More Bitter Than Death: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,125

the bar, asked if I was Duncan Thayer. When I said yes, he said he was glad he caught me, said that we’d met years ago and he asked after you. I was surprised, because that…was a long time ago. Said he’d been hoping you’d be at that conference, that he’d have a chance to run into you. Then he said, ‘Do me a favor, tell Emma Billy Griggs sends his regards, and that I’ll catch up with her some time next year. Next time I’m in Massachusetts.’”

A horrible icy knot began to form at the pit of my stomach. “What did he sound like? Did he have an accent?”

“I dunno, kinda Southern, I guess. I couldn’t tell where from.”

Dear God. “Duncan, are you sure you’re telling me everything?”

“Yeah, positive.” He looked at me and swallowed, another old habit he had when he was scared and not going to admit it. “Emma, what’s this about?”

I started to shake, my head aching like it was in a vise. I stepped away from him.

It had to be Tony Markham. It was just sick enough. Maybe he’d dyed his hair…and as a former colleague of mine, a Mesoamericanist, the historical archaeologists wouldn’t be so likely to recognize him. The authorities had said he must be dead, but I never believed this, not the way he looked when he killed Billy Griggs while I watched—he was just too evil to let a little thing like a hurricane get him…

“Emma, what’s your damage?”

I shook my head, trying to think of something logical to say, something that would make this all go away. Finally, I sat down. It had to be Tony.

“Emma?”

“Just something I thought was over with. Don’t worry about it, Duncan. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but it has nothing to do with you.”

It couldn’t be, I thought. Christ, it never ends, nothing ever ends, can’t I ever be done with something? What was it that Faulkner said? The past is never dead; it’s not even past.

An hour later, I’d recovered myself, convinced myself that it was a practical joke, on Duncan’s part or someone else’s. Had to be. Maybe it was sick, but people at conferences do sick things, sometimes, in the name of humor.

Carla caught me on the way to the bar for lunch. “Good conference, Em?”

“Yeah, sure. Pretty busy,” I said automatically, wondering whether I was capable of eating. The menu was far too familiar to tempt me.

“You must not have noticed that my sarcasm needle was pinning the irony meter,” she said. “I hardly saw you after the first night or so. I don’t think you went to any of the usual papers you go to, and I saw you not only talking with cops, but also sitting in on the papers where it’s usually just us osteological ghouls hanging out.”

I struggled to figure out what to say, what she was saying to me.

“Ah, forget it. Lissa told me. You might have told me yourself.”

I felt myself flushing, guilty.

“Hell, Carla, I—”

“I know, I know, it was a busy weekend for you—I’ve been hearing rumors. And sometime I’d like to know all the details. But in the meantime…” She dug into her bag, once filled with cigars and cards and flyers for her program, and now filled with new books. She handed me a battered forensic anthropology text. “I just picked up the new edition. It’s not going to do you any good with the legalities south of the border here,” she said, “but it should provide some good references to get you started.”

“Carla, I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s good, because I haven’t got the time to listen; I’m out of here.” She handed me one more thing from her bag. The battered deck of Chippendale cards. “Here. Lissa’s going to be around for a while, and Chris, if he isn’t too hung over, said he wouldn’t mind a game. So give them back to me next year, okay?”

“Thanks, Carla, I owe you.”

“Boy, do you ever.” She gave me a hug. “Don’t take any shit from these jokers, Em. Stay in touch.”

“You too.”

Later on, I found Meg. I owed it to her to tell her what I knew. She’d been out there, that night at Penitence Point years ago, and she’d saved me, truth be told. She deserved to know, so I told her everything, excepting what I’d learned from Scott about Duncan. That would come out all on its own, I figured, and he was his