would do.”
Faye pulled a file folder out of her briefcase and tapped its corner on the sheriff’s desk. “Let’s forget about my bodyguard problem. Do you want to hear what I learned in Tallahassee?”
“You bet.”
“Remember I told you that Wally gave me a note on the night he died? Well, it took me straight to an old book—a collection of letters from a Confederate official named Jedediah Bachelder.”
Sheriff Mike leaned forward to hear, reaching for the desk drawer at the same time. He drew his hand back with a sigh and pulled a stick of gum out of his shirt pocket. “What did the letters say? Did they give you any clue about why Wally got killed?”
“Nope. But there was a connection to Douglass’ murder. Remember that newspaper feature? The one that ran the morning before he was killed? Well, the picture that ran with the article was of Douglass holding a silver hip flask…that was engraved with the name J.L. Bachelder. And when I got my hands on the book of his letters…surprise! One of those letters mentioned an emerald necklace.”
“And that triggered the attack on Douglass? How? Nobody knew about the necklace, not unless Douglass called somebody and told them as soon as you left. And I still don’t think they’d have had time to get to his house and kill him, even if he was so foolheaded as to do that.”
“Haven’t got a clue. The flask wasn’t worth enough to be a motive for murder, and nobody knew about the emerald. Yet they’re both linked through Jedediah Bachelder to two people who wound up dead. Now do you understand why I’m going back to Tallahassee, first chance I get, for another look at that book?”
“You can’t just check it out?”
“Not a rare book. And the librarian says it’s too fragile for me to get permission to photocopy it, not until I jump through a few more bureaucratic hoops. One day, somebody’ll transcribe the text and post it on the Internet, and I’ll be able to peruse Mr. Bachelder’s deepest thoughts from the privacy of my own home. But not now. So I’m going back to Tallahassee, but not today or tomorrow. The rare book collection keeps short hours.”
“If I know you, you’ve got some other plans that involve dirt. Library work is so…clean.”
Faye checked her fingernails. She scrubbed them every time she brushed her teeth and every time she went to the bathroom and every time she showered, yet dirt still collected there, even when she couldn’t recall doing any digging. Today, they looked presentable. “It only makes sense for me to go back to the spot where I found the emerald and see what else I can find. And I’d like to lay eyes on Bachelder’s homesite. I’ve got the property records and an aerial photograph, so I’m pretty sure I can find it. Best I can tell, the house is long-gone, and I don’t really know what I hope to accomplish, but it’s something my gut tells me I need to do.”
She left her real reason for visiting Bachelder’s home unsaid. Archaeologists do what they do because they crave a physical connection to the past. If they’d been happy learning out of books, then they would have majored in history and spent the rest of their lives in libraries, museums, and classrooms, all of which are blessed with air conditioning and functional heaters.
Faye felt a bond with Bachelder when she held his hip flask and when she read his personal letters. She knew he’d been a plantation owner, which was just a glorified farmer. He himself had said as much. There could be no closer connection to him than walking over the land that he’d worked. And that his slaves had worked. She could never forget them. Bachelder had owned slaves, and then he had set them free. She needed to understand a man capable of doing both those things in a single lifetime.
“Wherever you wind up going, Bachelder’s land, Joyeuse, the library—I don’t care. Just promise me you’ll take Joe.”
Faye blew an exasperated breath through
Faye pulled a file folder out of her briefcase and tapped its corner on the sheriff’s desk. “Let’s forget about my bodyguard problem. Do you want to hear what I learned in Tallahassee?”
“You bet.”
“Remember I told you that Wally gave me a note on the night he died? Well, it took me straight to an old book—a collection of letters from a Confederate official named Jedediah Bachelder.”
Sheriff Mike leaned forward to hear, reaching for the desk drawer at the same time. He drew his hand back with a sigh and pulled a stick of gum out of his shirt pocket. “What did the letters say? Did they give you any clue about why Wally got killed?”
“Nope. But there was a connection to Douglass’ murder. Remember that newspaper feature? The one that ran the morning before he was killed? Well, the picture that ran with the article was of Douglass holding a silver hip flask…that was engraved with the name J.L. Bachelder. And when I got my hands on the book of his letters…surprise! One of those letters mentioned an emerald necklace.”
“And that triggered the attack on Douglass? How? Nobody knew about the necklace, not unless Douglass called somebody and told them as soon as you left. And I still don’t think they’d have had time to get to his house and kill him, even if he was so foolheaded as to do that.”
“Haven’t got a clue. The flask wasn’t worth enough to be a motive for murder, and nobody knew about the emerald. Yet they’re both linked through Jedediah Bachelder to two people who wound up dead. Now do you understand why I’m going back to Tallahassee, first chance I get, for another look at that book?”
“You can’t just check it out?”
“Not a rare book. And the librarian says it’s too fragile for me to get permission to photocopy it, not until I jump through a few more bureaucratic hoops. One day, somebody’ll transcribe the text and post it on the Internet, and I’ll be able to peruse Mr. Bachelder’s deepest thoughts from the privacy of my own home. But not now. So I’m going back to Tallahassee, but not today or tomorrow. The rare book collection keeps short hours.”
“If I know you, you’ve got some other plans that involve dirt. Library work is so…clean.”
Faye checked her fingernails. She scrubbed them every time she brushed her teeth and every time she went to the bathroom and every time she showered, yet dirt still collected there, even when she couldn’t recall doing any digging. Today, they looked presentable. “It only makes sense for me to go back to the spot where I found the emerald and see what else I can find. And I’d like to lay eyes on Bachelder’s homesite. I’ve got the property records and an aerial photograph, so I’m pretty sure I can find it. Best I can tell, the house is long-gone, and I don’t really know what I hope to accomplish, but it’s something my gut tells me I need to do.”
She left her real reason for visiting Bachelder’s home unsaid. Archaeologists do what they do because they crave a physical connection to the past. If they’d been happy learning out of books, then they would have majored in history and spent the rest of their lives in libraries, museums, and classrooms, all of which are blessed with air conditioning and functional heaters.
Faye felt a bond with Bachelder when she held his hip flask and when she read his personal letters. She knew he’d been a plantation owner, which was just a glorified farmer. He himself had said as much. There could be no closer connection to him than walking over the land that he’d worked. And that his slaves had worked. She could never forget them. Bachelder had owned slaves, and then he had set them free. She needed to understand a man capable of doing both those things in a single lifetime.
“Wherever you wind up going, Bachelder’s land, Joyeuse, the library—I don’t care. Just promise me you’ll take Joe.”
Faye blew an exasperated breath through
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