right?”
“Of all the copies I made this morning at the library, this is the only one that mentions death. I know I left it on my desk with the other copies.”
Mark switched on the overhead lights. “And you called 9-1-1 because you feel this is a threat.”
“That and because I heard a door slam. It scared the hell out of me.”
“Do you know which door you heard?”
“It sounded like my office door.”
He stepped back into the hallway. Her office door swung outward into the hall and remained wide open, just as they’d left it. Mark remembered opening the door when he’d searched the house before Jason arrived. “Did you close this door earlier, before you went into the other office and found the light table on?”
“I don’t think so.”
A breeze flowed through the hallway. The office door slammed shut.
He turned to look at her. Libby’s face turned white, and then she flushed and hid her face in her hands. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I panicked. The window at the end of the hall is open, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She looked vulnerable, regretful. “I forgot I opened the window this morning to let air flow through. The hallway gets pretty stifling.”
“You did the right thing by calling 9-1-1.”
“No. I’m an idiot.”
“You didn’t know it was the wind,” he said.
She dropped her hands. “I’m not doing much for my credibility, am I?”
“You’re doing fine.” The door slam had done more for her credibility than she realized. For one, it confirmed her story. Plus, seeing her fright and mortification told him more about her than any interview could. He led her back into the office with the light table. “Is anything else out of place in this room?”
She glanced around the room. “Nothing that I can see, but I’m not in here often. This is Simone’s office.”
“Who?”
“Simone Atherton. She’s my field director. She runs the dig.”
So, the woman Bobby met at the bar last night worked for Libby. Interesting. “I thought running the dig was your job.”
“I can’t be on site all the time. Especially with all these interviews I need to complete.”
“Does Simone or anyone on your crew have a beef with you?”
“Simone’s my best friend, and I haven’t heard any complaints from the crew.”
Mark jotted this information down, and then pulled out the picture Laura had given him of the artifact and handed it to Libby. “Do you recognize this?”
“It’s a point. Looks like an Elko-Eared.”
“If that Elko-Eared point was for sale, what would it be worth?”
She made a face. “Archaeologists don’t buy or sell artifacts. I have no clue what that, or any point, would sell for.”
“I thought the point of digging was to find artifacts.”
“We only want to find artifacts if they can tell us about the culture of the people who made and used them. A point like the one in the photo is useless without context—I don’t know where it was found, what soil level it was found in, what other artifacts or features were associated with it. I can’t estimate its age beyond a two thousand year range—which is too broad to be useful—or even interesting. Without context, that point is nothing but a pretty chunk of obsidian.”
“Do you keep the artifacts you find?”
“No. They go to the landowner, the government agency, or a tribe. We generally try to convince private landowners to donate artifacts to the local tribe.”
“Do you own any artifacts?”
“No. Definitely not. This isn’t a gray area. Owning artifacts could ruin me professionally.”
“Laura Montgomery accused you of stealing that point from their house today.”
She looked startled and flopped into a chair. “Oh, God. That poor woman,” she murmured. “I knew she’d regret what she said.” She looked him in the eye. “Just the implication that I stole an artifact could destroy my career. What are you going to do?”
“We’re not going to expend manpower on an unsubstantiated claim
“Of all the copies I made this morning at the library, this is the only one that mentions death. I know I left it on my desk with the other copies.”
Mark switched on the overhead lights. “And you called 9-1-1 because you feel this is a threat.”
“That and because I heard a door slam. It scared the hell out of me.”
“Do you know which door you heard?”
“It sounded like my office door.”
He stepped back into the hallway. Her office door swung outward into the hall and remained wide open, just as they’d left it. Mark remembered opening the door when he’d searched the house before Jason arrived. “Did you close this door earlier, before you went into the other office and found the light table on?”
“I don’t think so.”
A breeze flowed through the hallway. The office door slammed shut.
He turned to look at her. Libby’s face turned white, and then she flushed and hid her face in her hands. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I panicked. The window at the end of the hall is open, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She looked vulnerable, regretful. “I forgot I opened the window this morning to let air flow through. The hallway gets pretty stifling.”
“You did the right thing by calling 9-1-1.”
“No. I’m an idiot.”
“You didn’t know it was the wind,” he said.
She dropped her hands. “I’m not doing much for my credibility, am I?”
“You’re doing fine.” The door slam had done more for her credibility than she realized. For one, it confirmed her story. Plus, seeing her fright and mortification told him more about her than any interview could. He led her back into the office with the light table. “Is anything else out of place in this room?”
She glanced around the room. “Nothing that I can see, but I’m not in here often. This is Simone’s office.”
“Who?”
“Simone Atherton. She’s my field director. She runs the dig.”
So, the woman Bobby met at the bar last night worked for Libby. Interesting. “I thought running the dig was your job.”
“I can’t be on site all the time. Especially with all these interviews I need to complete.”
“Does Simone or anyone on your crew have a beef with you?”
“Simone’s my best friend, and I haven’t heard any complaints from the crew.”
Mark jotted this information down, and then pulled out the picture Laura had given him of the artifact and handed it to Libby. “Do you recognize this?”
“It’s a point. Looks like an Elko-Eared.”
“If that Elko-Eared point was for sale, what would it be worth?”
She made a face. “Archaeologists don’t buy or sell artifacts. I have no clue what that, or any point, would sell for.”
“I thought the point of digging was to find artifacts.”
“We only want to find artifacts if they can tell us about the culture of the people who made and used them. A point like the one in the photo is useless without context—I don’t know where it was found, what soil level it was found in, what other artifacts or features were associated with it. I can’t estimate its age beyond a two thousand year range—which is too broad to be useful—or even interesting. Without context, that point is nothing but a pretty chunk of obsidian.”
“Do you keep the artifacts you find?”
“No. They go to the landowner, the government agency, or a tribe. We generally try to convince private landowners to donate artifacts to the local tribe.”
“Do you own any artifacts?”
“No. Definitely not. This isn’t a gray area. Owning artifacts could ruin me professionally.”
“Laura Montgomery accused you of stealing that point from their house today.”
She looked startled and flopped into a chair. “Oh, God. That poor woman,” she murmured. “I knew she’d regret what she said.” She looked him in the eye. “Just the implication that I stole an artifact could destroy my career. What are you going to do?”
“We’re not going to expend manpower on an unsubstantiated claim
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