Page 97 of Unnatural Death

“I’m sure she’ll be just fine.”

“And you’re being criticized, accused of getting favored treatment because she’s your niecewho you raised like a daughter. As if I did nothing to contribute and don’t even exist.”

“It’s unfortunate that things like that end up in the media,” I reply. “But it’s not the first time or what’s really bothering you. Tell me what’s wrong, Dorothy.”

“Possibly everything. Or that’s how it feels.” She digs out a tissue from her stretchy pumpkin-orange sleeve, dabbing her eyes. “I’ve been suspicious for a while that Pete might be up to something, and I may have figured out what it is. Or better put,who.”

“Up to something?”

“Are you familiar with Cate Kingston?” Dorothy asks to my dismay.

“Why?” It’s all I can think to say as I worry that the footprint Marino found has been leaked.

Please, God, no.

“Because she sent Pete a private message on Facebook a little while ago,” Dorothy goes on. “It says, and I quote,As you know, anything you need, it would be my pleasure. And that she’s excited about his amazing find.”

“She’s a consultant, or about to be …”

“She’s a fucking Bigfoot guru! That’s what she’s known for. Why is she connecting with Pete at all is what I want to know? Whatamazing findis she talking about? Sounds salacious to me!”

“And you’re aware of a private message on his personal Facebook page because …?” I take another bite of salad, avoiding the subject of Bigfoot. “Does he know you look?”

“Of course he knows. I set up his account, am his contact on it. You’re well aware of what a Luddite he is. Now and then I help him with his postings.” Dorothy picks up her drink. “I don’t spy but I see messages and such.”

“Cate Kingston is an anthropology professor at UVA,” I explain.

“I know who she is. I looked her up.” Another swallow of Scotch.

“She and Marino are friendly. He thinks highly of her …”

“I knew it!” Dorothy sets down her glass hard enough to startle me. “He went to that damn Shenandoah Bigfoot festival, staying in a cabin at Lydia Mountain for three damn days without me. Butshewas there. I know for a fact they spent considerable time together.”

“The reason Doctor Kingston was contacted is professional,” I reply. “It has nothing to do with Marino personally. And it looks like Benton is venturing out of the cottage, headed this way.”

On the wall near the pantry a video screen shows areas of the property that are monitored by Lucy’s sophisticated cameras. I can see my husband walking out the cottage’s front door. He’s wearing a hooded parka, picking his way down the snowy steps, carrying Merlin wrapped in a towel.

“Have you seen a photograph of Cate Kingston? She’s quite pretty, about Lucy’s age, single, smart as hell and nice by all accounts. Who can blame Pete for being a fanboy?” Dorothy says snippily, drunkenly, and if she has a fatal flaw it’s jealousy. “After they met, he couldn’t stop talking about her. And I’m not stupid. I don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out why.”

“As you’re likely aware, my office deals with a number of anthropologists …”

“Not ones who teach classes about Bigfoot! She makes Pete feel validated.” Dorothy picks at her salad.

“So do you. You make him feel important …”

“Not in the ways that stroke his soul.” She slowly shakes her head. “He knows I’m not keen on all this Bigfoot nonsense. A part of him won’t forgive me for not being interested in his every crazy hobby and idea. Like his treasure hunting. Have you seen all the rubbish he’s picked up in the woods over the decades? And every time he comes through the door to show me the latest, I’m supposed to ooh and ahh. A Buffalo nickel. A Mercury dime. A rusted-out pocket watch.”

“He’s found some very interesting artifacts …,” I start to say.

“Oh bullshit, Kay. Don’t always be so fucking diplomatic. It’s total trash. An entire wall of his mancave is a showcase filled with Minié balls and buttons. A dented canteen, a wooden-handled pocketknife, Indian arrowheads, several rocklike things he swears are dinosaur bones. None of it worth a tinker’s damn.”

“Eat some antipasto,” I say to her.

“And I’m always acting like the cheerleader even if I’m thinking how stupid it is. And how it doesn’t go with the décor. Just ugly as sin, some of it.” Dorothy drains her drink. “Last spring when he was out with his damn metal detector he found that cannonball, remember? And it still had gunpowder inside it. How the fuck did he know it wouldn’t blow the hell up?”

“Eat something, Dorothy.”

“And he brings the fucking thing home and wants to put it on our fucking front porch here in fucking Old Town where there’s nothing but fucking restrictions as you fucking well know …”

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