Chapter Eight
I went the long way around—through the front door—to eavesdrop on Chief Burke, though I didn’t learn much.
“The area’s not that big, damn it!” I heard him growl.
“Yes, but we could miss vital evidence in the dark,” Sammy said. “And besides, parts of those woods are dangerous—there could be more old mine shafts around.”
Now they tell us.
“True,” the chief said. “I want someone on guard out there—Sammy, set up shifts. We’ll pick up in the morning. At daybreak.”
A ragged chorus of assents followed, and officers began spilling into the hall. I pretended to be doing something with the boxes of papers that lined one wall—the papers a female professor from UVa should have picked up hours ago. I called Kevin again.
“Still working on it,” he said. Pam had definitely failed to teach him that something along the lines of “hello” was a more customary way to answer the phone.
“One more thing. Can you find a photo of someone?”
“I can try,” he said. In the background, I heard the telltale rattle of a keyboard. “Who?”
“Helen Carmichael. Professor of history at UVa.”
“What’s she done?” he said over more key rattling.
“Nothing, except she never called to tell me that she couldn’t make it here after all. Which doesn’t prove she’s our unknown murder victim, but …”
“Cool. Hang on a sec.”
Intense key rattling. I had to remind myself to breathe. Would the satisfaction of being the first to learn Jane Doe’s identity make up for how mad the chief would be if he thought I’d withheld information? I honestly hadn’t thought about the professor until I’d seen the boxes again.
“Piece of cake,” he said. “History department has faculty profiles. Some of them have photos. Hers does.”
“Is she blond?”
“Brunette, and graying.”
“She could have dyed it. Does she—”
“Hang on, I’ll send you a copy.”
“I’m not at the computer.”
“I’m sending it to your cell phone. Take a look.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked. A photo filled the screen. Helen Carmichael had a round, cheerful face, short graying dark hair, and, best I could tell on so tiny a photo, dark eyes. She’d need not just a dye job but major plastic surgery to resemble Jane Doe.
“It’s not her,” I said, feeling relief wash over me. “Not the dead woman, I mean.”
“Rats.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It was just a wild idea.” Besides, I liked the idea that Jane Doe was a perfect stranger who had nothing to do with me or anyone I knew. Which probably wouldn’t turn out to be the case, but it was nice while it lasted.
“I’ll keep working on the real estate scam,” Kevin said. “Bye.”
I tried calling Professor Carmichael’s number. No answer. I put away the phone and headed for the parlor to see what mischief my remaining guests were causing.
I found Dad deep in conversation with Mrs. Pruitt.
“I’m glad you see my point,” Mrs. Pruitt was saying. “Lucius has no understanding at all. Keeps making jokes about my trips to dig up my ancestors, as if I were some kind of grave robber.”
Several of the Shiffleys lounging across the room snorted with laughter. Evidently, they saw Lucius Pruitt’s point of view. Mrs. Pruitt ignored them.
“I certainly understand the passion to learn about one’s family history,” Dad said. “I’ve been researching mine for years.”
“How splendid,” Mrs. Pruitt said. “How far back have you gotten?”
She smiled graciously, no doubt thinking she’d found a kindred spirit. Dad would set her straight.
“No further than when I started, alas,” Dad said.
“How far is that?” Mrs. Pruitt said in the slightly cooler tone she saved for people whose ancestors had left no traces of themselves in the county property-tax rolls.
“I was a foundling,” Dad said. “Abandoned at birth.”
“How awful,” Mrs. Pruitt said, drawing away slightly. “They never found your parents?”
“No,” Dad said. “The police tried. So did the librarians, of course, and if they had no luck, I suppose I should have known it was a lost cause.”
“The librarians,” Mrs. Pruitt repeated.
“Yes,” Dad said. “That’s where I was found—in the fiction section of the public library, teething on a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Which I always thought was a nice omen, don’t you think?”