Her eyes caught at Linden, their expression wide, round, and . . .
Vulnerable? Or was Linden projecting her own sensibilities upon the woman?
“I’ll see what I can learn and get back to you.” He tucked the photo into the folder, handing it to her. “What’s your interest in this?”
She placed the folder into her purse and smiled. “You know me and one of history’s mysteries.”
He laughed.
“I’ll try to run that next donation to you tomorrow afternoon before my . . .” she grimaced, “. . . appointment if you think you’ll be there on a Sunday.”
He chewed his lip. “I’ll be there all right. Trying to erase the graffiti. Cleaning up the mess. Sheriff has no leads on what he calls a racial hate crime.”
“Who does he think is behind it?”
“Lot of mixed feelings on both sides about the changes the festival’s bringing.”
She frowned. “But you said skinheads. Surely not the Cherokee?”
“For political, tribal reasons, not everyone in the Cherokee Nation wants this reunification of the Eastern and Western bands. Nor are the descendants of the Appalachian land grabbers eager to revisit a dark time in the town’s history.”
An echo of Walker’s earlier words at Gram’s. Maybe this so-called partnership with Crowe wasn’t such a good idea. What did she really know about him, other than he was Ross Wachacha’s nephew?
Glancing around, she discovered Walker had disappeared from the fellowship hall while she and Quincy had their heads doubled over the daguerreotype.
Linden squared her shoulders, pushing down her apprehensions about Walker for the moment. This account with the town of Cartridge Cove was too important for her future to allow anyone to ruin the festival. “What’s the sheriff doing about it?”
“Everything he can. He’s understaffed. Extra patrols around the Center. But it’s a big county with lots of rough terrain. Even if they acquired a lead, fugitives have been known to evade capture for years.”
Her lips curved. “Snowbird Cherokee hiding from the federal soldiers, case in point.”
“Exactly.” Quincy gave her an adorable, boyish grin. “So I’ve reconciled myself to live at the Center 24/7.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “Till the—”
“Excuse me, Dr. Sawyer?”
Linden looked up to find Emmaline glaring daggers at her over Quincy’s short-cropped straw-colored head.
Emmaline bared her teeth. “You must be Miss Marvela’s granddaughter. The PR woman who’s not from around here.”
Which, in Southern speak, sometimes translated to “not welcome around here, either.”
Linden pursed her lips. What did this girl have against her?
Quincy blinked owlishly at the curvaceous co-ed—displaying her charms in Nike shorts, running shoes, and a skintight t-shirt reading: Cherokee and Proud of It.
“Why, Emm—maa,” he stuttered and cleared his throat. His Nordiclike features shadowed in confusion. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Emmaline crossed her arms over her “pride,” and glowered at Linden.
His lack of recognition Linden’s fault? Go figure.
Uncrossing her arms, Emmaline pushed out her chest—on the off-chance Quincy, Walker, and every other male in the room hadn’t noticed already?—and jutted her hip. “Didn’t you mention you needed my help this evening cataloguing some recently donated items to the Center?”
“I-I,” His gaze ping-ponged between the women. “I did?”
Emmaline’s mouth flattened. “You did.” She slitted her eyes in Linden’s direction.
Linden shrugged. Whatever this girl’s problem was, next move Quincy.
He scraped back his chair. “Well, sure, Emma. If you say so.” He reached for the remains of his dinner. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Linden.” Emmaline inserted her arm through the crook of his elbow.
Linden fiddled with the paper band encasing the napkins and plastic utensils. “Sure, Quince. Tomorrow.”
As Emmaline propelled him to the nearest trashcan, Quincy mounted one more feeble protest. “You know the Department won’t spring for overtime, Em.”
“No worries.” Emmaline tilted her head. “Working at the Center has other compensations, Dr. Sawyer.” She clutched Quincy’s arm tighter.
He furrowed his brow before nodding. “I understand. I guess.”
Biting back a smile, Linden somehow doubted he did.
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