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“Heard.” Ty’s voice floated across the pass-through, and I was beginning to suspect he was a ghost.
“Good press.” The harried mayor pinned me with his dark eyes. “I like good press. More visitors, more tourist dollars. That’s what we need.”
“I can’t promise any of that.” I shrugged. “I’m just doing research.”
He sighed and drummed his thick fingers on the countertop. “Well, keep it out on the west side of the county at least.”
I returned his stare. He wouldn’t spook me from my investigation, and I wasn’t the type to let anyone—mayor or otherwise—push me around. I took a big bite of my eggs and spoke around the mouthful. “That’s my focus.”
“Good.” He scowled.
The sizzle in the kitchen did all the talking for a while until Bonnie appeared with a to-go box.
“Got it all for you, Mayor Freeman. You going to the winter market?”
The mayor swiped the Styrofoam coffee cup from Bonnie and snagged the box of food. “Yep, and I’m late. Put it on my tab.”
“Sure thing.” She gave him a thin smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes.
He slid off his stool, gave the sheriff a nod, then headed out into the cold.
Bonnie frowned as soon as the door closed. “Old sourpuss.”
“Charming.” I nodded and bit into my toast. “Really got a way with people.”
Sheriff Crow laughed. “Go easy on Len. He’s been crabby ever since he started the Lodge. Too much work.”
I finished my eggs. “The Lodge?”
“You haven’t heard of it?” Bonnie threaded a yellow dish towel over her shoulder. “It’s a swanky retreat. I hear you can get massages there.” She leaned closer to me and cupped her hands around my ear. “It’s for men only. I hear they get happy endings there and do crazy nude dancing around bonfires.”
Sheriff Crow chuckled as my eyes widened at Bonnie’s revelations. “Not true. None of it true.” He shook his head at Bonnie. “Don’t go lying to her about it and scaring her off. It’s just a hunting club. Len’s been trying to get the governor to visit. Did you know that, Bonnie? It’s not a massage parlor or nudist colony. I’ve been a few times. Ty’s going to visit sometime soon. Right, Ty?”
“Sure, if I ever get out of this hellhole!” Something clanged in the kitchen. Ty was definitely not a ghost.
The radio attached to the sheriff’s shoulder crackled. “Sheriff, Danny is making trouble at the Quick Mart again.”
He clicked the radio. “I’m eating at Bonnie’s. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Carl says he’s screaming about the lights in the woods. Won’t stop. Scaring off customers.”
The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bonnie, can you put mine in a to-go box for me?”
“Sure thing, hon.” She swiped up his plate.
“Viola, tell Carl to keep Danny there. I’m on my way.”
“Will do.” The radio crackled once more and fell silent.
Sheriff Crow ran a hand through his hair and plopped the hat on, snugging it down as he stood. “I guess I forgot to mention it’s not just the woods you have to watch out for around here.” He leaned over, his clean, masculine scent washing over me. “I was serious about calling me. Safety is important, especially since you aren’t from here. I want you going back to that school of yours singing the praises of country hospitality. The mayor will have my ass otherwise.”
I bit into my extra-crispy bacon. “If the food is any indication, I’ll be able to give a glowing recommendation.”
“Great.” He leaned away and took his breakfast box from Bonnie. “In that case, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I smiled to myself. “So do I.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I HEFTED MY PACK onto my back and slammed my trunk closed. Dirt and gravel crunched beneath my boots as I studied the small slope to my left. I’d parked on an old logging road to the west of Blackwood near the site I’d described to the sheriff. Instead of heading south toward the clearing, I consulted my map and walked into the woods toward the northeast.
I’d studied aerials and satellite data from the area and marked sites of interest—sites where I might find some trace of my father. I would hike to the Choctaw field after I checked the first spot, an area where something glinted from beneath the trees on the aerials. If I was lucky, I might find something of interest concerning my father or my dig along the way.
The wind had died down, but the chill air remained. I started off through the pine woods, the ground sloping gently. The eastern edge of the Delta wasn’t as marshy as the lands closer to the Mississippi River, though wet patches and streams were frequent. The terrain remained almost flat, only rolling slightly, as alluvial soils fanned across the gentle slope down to the river. Preparing for the terrain and the weather was half the battle. I wore layers, jeans, waterproof boots, and carried another coat in my pack.
The day had dawned bright and cloudless, and the sun helped me pick my way through the thickets and brambles. I snapped twigs and crunched pine cones as I trekked through the taciturn landscape. An hour of tramping later and I came to a wide stream, its surface placid in areas and gurgling over rock in others. I walked farther north, looking for an easy spot to cross.
Cypress trees loomed overhead, their feathery branches leaning down to the water’s surface as the ground became boggier, my boots sinking with every step. I leaned against a twisting cypress root and grabbed my canteen. The woods remained silent around me, no summertime cicadas singing in the trees and the sun too high for the frogs to serenade me.
After downing a few pulls of water, I stowed my canteen and stared down the path of the stream, looking for the easiest way across. A small outcrop about twenty feet ahead seemed like my best bet. I’d have to step through the stream to reach a dirt bank on the other side, but the water was shallower and clearer there.
A twig snapped nearby. I whirled and peered through the trees, searching for movement. After staring for a solid thirty seconds, I relaxed against the cypress, the gray moss hanging from the low limbs forming a curtain around me. Whatever animal was out there likely caught my scent and fled.
The stream crossing went smoothly, my boots keeping my feet warm and dry despite the frigid water swirling around them. Once I gained the opposite bank, I continued my trudge, checking my compass every so often to make sure I was still on track to find the spot of interest. Every so often, I thought I heard some sounds in the woods, more twigs cracking or the crunch of dead leaves. Whenever I stopped, the only sound was my breathing and the quiet gurgle of the nearby waterways.
After another hour of hopping smaller streams and picking my way through the undergrowth, my stomach began to grumble.
A clearing opened ahead of me, the brown grass absorbing the sun’s rays and storing them up for the green of spring. I recognized it from my satellite map. The shine in the woods wouldn’t be much farther ahead.
I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead where a fine sheen of sweat had grown during the journey. I’d spent hours on the treadmill getting ready for the arduous task of surveying the properties, but the actual hike—pack included—was proving more demanding than I’d thought.
The sun hit my face with full force, warming my cold cheek
s as I stepped into the small clearing, about fifty yards wide. Some of the grass was matted down, a sleeping area for deer or some other animals. I walked about twenty feet away and settled in a spot where the ground was dry and solid.
My lunch consisted of a simple turkey sandwich and some chips. But food always tasted better when your senses were full of the palate-cleansing outdoors. Something about the clear air, or perhaps the cold and lonesome woods, made everything so much sweeter.
I finished my food and stowed my trash in my bag. Before leaving the clearing, I unhooked my small spade from my pack and walked a few paces away, my eyes trained on the ground. When I found a slightly mounded section of ground at the edge of the plot, I dug down, turning a few shovelfuls of dark dirt onto the dormant grass.
The smell of rich earth permeated the air, and I remembered why I loved archaeology—finding things, learning about the past, and trying to preserve whatever fleeting lessons the ghosts could teach us. I dug a layer deeper and found some particularly juicy earthworms, then changed position around the mound. I sank my spade deep, then hammered it further with my boot. Something hard clicked against the spade’s tip. Likely a rock, but maybe something else.
I pulled the spade out, moved it back a few inches, then plunged it in again and pushed on the handle, leveraging the dirt up and over. Pottery pieces crumbled on top of the pile. My body buzzed with the thrill of discovery as I zeroed in on the find.
Kneeling down, I picked up the biggest shard. Only a few inches across, it was a medium brown with scored lines across it in a repeating pattern—likely etched solely for decoration. I carefully turned it over and studied the inside. Made of clay and crushed ceramic, the piece was at least two-hundred years old. Yes.
I returned to my pack and pulled out my map. With a charcoal pencil, I marked the spot for future exploration, but frowned when I remembered that I was still inside the bounds of Blackwood property. Did I have permission for future exploration, or even current exploration? No. But I decided to let future Elise worry about that tiny snag.
