Free Berried to the Hilt by Karen MacInerney

are here, but the university folks have been out at the site all day.” Probably making hay while the sun shone, I thought. Who knew how long Iliad would be out of the picture? “They’re probably quite relieved to have the site to themselves,” I said, attempting to drop a hint.
    Neither responded, and I wrote down the names and room numbers of the guests, trying to think of a way to convince them the murderer wasn’t already in a jail cell. “Have you found the Lorelei yet?” I asked.
    The detective shook her head. “Still looking,” she said.
    “I’ll bet when you find it, you’ll find out who the murderer really was,” I said.
    “Do you know something about it?” she asked sharply.
    “I know that Eleazer White would never have discarded an antique cutlass in a shrub,” I said.
    “People do strange things in the heat of passion,” she said.
    “I’m just saying there were lots of folks who didn’t like Gerald McIntire. You know he’s had a long history with the university archaeologist, Carl Morgenstern? I was out there yesterday, and he had murder in his eyes—and last night he attacked Gerald in my dining room.”
    “Did I, now?”
    I whirled around; behind me stood Carl, who had evidently just come back in. Molly stood beside him, eyeing me with anger and reproach.

“Mr. Morgenstern, I presume?” the detective said smoothly.
    “Indeed,” he said, still giving me a hard look. “I don’t care for slander, Ms. Barnes.”
    “I’m sorry, but it’s a murder investigation,” I said, feeling my face burn. “I was telling them what I saw.”
    “We appreciate your assistance, Ms. Barnes,” the detective said briskly, dismissing me. “If we need more of your observations, we’ll let you know. In the meantime, is there a place we can go to ask these two folks some questions?”
    “You can use the dining room,” I said, feeling chastened. I installed them at a table by the window and returned to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Claudette was sitting by the window, knitting something large and brown.
    “Who’s here?” she asked, the needles pausing.
    “The police,” I said. “They’re questioning the archaeologists.”
    She sat up a little straighter. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
    “I hope so,” I said, but as I filled the teakettle, I realized I wasn’t feeling very hopeful at all. The police already had someone with means, motive, and opportunity. Why look further?
    I tossed a tea bag into a teapot and sat down across from Claudette, who had resumed knitting mechanically. Her fingers moved at lightning speed, but her eyes were glazed, unfocused. “Tell me again what happened last night,” I said.
    She sighed, and the needles slowed slightly. “Well, all this started yesterday, after he went out to the site with you. I’ve never seen him so angry. He stayed home long enough for a bite to eat, but then he was gone—out to find Tom Lockhart, I think. He talked about going to see the archaeologists about the cutlass, but I don’t know if he ever did it. I think after what happened yesterday, he seemed worried mainly about the wreck site.”
    “Why did he want to see Tom?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.
    “For advice, I think.” She finished a row and transferred the needles between her hands. It looked like she was working on one side of a sweater, but it was hard to tell. “He wanted to stop Iliad from taking over the site.”
    “How long was he gone?”
    “Almost the whole day. He stopped in for dinner, but hardly touched a bite.” I knew it wasn’t because of Claudette’s cooking; her pastries might be terrible, but she made some of the best chowder I’d ever eaten. “He ate maybe three bites of stew, and was out the door again. I told him to let things be, to sleep on it at least, but he was angrier than I’ve ever seen him.” She lowered her needles; the brown wool was slack in her lap. “And now look what he’s gone and done …”
    “He’s