Westin Legacy Read online

  Dr. Wilcox murmured assent. “It was a common practice. I’ve been in mortuary caves before, but none this far west.”

  “This cave is a little modern for me,” Lavel said, as he bent down to examine something on the rocky floor. “The last excavation I led went back three thousand years. It is a shame, no, that there has been so much tampering? Still, this will be most interesting. Most interesting.” He got to his feet and approached the large rift in the floor. Looking over his shoulder, he called, “Dr. Wilcox, we must descend this crevasse and photograph what lies at the bottom. Everyone come in now, but be careful where you step, there are pieces of remains strewn about.”

  Dr. Wilcox began issuing directions and Echo did her best to stay out of the way. It was cold this deep underground and creepy despite the fact the torches had been lit in the cavern. There was talk of bringing in a generator so they wouldn’t add to the damage by continuing to use the kerosene torches.

  She didn’t think of the people buried here as ghosts, but there was a definite feel to the place. A musty, dank odor permeated her nostrils. Sounds were muffled as everyone worked with practiced discipline. Echo knew this was a survey-and-assessment phase and she was impressed with the professionalism of the procedure.

  After an hour, she found a rock that no one seemed interested in and sat down. Nearby, Wilcox and Lavel discussed how they would construct a grid the next day and made equipment lists. The students had rigged a halter and one had descended into the large chasm. The continual snapping and flashing of cameras was ever present.

  Mike sidled up to her. She wasn’t sure where he’d been, had all but forgotten about him. “Think it’s all right if I leave?” he asked her.

  “Sure.”

  “What about locking it when they’re done?”

  “I heard two of the students say they were spending the night outside the entrance. I don’t think you’re going to have to come out here anymore.”

  “That’s okay with me. Kind of gives me the willies. Hate to leave you here alone, but I’m supposed to ride the summer pasture today. We delivered the bulls up there a couple weeks ago.”

  “The bulls?”

  Mike winked. “Now you know where next year’s calves come from.”

  She laughed with him. “Ah…”

  “Plus occasionally a coyote goes after one of the calves and I need to—”

  “Mike, I’m okay here. Go back to work.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Positive. But on your way out, will you set the pickax aside so no one touches it? There may be prints. Use a cloth or something.”

  He shook his curly head. “Sorry, Miss, guess I goofed. I picked it up a few minutes ago when I cleared the path. I didn’t think about prints.”

  She plastered on a smile. “It was a long shot. Don’t worry about it.”

  He loped off on his giant feet and she contemplated leaving, too. It wasn’t like she was actually helping.

  On the other hand, she was safe from Adam inside this cave. Every detail of the night before was so clear it hurt. Every kiss, every whispered word, every touch. Each one had an identity, each one played and replayed in her brain. She was near tears one moment, furious with him the next, anxious to see him and find out if a night’s rest had changed the way they had left things, just as anxious to never see him again.

  What if he dismissed her the way he had last night? Self-protection kept her backside glued to the rock.

  The sound of voices roused her from a stupor some time later and she stood and stretched, surprised two hours had passed. Thanks to Adam, she hadn’t slept well the night before and she smothered a yawn with her fist.

  The student who had been lowered into the chasm was pulled free a few minutes later. “The main platform is thirty-three-point-five meters down and six meters long,” he reported. “It drops off in a narrower chasm at the far end. The light picked up traces of remains and debris down there, too. Here, I took photos of the main ledge.”

  He handed the digital camera to Wilcox and she and Lavel scrolled through the shots on the view screen, Lavel exclaiming with delight when he caught a glimpse of something interesting. Echo was curious what the chasm looked like but shy about barging in so she stayed back, but it soon became clear something in the atmosphere had changed.

  She looked at Lavel’s face and found his eyebrows squeezed together as Wilcox held and operated the camera. “Go back one, no another,” Lavel said, his accent thicker than before but his voice hushed. “Oui, Madame, there. Go ahead now, see if he got closer. Rogers? Join us, s’il vous plaît.”

  The students had long since stopped talking and stood as a unit nearby. Rogers, the man who had taken the pictures, stepped over to the camera and the conversation grew softer.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Echo asked.

  Wilcox looked up from the small screen. “We’re not sure what we’re looking at. We’ll need to take another peek, that’s all. Part and parcel of the work. Why don’t you go back to the ranch, Miss De Gris? Your cousin said I was to mention you have an appointment with the sheriff at three. There’s nothing you can do here and sooner or later we’ll need you out of this cavern so we can conclude our assessment.”

  Echo studied the professor’s face and felt one-hundred-percent certain she was hiding something. She stepped closer. “Is there something down in the chasm?”

  “Remains and artifacts alike,” Lavel said impatiently. He had stepped into the harness and was buckling the straps. “And someone put the garbage. Imbeciles!”

  “Garbage? Like what?”

  “Wrappers, the aluminum cans.”

  “Those things might be important,” Echo said excitedly. “They might have fingerprints on them. They could help the police identify the man who disturbed this spot.” She didn’t add that they might also tie into a murder. “It’s important you recover them with care,” she continued. “I produced a show on police procedure when I was an intern during college. Wear gloves and put things in paper sacks or better yet leave them in place—”

  Lavel interrupted her with an impatient twist of his hand. “Miss De Gris, we know how to process all sorts of evidence, both of the past and the present. We do not, how you say, manhandle objects of any nature. Please, do not worry.”

  His charm had certainly slipped a notch or two.

  Dr. Wilcox smiled nervously as though anxious to smooth ruffled feathers.

  Echo backed down, thinking clearly at last. What if something down there revealed Birch Westin had been out here with Willet Garvey? Maybe Birch had been more involved than even she suspected. Maybe that’s why he was dragging his feet about allowing the dig. Merciful heavens, what if he’d been in cahoots with Garvey?

  And what if she had now made sure that possible evidence of that meeting would be saved and processed?

  She said her goodbyes hastily, anxious not only for fresh air but to find Adam and prepare him if she could.

  She just wasn’t sure what she was preparing him for—or if he would listen to her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sheriff Clayton Inkwell was a man whose appearance misled the unwary. It wasn’t just the mass of white-blond bristly hair that escaped his cap, or the unshaven chin or even the dusty green uniform. It was something in his eyes, lurking there in the pale blue depths, that hinted you could tell him whatever you wanted. Heck, he was just putting in time until he retired in a couple years; he was a good old boy and about as smart as a grasshopper.

  Adam knew none of it was true. He suspected Inkwell would be reelected as Woodwind’s sheriff until he sat down at his desk one day and keeled over dead. And he would be reelected because of one reason: come hell or high water, he got things done.

  Why was Echo late for this meeting? He knew she was back. He’d caught sight of her a few times in the field but he’d gone out of his way to avoid her. Once that meant turning the tractor and going back over land that had already been mowed which was a giant waste o
f time but he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, they had nothing left to say to one another.

  Unless she’d somehow managed to single-handedly blow up the cave and the whole team of archaeologists inside it and he doubted that.

  He and the sheriff sat on a bench in the shade. Pauline delivered iced tea and they chatted about the last time Inkwell had been at the house, right after Pierce and Princess Analise’s problems. Adam wanted the sheriff busy elsewhere before Wilcox and the others returned. The cave thing had to go smoothly or his father might well rescind permission. Thinking about his father didn’t help Adam stay calm.

  He used to be the even-keeled one. Pierce was the rebel. Cody was the tip-of-the-iceberg type. They all had their roles. His was Mr. Take-It-Easy.

  But you wouldn’t know it now, not since Echo had showed up.

  “Why don’t I just go over my story again,” he finally said. “Echo and you can mosey inside and talk about her part when she decides to show up.”

  Inkwell crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, that’s okay. I got me nowhere else more important to be and I’d rather do it this way. Don’t like chewing the fat twice.” He paused a second and nodded toward the fields. “Anyway, she’s coming right now,” he added.

  Adam turned to find a horse at full gallop covering the newly mown field. “I doubt that’s her.”

  But he was wrong, it was Echo. She was on the big bay gelding and she handled him now as though she’d been riding all her life. She slowed the big boy to a walk and swung off him, hitting the driveway with her reddish boots and striding toward the two men, horse trailing behind.

  Her jeans were tight, her red tank top was tighter, and the brown Stetson settled on her ebony hair just iced the cake.

  And yet what Adam saw was moonlight-drenched flesh, glistening wet and incredibly smooth. Huge shadowed eyes, parted lips, invitation. He shook the images out of his head.

  “Damn good-looking gal for a city girl,” Sheriff Inkwell said softly as he got to his feet. In a louder voice, he added, “Ms. De Gris, nice you could join us.”

  She stuck out a lightly tanned hand to shake with Inkwell. “Did I keep you waiting?” she asked, checking her wrist for a watch that wasn’t there.

  “Why are you late?” Adam grumbled.

  “Am I?” She wrapped the horse’s reins around the piece of railing, and met his gaze. “I lost track of time. I was out trying to find someone. Had something important to discuss with that someone but they kept getting away from me so I thought maybe Bagels and I could chase him down. We couldn’t find him, though. Shame.”

  They stared at each other. Adam wanted two things. One—her to go away and never come back. Two—her to fall into his arms and make him forget how upset he was with her. Neither seemed likely. And the longer he kept her gaze, the more he wanted the second, to hell with the first.

  Inkwell cleared his throat.

  “Shall we?” he asked, and indicated they should sit on the bench.

  Adam moved aside and let Echo take the spot he’d occupied. He settled his rear against the porch railing. A glance at Echo revealed she’d appropriated his cold drink and had taken a long swallow.

  “Now, then, comfy?” the sheriff asked. “Fine. Go over it from the top, Ms. De Gris. Right from when you drove up to the house. You were driving, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, I was driving. As we mentioned, Adam, Mr. Westin, has a bad shoulder.” From there she reiterated everything the way Adam recalled it up to the point when they had separated. He listened carefully as she described seeing signs of a struggle through the front window, trying the knob, finding the door open, going inside, finding Garvey, grabbing the pillow and holding it over his chest wound.

  Her beautiful face reflected every moment of the ordeal as though she relived it in the telling. Adam internally winced as he watched her. He’d left her alone to deal with it. He’d been so caught up in catching the bad guy, he’d abandoned her and at the Garveys of all places.

  Was it possible he’d been chasing his own father?

  No—

  “And he died without ever regaining consciousness, is that right?” the sheriff persisted, his voice losing a little of the aw-shucks twang.

  “No, like I said, he did regain consciousness. He tried to take my hand.”

  The sheriff rested his beefy forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped between his knees. He twisted his head to peer up at Echo. “See now, this is where you got a little sketchy yesterday. I had a feeling maybe he might have said something to you. Dying words, you know?”

  “No,” she said, but the way she said it caught Adam’s attention. He stopped himself from doing a double take.

  “Are you sure now, Ms. De Gris? He’s lying there close to death, you must have looked like an angel to him. Didn’t he say something, maybe point a dying finger?”

  “No,” she repeated.

  She was a terrible liar. Her cheeks flushed, her gaze dropped and she swallowed air. Adam figured if he could sense it, Inkwell could.

  “You’re certain?”

  “It was very stressful,” she said, her fingers tapping the sides of the slippery glass. “I didn’t know how to help him. If he spoke, I didn’t hear what he said.”

  Adam figured she was hedging now because she felt the weight of a lie. He swallowed some air of his own, trying to imagine what she was hiding. In light of the night before, the possibilities seemed anything but good.

  The sheriff sat up again. “Well, you think about it, okay, ma’am? Sometimes a little distance can bring back a memory you didn’t know you had. Get a good night’s sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow and maybe you’ll have recalled some little thing. Might mean a lot, might not mean a damn thing. Best if you just let me be the judge.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Um, when can I go home?”

  “Go home? Oh, you mean back to California? In a few days. I’ll let you know.” Inkwell turned to Adam. “Now, how about you? Tell me again what happened.”

  Adam started his tale from the run across the field. He didn’t remember anything new to add.

  “How was this fellow dressed?” Inkwell asked.

  “From the back? Let’s see. Dark shirt, black jeans, boots.”

  “A hat?”

  “Yeah, brown or black, regulation cowboy. And maybe a scarf or something red up around his neck.”

  He caught Echo’s jerk as he described the clothes. Why had she reacted?

  “That’s good,” Inkwell said, his glance straying to Echo and back. “Was he wearing a gun?”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  “But if he killed Mr. Garvey, he must have been armed.”

  “He must have. But he was some distance ahead of me.”

  “Yes. Because you stepped through the deck.”

  Adam caught the inflection in the sheriff’s voice. “That’s right, I did,” he said.

  “Exactly. Making it near impossible for you to catch up with the assumed murderer.”

  Adam stood abruptly, too anxious to stand there another second. “Are you trying to make a point of some kind, Sheriff?”

  Inkwell feigned surprise. “Me? No, no, just making sure I understand. After all, you said yourself you went there because the two older sons had been harassing you about money they thought you owed that stinker Lucas. You couldn’t have been too happy about paying them off.”

  “Maybe not. But not so unhappy that I’d plug their father.”

  Inkwell shook his head. “Calm down, Adam, I’m not saying you plugged anyone. I just wonder how anxious you were to chase down one of their enemies.”

  Adam stared hard at Inkwell which seemed to make no impression on the older man.

  “What about the bag in Mr. Garvey’s hand?” Echo asked.

  Inkwell turned his attention to her. “Coke, just like you thought.”

  “Then he used drugs?”

  “Don’t know about that. Preliminary toxicology reports don’t show any cocai
ne in his system and we found no other drugs in the house except a little weed that one of his boys fessed up to scoring.”

  “Then why was he holding it like that?”

  “I suspect if you two hadn’t come along, by the time I got there, it might have appeared to my poor blundering self that a drug deal had gone wrong. I would imagine the artifacts from your cave, if indeed that’s where they’re from, would have been long gone. Nothing but poor, dead Willet Garvey hanging on to a bag of high-priced-escape-from-this-dreary-old-world, conclusions to be drawn.”

  Adam cleared his throat. “And the bullet that killed him? What kind was it?”

  “A .22 caliber.”

  The sound of engine noises were faint but growing louder by the second. Adam glanced at his watch. A little after four. “I think the archaeologists are about to show up,” he said, hoping the sheriff took the hint and left.

  Echo stood so fast some of the ice jumped clear of the glass she still held. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Sheriff,” she said quickly, sticking out one damp hand.

  Inkwell sat back a bit. “Still, you folks got to admit, that leaves the question of why. Doesn’t sit right, least ways, not to a country boy like me.”

  Echo’s hand drifted back to her side. “What do you mean?”

  He settled his light eyes on her. “Why kill old Willet?”

  “Maybe someone wanted to steal the artifacts.”

  “Now, see, that’s what I thought, but then the expert on such things, at least in our department, well, he took a look at what was in the box and he said that, while the relics and bones were old and in mostly decent shape, nothing there was intrinsically worth the risk of taking a life. I mean ethics aside, murder is a risky business.”

  “An argument between thieves,” Adam suggested, aware that beside him, Echo startled. What was he missing? The engine noise was louder, too. This side of the lake if he was any judge. They’d be here in a few more minutes.