Grave Consequences by Dana Cameron Page A

feel my face burning. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped the gun like that. Really, I thought it would be all right. I should have asked.” I grinned to myself when I thought, but I’m the one digging; he should know he has nothing to worry about. Whatever else there was about Andrew Freeman, he was manifestly concerned with how work on “his” skeletons was undertaken.
    Andrew called for the photographer, then took out a planthat was almost complete and hastily drew in the last of the bones. I glanced over his shoulder; it was beautiful work, done with a minimum of fuss in the measuring.
    Trying to make up for my gaffe, I said, “Do you want to get an elevation on the bones I exposed?”
    He nodded. “I’ll get the rod now.”
    We measured the depth of the finger bones and then Andrew called the photographer over. I tried to be as helpful as I could, putting together sign boards and clipping roots on the edge of the unit so they didn’t cast shadows, but I noticed that Dean Avery, the photographer, would look up from his work almost every time I glanced at him. Andrew and he pulled aside to discuss whether more shots were needed.
    Suddenly, I noticed that all the rest of the crew was walking away from the site. Jane appeared by my side.
    “What’s going on?” I asked in alarm.
    Jane furrowed her brow and looked around. “What do you mean?”
    “Where’s everyone going?”
    “Oh.” She looked at her watch and her face cleared. “Ten-thirty already?”
    “What’s at ten-thirty?” I relaxed a little. At least whatever was going on was an expected occurrence.
    “Morning coffee; half hour break.”
    “But we just started at nine,” I protested. “How can you get anything done with a break in the middle of the morning?”
    “It’s a proper workday,” Jane said defensively. “Start at nine, morning coffee at half ten, lunch from noon to one—”
    I was aghast. “You take a whole hour for lunch?”
    “—Then tea at three-thirty and off site by five pip emma. Why, what do you do?”
    “Start at eight-thirty, thirty minutes at noon, wrap up at four-thirty.”
    “My God, you’re a slave driver!” She mulled it over and shook her head finally. “You don’t stop for any breaks?”
    Now it was my turn to be amused. “No, not really. I usually just make sure everyone drinks enough water, if it’s hot out.”
    “Water?” Jane’s face now registered as much confusion as mine had: How could any crew manage on just water? she seemed to ask.
    “It’s pretty standard. Actually, I’m considered a kind and beneficent director.”
    “Uncivilized.” Jane was having a hard time grasping the Yankee work ethic. “Are you saying that you don’t want coffee now? I’d’ve thought you’d be glad, after this morning…”
    “Actually, I’m floating. Maybe just a quick trip to the…what was it you called it? Porta-loo?”
    “Yes, just over there. And when you get back—” She paused indecisively.
    “Yes?”
    “Well, I’m not stopping at the moment either. Perhaps we could discuss where to put you next.”
    She must have seen Andrew hopping around. “Look, I’m sorry about how things went with Andrew, but I don’t think he can use me anymore—”
    “I thought you did splendidly with Andrew,” she interrupted evenly. “He hasn’t complained about you and you haven’t cut his throat. He can be a charmer, when he chooses, and when he doesn’t choose, he can be something considerably less appealing. It’s just that you can’t work there any longer and we can use you better elsewhere in the meantime.”
    I nodded. “I’ll just be a moment then.”
    When I returned from my mission—and despite the different name, the British version of the outdoor convenience was no more appealing than its American counterpart—I idly followed the line of paper plates over to the edge of the site. They seemed to point directly to the center of the site, where I now saw Jane standing, waving me over