take a long bath in one of Miss Vivee herb concoctions to try to shake all of the murderous auras that were swirling around in the air.
Chapter Three
It was early – too early Koryn had complained. And too hot. The edges of the sky were still a little pink, the gray of the night faint. The early morning June air was a balmy seventy degrees. Miss Vivee on the other hand, was ecstatic.
“Morning air is the best,” she said patting on her chest, taking in big gulps of air and encouraging us to do the same.
Koryn drug her feet across the sand of the beach as we headed toward the shoal. I was used to early morning jaunts. I carried Miss Vivee’s folding chair and multi-colored striped beach umbrella. Koryn had her lunch basket. The both of them had decided to come with me to my excavation site on Stallings Island for the morning.
Koryn Razner had been Gemma Burke’s roommate at the time she died. It had been the first murder in Yasamee in sixty-five years. From what I’d learned, they had met in Atlanta and became fast friends once Gemma found out that Koryn was being physically and mentally abused by her boyfriend. Gemma had brought Koryn to Yasamee to protect her. Like me, Koryn came to hide out. And like me, because she didn’t have anywhere to live after Gemma died, she had found salvation at the Maypop.
Renmar, at Miss Vivee’s direction had taken Koryn in, and Viola Rose and her husband, Gus, owners of the Jellybean Café gave her a job. In the past month Koryn was finding her way back to a normal kind of life. She was generally happy.
“It’ll be fun,” Miss Vivee had told her. “You’ll love the history of the Island.” Miss Vivee trying to help in her own sort of way.
And that’s the part that made me happy. The history of the island.
Stallings Island, the home of Native Americans more than 4600 years ago, was a National Landmark, and now was all mine to excavate. My mother had called in a couple of favors and got me the permission to dig on the Island. National Geographic had supplied funds in 1999 to reopen a 1929 excavation for mapping and radiocarbon sampling, but no digging had been done at the time. Now the Archaeological Conservancy had given me permission to do it. Funding, equipment, volunteer amateur archaeologists, the use of a lab, and a stipend – enough for a year’s worth of work had been all a part of the go ahead to dig. It had all been music to my ears.
Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was fate. Maybe, fate with a little luck thrown in. But I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
I handed over the umbrella and chair to Koryn and told her to finish walking Miss Vivee (we’d left Cat at home) to the end of Oliver’s property and sit on the bench down by the coastline. I needed them to wait for me while I let Oliver know we were going to use his boat to get Miss Vivee over to the Island.
Oliver Gibbons’ family at one time had owned Stallings Island as well as most of the land that made up Yasamee. That’s before the Archaeological Conservancy had taken the Island due to all the public looting. Still he and Renmar visited the Island regularly, even though they thought I didn’t know.
To reach the shoal I’d usually just walked over it – a narrow sandbank that went from the mainland to the Island – crossing the shallow waters of the Savannah. But I couldn’t do that with Miss Vivee. Even if I wasn’t exactly sure how old she was, I knew for a fact she was old enough that I shouldn’t chance her trying to balance her way across a two-foot wide, fifty-foot long, sand bar. Oliver’s boat was the best way for Miss Vivee to travel. I was sure that he didn’t mind me using it but figured it was better to ask.
Oliver’s house was the only one along the five mile shore. The Savannah River was the backyard to his beautiful two-story cottage painted a Gainsboro gray with white trim. It was huddled amid sea oats, morning glories and sand. I walked up six steps and across the porch to the large wooden door and raised my hand to knock but stopped mid-air. I leaned it, fist still poised and listened.
Someone was shouting.
It was like