Behind the Walls by Merry Jones Page B

Camels, offered her one with tobacco-stained fingers. Lit up when she declined. ‘I’ll share something with you, Harper Jennings. It doesn’t matter how many lists you make or pictures you take. The university isn’t getting any of this collection. Not one single arrowhead. Everything here belongs to my family.’
    Oh great. Jake was going to argue with her about the professor’s will? Get into details of the lawsuit? Harper didn’t want to hear about it, had no part in the dispute. She just wanted to take a look at the mask in the box she’d opened. ‘Look, I’m just here to document—’
    ‘Even so. You ought to know what you’re getting into. The will that leaves the collection to the university is, excuse the expression, a piece of shit. My father didn’t have a clue what he was doing when he wrote it. For the last few years, his mind was gone. He was senile.’
    ‘But I thought he made the donation decades ago.’ Back in the eighties, before the first research assistant had been killed.
    Jake exhaled a smoke ring, shook his head. ‘No.’
    ‘But wasn’t there a research assistant—?’
    ‘Yes, Carla. Pretty Carla.’ He picked a shred of tobacco off his tongue. ‘I was in my first year of college, fantasizing about asking her out. I was too shy, of course. Still, all of us tried to catch her eye. Angus, Caleb—’
    Caleb?
    ‘He’s the oldest. Married, lives in Oregon.’ Jake smiled, shook his head. ‘But Carla stole my heart.’ He stopped, cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Poor choice of expression. But all of us were smitten. Even Angus’ friend, Digger. And Digger wasn’t easily impressed.’
    Why was Jake telling her all this?
    ‘You know, they never found out who did it. And now, Zina’s dead, too.’ He looked at Harper too steadily. For too long. As if testing her reaction.
    Harper met his eyes. Stared back. Wondered how well he’d known Zina. Obviously, well enough to call her by her first name.
    Finally, Jake looked away. ‘My father was still teaching back then; Carla was one of his research assistants, and he assigned her to inventory everything. For insurance purposes, I guess. But his will? No. He wrote that a few months before he died, when he had dementia. Otherwise, he’d never have given everything away.’
    Harper chewed her lip, not sure what to say. She eyed the open box, trying to glimpse a bit of copper. Wished he would leave.
    But Jake didn’t leave. He stood there, tall, gangly. Middle-aged skin loose under his jaw. Spewing smoke into dust-filled air. ‘It’s obvious how confused he was – you can see for yourself. Father was always meticulous. He kept neat, careful records, labeled everything.’ Jake let out a harsh, ragged cough. ‘But the last few years, as his mind went, he took relics out, repacked them someplace else but didn’t write down or remember where. Then he’d search for them. I’d come by to check on him and find an artifact worth fifty thousand in the laundry basket – or worse, in the washing machine. Some never turned up. You’ll see how it is. Clutter and chaos. The collection – hell, the whole house – is a portrait of Dad’s confusion.’
    Oh dear. How sad for Professor Langston. Harper imagined him digging through the myriad of packages, searching for a priceless artifact he’d placed beside his frozen peas. ‘Poor guy.’ She meant it.
    ‘We took care of him, my brothers and I. We kept him from harm. Then he died, and guess what? He left us nothing. Just this pathetic old house that needs more repair than it’s worth. But the collection worth millions – the relics he spent his life gathering? That, he left to the university. To strangers.’ Jake shook his head. He took a final long deep puff of his cigarette, crushed it against a wooden crate, leaving an ash mark. Stuck the stub into his pocket. ‘Father wasn’t in his right mind. He got manipulated, plain and simple.’
    Maybe it was true. Harper had no idea. Either way,