Quinn shakes her head helplessly. “They hate him now. All those people he did so much for at one time or another . . . they stopped caring about him. They all wished he’d just disappear. They won’t care that he’s dead. They’ll be glad. All because of that goddamned paper mill.” Her lips curl in disgust. “Have you talked to Jet about the Poker Club?”
“I’m talking to her at three o’clock,” I reply. “But nobody else needs to know that.”
“How does that work, Marshall? Her husband’s father is one of the richest members of the Poker Club, yet she’s fought their corruption for years.”
“I’m not sure it works, actually. I think their marriage is pretty strained.”
She nods as if this only makes sense. “She’s a firecracker, that girl.” Quinn finally pulls out her chair and sits, her eyes settling on mine with what feels like maternal concern. “You still have feelings for Jet.”
I force myself to hold eye contact. “I probably always will. First love and all that.”
A wistful smile touches Quinn’s mouth. “Buck used to think you two would end up together.”
“But not you?”
She shrugs. “Jet’s special, no question. But she had issues. From her father leaving like that.”
“And I didn’t?”
“Different issues.” Quinn reaches out and touches my hand. “You’re not thinking you might still wind up with her?”
Am I that easy to read? “What makes you ask that?”
“Your eyes still change when her name comes up. Your voice goes up a half-step in pitch.”
“Really? Well. We went through a lot together. What matters today is that if we try to halt construction of the mill to search for evidence, it’ll be Jet who files the papers.”
Quinn knows I’m trying to change the subject. Graciously, she allows me this. “I know who to call at the state level,” she says, “if that’s the way you want to go.”
“Does Archives and History have the stroke to override pressure from the governor? Even national pressure?”
“In theory? Sure. William Winter fought off serious pressure during the casino boom. In reality, I don’t know. That’s why Buck went back looking for bones.”
I take a long sip of my tea, which has already started to cool. “Why did he risk going last night, if he knew there were guards posted?”
“No, no. He went in to dig because there weren’t any guards. He called and told me that.”
This is new information. “What?”
“He drove out and parked well south of the site, then walked up the riverbank. The whole way he watched for lights. He didn’t see a single guard.”
“That doesn’t mean there weren’t any. They could have been using night vision.”
“To guard a small-town paper mill site?”
“With so much money at stake, it’s possible. Quinn, why didn’t you report Buck missing when he didn’t come home last night?”
She closes her eyes with obvious pain. “Because I knew he was trespassing, and he would stay out there all night if he could. I also knew he’d cache any finds somewhere other than here, to protect me. That would take time. I’ve cursed myself a thousand times for not saying to hell with it and calling the police. Buck might still be alive—”
“No,” I tell her. “The local police and sheriff’s department wouldn’t have been a source of aid for Buck. Not at the industrial park.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Do you know if Buck was in contact with anyone outside the city? Other archaeologists? Academics? The government?”
She shrugs again. “You know Buck. He was always talking to friends around the country. I don’t know how much he told them about this specific find. He was so excited, but also secretive about it. I think he saw this as his legacy, the great work of his life. By the way, the sheriff told me they didn’t find Buck’s cell phone. So I don’t know who he might have called.”
“If they found his phone, they wouldn’t have entered it into evidence. Do you know whether Buck dug up anything else at the site? You said he would be caching his finds somewhere other than here. Why?”
Quinn studies me as though making some difficult judgment. “Buck got pretty paranoid over the past four weeks, especially the last two. One night he decided to move some stuff, so it wouldn’t be lost if our house happened to catch fire or something. We own a small rental house. He’s worked there most nights for the past week.”
Before I can even ask, Quinn reaches into the pocket of her jeans and takes out a brass key. “This will get you in, if you want to look.”
“Address?”
“Three-two-five Dogwood. There’s a renter there, but he’s an old friend of Buck’s. Jim’s gone a lot, but I’ll let him know you’re coming, just in case. Buck’s stuff is in a back bedroom. Should be easy to find. He worked at a drafting table.”
“Got it,” I say, getting up and taking the key from her.
“Don’t go yet,” she says, reaching out and touching my arm. “Let’s step into Buck’s workshop.”
We walk out to the garage Buck enclosed after his lutherie work outgrew the extra bedroom where he’d begun it a decade before. It smells of glue and sealer and freshly sawn wood. Some of Buck’s finest instruments hang from pegs on the walls. A padded worktable with a sheet of rare Brazilian rosewood still on it dominates the center of the room. Against one wall stands a heating unit and some electric blankets used for bending wood, while the remainder of the space is filled by barrels, stands, and shelves containing wood, tools, fret wire, electric pickups, and machine heads. I can’t stand in this room and believe Buck is dead.
“You feel it?” Quinn asks, opening her hands like someone trying to catch raindrops. “His spirit is still in here.”
Another person saying this might sound like some new-age flake. Not Quinn Ferris, who’s practical to a fault. “I do feel it. I feel him.”
“I hope it lasts. But I feel like he’s hovering here, trying to say goodbye.”
Less than twelve hours ago the man who built the guitars in this room was still walking the earth. Unable to fill the void his loss has opened in me, I turn and pull Quinn to me. She hesitates at first, then relents and lets me crush her in my arms. Her chest heaves a couple of times, but she doesn’t sob. After half a minute, she pulls back and wipes her eyes. Then she goes to a drawer and takes out a dark leather bag, which she carries over to me.
“I want you to have these,” she says.
“Buck’s chisels? These were his prize tools.”
“And he’d want you to have them. I want you to take a guitar, too. I’m going to have to sell the rest, but I want you to take one. Any one you want.”
“Quinn—”
“Don’t argue with me.”
I look around the workshop, my gaze moving across the instruments. They’re so different from one another. Buck loved to learn about new woods, and he did that by working with them. In this small space I see macassar ebony, East Indian rosewood, American swamp ash, koa, quilted maple, bird’s-eye maple, figured sapele, Sitka spruce, pau ferro. The variation in design shapes equals the selection of woods. Buck built parlor guitars, concert models, dreadnoughts—