The Five-Day Dig (23 page)

“Do what?”

She met his gaze. He looked even more pale than usual, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Write the letters,” she said. “I wish I could excuse you for it, but I don’t know how.”

“Me?” His eyes got even bigger. “I didn’t write them!”

She shook her head. “You’re a big fan of Dunk’s, and you must have heard about Domenico and his ruins when you worked in
Pompeii
. Who else had access to the department letterhead and would benefit from the letters?”

He jutted out his chin. “You would benefit most.”

She stared at him, disgusted. “Now you’re trying to blame me? I didn’t even want to do ‘The Five-Day Dig.’”

“So you claim. But you accepted Dunk’s offer without hesitation. You say you didn’t know Rentino, but you’ve been flirting with him since our first night in
Italy
. From the start, you two have acted quite cozy with each other.”

Her jaw dropped. They glared at each other. A mix of emotions flickered across his face – anger, regret, pain – the same feelings churning in her own gut.

Finally, she said, “You’d better leave.”

“I shall.” He opened the door. “I thought I knew you.”

“I thought I knew
you
!”

He left and slammed the door behind him.

She burst into tears. Hiding her face in the pillow, she sobbed like a lovesick schoolgirl. Her mind raced in circles. She didn’t want to believe he could commit fraud. If he were going to forge something, why not something directly related to him? Had he really gained much riding on her coattails? Neither of them had much of a role in the show, and the trip to
Italy
wasn’t that big a deal for him when his family lived in England – not all that far away.

Or was she just desperate to come up with some way to clear him in her mind?

Was it possible anyone other than him had written the letters? Who else would benefit from her book being promoted? Her editor? Someone else at the publishing house? But they didn’t have access to the
Growden
Classical Studies letterhead. Could Farber have done it himself and set her up to look like a fraud? Why would he?

No explanation made sense.

Her phone rang. She dug it out of her handbag and saw Chaz’s name. Her heart pounded. She punched “Talk” and said, “Hello,” in a throaty voice.

“We’ll find out who did it,” he said firmly. “It wasn’t me, and I know it wasn’t you, either.”

Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. He believed her. And she wanted to believe him. She didn’t know if she should, but for now she would give him the benefit of the doubt. She couldn’t stand not to. “OK. ... Yes.”

“I’ll put some thought into it tonight while you read your father’s journal.”

She swallowed. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Do you still have the letter?”

“No, Farber took it from me.”

“I’ll ask him for it.” He hesitated. “If he won’t give it to me, I’ll see if I can get the one Dunk has.”

A shade of doubt crossed her mind. Could he be planning to destroy the evidence of his guilt? “I’ll ask Dunk for his letter,” she said. “Hopefully, you can get the other one from Farber. Then we’ll each have a copy to comb for clues.”

“Or to hold against each other?” he asked.

An urge to reassure him almost overwhelmed her, but she tried to preserve some caution. “I sure hope not.”

He hesitated. “Fair enough. Call me if you need me.”

A little whimper squeaked in her throat. She hoped he hadn’t heard it, because it made clear how much she did need him. “Thank you,” she choked out.

She was tempted to keep him on the line for more reassurance, even with her father’s research waiting. Instead, she forced herself to say goodnight.

Once off the phone, she glanced at the journal lying on the desk. Having it in her possession after so many years of pining for it was almost too much. To give herself time to savor the moment, she decided that before reading it, she would wash her face and get dressed for bed.

When she climbed under the covers with the volume, she still felt trepidation. What would it contain? Would the notes be enough for her to understand her father’s lines of thinking? If there were any way she could complete the research and publish his legacy, she would gladly make the effort.

With shaky hands, she opened the cover and skimmed the first few pages. They dated to a trip he had made to Egypt two years before he died. The entries included few words – mostly sketches of artifacts. He had been a skilled artist, and the details in the renderings intrigued her.

Eager to read his analysis of the finds, she moved on, but the next dozen pages were laid out the same way. Frustrated, she began to flip more quickly. Then she noticed a strange pattern. Under each drawing, he had jotted a range of dollar figures: $500-$1,500 beneath a footed alabaster vessel, $300-$500 for a silver snake bracelet. He seemed to be estimating the value of the items – but why?

She pinched the remaining pages between thumb and forefinger and flipped through them. About one-third of the journal comprised Egyptian artifacts, each beautifully sketched – and priced. Following that, he had treated ancient Greek and Roman finds in the same way, depicting jewelry, oil lamps, mosaic panels and marble busts. The whole book followed the same format. There were no research notes, no analyses, no theories.

As her suspicions gelled, a sick feeling tightened in her gut. No wonder her father had never published. His “research” amounted to nothing more than selling artifacts on the black market!

Her eyes stung again.
This
was the lost work she had mourned nearly as much as the man himself?

She threw the book across the room. If her concept of his professional life was so skewed, could she even trust her personal memories about him? She didn’t know what to believe – or how the reality of who he was reflected on her as his daughter.

Between this and the forged letters, she felt like crawling under a rock.
How much would a flight home tomorrow set me back?
she wondered, dreading facing her colleagues in the morning. Maybe she would even schedule a sabbatical for the fall. The plan to escape from her pathetic life appealed to her, but what would she do with herself?

Her phone rang again. Chaz? She grabbed it and saw Liz’s name on the screen. Holding a conversation was the last thing she felt like, but she needed someone to keep her anchored, and it was safer to lean on Liz than Chaz. She picked up the call. “Hello?”

Her friend hesitated. “Winnie? You don’t sound like yourself. Is everything all right?”

She sucked in an unsteady breath. “It’s been one of the worst days of my life. I’m about to book a flight home.”

“Oh, God. What happened? Is it Sam?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m sorry for being melodramatic.” She pulled herself together and gave a jumbled account of the discovery of the forged letters, leaving out her suspicions of Chaz. Then she described the miraculous appearance of her father’s journal and what a disgrace it had turned out to be. “I can’t even tell you how crushed I am. My whole career was built on top of his.”

“That’s not true,” Liz said. “Your career is your own. You’ve built it on years of study, dedicated research and your own intelligence. You have so much to be proud of. And you’re not responsible for your father’s actions, only your own. Don’t confuse the two.”

She held her temples. “I guess you’re right. I can’t even think straight right now. My life feels like it’s been turned upside-down.”

“Have a glass of wine and go to bed. In the morning, get back to work, and you’ll feel more like yourself again.”

“That doesn’t seem likely.”

“Let’s try focusing on your work now. I called because I wanted to hear how the excavation is going so far. Can you fill me in?”

“I’ll try.” Gathering her thoughts, Winnie recounted the major finds the team had uncovered, then expanded on a few details about the purgatorium. To her surprise, as she spoke about her work, she began to regain a sense of normality.

When she finished her summary, Liz gave a low whistle. “It sounds incredible. I envy you.”

A laugh burst out of her. “You do? With all this craziness going on, it’s hard to remember that I’m working on an amazing dig. Thank you for reminding me.”

“We all need a little prodding now and then. Speaking of which, have you slept with Chaz yet?”

The question surprised her. She thought she had dispelled Liz’s speculations on that point, but evidently her friend knew her better than she did herself. Denying her feelings now would be useless. “I’m not sure where that’s going, if anywhere. I’ll update you when I get home.”

Liz tried interrogating her further, but she refused to say anything else. Scrambling for a change of subject, Winnie asked her about the baby, a topic the new mother couldn’t resist.

After they hung up, she lay back in bed, clinging to what solace the conversation had offered her. So her father wasn’t a saint or even much of a scholar. So her boss believed her capable of forgery, while the man she had been falling for might actually have done it. Even if the worst turned out to be true, she still led an exciting life in many ways.

Why, then, did it feel so empty?

In any case, she wasn’t about to quit “The Dig,” when she’d probably never get an opportunity like it again. She only had to put on a stoic face for the next two days; then she would have the rest of summer break to digest the experience and work out what was next.

What she would say to her colleagues after the accusations of forgery and the shame of her father’s notebook, she didn’t know. But she wouldn’t give up yet.

Q
UATTORDICI

E
ARLY THE NEXT
morning, a knock sounded at her door.

“Winnie, it’s me,” Chaz’s muffled voice intoned.

She opened up without hesitation, and her heart sped up when she saw him, but tension still hung in the air.

“Are you ready to go down to the site?” he asked with no expression.

“Almost. Come in for a minute.”

He entered and closed the door. As she went to the dresser to get a pair of socks, he sat down at the desk and picked up a pen, tapping it on a notepad. “I got Dr. Farber’s letter from him.”

Her gaze shot to him in surprise. That he would bring up the letters first seemed like a sign of innocence, but she was afraid her attraction to him could cloud her judgment. “He didn’t send it straight to his lawyer?” she asked, no longer caring if she sounded fed up with their boss.

“No, he handed it right over to me. He only said that he’d be interested in anything I find out.”

“Hmph.” Socks in hand, she sank down on the bed. It didn’t seem like Farber’s style to retreat so easily. Recruiting Chaz to spy on her would fit his MO better. Or was she being paranoid? “Did you take a look at it?”