Randy White - Deceived

“Let’s go somewhere else to talk,” I said to the deputy. “On my phone, I’ve got video I shot of them bulldozing the mound. They used a backhoe, too, for the landscaping. Want to see it?”

“Those pompous, destructive assholes,” the redhead muttered, meaning Yes, she did.

WE WERE SITTINGon my skiff, drinking diet RC Cola, which was getting hard to find and which the off-duty deputy had never tried before, while she explained why she had run a background check on me after checking out the Candors and a few other locals, too.

“How else would I know you can help?” she said, referring to the reason she had returned to Sulfur Wells. The former archaeology major was determined to find the tons of earth, shells, and artifacts that had been hauled away by trucks. Seeing my video of a bulldozer and backhoe destroying what had once been a pyramid had only fired her resolve.

“What sold me, Hannah, is you’re licensed to knock on doors, ask nosy questions, the whole private detective deal. And collect information on civil matters.” The woman paused and took a sip of her drink. “It is Hannah, right? Or do your friends call you something else? Like me, Liberty is so bullshit and butterfly sounding, I go by Bert or Bertie-but I hate Libby, so don’t call me that.”

I wondered if I had misheard. “Birdy as in bird?” I asked. It was a name that fit a skinny woman who wasn’t pretty in the typical way but who had an interesting face and was in good shape.

“Sure, that’s fine, too. But back to what I was saying… If we find human bones in the fill they hauled away, there’s a state law against transporting human remains, even antiquities. You think that’s possible?”

“That we’ll find bones, you mean?”

The woman’s impatient expression told me Of course that’s what I mean!

“In a shell mound, well… Yeah, it’s possible,” I said. “Last year, Loretta gave permission, and a group from the University of Florida found the teeth and jaw of a young girl near our carport, just eighteen inches under the surface.” I pointed to the house, which was yellow clapboard with a chimney poking out of the tin roof. “Just to the left of the porch-I’ll show you later. They carbon-dated one of the teeth, then put the bones back and left everything just they way they found it. That ended the dig, of course.”

Fascinated, Birdy Tupplemeyer listened a while longer, then said, “You’re shitting me!” when I told her the girl had probably died in her teens and had been buried more than eight hundred years ago. Then glared at the cement three-story again. “Okay, human bones, that’s the part I wasn’t sure about. See… even if they didn’t destroy an actual burial mound, there could still be burials in the stuff they hauled away. Once we locate it, we can dig around and see what’s there-contextually, the fill’s ruined anyway. If we do find bones, you can file suit, or get someone else to file, but the thing is”-the woman became thoughtful and lowered her voice-“we’ve got to leave the archaeologists out of it-for now. Even if you know some of them personally.” She looked at me. “Do you?”

“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.