Paul stared at the pushpin in his palm. “Did you do this?”
Tessa laughed even though her heart jackhammered against her ribcage. “How would I have done that? It probably fell into the bin at the candy shop.”
“The same pin I threw out the window?”
Tessa wrinkled her forehead and shook her head. “That’s not the same pushpin.”
But Paul had voiced the same question she’d been thinking. Was it the same pushpin? She wanted to run down the stairs and dig through the garden until she found the heart-shaped pin he’d thrown out, but what if she couldn’t find it?What if . . .
A knock sounded at the door, startling Tessa. She opened the door to a tall, imposing figure with broad shoulders and hair blacker than licorice. Tessa stared at the man with tanned skin, intense chestnut brown eyes, and high cheekbones. He smiled at her, and her brain thought,Wow. Thankfully, her mouth said, “Hi.”
Fog rolled over the threshold and curled into the room around Tessa’s feet.
“Ms. Andrews? I’m Austenaco Blackstone,” he said, holding out his panther-size paw of a hand. “But, unless you’re my mother, I’d rather you call me Austen.”
Tessa’s hand disappeared into his, and she smiled. “Austen it is. Although Austenaco is unique.”
“Too unusual for most people. It was my grandfather’s name, from the Cherokee language.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Tessa. Come on in.”
Austen’s smile widened, and Tessa tried not to stare at how it changed his face, softening the angular lines of his face and jaw.
“I’ve never seen fog this dense. Is it usual for this area?” Austen asked as he stepped into the apartment, filling the space with his presence.
“Not at all,” Tessa said. She motioned over toward Paul. “This is Paul Borelli . . . a friend. His parents own this building and run the diner downstairs.”
Paul crossed the room and dropped the heart-shaped pin into the trash can. Then he introduced himself with a handshake.
“I appreciate you letting me see the artifact myself,” Austen said. His dark eyes found the spear propped against the bookcase. “Is this it?”
Tessa nodded and motioned with her hand for Austen to have a look. “I’m curious. What made you come all this way based on a picture? I’ve gathered the spear must be old, but being an anthropologist who studies Native American societies, you’ve probably seen hundreds of spears, right? What’s special about this one?”
Austen pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on. Then he knelt in front of the spear and lifted it carefully in his hands. Paul squatted beside Austen.
“The carvings?” Paul asked. “They’re tribal writings, aren’t they?”
Austen nodded. “Cherokee language. Spears don’t normally have writings on them because they were tools. They had a specific purpose—to hunt. Tribe members wouldn’t have taken the time to write elaborate messages on them. It would be the equivalent of writing messages on a shotgun. Why bother?”
He rotated the spear in his hands, touching the wood gently as though it might crumble if he handled it too roughly.
Tessa stood behind them. “Can you translate it?”
“Only a few words. I brought a cleaning tool kit,” Austen said, looking up at Tessa. “Would you mind if I cleaned it?”
Tessa shook her head. After Austen walked out, Paul turned to her with an unreadable expression on his face.
“What?” she asked, sensing he had something on his mind.
“This isn’t exactly legal.”
“What isn’t?”
“This find doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the lady who owns Honeysuckle Hollow. You know that, right? She owns the land. Therefore, she owns the spear.”
It didn’t seem right that Trudy Steele, who didn’t even want the house, should have any sort of claim to what lay beneath the ruins, but Tessa knew he was right. It still didn’t make her want to hand over the artifact to Mrs. Steele or the potential investor, who wanted to destroy the integrity of the neighborhood by dropping Fat Betty’s onto the street. The investor wouldn’t likely see the value in the spear, unless it meant monetary gain for him.
As though reading her mind, Paul said, “I’m not going to call her and tell her youborrowedanything from her land, because I don’t think she would care about the importance of the find. But a professor of Native American studies drove three hours to Mystic Water because he saw a few blurry photographs, which leads me to believe this spear is more than a random tool found in the dirt. If itisunique, then people will find out soon enough, including the owner. It won’t be something you can hide for long.”
