delicious lunches came, with iced tea. Sally spooned a little of the torrid salsa into her taco, took a bite and blessed her own senses. âLook, Ed, I know I need to figure out ways to do some public talks to keep the trustees and the president and the Foundation happy. But Iâm not real sure how much Iâll be able to talk about the project. I donât want to do anything that violates the terms of the bequest, and to tell you the truth, I think maintaining deep, dark secrecy, then telling all is one of those great book-marketing strategies Iâve never quite been able to cash in on. I donât mind telling people I canât discuss work in progress.â
Edna tried to bury her disappointment. She had, reasonably enough, seen the Meg Dunwoodie project as a collaboration. She also suppressed her surprise at the fact that Sally could be so deliberate about strategy. The Sally Alder sheâd known had been damned smart, but spontaneous to a fault. It wasnât just a question of going for the short-term pleasure over the long-term gain. Sally had seemed incapable of calculating her interests, period.
But Edna was a patient woman, and she knew that Sally, in the end, was not a discreet one. Eventually what Sally knew would come bursting out in a cathartic confession, and Edna was a logical person for her to confide in. âYeah, youâve got to play this one conservative,â Edna agreed. âYou might as well do this right and make some money while youâre at it.â Edna took the last swig of beer, reached for her iced tea. âBut I donât think youâll have to cook up a mood of mystery.â She savored another bite, thinking about how to give Sally some rather strange information. âThere have been rumors around here ever since Meg died about her hiding some kind of treasure somewhere.â
Sally almost choked on her fire-breathing relleno. She took a drink of water, fanned her face, and said, âWhat?!â
âThe way I heard it,â Edna explained, deftly catching a glob of guacamole before it could fall off her flauta and into her lap, âit had to do with her father, old Mac Dunwoodie, who got pretty paranoid at the end of his life. He had some money, of course, and the story is that he cashed in his securities, traded them for gold coins. Supposedly buried a fortune in Krugerrands somewhere, or she did. I wouldnât be surprised if all kinds of people around here have the idea that thereâs a treasure map somewhere in those boxes. Or maybe just a big trunkful of gold, stuck away in her basement or something. Thereâve been some attempted break-ins. The police have been keeping close tabs on the house.â
âIâve heard about the break-ins,â Sally said, âbut Iâve assumed they were the typical thingânobody home and plenty of stuff to steal. Whatâs this treasure business?â
âAsk your friend Deputy Langham. I wouldnât be surprised if Byron Bosworth showed up there in a ski mask and a black turtleneck. That self-righteous prick probably thinks heâs entitled to burglarize her house. Heâs put me on notice that he expects the history department to have some âroleâ in disbursing the bequest. One or the other of us will be in hell first,â she said softly.
âBoz? Heâs too chickenshit.â Ludicrous. Still, the scene seemed at that moment uncomfortably plausible, no matter how ridiculous. Sally considered another beer and decided against it, sipping her own iced tea.
Why the hell hadnât Dickie mentioned a treasure, she wondered. She was less panic-stricken than pissed. No, that wasnât it. She was strangely exhilarated. Imagine having to move from LA to Laramie to get a thrill. She ate another chip, drank some more tea. âWell, I guess I need to look on the bright side. I mean, being a historian isnât usually all that excitingâhanging
Edna tried to bury her disappointment. She had, reasonably enough, seen the Meg Dunwoodie project as a collaboration. She also suppressed her surprise at the fact that Sally could be so deliberate about strategy. The Sally Alder sheâd known had been damned smart, but spontaneous to a fault. It wasnât just a question of going for the short-term pleasure over the long-term gain. Sally had seemed incapable of calculating her interests, period.
But Edna was a patient woman, and she knew that Sally, in the end, was not a discreet one. Eventually what Sally knew would come bursting out in a cathartic confession, and Edna was a logical person for her to confide in. âYeah, youâve got to play this one conservative,â Edna agreed. âYou might as well do this right and make some money while youâre at it.â Edna took the last swig of beer, reached for her iced tea. âBut I donât think youâll have to cook up a mood of mystery.â She savored another bite, thinking about how to give Sally some rather strange information. âThere have been rumors around here ever since Meg died about her hiding some kind of treasure somewhere.â
Sally almost choked on her fire-breathing relleno. She took a drink of water, fanned her face, and said, âWhat?!â
âThe way I heard it,â Edna explained, deftly catching a glob of guacamole before it could fall off her flauta and into her lap, âit had to do with her father, old Mac Dunwoodie, who got pretty paranoid at the end of his life. He had some money, of course, and the story is that he cashed in his securities, traded them for gold coins. Supposedly buried a fortune in Krugerrands somewhere, or she did. I wouldnât be surprised if all kinds of people around here have the idea that thereâs a treasure map somewhere in those boxes. Or maybe just a big trunkful of gold, stuck away in her basement or something. Thereâve been some attempted break-ins. The police have been keeping close tabs on the house.â
âIâve heard about the break-ins,â Sally said, âbut Iâve assumed they were the typical thingânobody home and plenty of stuff to steal. Whatâs this treasure business?â
âAsk your friend Deputy Langham. I wouldnât be surprised if Byron Bosworth showed up there in a ski mask and a black turtleneck. That self-righteous prick probably thinks heâs entitled to burglarize her house. Heâs put me on notice that he expects the history department to have some âroleâ in disbursing the bequest. One or the other of us will be in hell first,â she said softly.
âBoz? Heâs too chickenshit.â Ludicrous. Still, the scene seemed at that moment uncomfortably plausible, no matter how ridiculous. Sally considered another beer and decided against it, sipping her own iced tea.
Why the hell hadnât Dickie mentioned a treasure, she wondered. She was less panic-stricken than pissed. No, that wasnât it. She was strangely exhilarated. Imagine having to move from LA to Laramie to get a thrill. She ate another chip, drank some more tea. âWell, I guess I need to look on the bright side. I mean, being a historian isnât usually all that excitingâhanging
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