Faye Longchamp 01 - Artifacts

swept away by the next big storm—it was always possible—but the fact that it had stood for nigh onto two hundred years was undeniable.
    If she sold Joyeuse, she could end the constant economic drain of property taxes. She could satisfy the bill collectors who had lost track of her when she sold her mother’s house and fled to Joyeuse. She could have an apartment with electricity and air conditioning. She could go back to college.
    But she would be alone in a world that showed its coldest face to a young woman who refused to call herself black or white, who refused to be anything other than who she was. American society had made great strides in tolerance during Faye’s short life, but it would be a long time before she felt truly at home anywhere but at Joyeuse. If she sold it, she would have no place left to hide.
    Okay, she wouldn’t sell Joyeuse. Where else would she get money? What could she sell? She had no more artifacts of any value, except for a few broken pieces of jewelry. Her personal possessions were still more worthless. In subtropical Florida, an old Pontiac without air conditioning probably had a negative blue book value. Besides, she needed her car to deliver artifacts to her paying clients.
    Her boats? The Gopher wasn’t expendable. It was her cover story, the “permanent address” that staved off all the questions about where she lived. Besides, the skiff was only safe in calm waters. Jettisoning the Gopher would leave her trapped on Joyeuse if an unexpected storm blew up. She could raise a piddling amount of money by selling the skiff, but it would cost her in the long run. She used it to get around whenever she could because the Gopher simply slurped up fuel. The hike in her fuel bill would eat up any profit on the skiff within months.
    What if she got another job, now that her work with Magda was on indefinite hold? Getting another job would be stupid. The jobs she could land with her puny high school diploma paid nothing and they would keep her from her artifacts business, which actually paid quite a lot when things were going well. Taking the job with Magda had been a stupid financial decision, but she had craved a chance to do legitimate archaeology. Too bad the illegitimate stuff paid so much better.
    Pothunting was the only answer. It was like playing the lottery. Dig enough holes and you’re bound to find something. Find enough stuff and you’re bound to stumble onto something that makes you rich and saves your home and makes your mother, who is surely busy caring for all God’s children in Heaven, proud of her earthbound daughter.

    Sheriff Mike didn’t mind spending his Friday afternoon waiting at Wally’s Marina for Faye Longchamp. It wasn’t like he had an appointment to talk to her. Patience was a virtue for a lawman hoping to “accidentally” bump into an important witness.
    No, he didn’t mind waiting for Faye, but he felt that he could easily grow tired of Wally’s company. How convenient that Wally was one of those people who quickly found reasons to leave any room occupied by a law enforcement officer. The sheriff was left with Liz, Wally’s hardworking short-order cook, a woman who could smile with her sweet eyes even when she was too busy to waste time smiling with her mouth.
    Unfortunately, she was too busy to waste time talking about Faye Longchamp. After gesturing out the window and identifying a singularly dilapidated vessel as Faye’s boat, she had returned to slinging grits for hungry mariners.
    Finding Faye’s boat, the Gopher , so easily came as no surprise. She claimed to live on it, giving Wally’s Marina as her permanent mailing address. Assuming this cock-and-bull story was indeed true, then Ms. Longchamp should show up sooner or later.
    The Coke he was sipping had done a great deal to settle his stomach. Sheriff Mike detested autopsy reports. Just reading them made him woozy. His fertile imagination easily conjured up the scenes described in the reports: scalpels slicing, forceps lifting cut flesh and moving it aside, out of the way. He could even smell the preservatives and the decay lurking beneath their cloying stench.
    Years ago, he’d had a good long conversation with the Blessed Virgin. He’d asked her to put a stop to murders in his jurisdiction, mostly because murders are in general bad things, but also because no murders meant no autopsies and no autopsy reports. The Blessed Virgin had declined to answer his prayer. Perhaps coastal