A Midsummer Night's Romp Read Online Free Page B

get indisputable proof of his illness. Beware, Paul Thompson, for your doom is nigh, and her name is Lorina!”

Chapter 3
    â€œW ell, Lorina, it looks like we’ve officially started.” Daria Hollingberry, one of the archaeologists whom I’d just met, nodded at the cluster of people standing around a soundman bearing a large microphone swathed in a furry cover. In the center of the group was a woman who’d been introduced as Sue Birdwhistle, the director of the
Dig Britain!
reality show.
    â€œWe have?” I glanced at my watch. “Hell’s bells, I haven’t even unpacked. Well, anything but this.” I nodded at the camera I was holding, one of the two I had borrowed from a friend, after having promised him I would guard them with my life. “Did they move up the schedule? No one told me, if they did. I had to take a train from London, and it took a lot longer than I imagined.”
    â€œNo, no, they didn’t move the schedule—we don’t start actually digging until this afternoon. I meant we’ve officially started because Sue’s just done her firstmonologue to the camera.” Daria gestured a small triangular trowel toward the small clutch of people. Then, with a smile, she used it to tap lightly against my camera in a faux toast. “Here’s to a successful dig.”
    â€œAh, gotcha.” I smiled wanly, my confusion fading. “So, do you work for the Claud-Marie company, or are you one of the independent diggers?”
    I had an idea of how a dig site actually worked after having listened to Sandy’s tales of the summers she spent grubbing around in the sands of the Middle East and eastern Europe as a volunteer, and wanted to identify anyone who might be able to help me in my quest. Volunteers probably weren’t going to help my cause much, but an employee . . . that was another matter.
    â€œYes, I work for CMA. It’s quite exciting, really. Last year we excavated in Tunisia, which was a blast, although my husband complained about my leaving him home with our twin ten-year-olds while I gallivanted around in the sun, and had steamy affairs with various and sundry handsome sheikhs.”
    I didn’t quite know how to take that, so I simply said, “Did your husband come with you this time?”
    â€œNot him! He runs a testing facility—you know, the people who process blood tests and urine samples, and that sort of thing. He’d die if he had to spend his day in what he calls unsanitary dirt.” She giggled. “I’ve made him sound like a jealous clean freak, but he’s not. He’s actually quite understanding, although he does like to pretend that I’m surrounded by countless diggers who lust after me, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Just look around—by tonight we’ll be knee-high in dirt and mud, and the only thing we’ll lust after is a hot bath. Are you going to be here for long? Oh, dear, that sounded rude. What I meant to ask is how long you expect it will take to get your book done.”
    â€œOh, you know,” I said, trying to look sage. “These things are hard to pin down. It could take a few days, or a few weeks.”
    â€œI’ve never met a photojournalist before,” she said with obvious interest. “It must be thrilling for you to be able to take a few pictures and then voilà! You have a book.”
    â€œIt’s a bit more complicated than that,” I said with what I hoped looked like learned professionalism. I tried to dredge up every morsel of information I had ever seen about journalists and photography. “There’s fact-checking and things, naturally. And the photos have to be processed. That takes a lot of time.”
    She nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief that she obviously had no clue I was bluffing like crazy. “I’m sure there’s a lot of work involved. I take it you’re a fan of Roman