“Let’s do it.”
He looked up at my brother. “Austin, can you give me a hand?”
“Sure thing.” My brother stepped into the space and knelt down next to Derek. Together they carefully rolled the man over onto his back while I held the flashlight.
“How did he get in here?” Austin wondered aloud, studying the man’s face. “He looks like he died just a little while ago.”
“And not from natural causes,” I muttered as my stomach began to churn. “That’s a lot of caked blood on the side of his head.”
“And there’s a bullet hole in his chest,” Derek said flatly, pointing out the frayed hole in the lapel.
“No earthquake did that,” Dad conceded.
Derek scowled. “No, a killer did that. We’d better call the authorities.”
*
Before calling the sheriff’s department to report a murder from who-knew-how-long-ago, Derek searched the man’s pockets thoroughly and held up his findings: a French passport and a business-sized envelope.
I was surprised when Derek slit open the envelope and pulled out its contents. He was often a stickler for following the rules, but since he’d come from the world of clandestine law enforcement in England, I knew he preferred to find the answers on his own.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A ticket,” he said, holding up a rectangular piece of paper for everyone to see. “He’s booked passage from New York to Southampton on the Queen Mary.”
“The Queen Mary,” Robin echoed. “The ocean liner?”
“Yes. It’s dated April 12, 1946.”
We all needed a moment to figure that one out.
Staring down at the body, Austin scratched his head. “That’s, like, seventy years ago.”
“Brilliant,” Robin said, patting his arm. “But we just agreed that the guy looks like he died a few hours ago.”
“He does,” I said, “but his clothes are more in line with the date on that ticket. Like I said, the nineteen forties or fifties.”
Robin shook her head slowly. “This is weird.”
“Maybe he’s an actor,” Dad suggested, “and died wearing a costume.”
“And the ticket is a prop?” Robin said.
“Or some kind of souvenir,” I said.
Austin shrugged. “That makes as much sense as anything else, I guess.”
“Derek, what does the passport say?”
Derek opened the passport and read the name. “‘Jean Pierre Renaud.’ And the name on the passenger ticket is the same.”
“That’s pretty elaborate for a theatrical prop.”
“It is,” Derek said. “I don’t believe this man was an actor, nor do I believe the ticket is a prop.”
“So you believe he died here seventy years ago?” I asked. “That’s awfully hard to swallow.”
“It’s a mystery.” Derek stood and brushed more dust off his trousers. “However, if it is a case of mummification, the body will begin to decompose rapidly at this point. The authorities need to get here as quickly as possible.”
“I contacted them,” Dad said. “They won’t be here for another forty minutes or so.” He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “I’m going to call Robson, too.”
Yes, I thought. Guru Bob would certainly want to know about this. I glanced up at Derek. “I know I mentioned it first, but seriously, how in the world could this body have been mummified? Wouldn’t you need to remove the organs and coat it in resin or something?” I vaguely recalled those details, thanks to a museum presentation I’d attended during a high school field trip.
He aimed the flashlight around the space. “This wall had to have been built within hours of the man’s death. Once that was done, as you were correct to suggest, a lack of air, combined with this cold, dry space, helped preserve him.”
“Truly bizarre,” Robin murmured.
Guru Bob walked into the cave barely ten minutes after Dad called him. Everyone stood in silence, watching his reaction to what we’d discovered.
He was clearly upset by the presence of the body. We’d all been shaken, but Guru Bob seemed to take it more personally. A man had been murdered in Dharma. His home. His sanctuary.
The mood was so somber, it felt as though we were attending a memorial service. And in a way, we were.
Guru Bob had always been as careful as one could be to keep too much negativity from touching Dharma. I knew it firsthand because I’d once brought a visitor to Dharma who turned out to be a cold-blooded killer. Guru Bob didn’t blame me, of course, but I would never forgive myself for being so clueless.
“He is French,” Guru Bob murmured. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Derek said. “According to the passport I found in his pocket, his name is Jean Pierre Renaud.”
Guru Bob flinched at the name. It was a subtle reaction, but I saw it. Did he recognize the name? Or was he simply reacting to the fact that evil had visited Dharma once again?
But if this man had died here seventy years ago, Dharma hadn’t even existed yet. The winery hadn’t existed. Who owned this land back then?