Elizabeth looked around. “Where is Comfrey Stecoah?”
“I haven’t seen him since before you left. Let’s find out.”
They searched down the hill, away from the path, in the direction they had last seen Comfrey Stecoah. “We’d better yell for him,” said Elizabeth. “I want to make sure he knows it’s us.”
After a few intervals of hoarse shouting, Comfrey Stecoah appeared, carrying his rifle in the crook of his arm and fastening his belt.
“Where were you?” Jake demanded.
“Call of nature. Didn’t want to go so close to the burying ground. What are you’uns making such a racket about?”
“Something has happened to one of our diggers,” said Elizabeth.
“That fat boy that went for water?” They nodded. “Ambush?”
“I don’t think so,” said Elizabeth. “I didn’t see any blood or anything. He’s just… dead.”
“We’re all going back to the church now,” said Jake firmly. “Would you come with us, please?”
“Have you reported it?”
They both looked at Elizabeth. “Not yet,” she said. “I came back as soon as I found him. Shouldn’t someone stay with the body?”
“I will,” said Jake.
“Not by yourself, you won’t!” said Elizabeth indignantly. “Look, why don’t I go back with the day crew, and you and Mr. Stecoah guard the body. There are so many of us that I’m sure we’ll be safe. I can get Randall to drive me to a phone so that I can report this.”
Jake hesitated.
“You don’t know that it was murder,” Elizabeth reminded him. “Victor wasn’t all that healthy.”
“Okay, okay. Get out of here before I come to my senses. We’ll stay with the body. Go on.”
Elizabeth looked back. “Jake, should I call Milo?”
“Ask Mr. Barnes to stop by and tell him. I don’t want us split up for any longer than we have to be. I think you’ll be safe in the church with the diggers. Anyway, we can all walk back together as far as…”
As far as the body, Elizabeth thought. “I wish there were another way back.”
They filed past the body in silence, most of the diggers averting their eyes, respecting the privacy of the dead. Elizabeth looked again at Victor and tried to think of something kind, something that she would miss. When this proved futile, she fell back upon the hope that he had not suffered.
When they were out of sight of the death scene, they began to talk in low voices about what they would do when they got back to the church, and about Milo’s plans for the excavation. Finally the speculation trailed off into a despondent silence. As they emerged from the woods into the churchyard, one of the diggers gasped and pointed to a man walking toward them.
“It’s all right,” said Elizabeth after a moment’s scrutiny. “He’s a deputy.”
What a solemn bunch these archaeologists are, thought Daniel Hunter Coltsfoot as he studied their grim faces. Mentally he prescribed an herb tonic for the lot of them. “Hi!” he said with professional friendliness. “I was hoping I’d catch you on lunch break.”
“Who called you?” asked Elizabeth, looking around for the squad car.
“Nobody,” said Dummyweed. “I just dropped in on the off chance of catching you here, and-” The implication of her question struck him. “Why?” he asked hoarsely.
“There’s been another death.”
The erstwhile deputy took a step back. “Now look, I just came up to invite you guys to our craft fair. I’m not… I mean-”
Elizabeth wasn’t listening. “Randall will show you where the body is while the rest of us go to a phone to report it. I’ll tell Mr. Barnes you’re here.”
“But I don’t like bodies!” Dummyweed was protesting as Randall led him away.
“All right, which car are we taking?” asked Elizabeth briskly. “I think three of us should stay here in the church. One of you can go with me to telephone. Where’s Robin?”
“She went inside the church-oh, there she is.”
A slender girl in olive khaki slacks appeared on the porch. “I found this on the table,” she told Elizabeth, handing her a piece of notebook paper.
Elizabeth unfolded the note and read it aloud: “Sorry I missed you. I came back for my guitar. I’d stay to lunch, but I want to get back to MacDowell because Special Collections closes at five. And anyway, I’ve tasted y’all’s cooking. Best, Mary Clare.” Elizabeth lowered the note. “So she was here today too.”
“Are you going to tell the sheriff?” asked Robin.
Elizabeth nodded. “If Victor wasn’t murdered, it won’t matter. And if he was-I’d better!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE MOTEL ROOM was just as he had left it. Since the vandalism episode, Milo had always unlocked the door holding his breath, expecting a scene of wreckage within. He felt guilty that he had not stayed to guard the room as Alex had suggested, but subsequent events had eclipsed the destruction of the computer. Milo felt that he was needed more at the site. As soon as he got this password business straightened out, he intended to go back and supervise the digging. He glanced at his watch. Jamie should be in by now, he decided, picking up the phone.
After a few moments, Jamie’s voice came on the line, as calm and unhurried as always. “Milo! The news about Alex came out in the paper today. I’m really sorry to hear about it.”
“Yeah,” said Milo awkwardly. He never knew whether to accept the sympathy as consolation or to agree about what a shame it was. “I’m finishing the project, Jamie. At least, I’m trying to.”
“That’s right. He changed the password, didn’t he? He told me about the trouble you had up there.”
“It’s okay now,” said Milo, in no mood to chat. “What’s the new password?”
Jamie hesitated. “Milo, we’re not supposed to give those things out over the phone.”
“Jamie, it’s all right. It’s
“I know it’s you, Milo,” said Jamie patiently. “But the phone might be tapped.”
“Look, if anybody wanted the password, they could probably break into the computer and get it! Anybody except me, that is! It’s all I can do to make those things work
Jamie sighed. “Hold on.”
Milo waited, tapping his fingers on the table and wondering who Jamie’s boss was, in case he had to go up the whole damn bureaucracy to get the password. In a few minutes, Jamie was back on the line. “I can’t say the password on an open phone line,” he said, “but I can give you a hint.”
Milo closed his eyes. “A hint,” he groaned. “What is it?”
“I think he once had a dog named this.”
Milo remembered an old black Labrador retriever; his picture was still on the pine table in Alex’s den. Alex told stories about trying to housebreak the pup in a student apartment when he was an undergrad, and so he had named him… Leakey! Milo smiled at the pun: the incontinent puppy named after the great paleoanthropologist Louis B. Leakey. “I got it, Jamie,” he said quickly. “Thanks!”
He tapped through the well-worn formula, entered the password twice, and was relieved to see the title page of the file appear on the screen. He bypassed the introductory text and called up the chart itself, the thousand measurements of Plains Indian bones that Alex had spent his life classifying. The twenty-five Cullowhee skulls were little more than a footnote to the bulk of Alex’s research, but in statistical data, every little bit helped. Milo typed in the command to compare the two groups of skulls. Line by line they appeared in glowing green letters. Milo stared at them as if the computer had spelled out Balshazzar’s doom on the wall in Babylon. The numbers were entirely different.
Entirely different.
The Cullowhee numbers were not within the range established for American Indians. Milo dived for the
