Lucy Crowe was in Waynesville but had something she needed to discuss. Could we meet around nine at High Ridge House? I agreed.
As we were disconnecting she asked a question.
“Do you know an archaeologist named Simon Midkiff?”
“Yes.”
“He may be involved with this H&F bunch.”
“Midkiff?”
“His was the sixth number Davenport dialed before his death. If he tries to contact you, agree to nothing.”
As we talked, Larke photocopied the pictures and articles. When he was done, I told him what Crowe had said. He posed a single question.
“Why?”
“Because they're crazy,” I answered, still distracted by Crowe's comment about Midkiff.
“And Parker Davenport was one of them.”
He slid the photocopies into his briefcase, impaled me with exhausted eyes.
“He tried professional sabotage to keep you from that house.” Larke swept an arm in the direction of the tables. “To divert you from this.”
I did not reply.
“And I was suckered in.”
Still, I remained silent.
“Is there anything I can say to you?”
“There are things you can say to my colleagues.”
“Letters will go to the AAFS, the ABFA, and the NDMS immediately.” He grabbed my wrist. “And I will phone the head of each organization first thing Monday to explain personally.”
“And the press?” Though I knew he was suffering, I could force no warmth into my voice. His disloyalty had hurt me, professionally and personally.
“That will come. I must determine how best to handle it.”
Best for whom? I wondered.
“If it's any consolation, Earl Bliss acted on my orders. He never believed anything against you.”
“Most who know me did not.”
He released my arm but his eyes held firm. Overnight he'd come to look like a tired old man.
“Tempe, I was trained as a military man. I believe in respecting the chain of command and carrying out the lawful orders of my superiors. That predisposition led me not to question things I should have questioned. The abuse of power is a terrible thing. Failure to resist corrupting pressure is equally contemptible. It's time for this old dog to rouse and get off the porch.”
I felt a deep sadness as I watched him leave. Larke and I had been friends for many years. I wondered if we could ever be friends again.
As I made coffee, my thoughts shifted to Simon Midkiff. Of course. It all made sense. His intense interest in the crash site. The lies about excavating in Swain County. The photo with Parker Davenport at Charlie Wayne Tramper's funeral. He was one of them.
A sudden flashback. The black Volvo that had almost run me down. The man at the wheel had looked vaguely familiar. Could it have been Simon Midkiff?
I was completing my report on Edna Farrell when my cell phone rang a second time.
“Sir Francis Dashwood was a prolific guy.”
The statement came from a different galaxy than the one in which my mind was orbiting.
“I'm sorry?”
“It's Anne. I was organizing stuff from our London trip and came across a pamphlet Ted bought at the West Wycombe caves.”
“Anne, this is not—”
“There are gobs of Dashwoods still around.”
“Gobs?”
“Descendants of Sir Francis, later known as Lord Le Despencer, of course. Just for fun I popped the name Prentice Dashwood into a genealogical site where I'm registered. I couldn't believe how many hits I got. One was particularly interesting.”
I waited.
Nothing.
I cracked.
“Do we do this with twenty questions?”
