Randy White - Ten thousand isles

That caused Delia to smile as she dabbed at her eyes.

He wasn't finished.

"As some of you know, my family's beach house is on the east point of the island, near Indian Hill. There're a lot of mounds on our acreage. Dorothy liked to walk up there by herself and just sit. Sit there and look out over Barfield Bay. That's what I'm going to do right now. Before Dad and I head back to the ranch, I'm going to sit on one of those old Indian mounds and think about Dorothy, and what's happened to this great state of ours. Think about what a sad thing it is that thieves and bullies can do what they want to innocent people when there's no one there to protect them."

Bauerstock had the ability to grit his teeth and flex his jaw muscles in a way that suggested resolve. He flexed jaw muscles now as he added, "It's time we put a stop to this sort of thing. Dorothy had a lot to teach us. I think she's teaching us still."

Which got more tears from Delia, Ivan Bauerstock standing in the background, nodding at the way his son was handling himself, and no wonder: Teddy Bauerstock was very, very good. A compelling voice, lots of eye contact, forceful in the right places but also a self-deprecating way of smiling that suggested boyishness over a core of strength.

Earlier, I'd watched him shake Tomlinson's hand, speaking animatedly as Tomlinson nodded a solemn understanding. Same with the journalists, one by one. Got them off alone, face-to-face, slightly closer than the thirty-three inches of comfort space that behaviorists say we require.

But me, he'd dismissed with a frank glance of assessment: I am a person without politics, and he was able to read that. There was no way I could help him, so I was an unproductive investment in time.

I'd stared back into Teddy Bauerstock's congenial face with its congenial smile and I saw eyes that were as expressionless as holes in a small-bore rifle. I had seen eyes like his once before.

Where?

The man had a future in Washington. No doubt about that.

Now this woman from Everglades University wanted attention, which I found irksome. I'd had enough of cemeteries and crowds. I was eager to get on the road, change back into canvas shorts and T-shirt, put my boat in the water as soon as possible and feel wind in my face.

But no, we had to stop again. And this woman wasn't even a reporter.

Talking to a reporter, at least, was something that I planned to do willingly…

Her name was Nora Chung, an Amerasian, probably half Vietnamese with some Indian in her, too, though I'd already misjudged her once and was reluctant to make any more assumptions.

The card she handed us said she was assistant director of anthropology, and a Ph. D. Impressive for a woman who looked just a couple of years out of her teens. Tall with broad shoulders-maybe a competitive swimmer at one time. Very long legs in beige dress slacks; a lean upper body, thin and bony beneath a dark blouse with pearl buttons; wire-rimmed glasses over sloe eyes and an Anglo nose; hair cut rice-bowl style, advertising her ethnicity.

Delia Copeland had the voice of a veteran waitress, deepened and slowed by smoky bars and sore feet. She took a cigarette from her friend Betty Lynn and lit it now, letting her breath out slowly as if she'd been wanting to do it for a while; making the feeling last. Then she looked at the anthropologist through a haze of blue, saying, "We already talked to a bunch of archaeologists. Back when my Dorothy was still with us. We talked to a couple people they sent down from Tallahassee. I don't know what else I can tell you."

The younger woman said, "I've read the transcripts, the interviews with Dorothy, but there are some other things I'd like to ask. Not now, though. It's not a good time, and I sincerely don't want to impose."

Delia's eyes were red from crying. She was probably short-tempered, too, from the heat and a week of emotional abrasion. "What I suppose you really want is to find out what valuable things might have been buried with my little girl. Something nice for your museum. You get me off and make nice to me, hoping I'll say, 'Here, take it for free.' That's what Dorothy and me used to do. Gave it away. We gave it all away, not a penny for ourselves."

The anthropologist stayed cool, nodding her empathy. "That's in the records, too. Your generosity. I'm not going to pretend I wouldn't love to see anything your daughter found. But later, when you've rested. Can I call you? Thing is, I don't have your number."

Delia made a sound of exasperation and opened her purse to find a pen and paper. "You scientific types," she said, "you never get tired of asking."

A couple of people had stopped close enough to listen: two other women I assumed were journalists, including the one in the caftan who now had a little camera in one hand while she waved for attention with the other, calling, "Mrs. Copeland? Mrs. Copeland! The thing the gentleman's holding"-she pointed to me-"why's it wrapped in a handkerchief?"

Delia took a deep drag on her cigarette as she handed her number to the anthropologist, dark eyes focusing. " 'Cause maybe what my friend's got there is private. Maybe something just between my little girl and me. Which means it's nobody's business but my own, lady, and sure 'nuff none of yours."

The woman's voice had a bellows quality that I have come to associate with a predisposition to hysteria, neutered cats and astrology. "Your friend took something from your daughter's casket. Is that what you're telling us?"

"Lady, what I'm telling you is, it's none of your affair."

Speaking more firmly, letting everyone hear her reporter's voice, she said, "Please don't be that way. Why the secrecy? I believe your daughter actually possessed real psychic powers. I want to write about her for one of the biggest papers in the nation. I'm psychic myself. It's what I do."

"You're a psychic?"

"That's right."

"Then why bother asking questions? Read my mind, get your own answers. Maybe you'll see a real butt-whipping, you look hard enough."

Caftan-woman's reply was an insincere smile that was a parody of patience. "I'm not the enemy, I'm your friend, Mrs. Copeland. It was the golden medallion, wasn't it? That's what you hid in Dorothy's coffin."

"My daughter's coffin is none of your business, lady!"

"You're upset, I can feel it. But people have a right to know. No matter what you think, readers have rights." Caftan waved the little camera. "How about letting me take just a quick picture? Maybe you holding the medallion and standing by your dear daughter's casket."

I was aware of a soft growling sound, a feral-like purring, and realized it was coming from Delia who had begun to move slowly toward the woman in the caftan.

Time for someone to step in and take charge.

I touched Delia's elbow, gave it a meaningful squeeze. It stopped her. I waited for a moment before I put my lips to her ear and whispered, "Trust me, trust what I'm going to do," before I said to everyone close enough to hear: "This lady has a pretty good point. Ms. Copeland is understandably upset, but we have no desire to be secretive. Delia? Do you mind if I show them?"

"I think the fat tramp better watch her mouth, is what I think."

I chuckled as if she were joking. "Then I have your permission."

"Whatever you want. But me, I've said all I'm going to say."

I became a public speaker for the little group and others still coming from the cemetery who lingered to listen. Teddy Bauerstock and his father were pulling away in the black Humvee, but the rockers were still there. So was the man in the Hawaiian shirt.

I told them, "The late Dorothy Copeland found many artifacts. You think you've read about all of them? Believe me, you haven't, not even close. Ms. Copeland still has a number of items in storage. But the artifact that Dorothy treasured most was this"-I took the handkerchief away, held the wooden totem up briefly, then handed it to Tomlinson before anyone had a chance to snap my photograph-"a very valuable carving which we will be taking back to Ms. Copeland's home in Key Largo." I turned to Delia. "What marina will we be staying at? In case the reporters need to contact us."