Mary Brady - Better Than Gold

Not very helpful.

He pulled the car out onto the road and coasted down the hill into town. As the road’s descent into town flattened out somewhat, he passed two gas stations, one across the street from the other, and a hardware store with a pair of moose antlers mounted under the peek of the gable. A combination law and accounting office, a few abandoned buildings came next and then, flanked by pine trees, a small but proud-looking old wooden church that now lodged the Bailey’s Cove Museum.

The church and the other buildings to his left had the gray-blue of the foggy harbor as backdrop. The ocean, the livelihood for many Mainers, would appear beyond when more of the fog lifted.

As he continued, the buildings leading to the town center were of varying age, some painted white, some redbrick and one pink tattoo shop. Most of them sat shoulder to shoulder lined up along clean streets that seemed to speak of a town that cared about its appearance. As he entered the middle of the town, one motley brown dog sniffed at something in front of the white-painted wooden building that housed Pardee Jordan’s Best Ever Donuts and then moved next door to investigate the front door of an old wood-and-redbrick tavern called Braven’s.

This was the kind of downtown that might someday support ornate lampposts, brick sidewalks with trees and flowers in planters. None of which would look out of place and all of which might wipe out the true character of the old town.

To Daniel’s right and across the street from Braven’s tavern stood the building he was looking for, an old three-story structure with a white-painted facade.

Chief Montcalm had been correct. The building wasn’t hard to find. It was the only one in the small downtown with police tape crisscrossed over the door. Or it had been crisscrossed. The end of one piece flapped in the morning breeze.

Bay windows flanked the glass-and-wood front door. Five wood-framed windows sat evenly spaced across the span of each of the building’s second and third floors. Benches sat on the sidewalk on either side of the two-stepped stoop.

He parked and got out. With the tape disrupted, the chief must already be there. Good. The sooner he got started, the sooner he’d get to work and then be gone. Going down to Boston and spending time alone seemed like a wise idea right now. Much better than inflicting the surliness he couldn’t seem to shake on a town of unsuspecting people.

He ducked under the remaining police tape and stepped inside the building. The ceiling had been stripped, part of one wall had been torn down. The partially demolished wall divided the large front room from the back area, and was likely the place where the body had been found.

No chief, only silence.

A door on the far left wall probably led to a stairwell, and if this had been a hotel, there was likely a matching stairway in the back room for the staff to use. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling by a cord, shedding feeble light in the large open space.

There was nothing in this room except an upended orange bucket with loose plaster and a pry bar lying on the floor nearby.

He moved quietly across the open area. On the other side of the wall was another large room with ladders and tools scattered around. Two boxes crossed with police evidence tape sat near one of the ladders, which meant the chief had done as he’d said he would and returned the remains to the scene. This room had the same dim lighting as the other room, and...

Bent over and leaning toward a column of granite that must have been behind the demolished wall was a woman with a flashlight in one hand. Her short blue peacoat hung open and draped over her hunkered form. Her brown hair looked as if it was streaked with honey and fell forward so he couldn’t see her face. What he could see was her peering into a hole that had been knocked in the granite. The hole that had to be the one that had held the skeleton.

Slowly, she reached a hand up as if she was afraid something inside would bite her. What she might do is to contaminate the site. He didn’t need any more of that than had already been done.

“Please, don’t touch that.”

* * *

STARTLED, MIA YANKED her hand back and tried—too fast—to stand up. She lost her balance, flailed her arms in a desperate attempt for control, but stumbled and plopped backward onto the dusty floor, her flashlight skittering out of reach.

From the floor, she said a brief silent thanks that whoever this was, it was not Chief Montcalm.

“Who are you?” She tried to make her words sound like a demand, as if she stood face-to-face with the intruder and wasn’t looking up at him from such a disadvantageous position.

“Daniel MacCarey,” he replied with a speculative expression on his face lit by the harsh light from the ceiling bulb. This had to be the man Chief Montcalm said was coming from the university.

“The chief’s not here yet. You can wait outside,” she said because she didn’t want him to witness the indignity of her having to get up and clean off her butt.

He didn’t respond nor did he go away.

“You’re early.” She worked hard to remain pleasant, because she certainly wasn’t getting any nice back from this guy.

“And you’re tampering with evidence.”

“Old evidence.” She kept her tone even.

“Tampering with a protected archeological site.” When he walked toward her, the bulb hanging from the ceiling spread better light on his face, his scowling face.

Scowl or not, it was a great face. Rugged. Two or three days’ worth of very dark beard growth. Hair a bit too neat for her liking, but tousled by the morning’s wind. Dark brown, almost black eyes, if the light coming from above gave a true indication.

He stopped in front of her, tall and lean, and relaxing his frown he held out his hand.

She studied him a second longer. Warm, comfortable in an old gray sweater and jeans with holes. Shoes of good leather, scuffed on the toes. Monique would like this one. Heck, she liked the look of this one herself, and she didn’t like many.

He frowned again and started to pull his hand away, but she reached out and grabbed hold. His warm palm met hers and his fingers wrapped securely around her hand. Indeed, strong. He pulled her from the floor as if she weighed as little as her twenty-year-old-waif self, not her current self with eight more years of growth. There had to be muscles under those raggedy clothes. Maybe even a six-pack. Ooooh. She hadn’t seen one of those in a while. Maybe she wouldn’t even let Monique meet this one.

...for crying out loud...

She steadied herself, let go and stepped back. This was the guy who could let her get her people back to work, maybe as early as this afternoon, so she gave him her brightest smile and resisted the urge to pat the dust off her butt.

“When the chief told me the university was sending a professor from the anthropology department, I...well...I sort of thought more gray hair and possibly a larger waistline. Guess I should have taken the time to visit the website.” She wanted to wink. Heck, she wanted to wolf whistle. She just smiled harder.

He frowned. “What are you doing in here?”

So much for making light of an awkward situation. “I’m waiting for Chief Montcalm. He should be here anytime now.”

“Waiting with your hand in the hole?”

“Yes. You caught me with—” Deciding not to be part of the let’s-be-grumpy game, she refused to look at his scowling face and softened her tone. “If anyone has reason to be annoyed, it’s the guy in the wall—er—boxes. He’s been waiting a very long time to be discovered.”

“Did you move anything or touch anything?”

Now she looked up at him. “I wanted to. I wanted to tear the whole wall down and put in a dining room, but I’ve been waiting, I think rather patiently, doing everything I possibly could that didn’t involve actually doing the work in here that has to be done. I have a business I’m trying to get up and running.” All right, maybe she would play grumpy.