Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (28 page)

She hesitated, but then agreed, “Truce,” and placed her hand in his. Her hand was small compared to his, with short unpolished nails. He could swear his heart revved up at just the feel of her calloused palm pressed against his calloused palm.

Am I pathetic or what?

“Are you hungry?”

That question caught him by surprise. Was her new strategy torture by niceness? Or calloused palm, erotic handshakes? “Yeah,” he answered suspiciously.

“Good. I picked some wild blueberries yesterday and have muffins cooling inside.”

He didn’t immediately follow her but sat down on one of the chairs to take off his wet shoes and socks. Meanwhile, the delicious aroma of baked goods wafted out to him. The rat dog trotted over and eyed his shoes. Just as it was about to take a chomp out of the fabric, Caleb grabbed the shoe and set it and its mate up on the arm of the chair. When he turned, he saw the dog running off with one of his wet socks in its mouth.

“Boney!” Dr. Cassidy yelled out through the screen door at the thief. There were four more cats of various sizes rubbing themselves against her ankles.

To his surprise, the dog stopped, looked back at its mistress dolefully, dropped the sock, and went off the porch and into the brush.

“You named your dog Boner?”

She made a clucking sound of disgust. “Not Boner. Boney. You know. Napoleon Bonaparte. Little dog. Napoleon Complex.”

Well, at least she has a sense of humor. Okay, I see five cats so far and one semidog. What next?

What next, he soon learned, was Indian tom-tom music, along with some guttural chants, coming from a tape deck inside. “Ay-yi-yi-yi! Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi . . .” Two cages in one corner, one holding what looked like a porcupine with a splint on its leg and the other holding a bird with mangled feathers.
And
the good doctor taking off her T-shirt, whose sleeves were wet, leaving her with just a sports running bra kind of thing. Nothing scandalous. It was midway between a granny-type cotton undergarment and a hoochie-mama Victoria’s Secret scrap of sexiness, but still . . . It was pink. And there was all that skin. Bare arms. Bare midriff. Bare collarbones. Plus, she was ripped, which would explain the exercise mat and hand weights. Not weight lifter ripped, but female athlete ripped. And worst of all—or best of all—she had breasts that could make a grown man weep.

Good thing I am not looking. Nope. I. Am. Not. Looking. And I am not getting turned on.

“It’s hot in here, don’t you think?” she asked, belatedly explaining her “strip tease,” he supposed.

At least it felt like a strip tease to him.

She began to set a tray with supersized muffins, butter, mugs of coffee, sugar and cream, unaware of how tempting she looked. Forget muffins. He’d like a taste of—

To his surprise, she gave him a once-over, too. A once-over that gave special attention to his wet shorts. Then, with a bland expression, giving no clue to her assessment, she said, “It feels like today will be a scorcher.”

Tell me about it!
“It’s probably your oven.”
Shit! Could I sound any more dorky?

She looked at him again, and this time she smiled.

While she continued to set the tray with small plates and napkins and other crap, he looked around her cabin. It was either that or ogle her body, which would not be smart.
Pink? What kind of serious archaeologist wears pink? Shiiit!

The cabin was nice. Dried herbs hung from the low rafters of the kitchen, giving it a fragrant, cozy atmosphere. Colorful dream catchers at the windows caught and reflected the light like prisms. He assumed that a bedroom and bathroom were off to the left. To the right was the addition, which was completely open, making a combination kitchen/den/living room. A huge stone fireplace was flanked on one side by a half dozen baskets, some woven, others coiled, and on the other by a rustic, low, armless rocking chair that looked homemade. Two log walls of the addition held floor-to-ceiling bookcases with a built-in PC desk in the corner. The shelves overflowed with books, many of them related to the Lenni-Lenape tribe of the Delaware nation. Also, there were Indian relics: an impressive arrowhead collection, a peace pipe, several tomahawks, and framed photographs.

He walked over to check out one of the pictures.

Then wished he hadn’t.

It was a side view of Dr. Cassidy facing some man of obvious Native American heritage. Her long auburn hair was in braids. His black hair was, too, and adorned with a single feather. They both wore Indian ceremonial outfits. His chest was bare. On top she appeared to be nude as well, except for the numerous bead and feathered necklaces she wore. On the bottom, he sported a loincloth-type outfit with leather flaps covering his belly and ass. She wore a low-riding, knee-length, fringed leather skirt and beaded moccasins. Her arms were raised, shaking some kind of rattles. He could care less about the man. But her—wow! Her side was bare from armpit to hip. From that view, Caleb got a perfect view of the side of one of her breasts.

Good Lord! Not the way I want to be picturing the archaeologist assigned to our project. She’ll be talking Indian legends and I’ll be thinking, “Wanna come over to my tepee and show me your beads?”

A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Are you married?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

He was walking back to the kitchen and waved over his shoulder at the photograph. “Geronimo back there.”

She made a tsking sound at the political incorrectness of his remark. “That’s Professor Henry Hawk from the University of Pennsylvania. He’s a full-blooded Lenni-Lenape Indian. Geronimo was Apache.”

Well, big whoop!

“I’m not topless in the photo, by the way.” She grinned, obviously reading his mind. “Lots of people think I am, but I’m wearing a flesh-colored leotard.”

That’s just great! Ruin a guy’s fantasy, why don’t you?
“Don’t you believe in historical accuracy?”

“Yeah, but I was young and naive then. I let the promoter talk me into it. Turned out that more people were watching my jiggling breasts as I danced, instead of learning about Indian rituals. That was the last time they tried that.”

Oh, good Lord! Now I add jiggling to my fantasy.

Dr. Cassidy carried the tray out to the deck and motioned for him to move the laptop. While closing the lid, he noticed it contained notes on some Indian mating ritual. He wasn’t dumb enough to ask if that’s what she and Geronimo were doing in the photograph.
Not now. But I’ll bet my Navy SEAL Budweiser pin that I hot damn will later.

After three muffins and sipping his second cup of coffee, he leaned back. “That was great, Dr. Cassidy. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. The wild berries are smaller, but I think they’re sweeter. And, please, call me Claire.”

He nodded. “So, what were you doing in the woods when you were
not camping?
” he asked, repeating her words back to her.

“I don’t camp in the traditional sense, you know, tents and kerosene stoves. I build a wigwam up in the mountains like the Lenni-Lenape Indians did and cook over an open fire.”

“Alone?” He was picturing her with some guy—okay, him—bending over the fire. Maybe dancing a little, making those beads and other things jiggle. Then, they’d go into the wigwam, and—

“Usually.”

“Huh?”

“I usually go alone. I like the solitude. And I’m able to explore and dig for Indian artifacts at my leisure.”

He could understand the solitude part—he was a loner himself—though he liked his fantasy better. “And you planned all along to be back here for the start of the project tomorrow?”

“Of course. I always honor my commitments.”

And she couldn’t have told me that. Not even one little phone call or e-mail.
He decided to hold his tongue. “You’re not going to make me fill out those forms, are you?”

She shook her head. “Not all of them. I’ll help you, if you’re willing.”

He liked the fact that she was willing to bend the rules and decided reciprocation was in order. “I’ll help you.”

“You’re staying at the Butterfly Bed & Breakfast?”

“Uh-huh. It’s convenient, with the cavern right there on the property. Abbie is giving us a nice deal on rooms.”

She cocked her head to the side, probably at his use of Abigail Franklin’s first name.

“I met her grandson Mark in Afghanistan, and we’ve kept in touch occasionally.”

“The Navy pilot?”

He nodded.

“How’s he doing?”

“As well as a young man with one arm could be, I suppose. You should know, Jinx is here because Abbie contacted me.”

“Abbie is a smart cookie. Don’t underestimate her because of her age.”

“You say that as if I should be wary.”

“Let’s face it, cave pearls don’t have a huge value. They lack luster.”

“There’s some kind of chemical bath that’s been invented recently. It supposedly gives them luster. Market value could be over five hundred thousand dollars, maybe a million.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“What?”

“Abbie’s always been kind of secretive about her home, which is on the National Register of Historic Places, and the cavern. I wonder if there might be something else, and she’s just using your firm on the pretext of the pearls.”

In other words, we do the grunt work, and she skips off with the real bonanza.
This was something Caleb would have to investigate further, but not with Ms. Indian Preservation on his tail. “All I can say is that Abbie has been very accommodating. Not just to me. The other members of my team will be staying at her B and B, too.”

“And they are . . . ?”

“Adam Famosa, a professor at Rutgers, and John LeDeux, a police officer from Louisiana. This is a relatively simple job. No need for the usual six-man team.”

“And you’re the project manager?”

“Yep. You’ll meet Veronica Jinkowsky, owner of Jinx, and her on-again, off-again husband Jake Jensen. Ronnie is a lawyer, and Jake is a professional poker player. They won’t be staying, though. They’re off to another treasure hunt in Mexico.”

She nodded.

Caleb wouldn’t be surprised if she had already researched every one of them, as well as the cavern to be explored and the targeted treasure.

“A college professor, a police officer, a poker player, a lawyer, an ex-Navy SEAL . . . What qualifies you guys to be treasure hunters?”

“Good question. Actually, each of our fortune-hunting expeditions is different and requires different skills. Could be anything from deep-sea treasure to buried gold to a lost heirloom. Once an elderly Southern belle hired us to dig up her backyard hoping to find her family’s silver from the Civil War days. Some of us are climbers. Others have diving experience. Those of us on this project put in an additional fifty hours to get further certified in cave diving.”

“Is cave diving so different?”

“Actually, yes. There are almost forty different swimming techniques just for negotiating underground water passes. We don’t take on jobs we can’t handle, or if we do agree to a project requiring special expertise, we hire someone to join the team. Mostly, though, we all share a love of adventure.”

“Did you find the lady’s silver?”

“Yeah. That and a couple of dead Yankee soldiers.”

She appeared to be satisfied with his explanation.

“What is it
you
hope to find on this project, Claire?”

“Well, artifacts most likely. Arrowheads, tools, that kind of thing. Caves have long been used as dwelling places, burial sites, storage houses, places of worship. Add to that the fact that Pennsylvania has been homeland to the Lenape tribe for more than ten thousand years.”

“Ten thousand years!”

She shrugged. “As you probably know, a cavern of any size is at least a million years old. We’re talking ancient and near history here. Near history being the past few hundred years of which we have more concrete evidence. For example, the Lenape were among the first Indians to come in contact with Europeans in the 1600s.”

“Uh-hum,” he said.
Good God! She’s giving me a lecture, like I’m one of her students.

“It would be really great if there were pictographs as well. Cave paintings,” she blathered on, pleased no doubt that she had a captive audience. “Oh, and aside from the usual artifacts, I would love to discover some new fetishes. I only have a few now.”

He couldn’t help himself. He had to grin. “Yeah? I’ve got a few myself. I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. “Oh, you! I meant Indian fetishes. Like small carvings in wood or stone. A turtle, for example. Things that hold some mystical spirit important to . . .” She let her words trail off as she realized he’d known what kind of fetish she’d meant all along.

“Yeah, well, back to what you hope to find. I’ve studied all the maps and history. I suspect the only things, other than pearls, that we’re going to find there are bats and bugs and”—he shivered reflexively—“snakes. I do hate snakes.”

Claire tilted her head to the side. “Didn’t Abbie tell you about Sparky?” Then she smiled. Smirked, actually.

The fine hairs stood out on his body. “Okay. Who’s Sparky?”

“A snake.”

“A snake with a name?”
Uh-oh, this does not sound good.

He must have turned a bit green because she grinned.

Oh, great! A sadist, on top of everything else.

“A big ol’ snake.”

“Define big.”

“Twelve feet long and as wide around as your tattoo.” She pointed to his left biceps where the thin chain tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Sparky’s been living in Spruce Creek Cavern for at least ten years. Not that there aren’t other snakes, but Sparky is the Big Daddy. Every so often, he sticks his head out, but then slithers back in before anyone can catch him.”

Yeah, but has anyone ever shot him? With an AK-47?
“Are you pulling my leg?”

“I wouldn’t think of touching your leg.”

Okay, I recognize an insult when I hear one.
He thought about taking her hand and placing it on his bare thigh, just to annoy her, but sanity persuaded him to restrain himself. “I. Hate. Snakes.”