Free Past Malice by Dana Cameron Page A

tarps had slid into the unit, that’s all.”
    “Oh?”
    “This one.” I indicated the rock with my toe. “Well, it had been fine last night. There’s no particular reason it should have moved. Sometimes dew or rain will weight down the tarps and drag them in.”
    We all looked at the rock. It was a big rounded cobble that wouldn’t have moved easily on its own.
    “Who is allowed back here?”
    “Back here? The grounds are open to the visitors during the day, there are landscapers who come—”
    “During the day, right. I mean, who is allowed in this fenced-in area?”
    “Well, no one, really. My crew—they’re all out front—sometimes some of the staff come back here, while we’re here, to see how we’re doing. And sometimes they bring VIP visitors, to show us off. So besides them, the staff, and my crew, no other visitors, as a rule.” I started thinking of the multitudinous footprints, and wished the crime scene specialists good luck: The soil was dry and dusty and might have held a clear track for a short while before it was disturbed by someone else, or a breeze, or the squirrels.
    “Was the barrier secured when you arrived?”
    “Secured might be too strong a word,” I said. “We pull the sawhorse across the gap to keep the tourists out during theday; at night, the place is about as sealed off as the rest of the grounds—”
    He looked around at the low chain link fence and grimaced. “Which means anyone interested in getting into the yard could just hop the fence.”
    “Well, there’s really nothing in the yard that anyone would want. Most people looking at our work mistake it for gardening or drainage or repairs or something; they generally think of archaeology in terms of huge areal excavations near pyramids. The Chandler House is alarmed, as far as I know. I don’t know whether that was tripped or not. Fee would know.”
    “Fee?”
    “Fiona Prowse. She’s one of the employees. Does some tours, mostly does the books, does a bit of everything here. Her office is in the front of the house.”
    “She was here when you got here this morning?”
    “Oh, yes. She was on the phone; I waved but she didn’t see me at first.” Didn’t see me because she was too upset, I thought, and then she smiled that big phony smile of hers.
    He nodded and scribbled down something on his pad. “She’s here now?”
    “Yes, so far as I know.”
    We went on and on, mostly about our schedule, when I’d left last night, that sort of thing. Finally, we came back to what I knew about Justin.
    “I didn’t know him well. I knew he wanted to be a history teacher. He was a really nice kid.” I felt around in my pocket for a handkerchief.
    “Some would say you’re not much more than a kid yourself,” he pointed out.
    I wiped my nose. “I’m at the age where I savor getting carded at the liquor store.”
    At that moment, the crime scene technicians showed up,a few casting wary glances at me, curious looks at the excavations and bunched-up tarps. One stopped, telling the others to go ahead.
    “You an archaeologist?”
    I was taken aback. “Yeah. How did you—?”
    “Stuart Feldman.” He pointed to the trowel I had stuck in my belt loop. “I worked on a couple of digs during undergraduate, out in California. I was going to be an archaeologist for a while, when I was a kid, but that was before I got caught up in the technical side of things. Do you know Dick Johnston?”
    “Only by reputation. His work is a thousand years earlier than mine and three thousand miles away.”
    He shrugged. “Well, it was a shot. What are you working on here?”
    Detective Bader answered for me. “She’s working on answering questions for me. She’s the one who called us in.”
    Feldman snapped his gum. “No kidding? You take any pictures at the end of the day yesterday?”
    The light dawned on me. “Yes, I think we did! We were just starting to show up the top of the brick feature—I think it’s a foundation