I shrugged. "Unless you did it personally, you're not the one who owes me an apology."
He shifted a little in his seat. "I did not order the digging. Mr. Stirling is on site."
"The Mr. Stirling?" I asked.
Bayard didn't seem to get the humor. "Yes, that Mr. Stirling." Or maybe he really expected me to know the name.
"You always have a senior partner looking over your shoulder?"
He used one finger to adjust his gold-framed glasses. It looked like an old gesture from a time before new glasses and designer suits. "With this much money at stake, Mr. Stirling thought he should be in the area in case there were more problems."
"More problems?" I asked.
He blinked at me rapidly, like a well-groomed rabbit. "The Bouvier matter."
He was lying. "What else is going wrong with your little project?"
"Whatever do you mean, Ms. Blake?" His manicured fingers smoothed down his tie.
"You've had more problems than just the Bouviers." I made it a statement.
"Any problems we may or may not be having, Ms. Blake, are not your concern. We hired you to raise the dead and establish the identity of said deceased persons. Beyond that, you have no duties here."
"Have you ever raised a zombie, Mr. Bayard?"
He blinked again. "Of course not." He sounded offended.
"Then how do you know the other problems won't affect my job?"
Small frown lines formed between his eyebrows. He was a lawyer and was earning a good living, but thinking seemed to be hard for him. Made you wonder where he'd graduated from.
"I don't see how our little difficulties could affect your job."
"You've just admitted you don't know anything about my job," I said. "How do you know what will affect it and what won't?" Alright, I was fishing. Bayard was probably right. The other problems probably wouldn't affect me, but you never know. I don't like being kept in the dark. And I don't like being lied to, not even by omission.
"I think Mr. Stirling would have to make the call about whether you are enlightened or not."
"Not senior enough to make the decision," I said.
"No," Bayard said, "I am not."
Geez, some people you can't even needle. I glanced at Larry. He shrugged. "Looks like we're going to land."
I glanced out at the rapidly growing land. We were in the middle of the Ozark Mountains, hovering over a blasted scar of reddish na**d earth. The construction site, I presume.
The ground swelled up to meet us. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. The ride was almost over. I would not throw up this close to the ground. The ride was almost over. Almost over. Almost over. There was a bump that made me gasp.
"We've landed," Larry said. "You can open your eyes now."
I did. "You are enjoying the hell out of this, aren't you?"
He grinned. "I don't get to see you out of your element often."
The helicopter was surrounded by a fog of reddish dirt. The blades began to slow with a thick whump, whump sound. As the blades stopped, the dirt settled down and we could see where we were.
We were in a small, flat area between a cluster of mountains. It looked like it had once been a narrow valley, but bulldozers had widened it, flattened it, made it a landing pad. The earth was so red it looked like a river of rust. The mountain in front of the helicopter was one red mound. Heavy equipment and cars were clustered to the far side of the valley. Men were clustered around the equipment, shielding their eyes from the dust.
When the blades came to a sliding stop, Bayard unbuckled his seat belt. I did, too. We lifted off the headsets and Bayard opened his door. I opened mine and found that the ground was farther away than you'd think. I had to expose a long line of thigh to touch the ground.
The construction workers were appreciative. Whistles, catcalls, and one offer to check under my skirt. No, those weren't the exact words used.
A tall man in a white hard hat strode towards us. He was wearing a pair of tan coveralls, but his dirt-covered shoes were Gucci and his tan was health-club perfect. A man and a woman followed at his back.
The man looked like the real foreman. He was dressed in jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled over muscular forearms. Not from racquetball or a little tennis, but from plain hard work.
The woman wore the traditional skirt suit complete with little blousy tie at her throat. The suit was expensive, but was an unfortunate shade of puce that did nothing for the woman's auburn hair but did match the blush that she'd smeared on her cheeks. I checked her neckline, and yes, she did have a pale line just above her collar where the base had not been blended in. She looked like she'd been made up at clown school.
She didn't look that young. You'd think someone somewhere would have clued her in to how bad she looked. Of course, I wasn't going to tell her either. Who was I to criticize?
Stirling had the palest grey eyes I'd ever seen. The irises were only a few shades darker than the whites of his eyes. He stood there with his entourage behind him. He looked me up and down. He didn't seem to like what he saw. His strange eyes flicked to Larry in his cheap, wrinkled suit. Mr. Stirling frowned.
Bayard came around, smoothing his jacket into place. "Mr. Stirling, this is Anita Blake. Ms. Blake, this is Raymond Stirling."
He just stood there, looking at me like he was disappointed. The woman had a clipboard notebook, pen poised. Had to be his secretary. She looked worried, as if it was very important that Mr. Raymond Stirling like us.
I was beginning not to care if he liked us or not. What I wanted to say was, "You got a problem?" What I said was, "Is there a problem, Mr. Stirling?" Bert would have been pleased.
"You're not what I expected, Ms. Blake."
"How so?"
"Pretty, for one thing." It wasn't a compliment.
"And?"
He motioned at my outfit. "You're not dressed appropriately for the job."
"Your secretary's wearing heels."
"Ms. Harrison's attire is not your concern."
"And my attire is none of yours."
"Fair enough, but you're going to have a hell of time getting up that mountain in those shoes."
"I've got a coverall and Nikes in my suitcase."
"I don't think I like your attitude, Ms. Blake."
"I know I don't like yours," I said.
The foreman behind him was having trouble not smiling. His eyes were getting shiny with the effort. Ms. Harrison looked a little scared. Bayard had moved to one side, closer to Stirling. Making clear whose side he was on. Coward.
Larry moved closer to me.
"Do you want this job, Ms. Blake?"
"Not enough to take grief about it, no."
Ms. Harrison looked like she'd swallowed a bug. A big, nasty, squirming bug. I think I'd missed my cue to fall down and worship at her boss's feet.
The foreman coughed behind his hand. Stirling glanced at him, then back to me. "Are you always this arrogant?" he asked.
I sighed. "I prefer the word 'confident' to 'arrogant,' but I'll tell you what. I'll tone it down if you will."
"I am so sorry, Mr. Stirling," Bayard said. "I apologize. I had no idea..."
"Shut up, Lionel," Stirling said.
Lionel shut up.
Stirling was looking at me with his strange pale eyes. He nodded. "Agreed, Ms. Blake." He smiled. "I'll tone it down."
"Great," I said.
"All right, Ms. Blake, let's go up to the top and see if you're really as good as you think you are."
"I can look at the graveyard, but until full dark I can't do anything else."
He frowned and glanced at Bayard. "Lionel." That one word had a lot of heat in it. Anger looking for a target. He'd stop picking on me, but Lionel was fair game.
"I did fax you a memo, sir, as soon as I realized that Ms. Blake would be unable to help us until after dark."
Good man. When in doubt, cover your ass with paper.
Stirling glared at him. Bayard looked apologetic but he stood his ground, safe behind his memo.
"I called Beau and had him bring everybody down here on the understanding we could get some work done today." His gaze was very steady on Bayard. Lionel wilted just a little; evidently one memo was not protection enough.
"Mr. Stirling, even if I can raise the graveyard in one night, and that's a big if, what if the dead are all Bouviers? What if it is their family plot? My understanding is that construction will stop until you rebuy the land."