M.J. Rodgers - Heart Vs. Humbug

He watched as the grubby workmen around the pit turned to stare at the beautifully groomed woman with the flame-red hair. They quickly got off their knees and onto their feet.

“Morning, ma’am,” they murmured.

Octavia continued to smile as she moved to the edge of the pit and looked over its side at the lone workman at its bottom.

“You seem to have found something there,” she said.

“I don’t appreciate being called and told to drop everything to come out here, George,” Scroogen shouted before the man had a chance to answer Octavia. “What’s going on?”

The stocky, black-haired man in the pit lost the smile he had flashed at Octavia the moment he turned to face Scroogen. “We found this.”

He pointed to a large black stone sticking up out of the pit.

“Well, what is it?” Dole asked.

“It looks like something’s been carved on that stone,” Octavia said, peering down. “You don’t suppose it’s early native American handiwork, do you?”

“I believe it is,” the foreman said, his black eyes glowing above his high cheekbones.

“How would you know?” Scroogen challenged.

“I am Suquamish, the tribe of Chief Sealth for whom Seattle was named. My people hunted and fished this land long before the white man came.”

“So you found this beautiful and important symbol of early native American culture right here?” Octavia asked, the awe clearly in her voice.

“The rain last night must have washed some of the covering dirt away,” the foreman explained. “We only realized it was buried here when we arrived this morning and the jaws of the bulldozer started to lift it out of the mud. I withdrew the machinery immediately when I saw the carving.”

Brett moved around Scroogen to get a better look at the gray scars on the dark stone that stuck out of the mud. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a dozen or so seniors emerging from the community center and heading in the direction of the pit. He felt distinctly uneasy with this find and the crowd gathering to view it. And with the less-than-languid smile that played around Octavia’s lips.

“This place has nothing to do with Indians,” Scroogen protested, irritation making his tone even whinier than usual. “This was all farmland before those rinky-dink houses were put up after World War II.”

“Their foundations did not go very deep, Mr. Scroogen,” George said. “We have had to dig far deeper to accommodate the foundation for the condominium and underground parking structure. It is at this greater depth that this carved stone has been uncovered.”

The curious seniors arrived then and crowded behind Octavia and Mab Osborne, asking what was going on and trying to get a better look.

“Is that what the workmen dug up?” a voice suddenly asked from beside Brett. Brett looked over in surprise to see the young, eager eyes of a man with a reporter’s badge on the flap of his windbreaker and a 35-mm camera slung over his shoulder.

“Where did you come from?” Brett asked.

“I’m with the Bremerton newspaper. We got a call that you guys dug up some ancient Indian stuff.”

The reporter turned to the workman beside the stone. “What do those markings mean?”

“We do not know,” George said.

Brett tried to get the reporter’s attention. “Who called you and when?”

“We got an anonymous tip about thirty minutes ago.” The reporter turned back toward the foreman. “You the one who found this?”

“Yes. I’m the construction foreman, Keneth George.”

The reporter slung his camera around and started to take pictures. “Can you get rid of the rest of the dirt to see if there is more carving farther down the stone?”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Octavia said. “If this is a previously unknown site of early native American habitation, professionals need to be called in to excavate properly. It would be best to stop all work here immediately.”

“Yes,” the foreman said as he nodded toward Octavia. “As I told Mr. Scroogen when I phoned him, we must stop all work.”

“The hell you will,” Scroogen protested. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. This land has to be excavated and graded by next week. Dig that damn thing up and send it to whoever has to decide what it is.”

“That is not how the law works, Mr. Scroogen,” Octavia said. “Artifacts must be examined at the site of their unearthing by the proper authorities. There may be other precious native American objects buried here. I’m certain your attorney would not advise you to do anything against the law.”

She turned to Brett, that elusive smile just lifting the sides of her ample lips. Out of the corner of his eye, Brett could see the reporter stepping back to take a shot of the crowd.

“Isn’t that right, Mr. Merlin?” she asked.

“Only if it is a bona fide artifact,” Brett said, doubting it more and more by the second. From that smile on Octavia’s face and the way he had watched her orchestrating this little scene, Brett was certain that somehow she had to be behind this far too “coincidental” find and the call to the newspaper. He didn’t like this. Not at all.

“I will call in my tribe’s cultural expert,” George said.

“No, you won’t,” Scroogen protested. “I’m not stopping these bulldozers just because you’ve dug up some stupid stone.”

George’s face darkened perceptively. He scrambled up the sloping, five-foot-high muddy pit wall to stand before Scroogen.

“The stone must be examined,” George said, anger in his eyes and voice.

Brett stepped between the two men, hearing the click of the news reporter’s camera. If he didn’t take control of this situation now, it could quickly escalate beyond anyone’s control.

“Mr. George, I’m Brett Merlin, Mr. Scroogen’s attorney. Mr. Scroogen is merely skeptical about the authenticity of this stone carving, as am I. We’d both appreciate your calling your tribe’s professional archaeologist to settle the matter.”

“Mr. Merlin, I’m surprised you would suggest such a thing,” Octavia said. “Surely you know that is not the proper legal procedure in a case like this.”

“Oh?” Brett said, turning to her. “And what would you know of the proper legal procedure?”

“Mr. Scroogen must first report this find to the group issuing the building permit for this site—namely, Bremerton’s Community Development Department. They in turn will have to contact the state representative of the Archaeology and Historical Preservation Department in Olympia, who will then contact the professional archaeologists from the tribes so they can visit this site to do a thorough examination.”

She knew the proper legal procedure, all right. Too well. It was just as Brett had suspected from the first. She had to be behind this business.

He stepped closer and faced her squarely. “How do you know this?” he challenged.

“Because I’m a lawyer.”

She was a lawyer?

Brett watched the satisfied smile on Octavia’s face as she delivered that piece of unexpected news. He couldn’t be more surprised—or more annoyed—to realize how completely off-guard she had caught him.

But what irritated him most was that he knew she had expected the error. She knew he had not taken her threats seriously. She knew he had been misled and bamboozled by her beauty, just like probably every other poor sap who had met her. She knew it, and she had counted on it.

It seemed he had made a couple of very serious errors when it came to this lady. He gave himself a moment to regroup his thoughts before going on the offensive to save what he could from the situation.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he demanded. “Why have you hidden the fact that you are an attorney?”