Emma Fielding Mysteries #3
What bones are buried in the shadows of the past?
Asked to join in a dig at the site of the eighteenth–century Chandler House, archaeologist Emma Fielding and her student crew have descended upon Stone Harbor, Massachusetts. But certain residents of the tiny coastal community are none too happy about Emma's arrival -- especially when her excavation uncovers a pair of freshly slain corpses. There are dark forces at play in this dangerously divided town, where a distrust of strangers wars with a desire for tourist dollars. And when a young local's life is snuffed out, Emma is determined to get to the twisted roots of the strange secrets buried in this killing ground. But a mystery that lies among the tumbled ruins of a once grand manor could change Stone Harbor forever. And for some murderous someone, one more death -- Emma's -- would be a small price to pay to keep it hidden.
Chapter One
To most people, I'll bet the old place looked nothing at all like a battlefield. To most casual observers, the Chandler House was the epitome of what they imagine the past to have been: a big colonial house by the ocean, a wind-swept lawn leading down to a dramatic cliff, romantic to the nth-degree. The reason that so many people think the past really was the good old days is because of the fine, lovely things that survive. These are the very best, the very richest things that would have inspired pride and a desire to preserve them. Seeing these objects causes people to confide in me how much they've always loved history, how they've always wanted to be archaeologists, how they would have loved to have lived "back then," whether back then was ancient Egypt, imperial Rome, or, as it was in this case, colonial New England.
I have to smile when I think that they're imagining big skirts, wigs, and courtly manners. They are not imagining a world without antibiotics or indoor plumbing or the hope of democracy and equal rights. They are forgetting that they might be lost without supermarkets or instantaneous global communication or electricity. They are not thinking of a world where, to paraphrase Monty Python, the king was the only one who didn't smell like crap, which isn't such a bad summary for most of history.
It wasn't even the neat row of trenches by the side of the house that reminded me of a battlefield: I would never have allowed my students to let things get that messy. No, our trenches were orthogonal, hell, even the back dirt piles were clean, made of well-sifted loam, filled with fat worms and sorted pebbles, the sort of thing that sends gardeners drooling. If we didn't have to put it all back when we were finished, I would have brought it back home with me myself. And it wasn't the fencing we'd put up around the site to keep the unwary, the unthinking, and the dim-witted from falling into one of our nice, square units and breaking a neck, or worse, disturbing my carefully exposed stratigraphy. We'd even deliberately chosen the portable wooden fencing to blend in with the scenery, so you couldn't even claim that it resembled a military picket. No, I'm afraid it was the general background hum of negative emotions that made me feel like I was digging in for my own protection as much as I was trying to learn about the Chandler family.
I'm not usually so misanthropic; it's just that I was tired of trying to fight to do my job properly and we still had another two weeks of work to go. It would have worn the patience of a saint down to a nubbin, and I'm no saint for all my sister claims I am a Puritan. I just knew that I had to bide my time and pick which battles to fight, and which ones to avoid. Anyone who tells you that the Ivory Tower is a quiet retreat from the dirty old "outside world" doesn't know what she's talking about.
I sighed and stood up from the bench, telling myself that I would be better off for another walk around the property, and another long look out at the ocean behind the house. I was waiting to be invited into the Stone Harbor Historical Society's board meeting to tell them all about the archaeological research I'd talked them into letting me do on their property at the Chandler House. I figured there'd be another half hour or so of their private business - to which I was pointedly not invited - before I had to go in.
The main part of the Chandler House was an early example of a brick Georgian structure, two floors with four rooms each, and an attic with dormers. As I faced the front, there was a small brick addition to the right; there was none on the left. When I walked around to the rear, there was another, later addition, also in brick; its two large cube-shaped rooms faced the ocean that relentlessly crashed against the Massachusetts coast.
I picked up a flat pebble from the path and slung it side-wise, making it skip three times before it lost momentum and sank. The one that followed it only brushed the water twice, then hit a wave with a plop. The next pebble I picked up ached to be thrown at the fat seagull I saw perching on a white-stained piling not too far away from the shore. I told myself that I could hit it, if I wanted to. But my aim is pretty bad and I didn't really want to wreck my karma by taking out my bad mood on the poor bird, no matter how nasty I think gulls are. Besides, my veterinarian sister was staying with me and any slight I inflicted on the animal kingdom would be immediately telegraphed to her, and she would instigate a massive retaliation. So I dropped the stone back on the path and walked up the lawn to the house. After another half-perambulation around the building, I heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel in front of the house.
"Evening, Professor."
I looked up to see Justin Fisher, one of three security guards who worked here. A nice kid, maybe twenty-four or so, who looked like he was five years younger. He had straw-colored hair that was cut fashionably short and close to his head, a crooked smile, and a youthfully eager presence that was made positively gawky by the authority of his uniform.
“Evening, Justin. You know you can call me Emma, right?”
“I know, it’s just that I made the mistake of calling you Emma in front of Mr. Fiske, and he wasn’t thrilled. So I figured I’d just better….” He shrugged. “You know.”
“Just to keep on the safe side.” I nodded and we both smiled uncomfortably, trying to find a topic that was a little less awkward.
“Hey, that book you told me about, for my paper?” Justin was taking classes at night, trying to earn a graduate degree in history.
“Was it helpful?”
He rocked his hand, mezzo-mezzo. “Kind of. It was a little off from what I needed, but there was an appendix with a whole lot of references that really paid off. Archaeologists really do look at things differently than historians, don’t they?”
I shrugged. “Well, I think the main differences are in the scale and focus of what we’re looking at—historians tend to look at major events on a global scale, and we’re more often looking at individual families or communities. The materials are different, but I wonder if the distinctions aren’t really just academic.”
Justin’s face showed he wasn’t convinced. “Feels different to me. But I like getting the alternative perspective.”
I couldn’t help smiling and waved a finger at him. “Ah, that’s the first step down the slippery slope, though. First it’s getting an alternative perspective, then you’ll start looking at houses—looking to see what was original, what was added on later—and you’ll tell your friends you can stop any time you want. Except then, architecture won’t be enough for you. Your family will start to worry. You’ll begin to ask about old photographs and paintings and how Stone Harbor used to look before the war—Revolutionary War, that is—and then it will get worse. You’ll start walking with your head down, looking for broken bits of pottery that might have washed out of the fill they’re using to make the new sidewalks downtown. There’ll be an intervention—your girlfriend crying, your grandparents shaking their fists at the sky—but it will be too late. You’ll be an archaeologist and there’s no cure for that.”
“Yeah, except for the bad pay. Except for the snakes and spiders and worms and all that manual labor. Nice try, but no thanks. I think I’ll stick with teaching grade school history.”
“Okay, okay, but do let me know if you need any more help—oops, it looks like I’m on.”
We looked over to the house, where an older woman was waving to me.
Justin raised his hand in farewell. “Good luck. I’m going to walk down along the seawall and make sure there isn’t some threat coming to us by water.”
The woman called, “We’re just about ready for your presentation, Professor! Come on in!”
I went up to the front door and tried to banish my embattled feelings. I wasn’t particularly fond of Fiona Prowse—“call me Fee” was what she told everyone—but I did want to try to get along with her. Problem was, she saw my work as an unnecessary expense and kept trying to find ways to make it either vanish or make it pay into the coffers of the Chandler House, neither of which was likely to happen.
She clapped her hands to get me to speed up, and although I knew from the big grin on her face that she thought she was being funny, I gritted my teeth against her false cheeriness. I decided that if she’d only loosen up, I wouldn’t feel quite so put off. She led me through the front door; the two rooms on the left-hand side of the hall were devoted to office space. The central hall held a small ticket area and a display of postcards and books on local history for sale; the rest of the rooms on this floor and the second were open to the public. The addition held an education space downstairs and a hall/auditorium upstairs. The education room was set up like a kitchen for demonstrations in colonial cookery and dyeing and other household activities, complete with period utensils like a mortar and pestle, earthenware bowls of various sizes, and big wooden spoons. There were herbs hanging from the rafters, and a string of dusty dried apple slices over a working fireplace, thankfully unlit during the summer. Fee Prowse led me into the central hall, and up the front staircase.
Fee was a tall, big-boned woman with old-fashioned posture that spoke of determination or at least a capacity for endurance. She had a round face with cheeks going a little soft and sagging and her mouth was hard but not quite pursed, her jaw always set behind her smiles. Her hair was a carefully molded bunch of short, dark mahogany curls that in the back brushed her collar; maybe her hair had been close to that color in her youth—darker red than mine now—but at this moment, the gray in her eyebrows seemed much more authentic and I reckoned that both the curls and the color had come out of a box. She was the kind of woman who never lost an argument, at least not in her own mind. All of the dresses I’d ever seen her in were below the knee, short-sleeved, sensible professional prints. Low heels, because a lady didn’t wear anything else to work, but not too high, because that would give people the wrong idea and besides, they were so bad for your feet. Practical and thrifty and sin gleminded, Fee had good qualities for someone in charge of the account books.
She gestured to a chair outside the meeting room. “If you just have a seat here, we should be ready in just a minute.”
“Thanks.”
I sat outside the room, which had been converted from the big upstairs room in the addition, and pushed my seat back so that it was leaning against the wall on two feet, evidence that I really was in a bad-girl mood. The door didn’t catch closed all the way, and I could hear the conversation as clearly as if I’d been in the room myself. Always good to get a feel for what was going on, I rationalized.
“—the police haven’t been able to do much. Though, honestly, what are they supposed to do?” I recognized that voice: It was Aden Fiske, who was the head of the Stone Harbor Historical Society and manager of the Chandler House site. “They can’t exactly do anything with a brick and a pile of rocks, or analyze the handwriting from a spray-painted wall.”
“The question isn’t what they can do now, the question is, where were they at the time the vandalism took place?” a cross-sounding man’s voice groused. I thought it might be Bradley Chandler, who was the manager of the Historical Society’s other property across town, the Tapley House. “As homeowners, we pay a lot of tax money and then this—”
I’d heard about the vandalism but didn’t know any of the details; I’d have to ask my husband, Brian, if he’d seen anything in the paper when I got home. There certainly seemed to be something about the historical district in Stone Harbor lately, I thought, and it wasn’t doing anything to dispel the notion of a place under siege.
“Now, Bray, I understand your frustration, but they can’t be everywhere at once. They got there as soon as the neighbors called.” That voice was a younger man’s, quite arresting.
“And I suppose we should be grateful that anyone bothered to call in, the way things are going now. I thought that Perry was supposed to—” That was Bradley Chandler again, grousing.
“She is very late, isn’t she, Bray?” said Aden Fiske. “Has anyone tried her house?”
Fee spoke up then. “There was no answer. I think that we should just continue on so we can all get home.”
“All right then, if you would call in our guest, then.”
That was my signal to stop eavesdropping and straighten out my chair as quietly as I could. By the time Fee came out for me, I was carefully going over the notes I’d penned on a yellow legal pad.
“Professor?” She smiled and raised her eyebrows, too full of glee for my taste. Sunday nights were for watching television while folding the laundry, and that’s what I wished I was doing right now.
The room was filled with about twenty people, four sitting at one table set with water glasses and notepads for five. Aden Fiske was seated at the center of the table. He was slight and trim, in his sixties and a working definition of dapper, with white hair brushed back off his narrow pink face; his nose was straight but came to a sharp point, giving him a faintly comical air. He stood up and introduced me.
“Well, Fee and I both know what Professor Fielding is up to, but I think it would be useful for her to give us a little overview for the rest of you about the absolute mess she’s been making in our backyard!”
Everyone giggled at Aden’s naughty behavior, and I smiled. He really was helping me to disarm any more potential nay-sayers.
I briefly summarized my goals, to identify any archaeo logical remains that might be affected by the proposed gift shop and restroom facilities, and to learn more about the early eighteenth-century Chandler family from their own artifacts and documents. Most people nodded, interested, a few smiled politely, a handful remained unconvinced.
Aden thanked me. “I’ve been following the project from its start and I for one am very excited about what we might learn. And, who knows? Professor Fielding’s expertise might be needed elsewhere on our properties, as we hope to expand their facilities.”
“Well, I hope it won’t become too much of a habit. Fee says it is very expensive.” I got a good look at Bradley Chandler then, a sloppy-looking man, carelessly dressed in business casual, his graying blond hair and a short, curling beard making him look like an overweight and annoyed garden gnome.
“Bray, when will you stop being so damned cheap! It’s not like it’s your money we’re spending, anyhow!” Aden said this in such an overstated way that the rest of the board members laughed. Bradley, or Bray, as I guess he was called, looked put out, but then relaxed when Fiske continued.
“Oh, I know you’re just being careful. We couldn’t be managing so well without your caution, but I think a little spending is called for here.”
I nodded, ready for this complaint at least. “It is an expense, but when you consider that you are getting a team of professionally trained people to conduct research for you, answer questions to inform the public, and pave the way, legally speaking, for you to build a snack shop and toilets to upgrade your facility…” I paused to smile, “it’s really not that bad. Plus, I think the publicity is good for tourism.”
“I know Aden thinks so,” Bray answered carefully, “but there’s nothing to indicate that our visitorship is up in the past week.”
I nodded again. “These things do take time. But the way I figure it, the more people talk about the project, the more we get nice little articles in the paper like the one last week, the more interest is generated, the more people will stop by for a tour or to buy a book and the better that is for everyone.”
There was general murmured agreement from the rest of the board.
“You know, I was thinking,” Fee chirruped. “Those little bits of things you dig up?”
I frowned. “Artifacts? Potsherds, glass, that sort of—?”
She nodded. “Right, the little bits of pottery. I was wondering if we couldn’t scrub them up all nice and clean and then sell them, you know, as souvenirs? Fifty cents or a dollar, and the visitors can take home a little piece of history with them.”
I blinked and then decided that she really was serious. Sell the artifacts? “Uh, well, can’t do that, I’m afraid. The laws are pretty strict about these things and the fact that the house is on the National Register means you’ve got to preserve these things for the future.”
I didn’t expect the help I got, but it came from the best source possible. “And besides, Fee,” Aden said, “we discussed maybe having a little exhibit, one of those glassed-in table cases, to show the visitors what we’ve been finding. The Chandler family descendants are very keen on preserving the historical trust, as well.” And when Aden Fiske said something, you could pretty much count on it being the final word.
Everyone around the tables nodded, even Fee, who still didn’t look convinced. She shrugged and bobbed her head up and down in an effort to put distance between her and the idea. “It was just a thought,” she said.
I went on. “Well, as some of you might have observed, we’ve started opening a few test pits beside the house, the proposed location of the restrooms and gift shop. From what I’ve seen of the maps and documents I’ve been studying, this was the location of the wing of the house that burned down in the early part of the eighteenth century. It doesn’t look to me like it was ever rebuilt, which I think is strange—”
“Why is that?” A man, the youngest person in the room besides me, probably in his thirties, spoke up. He had eye-catching good looks, very slim with brown wavy hair. I tried to remember his name from the short list Aden had rattled off for me: Daniel Voeller. It was worth remembering, I decided. I vaguely recalled that he was connected with the factory in the northern part of Stone Harbor up the coast from the Chandler House. It was a modern concern that had done a lot to bring employment to Stone Harbor by bidding for the assembly jobs of larger electronics companies—fairly low impact on the environment, lots of different work for the employees, and so far, very successful.
“Because a house as high-style as this one, belonging to people as wealthy as the Chandlers usually was built with elite English ideas about classical symmetry,” I said. “There probably would have been wings on both sides of the house, the same number of windows on each side of the door, lots of geometry. You know, like Mount Vernon and Monticello were built later on in the century? Anyway, I’m surprised the Chandlers didn’t rebuild it, but maybe I’ll find out why as we work. We haven’t yet reached the burn layer in every unit—the depth at which we could actually observe fire-altered soil, a layer of ash and charcoal, things like that—but we are closing in on it. And we’ll also find out whether they had outbuildings of any sort nearby—barns, storage sheds, and the like. On one hand, the road has been in its present location since the house was built; the Chandlers needed a way to get into town and to get guests from their small dock up to the house. On the other hand, that side of the house would still be visible from the common, and therefore, the issue of aesthetics would certainly have come into play.”
There were a few throats cleared here, and glances were being exchanged. I wondered what was going on.
Aden Fiske filled in lightly, “As there seems to be today as well. Our only neighbors to the south of us, the Bellamys, have again voiced concerns about the, ah, ‘visual disruption’ that they claim your work presents. In point of fact, they’ve asked whether you can’t fill in your units and get rid of the blue tarps while they have their guests over next weekend.”
I could feel myself slump; I’d met Mr. Bellamy once, and his complaints had been a nuisance as well as irrational, but this new one took me by surprise. Fill in the units, before the work was completed? That would be like gluing the marble chips back onto an unfinished sculpture. “I…really, it just isn’t possible—”
Aden raised a hand. “No, of course not, and we would never ask you to. I have told them that we will put up some bunting or potted plants along the inside of our fence, as a neighborly gesture. But they do not seem to understand that we are well within our rights and their backyard doesn’t even line up with ours, so there isn’t really much to complain about.”
“But you forget, Ade, that these are the people who wanted to live here for the view and the historical nature of the area, and then complain that there are tourists that want to come here in the summer for exactly the same reason.” Bray Chandler showed a rare bit of humor and the smile did a lot for him. “They’re capable of complaining about anything.”
“First they were upset because they thought our old wooden fence—which would have shielded you from their view admirably—blocked their view to the north,” Aden explained to me. “So when it came time to replace it, we discussed it with them and went for a coated chain link fence. Nicer view, but now they complain because they can see the visitors on the grounds and insist that they didn’t move here to have herds of people outside their front door, which is actually nowhere near our grounds. So don’t worry about them, just be aware that they exist to make your life unpleasant.”
This brought universal laughter, and I guessed that there was no love wasted on the Bellamys. I went on to explain that my work would be going on for another two weeks, that the finished report would be prepared within a few months, and that we were preparing a flyer to hand out to curious visitors. “If your guides are interested, we’ll keep them updated with what we find, so that they can answer any questions about the site.”
“I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we’re all looking forward to learning about your discoveries and adding to what we know of Stone Harbor’s history. No doubt this relationship is to our mutual benefit—” here Aden glanced around at the other board members, who nodded agreement “—to have someone of your caliber interested in our sites: We know we are getting the best for our properties, and it’s possible that as work is needed on Stone Harbor’s other historic properties, you’ll be in a position to get some real professional benefit from the job.”
I smiled and nodded thanks, but inside, my thoughts were racing—and so was my pulse. Was Aden really doing what I thought he was doing, essentially establishing me as the go-to person for conducting archaeological research in Stone Harbor? If he was, and it was clear to me that was exactly what was going on, this could be the basis for research not only on the level of the Chandler household but of neighborhoods, and the whole community of Stone Harbor, longterm research that could cover the whole range of questions, from first settlement to industrialization, and the whole population, from the lowliest fisherman to the wealthiest landowner. Considering the number of two-and three-hundred-year-old structures still standing in Stone Harbor, with a good possibility of intact surfaces left to explore, this was a gift with a big red ribbon on the box. And although every archaeologist thinks that every project could potentially be the start of something big, longterm, and revolutionary, this really could be a shiny brass ring.
“Thank you, Aden. I’m certainly looking forward to working with you all.” Which was a nicely ambiguous statement, possibly referring to either this project or the hypothetical projects to come after.
“Right,” Aden announced, looking around. “I think that’s about—”
Fee cleared her throat. “I think we have just one other issue to discuss, Aden? The one I brought up the other day?”
Aden made a face. “Oh, Fee, do you think it’s necessary?”
She bit her bottom lip and faced his obvious reluctance. “I really do.”
Aden turned to the others. “Fee is concerned about the security here. She thinks that our present security is insufficient and that our most recent hire, Justin Fisher, is not up to the job. Any thoughts?”
Daniel Voeller spoke up, his eyes hard and his words deliberately chosen and provocative. “And why is that, Fee? He’s been on time or early every shift, there’ve been no incidents. Why, exactly, do you think he should be replaced?”
She didn’t meet his glance. “I think he’s just too young, is all, Danny. Not enough of a presence.”
Aden looked around impatiently. If there were any others who came down on Fee’s side, they were not speaking up. “Well, perhaps we’ll give him another month, and see how he shapes up, shall we? That’s enough for tonight, people. I’ll see you all next week for the Chandler reunion meeting. Go home, get a gin and tonic, for God’s sake!”
Everyone laughed, got up and stretched and shook hands, arranged to meet elsewhere, planned to get together for drinks, the way that people do who’ve been working familiarly with each other for years. Aden was in the thick of this, and as I packed up my notepad, I could hear him arrange for two cocktail parties and several barbecues. I noticed that his jokes, sometimes bawdy, sometimes barbed, were taken as marks of affection.
“Good evening. I’m Bray Chandler.” The garden gnome introduced himself to me. “I found your talk of particular interest as I’m descended from Matthew Chandler.”
“Really? And your family’s been here ever since? That’s so neat,” I said. “Which one of his children are you descended from?”
“Nicholas Chandler.”
I frowned, not remembering the name right off. “I’m not sure I….”
“There are some sources that list him, some that don’t.” He waved his hand airily. “You know how these family genealogies can be.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll go back and check my notes. It’s very nice to meet you, Bray.”
Bray said he’d see me later, and Aden caught up with me in the hallway. He tried to speak, and then was interrupted as departing board members passed us calling good night. He waved but with an overexaggerated shrug gestured that I should follow him into the next room, where we could speak privately.
“I just wanted to catch up and tell you how much I am looking forward to watching you and your crew at work. I’m sure everyone tells you how they always wanted to be an archaeologist—”
“Yeah, but it’s okay, it’s nice to know people are interested in what you do,” I said.
“—but I actually worked on a dig when I was in college, many, many years ago. In Greece, gorgeous place, all blue and white…” He grimaced and sighed, as if remembering just how many years ago it had been. “So while I would never want to get in your way, if there was a moment when I was free and there was some dirt to be sifted, well, I’d be delighted if you’d let someone show me what to look for. It would be a treat.”
I nodded: The more he felt a part of the project, the better for us all. “I’d be happy to.”
“Great.” He rubbed his hands together. “I didn’t want all the others pestering you, but I am glad I might be able to sneak in and help a little. RHIP—rank hath its privilege, you know, and I damned well make the most of it! You’re only here for a few weeks. Do you have other plans this summer? More work, I mean.”
“I’ll probably be going up to Maine for a few weeks later on, to work on Fort Providence. It’s an early settlement I’ve spent some time on before.”
“Yes, now I remember the name from looking at your vitae.” He frowned. “I seem to recall that there was some real unpleasantness up there. A news segment, some time ago.”
I kept my face blank and looked out the window at the boats moored far out in the harbor. “A good friend of mine was killed. It wasn’t really anything to do with the site or my work, not really.” I still had trouble convincing myself of that fact, on some days. I swallowed. “Still, it’s good to get up there, remember her and why she loved the place.”
Aden was instantly contrite. “Of course, of course, I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories. I’m sorry I asked. In any case, it’s good to know you’ve got lots to keep you busy this summer.”
There was another awkward moment and then Aden led me down the stairs. “Oh, about the Chandler family reunion, on July Fourth? They would absolutely love it if you would do a little talk about your project here, before the big party. Now, you don’t have to, of course, but I know they would just be delighted—”
“Oh, no problem, I’d be happy to,” I said. Aden locked up the house with a key he returned to his pocket. He immediately lit up a cigarette and inhaled greedily.
“And you and your husband will join us for the dinner after. It will be a great feed. The Chandlers don’t skimp when it comes to their food.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said. We were back outside now, walking the parking lot in front of the house. “Say, Aden? Can you tell me who owns the Mather House, offhand? You know, the abandoned place just to the north of here? I haven’t found out who the present owners are, and I’d like to talk to them about doing some work there, sometime. You know, comparative stuff.”
“I couldn’t say, Emma, but if you—”
A car pulled up to the lot, and we watched a young man get out. He waved to Daniel Voeller, who, upon seeing him, quickly said good-bye to the remaining board members and brushed past us.
Aden leaned over to whisper in my ear. “That’s Danny Voeller’s Charles. Love’s young dream.” He rolled his eyes.
“I would really love to stay for the Chandlers’ dinner,” I said, ignoring his unspoken comment, “but my sister is visiting and I promised her fireworks on the Fourth. But the talk, that’s fine.”
“Bring her too, if you like, and we’ll have fireworks here. Won’t be a better seat in the house, unless you are on a boat.”
I suddenly realized that Aden relished playing lord of the manor, and his humor and teasing were all part of that larger-than-life image.
“Okay, great, thank you, I’ll think about it. Good night, Aden.” I shook his hand and dug out the keys to my Civic, which I wished looked a little less rough than it did. A wash, at least, would have made me feel a little more respectable, even if it wouldn’t have done any real good.
“Good night, Emma.” He rapped the hood of the car with his knuckles as he walked by and called out to Justin, who was running up to us. “I’m heading out, Justin. You can finish closing up and set the alarms before you head out.”
Justin was out of breath and looked unhappy. “Yes, but Mr. Fiske, I was trying to find you. I just took a call in the main office. It’s Perry, ah, Ms. Taylor.”
“What’s wrong?”
I froze: Something in Justin’s face told me it was bad.
“She’s in the hospital. She was hit by a car!”
Aden went ashen. “My God, Perry! Is she hurt?”
Justin nodded, still winded. “Broken bones and bad bruises. But you don’t know the worst of it.”
“What worst, what’s happened?” I thought that Aden wobbled a little where he stood.
Justin gasped out, “Ms. Taylor says…the car swerved toward her. Someone tried to run her over.”
Release Time: 90 minutes
Director: Kevin Fair
Cast:
Courtney Thorne-Smith as Emma Fielding
James Tupper as Special Agent Jim Connor
Adam DiMarco as Joe
Tess Atkins as Carey
Sitara Hewitt as Adelle Fisher
Kimberley Sustad as Perry Quinn (as Kimberly Sustad)
William MacDonald as Sherman Arlington
Panou as Sheriff Goode
Vincent Gale as Prof. Thomas Webster
Preston Vanderslice as Bray Chandler
Fulvio Cecere as Sebastian
Edwin Perez as Medical Examiner
Benjamin Wilkinson as Victor Bradford
Daniel Bruce as Waldon Chandler
Gelsea Mae as Reporter #1
Austin Anozie as Reporter #2 (as Austin Obiajunwa)
Leah Cairns as Eleanor
Dana Cameron's novels and short stories are inspired by her career as an archaeologist. Her crime fiction has won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards, and has been short-listed for the Edgar Award. Several of her Emma Fielding archaeology mysteries have been made into movies for the Hallmark Movies and Mysteries Channel. HELLBENDER is the third urban fantasy novel set in her Fangborn 'verse. Dana lives in Massachusetts, USA.
HARPER COLLINS / IMDB / B&N / WIKI
Past Malice #3
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