, huh? If I pay for the fuel, how about you take me out there?” She pointed toward the island where the remains of a western pyramid was elevated by trees.
“I’ve got to pick up clients at one and it’s nearly noon now,” I said, which was true but also a way of dodging her request-working for free is no way to run a charter business and it was the sort of offer I get a lot. Instead, I offered to show her the Marlow cruiser and explain the work needed to make the boat livable. By the time we’d finished the tour, I’d changed my mind. I liked Birdy Tupplemeyer, appreciated her high-energy way of dealing with awkward matters, so I suggested she come back tomorrow.
“I’m booked for the morning,” I explained, “but I can show you around in the afternoon. Are you off?”
She shook her head. “I’m new, so it’s Mondays/Thursdays off. But I could use a personal day.”
I rechecked my watch. “Okay, then. We’ll split the fuel. In return, maybe you can give me your opinion on a case I might be starting. It has to do with my mother, and maybe a bogus charity. Oh, and there’s something else-”
Sitting on the flybridge of the cruiser-a boat that was soon to be my home-I told the deputy what had happened to me at the Helms place and the little I knew about the murder of Dwight Helms. Despite Tupplemeyer’s energy and impatience, she was a thoughtful woman, and I soon felt comfortable enough to also share my fears about Levi Thurloe, too.
12
That night, when Loretta called in tears, claiming there was a man watching her from the yard, I was at the computer in my Uncle Jake’s office, a two-room CBS that adjoins a strip mall off Pondella Road. Lots of traffic and neon glare; cars with subwoofers that rattle the windows. For the last three years, I’d been living here alone and had done my best to convert the place into a homey apartment, even though I knew it would never feel like home.
Loretta called around ten. I had finished my charter at seven and arrived at the office thirty minutes later. My routine when entering the place seldom varied. I locked the door behind me and put the teakettle on while I showered. Changed into jeans and a clean blouse, then settled myself at the desk to work. Tonight, my routine changed slightly because the first thing I did was check e-mails-but still no word from Ford. More disappointing was that the two cheerful notes I’d sent him hadn’t been opened, possibly not even received in the remote Venezuelan village where he’d said he would be working.
“Shit!” Birdy Tupplemeyer’s affection for profanity was rubbing off on me because that was my reaction. I got up, rechecked the door lock, then fussed with the heavy curtains that shielded me from outside noise and the eyes of loiterers in the parking lot next door.