Page 18 of A Jingle of Justice
“Typical cop,” Joss chimed.
“By the way,” I went on, “an archaeological team is coming to view the hole on the patio. According to Reddick, they should be able to determine whether a treasure had been hidden in it or not.”
“Did you ever see the TV show about the Hoxne Hoard? It was the largest collection of Roman silver and gold ever found in Britain. In Hoxne, of course. There were nearly fifteen thousand fourth- and fifth-century coins, plus silverware and jewelry.” She whistled. “Can you imagine? The reason it survived was because it was buried in an oak box with sturdy hinges. A metal detectorist was at the heart of the discovery.”
“Detectorist?”
“Yeah, you know, like those people who roam the beach with their wands scouring the sand for lost watches and such.” Shemimicked using a metal detector, and I was reminded of the man I’d seen earlier on my run.
“Hello.” A dapper gentleman in his fifties, dressed in a bomber jacket and jeans, entered the shop. Joss had a steady boyfriend, but given the grin on her face, she seemed awestruck by our new visitor. He removed the fedora, revealing a healthy head of black hair. “Good day. The name’s Jones. Dr. Jones.”
Indiana?I mused, and tamped down a laugh.
“I’m from Cornerstone Resource Management.” His voice was melodiously deep. “I’m the archaeologist.”
“Ahh.I didn’t expect you for an hour.”
“We hit no traffic. Better early than late.”
Two men in jumpsuits strode into the shop behind him. In my mind I dubbed them Mutt and Jeff. One was tall and as lean as a zipper. The other was scruffy and gnomish. Headphones were slung around the necks of each of the men. Mutt wore a backpack fitted with a wealth of equipment including a long wand of sorts. Jeff had tucked a laptop computer under one arm.
“Follow me.” I led the team to the French doors and ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape to the patio.
The rightmost baker’s rack had been moved five feet away from the wall. The hole, dirt, tiles, and grout, hadn’t been touched by Reddick or his people. They’d documented with photographs.
Jeff set up the computer on a wrought iron table, and Matt removed a video screen-type apparatus from his pack.
“Digital detector,” he explained. “It interfaces with the search coil.” He unlatched a long rod-like coil and unpacked the remainder of his backpack, laying the items on the ground.
For the next half hour Jones and his partners explored the hole. I could hear radioactive type sounds emanating from their headphones.
When the three agreed a deeper physical exploration was necessary, Jones asked Jeff for a trowel. Then he donned heavy leather gloves and began digging.
“Aha!” he said at one point. “Ruts.”
“Ruts?” I echoed.
He didn’t elaborate. A short while later, after conducting what I believed was a soil analysis, he emitted another, “Aha!”
“More ruts?”
“Altered pore space and water infiltration, as well as changes in the soil’s Ph.”
“Which means an object of some kind was there.” I had studied chemistry and botany in college. I’d worked with my father in his landscaping business. I knew a lot about soil.
“Yes, and given the redistribution of nutrients and microorganisms, I can say with certainty the item in question was metal in nature. See what I’ve found?” In gloved hands, he held out an ornate bracket about two inches square. “From a box, I presume, which resided here at some time.”
“Yesterday,” I said. “Someone stole it last night.”
“Of course that’s a possibility, but it might have been exhumed years ago.”
“Before the courtyard was built?” I asked. “Like around 1920?” Most of the courtyards were developed when Hugh Comstock’s whimsical homes and shops came into fashion. The fairy-tale nature of them was what drew tourists to Carmel.
“We can’t be certain.”
“Can you tell if it was filled with gold or silver?”
“We cannot. But it was heavy, hence the ruts.”
