Mary Welk
The Rune Stone
Murders
A Rhodes to Murder Mystery
The Rune Stone Murders
A Rhodes to Murder Mystery
Book Two
An Echelon Press Book
First Echelon Press Publication / June 2009
All rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2009 by Mary Welk
Previously published as Something Wicked in the Air
Cover Art © Nathalie Moore
Award winning Graphic Artist
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For my husband, Fred –
still crazy after all these years.
With all my love and gratitude, Derf!
You're still the one.
Caroline Rhodes is patterned after the many fine nurses I've been privileged to know. Their strength, intelligence, and tenacity, both on and off the job, are attributes I've tried to duplicate in Caroline. I dedicate her existence to these women and men of nursing.
In a very special way, I dedicate Caroline to Sue Stuebe, an exceptional person and the finest nurse I've ever known.
Special thanks to Martha Eicker for keeping an eye on my grammar.
Thanks also to Jim Grundy for input on police procedures.
One
"What a glorious day to be alive!" Professor Carl Atwater, the roly-poly chairman of Bruck University's history department, threw back his head, expanded his lungs, and sucked in the fragrant scents of a mid-May morning. "Just look at those clouds, Cari. A few minutes ago they were mere powder puffs on the horizon. Now they're magnificent mountains tumbling across the sky."
Caroline Rhodes glanced up at the thunderheads gathering above the cornfields west of little Rhineburg, Illinois. A woman who knew an approaching storm when she saw one, Caroline rolled her eyes in despair.
"It's a good thing you don't teach meteorology, Carl. You'd have been sacked long before reaching tenure."
The white-haired professor ceased his deep breathing exercises. "And what's that supposed to mean?" he grumbled indignantly.
"That means your 'magnificent mountains' are jam-packed with magnificent raindrops. We'll be lucky if we aren't drenched before long."
Caroline surveyed her surroundings from the advantage of a tall-backed cedar bench parked strategically in the center of Bruck Green. The grassy oval separating St. Anne's Hospital from the campus of Bruck University was riddled with puddles from previous storms, and the cobbled walks criss-crossing the lawn still glistened with dampness.
"As if we needed any more rain," she added darkly. Carl turned his back on the approaching cloudbank and waggled his bushy eyebrows at his friend. "Come now, Caroline. Your pessimism is an affront to this beautiful spring weather. Besides that, it's affecting my mood, which is exceptionally good considering I had breakfast with Professor Littlewort only an hour ago."
"Dr. Eccentric? You've got to be kidding, Carl."
Andrew Littlewort stood out like a sore thumb at conservative Bruck U. The Captain Kirk of English Literature, he boldly went where no other professor dared go. His required reading list included both William Shakespeare and Rolling Stone magazine, a combination not unreasonable except for Littlewort's attempt to prove a similarity between the two. Had his opinions been restricted to the classroom, Andrew might have fared better with his colleagues. As it was, the man had the sensitivity of a turnip when interacting with his peers. He publicly sneered at other teachers in his department, calling them 'educational cowards' whose 'slavish attachment to the status quo' reneged on their commitment to their students and the university. His acerbity cost him both respect and friendship, yet few dared criticize him to his face. Rather than deal with Littlewort's explosive temper, most of the faculty simply avoided him like the plague.
"Andy's impossible at times," Carl conceded. "But at least he's sincere."
Caroline groaned. "Pul-lease! As the good folk of Rhineburg would say, that man is downright squirrelly in the head." She reached into the brown paper bag tucked next to her on the bench and pulled out a decrepit looking plastic rose. "Now I know why you're behaving so weirdly," she said as she fixed a wire to the stem with a length of bright red ribbon. "You've been infected with Littlewortitis."
She tossed the flower to Carl who ignored her comment while making a great show of sniffing the pale pink posey.
"Ah, yes. The haunting fragrance of synthetic polymers. Robust, yet not intense. Redolent of…of…achew!" The professor dropped the rose and grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket.
"Redolent of dust!" Caroline rescued her handiwork from the grass. "And so bleached by the sun that it's practically colorless. These flowers belong in a Dumpster, not on a Maypole. Can't the university afford some new ones for the Festival of Knights?"
"Take it up with the Emperor," Carl said between sneezes. "He owes you one."
That's true, thought Caroline. Garrison Hurst, the president of Bruck University scornfully dubbed 'Emperor' by those who loathed his dictatorial style, was deeply indebted to her. The FBI had invaded his college over the winter holidays after a bomb decimated the psychiatric ward at nearby St. Anne's Hospital. Hot on the trail of a student terrorist, they'd disrupted the equanimity of both faculty and parents before Caroline's snooping flushed out the real killer and saved the university's reputation.
Of course, Caroline hadn't been driven purely by altruistic motives. A nurse by profession and a newcomer to town, she'd attracted the attention of FBI Agent Tom Evans after witnessing both the explosion and a subsequent murder. Evans didn't believe in coincidences. When he heard of her recent emotional breakdown following the hit-and-run death of her husband, he immediately tagged Caroline as number one suspect in the 'Mad Bomber' case.
It was only with the help of Carl Atwater that Caroline extricated herself from the mess. Thirty years younger than the septuagenarian professor, she now considered him a close friend and confidant. He'd reintroduced her to life over the course of their investigation, and for that, she'd be ever thankful.
Despite her fondness for him, Caroline recognized an alarming trait in Carl. He tended to go ballistic whenever Hurst's name was mentioned. The two men were engaged in a decade-long feud rooted in jealousy on Hurst's part over Atwater's considerable literary success. All attempts at civility had vanished last winter after Carl led a faculty rebellion against the president's proposed curriculum changes. Currently, the pair conversed only when university protocol, or unavoidable circumstances, dictated it. Sensing the professor was building up to another anti-Hurst tirade, Caroline quickly changed the subject.
"Tell me more about the Festival of Knights. How long has it been going on?"
Atwater sat down on the bench and pulled out his pipe. "The first Festival was held back in 1967. I remember it well because I was thrown by my horse during the opening ceremonies." He chuckled at the memory before catching sight of Caroline's raised eyebrows. "Don't look at me that way, woman! It may be hard to believe, but I weighed a hundred and sixty pounds back then."
"That must have been before you discovered the pleasures of Rhineburg's restaurants." Caroline glanced pointedly at her friend's waist. The professor's adipose tissue had more than doubled over the past four decades. His present girth resembled that of Santa Claus, the mythical figure he portrayed each year during the town's Winter Festival.
"Now you're going to badger me about my diet," Carl growled. "I know you're a nurse, but must you always think like one?"
Although she tried not to nag the professor, Caroline's instincts often proved too strong to resist. Today she threw up her hands in surrender.
"I'll save my lecture for the day you land in the ER clutching your chest. Getting back to the festival, whose bright idea was it in the first place? And why would the university get involved in such a massive undertaking?"
"Call it a dose of preventative medicine. You remember what it was like back in the '60s. Even staid old Bruck fell victim to flower power back then. We weren't overrun by hippies, mind you, but we did have our share of unwashed bodies littering the dormitories."
"Amazing. From the way you brag about this place, I'd have thought you survived that period unscathed."
"Let's not get nasty, Cari," warned the professor. "You Chicagoans weren't the only ones living in the Age of Aquarius. It's just that we Rhineburgers coped with the times better than most people."
"I'll bet you did! Who ran Bruck's security department back then? The Archangels' father?"
Caroline was referring to the present day guardians of Bruck University, Michael, Rafael, and Gabriel Bruck. The triplets, who'd earned their nickname for obvious reasons, had a unique way of dealing with campus troublemakers. Those who violated university rules cut grass in the spring, raked leaves in the autumn, and shoveled snow in the winter. Apparently manual labor had an enlightening effect on most students; few ever served a second sentence.
"Their grandfather, John Bruck, was top dog back then," said Carl. "The Festival of Knights was his brainchild. He figured if the students worked together on a school project, they'd get to know each other as individuals rather than as political adversaries. Nehemiah MacCardy was Bruck's president at the time. He saw the wisdom in John's suggestion, and since Nehemiah's background was in history, hosting a Renaissance Faire was a natural for him."
"And the kids went along with the idea?"
Carl nodded. "Nehemiah persuaded the Student Senate to back the plan. Then he bullied the history and art departments into assisting with sets and costumes."
"I suppose the festival has evolved over the years."
"Sure has. In '67 we held a two-day tournament with a couple of food booths on the sidelines. Now it's a weeklong event. It opens with an evening banquet here on the Green followed the next day by a Grand Parade of Knights and preliminary jousting trials. Along with the games there are exhibitions of falconry, candle making, weaving, and other Renaissance crafts. And of course, there's the archery competition. That always draws a big crowd."
"Sounds like fun. How exactly are the students involved?"
"Each booth or event is hosted by a different student group," explained Carl. "The kids start planning their parts as early as September. Some of them even attend other Renaissance fairs during the summer, then incorporate new things they've seen into our celebration."
"I didn't realize the festival was such a big deal."
"It's become a tradition here at Bruck. It takes a lot of work to put on a decent show each year, but the kids reap the rewards of their efforts. Fifty percent of the proceeds from the fair goes to fund extracurricular activities." Carl tapped the tobacco from his pipe and returned it to his pocket. "Most of all, the students get to indulge in a little merrymaking before final exams. The festival gives them the emotional boost they need before settling down to serious studying."
Caroline couldn't argue with that. In addition to her job as a float pool nurse, she served as housemother to forty-two students living in the old nursing school dormitory attached to St. Anne's. She thought of the young people in her care.
"Considering how my gang burns the midnight oil night after night, I'd say they deserve a little fun." She returned the finished roses to the paper bag and, arching her back, rolled her shoulders. "Thank goodness that's done. Next year sign me up for something more exciting than tying ribbons on plastic flowers."
"They'll look very nice hanging from the Maypole," Carl assured her. "Speaking of which, those boys should have finished digging the hole for it by now."
The professor swiveled sideways on the bench until he faced north. Following his gaze, Caroline glanced over her shoulder to where a group of young men were gathered at the far end of Bruck Green. Two boys were attacking the hard packed soil with gardening spades. Several others stood nearby supporting a tall wooden pole on their shoulders. Suddenly, one of the diggers threw down his spade and began scrabbling in the dirt with his hands. The pole bearers immediately abandoned their burden and crowded around him.
"What in the world are they doing?" Carl said with a frown.
As if in answer, the boy kneeling by the hole jumped up and waved both arms in the air.
"Hey, Professor! Come see what we've found!"
Atwater clambered to his feet and extended a hand to Caroline. "With our luck, they've probably dug up a skeleton. You'd better come along, Super Sleuth."
Caroline grimaced at the title, but curiosity got the best of her. Hard on Carl's heels, she circled the fortuneteller's tent and angled across the Green to the intended site of the Maypole. She hung back when Carl approached the group. He slapped one of the boys on the back.
"What's up, guys?"
"Look what was buried here!" The erstwhile digger extended his hands to Carl. Cupped in his palms was a large rock, its surface smoothed by contact with the earth.
"Let me see that."
Carl took the stone and wiped it clean of dirt. Caroline watched as he examined it closely.
"That's a pretty hefty chunk," she said. "It must weigh at least five pounds."
"This is impossible," Carl muttered. "It can't be real."
"Let's ask Professor Littlewort," a redheaded boy suggested. "He's the expert on this stuff, isn't he?"
The redhead took off across the lawn as the others crowded around Carl, craning their necks for a better view of the stone. Caroline was bewildered by the shared excitement on their faces.
"What's so special about that rock?" she asked. "It looks quite ordinary to me."
Atwater shooed the boys aside. Cradling his prize in one hand, he pointed with the other to a series of nicks and scratches on the stone's surface. They resembled a triangle bisecting a straight line.
"I'm no archeologist. But I can assure you, if these boys' suspicions prove true, there's nothing at all ordinary about this rock. You may be looking at an ancient Viking rune stone."
"A what?"
"Atwater! Tell me I'm not dreaming!"
From the direction of the university ran a dark scarecrow of a man. His thin arms flapped in the air like the scrawny wings of a starving bird as he swooped down on the group. One oversized foot tripped over the other until he stumbled to a halt, out of breath, beside Carl.
"Is it…really…a rune…stone?" Professor Andrew Littlewort pressed one hand to his chest to ease his panting. His eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses flicked from face to face before settling on Carl's in hopeful anticipation.
Atwater shook his head slowly. Logic, that bane of all dreamers, had dampened his initial enthusiasm. He handed the rock to his colleague with a sigh.
"I'll admit, my first reaction was the same as yours, Andrew. If the stone turned out to be genuine…. But, no. We both know they couldn't have traveled this far inland."
Littlewort ignored the doubt in Carl's voice. "Look at the markings! If this isn't a letter from the futhork…"
"Hold on, Professor." Carl's tone registered gentle reproof. He touched the other man's arm in a sympathetic gesture meant to lessen the blow of his next words. "I wish for your sake you could prove your theory. But don't go jumping to conclusions. Those scratches could have been made by anyone at any time."
Littlewort pulled away from Carl's grasp. He clutched the rock to his chest, covering it with both hands, and stared stonily at Atwater. "You're jealous of me, aren't you. You know what this stone means, but you can't stand sharing the limelight with anyone. You think you're king here at Bruck. But when I prove the Vikings actually reached Rhineburg, I'll be the big man on campus, not you!"
"Andrew, Andrew," Carl said softly. "This has nothing to do with jealousy. I'm only urging you to exercise a little caution."
"Caution be damned!"
Littlewort spat out the words with a fury surprising even Caroline. She could tell by the venom in his voice that he was beyond pacifying. His hawk-like nose quivered with indignation, and the veins on his thin neck bulged rigidly as he extended his face to within inches of Carl's.
"I'll send it to Chicago for verification. The Field Museum will be honored to confirm my find." Littlewort drew back with a smirk and turned to address the redheaded boy. "Thank you, young man. Informing me of the stone's existence showed great intelligence on your part. Others, I fear," –he glared accusingly over his shoulder at Carl– "would have dismissed your report as sheer nonsense."
A stocky fellow with forearms twice the size of Littlewort's thighs, the boy glanced quickly at his companions, then dipped his head and shuffled back a step. His face had turned the color of his hair. Caroline let her gaze sweep over the other students. They seemed equally uncomfortable with the situation, and she sensed their relief when Littlewort strode away with the stone.
"You'd better get the Maypole up," she said, breaking the silence that followed the professor's exit. "It's going to rain any minute now."
The boys went back to work quite willingly. Leaving them to it, Caroline and Carl walked back to where the bag of roses lay unattended on the bench.
"Now, tell me what that was all about," said Caroline.
Carl shook his head in disgust. "I think someone's played a practical joke on Littlewort. Unfortunately, he's fallen for it." He sank down on the bench, reached into the bag, and extracted a rose. "We know these flowers are fake. Up close, anyone can tell they're plastic. But from a distance, say twelve feet up on the Maypole, most people will assume they're the genuine article newly picked from the university's garden."
"I don't think anyone will mistake those old things for real roses."
Atwater waved aside the objection. "Folks believe what they want to believe. Just wait and see. Tied up with greens and ribbon, even these decrepit blossoms will appear real to some."
Caroline grimaced. "So, what's your point, Carl?"
"Andrew wants to believe he's found a treasure, an actual runic relic left behind by ancient travelers. Common sense says it's impossible, but Professor Littlewort lacks common sense. He's like Don Quixote in academic garb, out on a quest to prove history wrong." Carl shook his head sadly. "Mark my words, he'll become the laughing stock of the university if he pursues this matter."
"Back up a minute, Carl. You lost me on the 'runic relic' part. What in the world are 'runic relics'? And that other word the professor mentioned, futtock, or…"
"Futhork. The Norse alphabet."
"Norse like in Norwegian?"
"Sort of," Carl replied. "The early inhabitants of Scandinavia–our present day Denmark, Norway, and Sweden–were called Norsemen, or Northmen. They were a fierce people, skilled in warfare and seamanship, who made a living as pirates and invaders. The Norse word 'vik' means 'harbor'. Norse warriors would 'go a-viking', sailing into bays along the European coast and raiding the villages there."
"So that's how they got their name."
"Correct. The Vikings attacked as far away as Russia, and for a time they occupied parts of Britain, Ireland, and France. They plundered Sicily and even made it to Constantinople, the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. That was way back in the Eighth and Ninth centuries, but their influence was felt all the way up to 1050 A.D."
"Pretty powerful guys, those Vikings. But let's get back to Andrew Littlewort and his futhork. What was he talking about?"
Carl shifted on the hard wooden bench. "We sometimes call our alphabet the ABCs, right? Well, the Norsemen called theirs the futhork. The letters of the futhork were known as runes. Norse children learned to cut runes on stones much as our kids learn to write on paper. Early Norsemen used runes for scratching their names on personal belongings or on memorial stones. Over time, the memorials became more elaborate, runes intertwining with pictures and designs, like stories carved in rock. Today the word 'rune' also means a Norse poem or oral story."
"And these memorial stones still exist today?"
Carl nodded. "Thousands have been found on the Scandinavian peninsula, and one was discovered in Greenland where Eric the Red, a Viking explorer, established a Norse colony in 986 A.D. Eric's offspring, Leif Ericson, sailed as far as Newfoundland, which he called Vinland the Good, off the coast of Canada. A Norwegian expedition uncovered the remains of a Norse village there in 1963."
"I'm impressed," said Caroline. "According to those findings, Leif Ericson reached the North American continent some four hundred years before Columbus."
"It appears that way." Carl tucked the plastic rose back into the bag and took out his pipe. He pointed the stem at Caroline. "And that's why the rock those boys found is so important to Professor Littlewort."
"How so?" Caroline waited while Carl added tobacco to the pipe, tamped it down with one finger, and struck a match to the bowl. Her friend seemed distracted, even worried now. His brow was knit in a frown as he stared out over Bruck Green.
"You know how Andrew is always arguing obscure points of academia with anyone who will listen to him."
Caroline nodded. "He's fanatical in his beliefs. I remember overhearing him lecture a group of people at the faculty Christmas party last year. He wouldn't give an inch. In fact, he got downright ugly with one of the younger professors who disagreed with him."
"Andrew has a temper, alright. I've seen him in action a number of times, which is why I won't let him bait me into an argument. Much of what he propounds is just plain hogwash. Occasionally, though, the man makes a valid point. About three weeks ago, he brought up the subject of Leif Ericson at a faculty luncheon. We history buffs agreed with him that the Viking deserves more recognition. But most of the other professors pooh-poohed Andrew's ideas." Carl paused to draw on his pipe. A wisp of smoke escaped his lips and curled lazily upward, leaving behind the faint scent of vanilla. "Of course, that really angered him. If there's one thing old Littlewort can't stand, it's being rebuffed by his peers. In retaliation, he began a one-man campaign to replace Columbus Day with a holiday honoring Leif Ericson. He's been writing to congressmen and state officials ever since, trying to persuade them to take up his banner. That's why he invited me to breakfast today. He wants me to join the cause."
Caroline gazed at Carl in horror. "Tell me you didn't agree to help him."
"I sympathize with Andrew's point of view," Carl replied. "But he's gone way overboard this time. I suspect he's less concerned with Ericson's rightful place in history than with spitting in the collective eye of the faculty."
"His campaign is bound to fail," Caroline reasoned. "The Italian-American community would declare war on Congress if they even considered dumping Columbus Day. And it's sheer idiocy for Littlewort to take on the entire faculty. He'll only make enemies, and he's got enough already."
"Nobody ever credited Andrew with wisdom, Cari. But I agree with your thinking. There are plenty of folks at Bruck who would like nothing more than to cut Professor Littlewort down to size. Given this latest bit of nonsense–this rune stone charade–they may have the chance to do so."
Caroline gathered the loose bits of wire and ribbon and tossed them in a nearby waste container. "Let's hope no one gets hurt along the way," she said as she tidied up her materials. "Andrew Littlewort may deserve his comeuppance, but settling a score can sometimes get out of hand."
Little did she know how right she was.
Two
The first raindrop fell amid a low rumble of thunder. Caroline grabbed the bag of roses and, together with Carl, hurried towards Bruck Hall, the university's administrative center. Since Professor Atwater's version of hurrying differed greatly from Caroline's–his shorter legs and rotund body negating any actual attempt at speed–the two of them were moderately soaked by the time they reached shelter.
"Snow all winter and rain all spring," grumbled Caroline as she shook the dampness from her ash-brown hair. "Don't you Rhineburgers ever enjoy good weather?"
"Wait until summer," laughed Carl. He peeled off his windbreaker and hung it to dry on a rack near the Hall's front door. "I guarantee blue skies and sunshine from June through September."
"I'll hold you to that." Caroline passed her own jacket to Carl before turning to gaze out the lobby window. "Looks like the students aren't fazed by the rain. They're still out there cordoning off the jousting field." She pointed to a group of youths nailing wooden rails to fence posts at the south end of Bruck Green. "They actually seem to be having fun."
"Take a look at old Branch. He's watching those kids like a hawk." Carl gestured toward the side of the field where the university's head gardener stood scowling at the boys. "It must try his patience to see his tulip beds threatened each spring."
Caroline studied the gray-haired man supervising the activity on the Green. Stoop-shouldered from years of battling Mother Nature's darker side, Branch was thin and wiry like the weeds he so despised. His face was as bronze as the autumn asters he tended, but the sun had stained his arms an even darker color, almost obliterating the liver spots peppering his wrists. The skin around his eyes and mouth crinkled like crushed tissue paper as he scowled at the students. Standing there in a scarlet Bruck T-shirt hanging almost to his knees, he reminded Caroline of a wrinkled stick of beef jerky wrapped in bright red cellophane. Like the jerky, Branch was tougher than he looked.
"There's a good-sized patch of grass between the field and the flower beds. I doubt the spectators will trample his tulips."
"It's not the spectators that worry Branch. It's the horses." Seeing Caroline's bemused expression, Carl explained. "Jousting takes place on horseback. Unfortunately, we don't have a place to stable the nags between events. The riders are supposed to hitch their horses to lines strung between the trees, but sometimes they set them free to graze on the lawn. Many a noble steed has nibbled a bloom to the bare root."
Caroline burst into laughter. "I'd hate to own the horse that did that. Branch is as fanatical about his gardens as Littlewort is about Leif Ericson. Just last week I saw him tear into a student who picked a daffodil. Talk about tempers!"
"Actually, I'd like to," said Carl. "Talk about tempers, that is. But first, how about a bite to eat? It's almost noon."
It was closer to eleven-thirty by Caroline's watch, but she knew better than to argue with the professor. She'd learned early on in their relationship that food was never far from Carl's mind. Over the winter she'd gained not only a friend, but also six pounds and an extra inch around her waistline. Daily jogs on Circle Road had banished the unwanted weight, but Caroline now exercised a good deal of self-discipline whenever she was with Carl.
"Nothing for me," she said as Carl headed down the hallway to the kitchen. "I'll meet you in the faculty lounge."
The lounge looked nothing like it had last December when she'd first met Carl at a faculty holiday party. She'd been invited there ostensibly because her son Martin, a Ph.D. candidate at Bruck, was Carl's teaching assistant. She suspected, though, that she'd been included on the guest list for an entirely different reason. As a witness to the bombing at St. Anne's, she'd achieved an odd sort of celebrity status, a position she'd shunned from the start. As it turned out, her unwillingness to discuss the matter had branded her a troublemaker in the eyes of the killer.
Caroline shook off the memories of last winter and let her gaze wander around the room. Instead of Christmas poinsettias, outdated magazines now littered the wide windowsills bracketing the far corner of the room. To the left of the windows, the enormous stone fireplace stood empty of logs, a tarnished brass screen drawn across its gaping mouth. Tartan plaid easy chairs were grouped in pairs in front and to the right of the fireplace. To the left, on the spot previously occupied by three beautifully decorated Christmas trees, there now stood a brown leather couch and a small oak side table.
"Are you sure you aren't hungry?"
Carl entered the lounge carrying a tray of sandwiches and two bottles of beer. He placed the tray on the massive oak table in the center of the room, scooped two sandwiches onto a paper plate, flipped the cap off a beer, and settled himself at one end of the leather sofa. Caroline sank into an easy chair opposite Carl and shook her head. She refused to be enticed by the sight of dark rye piled high with thin slices of roast beef and cheddar cheese.
Diverting her eyes from Carl's plate, she said, "Tell me more about the rune stone. Why are you so sure it's a fake?"
"To tell the truth," the professor answered between bites, "when I first saw those scratches, my heart beat a little faster. The thought of finding a genuine Viking relic was overwhelming. But then my common sense took hold. Rhineburg's over a thousand miles from the Atlantic Ocean. How could a seafaring people, even those as adventurous as the Vikings, make their way this far inland? And why would they want to?"
"How about the St. Lawrence River? They might have sailed into the Great Lakes, then come ashore to explore."
Carl wrinkled his nose. "The North American colony lasted only three years. I doubt the settlers had enough time, energy, or resources to mount an expedition as ambitious as the one you suggest. Besides that, no physical evidence of Viking exploration has ever been found west of the Newfoundland site."
"So you think the stone is a hoax."
"Someone's putting one over on Littlewort," Carl said with a nod. "It may be a faculty member who's sick and tired of Andrew's temper tantrums. Or maybe a student heard about the ruckus and decided to play a practical joke. It really doesn't matter who's behind this prank. The important thing is, the professor is going to heap scorn both on himself and this university if the press gets wind of his plans."
"As it surely will if he sends the stone to the Field Museum," mused Caroline. "Maybe he'll come to his sense before he does anything rash."
"I've never known Littlewort to back down, even when it's obvious he's wrong. He just gets angry, and his anger is something to behold. You mentioned seeing Branch ream out a student for picking a daffodil. Let me tell you something, Cari. Branch is a lamb compared to old Andrew."
Carl set down his plate and stared moodily out the window. Caroline could tell he was troubled; he'd left half a sandwich uneaten.
"Don't ruin your day with worry," she said soothingly. "You did your best to stop the professor. If he continues to act like an obstinate fool, it'll be President Hurst's problem, not yours."
Carl's face brightened. "Serves the Emperor right! He's been glowing like a light bulb ever since he pushed that stadium deal through the Town Council. Littlewort's scheme ought to jar him back into reality."
Caroline chuckled. Carl was still furious over Hurst's plan to field a football team at Bruck. The school had no reputation for athletics, but the president firmly believed football would attract more students to the university while also luring sports-minded alumni into donating more cash to their alma mater. It was a plan with potential except for the fact that Hurst had no seed money to hire a coach or even buy uniforms. He'd resolved the problem by firing several untenured teachers, cutting courses, and increasing the student-teacher ratio in the remaining classes. His move had angered a good portion of the faculty, and they were fighting the changes tooth and nail. Dictating the order of battle was no other than Hurst's greatest critic, Carl Atwater.
"Your esteemed leader will suffer many a headache if Professor Littlewort publicizes his find. Before you know it, there'll be treasure hunters digging for rune stones all over Bruck Green."
Caroline's comment had an unexpected effect on her friend. Carl's eyes narrowed to thin slits as his face took on the dreamy quality of one lost deep in thought. He began to stroke his beard in slow deliberate motions.
"Oh, no, you don't!" Caroline sputtered. She'd known the professor long enough to recognize beard stroking as a classic sign of trouble to come. The grin spreading across his face only underlined her suspicions. "If you encourage Andrew Littlewort in this nonsense, you'll be as much to blame as he when all hell breaks loose."
"Now, Cari, don't be like that." Carl practically purred the words. "I'm only going to have a bit of fun at the Emperor's expense. I promise I won't let it get out of hand. And I won't involve you in it, either." He levered himself upright, his eyes twinkling with unsuppressed glee. "I was thinking more along the lines of Martin as my accomplice."
Caroline jumped to her feet at the mention of her son.
"Listen to me, Carl Atwater! Martin is your teaching assistant, not your partner in crime. He's a year away from earning his Ph.D., and you'll not get him expelled from Bruck." She paused to draw a calming breath. "Just think what Nikki would say if she got wind of your shenanigans."
"Martin's wife won't mind him helping. She detests the Emperor." Carl's voice faltered. His confidence eroded by Caroline's steely gaze, he made a last ditch attempt to smooth her ruffled feathers. "Come on, Cari. You know I'd never jeopardize your son's career. Marty will graduate with honors and probably earn a teaching post here at Bruck. Eventually, he'll take over my job as chairman of the history department. Then won't you be proud!"
"I should live so long," Caroline muttered. "You know what I think, Carl? You're as mad as your buddy Andrew. You're both obsessed with stupid vendettas, and you're both heading for trouble."
"I promise to be careful." Professor Atwater placed his right hand over his heart and raised his left in the air. "On my honor, Cari. I intend to do nothing more than tweak the nose of Emperor Hurst."
With that said, Carl suddenly remembered he had a faculty meeting to attend. He mumbled an apology and escorted Caroline to the door, then beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the Liberal Arts building. Stranded on the steps of Bruck Hall, Caroline could only stare at Carl's vanishing backside and wonder what the man was up to now.
Three
The storm had been short lived. Only a few puddles dampened the road encircling Bruck Green, and Caroline easily avoided them when she approached the parkway. The dozen or more tents scattered about the grassy oval seemed none the worse for the weather, nor did the food booths with their colorful flags, hand painted menu boards, and red and gold striped awnings.
Towering above these other attractions, the Maypole now stood firmly planted in the center of the Green. Pink and ruby ribbons extended outward from the top of the pole in a circular fashion. Anchored to the ground with lynch pins, they awaited the addition of Caroline's roses.
Unfortunately, the boys who'd raised the Maypole and were assigned to decorate it were nowhere to be seen. Caroline wondered if they'd left because they'd unearthed something else from the wet campus soil.
"Like Leif Ericson's bones," she muttered aloud.
"Enough!" she told herself disgustedly. Stuck with the bag of flowers, she tucked it under her arm and began the short walk back to her apartment in the nursing school dorm. Carl's mischievousness was a worry, but she forced it out of her mind and savored, instead, the warm spring sun beating down on her shoulders. The air was fragrant with the scent of newly mown grass, and raindrops glistened on the golden daffodils lining the Green's cobblestone paths. She stopped in the shade of a gnarled oak tree to drink in the day and admire the flowers' varying shades.
"You like my daffodils, Mrs. Rhodes?"
The gardener had appeared out of nowhere. He stood in the shadows a few feet from Caroline, his head cocked to one side as he observed her through narrowed eyes.
"I do indeed, Mr. Branch." Caroline's voice betrayed her surprise. Branch had caught her off guard, and he was quick to take note of it.
"Didn't mean to creep up on you," the older man said in apology. "I guess you're wary of that sort of thing since the business with the bomb last year."
Caroline blushed. "I admit, the murders left their mark. But I'm trying to put the experience behind me."
"Some things you never get over." Branch glanced down at the daffodils. He shrugged his muscular shoulders and added in a somber drawl, "Bein' careful ain't such a bad idea these days. Gotta protect your backside, my daddy always said."
"Hmm." Having no such pearls of wisdom to offer in return, Caroline simply joined the gardener in admiring the flowerbeds. After a few moments of uninterrupted silence, the man spoke again.
"You garden?"
"What? Oh, no. Not any more." Caroline bent over and flicked a raindrop off a drooping petal. "My gardening days ended when I moved here from Chicago. It's a pleasure I miss, living in an apartment like I do." She smiled at her companion. "You have so many varieties here, Mr. Branch. Did you plant them all yourself?"
"My daddy was head gardener before me, but he was a rose man. Roses are fine over there." He gestured towards the university buildings on the other side of the Green. "They don't work so well under these trees. I figured the walks could use some color in spring, so every fall I'd plant a few more daffies. Now all my paths are lined with gold." Branch threw back his head and uttered a loud guffaw. "That's what I tell the boys who work for me, but none of 'em understand. Not even Mr. Smarty Pants over there." He pointed a callused finger at a young man lounging against a tree trunk some twenty feet away and hollered, "Get back to your raking, Burke, or I'll report you to the Archangels."
Caroline hadn't noticed the youth before. He was a tall good-looking boy with curly black hair and an insolent manner who motioned rudely in Branch's direction before strolling off across the Green. Only Caroline witnessed the gesture; the gardener had already turned away.
"I saw you here earlier today," said Branch. "You and Professor Atwater were helpin' the students put up that Maypole."
"We weren't really helping them. We only walked over to see what all the excitement was about." Caroline described the rune stone and its effect on Professor Atwater. "He intends to send it to Chicago for verification. It's probably a fake, but I'd advise you to keep a look out for strangers bearing shovels. I'd hate to see your flowerbeds dug up by fortune hunters when word of this gets out."
Branch's jaw dropped in horror. "You think people will come looking for more of these stones?"