Risky Undertaking (13 page)

Chapter Thirteen

When we hit the main road, my phone became an earthquake of vibrations, signaling that multiple calls had gone to voicemail while I was out of coverage.

Romero smiled. “Either you're very popular or you've got the noisiest belly I've ever heard.”

I scrolled through the list of messages. Two were from the Sheriff's Department, one from Susan, and one from the number I recognized as belonging to Darren Cransford. “I'd better check these.”

I played Darren's first. “Deputy Clayton, sorry to miss your call. It's crazy here in the office. I'll try to connect with you later.” I didn't know which office was crazy because he certainly didn't work at the one in DC. I decided not to get into a conversation over the phone with Darren in front of Romero. Instead I texted that I would call him at five.

Susan left a message that she was back at the hotel and she would see me when she saw me.

The calls from the Sheriff's Department were from Tommy Lee and both shorter than Susan's and Darren's combined. “Talked to Luther,” was one; “ME Report,” was the other. I punched callback.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Riding with Romero.”

“Rooster!” the detective sergeant interrupted. “I'm taking good care of your boy.”

“Tell him it's not you I'm worried about,” Tommy Lee said.

I relayed the message and got a volcanic laugh in return.

“Luther broke down when I talked to him,” Tommy Lee said. “He admitted lying about where he was Sunday night, but not because he had anything to do with Panther's death. He said he just felt smothered in the house, couldn't go into the kitchen where Eurleen died, and he needed to get out.”

“Where?”

“Up on the Blue Ridge Parkway. An overlook where he and Eurleen had their first picnic before they were married.”

“In the middle of the night? You believe him?”

“I want to. But I can't without proof. Wakefield's headed up there now looking for any forensic evidence to support Luther's claim.”

“Why did he lie?” I asked.

“He says he didn't want to appear foolish in front of you and Wakefield. Then when you told him about Panther's murder, he knew his actions would look suspicious. He only told me because we had the testimony of the guard at the gatehouse.”

“Did he change his story about when his children left?”

“No. Did you get a hold of Darren?”

“I missed his call. I'm calling him back at five. What about the ME?”

I heard Tommy Lee shuffle some papers.

“Nothing that reverses anything he viewed at the scene. Markings on the wrists are consistent with standard PlastiCuffs. Entry wound is consistent with a twenty-two and the slug ricocheted inside the skull. Markings can provide a ballistics match but I doubt we'll find them in the system. Time of death still holds between midnight and two.”

I heard a page flip.

“There is one interesting item Tuppler uncovered back at the morgue. He found an arrowhead lodged in the waist of Panther's jeans.”

“Someone shot him with an arrow?”

Romero yanked his eyes from the road and gave me a curious stare.

“No,” Tommy Lee said. “It was trapped under his belt. Tuppler said it looked like Panther had been dragged through soft dirt. There was also a lot of dirt under his fingernails and on his clothing.”

“Eurleen's grave was fresh,” I said.

“That's what I thought. But Tuppler found high traces of mica that's not present in the soil in that section of the cemetery.”

“Lends credence to your theory that Panther was killed elsewhere.”

“Yep. And we have that single arrowhead but I don't know what to make of it.”

“Maybe Panther caught whoever stole his collection and they fought. Could explain the dirt and the arrowhead getting trapped in his jeans.”

“And then they kill him on Eurleen's grave? Why would they do that? There are lots of ravines where they could have dumped the body.”

I thought for a moment. Tommy Lee was right. It was more logical that Panther would have been killed in a confrontation with a thief than captured, cuffed, and executed. “If it wasn't Luther, then someone knew enough about what happened at the cemetery to try and frame him.”

“That's the way I read it,” Tommy Lee agreed. “Where are you and Romero headed now?”

“Oconaluftee Village.”

“How's that tie into Panther?”

“Indirectly. I'll brief you later.”

“And you're still on with Kevin and Archie?”

“That would be a ten-four,” I said.

“Barry, just make sure Kevin doesn't get you into something that's more than you bargained for. His instincts are great, but his self-restraint is nonexistent. And whether Tyrell's connected to our case or not, remember he's a cold-blooded killer.”

My mind didn't jump to Kevin or Archie, but to Susan. “Don't worry. I will.”

Romero bypassed Oconaluftee Village's stone ticket stand. A guide was just starting with a small group of tourists. He wore a white tunic and red pants with a braided belt cinched over the tunic around his waist. A claw necklace hung midway down his chest. He spoke in an incomprehensible language I assumed was Cherokee. The visitors appeared confused and some laughed nervously.

The guide saw Romero and waved. The detective said something in Cherokee and got a short burst of syllables in response. Then he grinned and spoke to his group. “What I've been saying is Welcome to Oconaluftee Village and the year 1760. What you're witnessing is…”

“Come on,” Romero said. “He's with the weapons.”

We walked past Indian women in native garb doing beadwork, others throwing river clay for pottery, a man striking flint to fashion arrowheads, and more women weaving baskets.

“What are they using?” I asked Romero.

“River cane and white oak. Each woman likes to develop her own patterns.”

“When you spoke Cherokee, were you asking about Robbie Ledford?”

“Yes. He's back at the blowgun demonstration.”

“I thought he made canoes.” I remembered Robbie's job in the village because three canoes in various stages of completion lay on our left. An older Cherokee with streaks of gray running through his hair tended a small fire burning in the center of one.

“He usually does,” Romero said. “Not the actual fire, but he scrapes out the charred wood after it's extinguished. You burn a small section, scrape the burnt remains, and then burn again. We don't want Robbie being a role model for kids going home and burning out a log to make their own canoes. Our lawyers wouldn't like it.”

“So, you turn him loose with a blowgun?”

Romero laughed. “Let's call it a demonstration of a father teaching a son to hunt. And hollowed-out river cane is harder to come by than a pack of matches.”

Ahead, a small group broke into applause.

“Robbie must have hit the target,” Romero said. “But he's not the shot Swifty is.”

The applause died and the visitors moved on, leaving a tall man of about thirty beside a boy holding a river cane pole twice his height. The man's hair was buzz-cut like Jimmy Panther's. His tunic was the same style as the first guide's, but red with a white-and-red beaded belt.

The boy was pudgy. His round face was framed by black hair touching his shoulders. The smile generated by the applause vanished when he saw Detective Sergeant Romero.

“How are you, John?” Romero asked.

The man nodded. “Fine. It's kinda slow.”

“Tuesdays usually are. I need to talk to Robbie a few minutes.”

John glanced first at the boy beside him and then at me. Romero didn't bother with an introduction.

“Robbie seems popular this afternoon,” John said.

“Oh, yeah? Anybody besides David Swift?”

Both John and Robbie seemed surprised Romero knew Swifty's father had been there.

“No,” John conceded. “Just David.”

“Good. The next group won't be here for a few minutes. Why don't you take a break?”

“Sure. Whatever you say.” John ambled off toward the village entrance.

Robbie looked at me with a combination of suspicion and fear.

“Let's walk behind the housing exhibit,” Romero said. “No sense standing out here and ruining the time period.”

“Who's he?” The kid's eyes never left me.

“Deputy Clayton from Laurel County,” Romero answered. “He's helping find who murdered Jimmy. You want to help him, don't you?”

Robbie swallowed and looked down at the ground. The nod was barely perceptible.

“I thought so.” Romero nudged Robbie along with a hand to his shoulder like a big mother bear steering her cub.

I followed as we arced around various demonstrations till we stopped behind a clay-walled structure with a thatched roof. There were no rear windows so we were unseen by the tour groups.

“Now it's important that you tell us the truth,” Romero said. “If you do that, you won't get in trouble.”

Again, the faintest of nods.

“When did you see Swifty last?” Romero asked.

“Yesterday. Lunch at school.”

“Did he seem upset?”

“Yes.”

“Because he heard about Jimmy?”

The kid looked up at us, his eyes wide. “That really set him off.”

I didn't wait for Romero to ask the question begged by the boy's answer. I stepped closer. “So, he was upset before then?”

Robbie flushed. He knew he'd revealed more than he intended.

“Come on, son,” Romero prompted. “You're not doing Swifty any good by holding back.”

“Don't tell Mr. Swift,” the boy pleaded. “I only told him Swifty left school at lunch and I didn't know where he was going. That was the truth.”

“Only part of the truth,” Romero admonished. “What's the whole story?”

Robbie looked over his shoulder as if someone might be sneaking up to eavesdrop. Then his high, whiny voice fell to a whisper. “Jimmy caught Swifty looking in the back of his truck.”

“When was this?”

“Sunday. At ball-play. Swifty told me the bed of the pickup was covered with a tarp. Usually it was open. He peeked under it.”

“What did he see?” Romero asked.

“Old Indian stuff.”

Romero shot me a piercing glance. We both sensed the investigation was about to take a significant turn. I nodded for him to continue.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Boxes and boxes filled with arrowheads, flint tools, some broken pottery. You know, stuff like they have in the museum.”

“Jimmy's collection?”

“That's what Swifty said. He'd seen it before. He was surprised that Jimmy got mad at him.”

“For finding it in the truck?”

The boy licked his lips. He was obviously afraid we didn't believe him. “I guess. Swifty said Jimmy told him not to tell anyone. That he was thinking about donating it to the national Indian museum in Washington. He didn't want anyone in the tribe to know.”

“That doesn't seem like something he'd need to keep a secret,” Romero said. “The collection was his.”

“Swifty thought the same thing. He didn't believe Jimmy and he told Jimmy so. Jimmy said sometimes you have to do something bad in order for something else that's good to happen.”

“Did Jimmy tell him what those things were?”

Robbie's dark eyes locked on Romero. “No. But that's why Swifty was upset. And because of what Jimmy gave him for keeping quiet.”

“The ball-play stick,” Romero said. “It was in the truck and he gave it to Swifty.”

Robbie's mouth fell open. “You found it? You found Swifty?”

“No. But we found the stick under his bed. He hasn't been home for it.” Romero leaned against the wall of the dwelling and relaxed. “You're doing good, Robbie. We're almost done.”

The kid swayed from side to side. “I need to get back to work.”

“In a minute. First tell me when you heard this story from Swifty.”

“Yesterday morning before school. Then when we learned what happened to Jimmy, Swifty said the bad thing must have caused it. And now the good thing that meant so much to Jimmy wasn't going to happen. Swifty said he would find out what that was. And he left school. He made me promise not to say anything.”

“And you haven't heard from him since?”

Tears flowed down the round face. “No. Do you think Swifty's dead too?”

“No.” Romero laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. “And we'll find him. But not a word of this to anyone. Promise?”

Robbie wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Yes, sir.”

“Then run on. And if you think of anything else, you call me.”

The boy scooted around the corner of the house. When the footsteps faded, Romero asked, “What do you think?”

“I think he's telling the truth as far as what Swifty told him. But what it means could be completely different from the way the boys interpreted it.”

“Maybe Jimmy told Swifty more than Swifty told Robbie,” Romero said.

“Like what the bad thing was that would make something good happen?”

“Yeah.” Romero started walking back to the car. “We can assume Jimmy's collection wasn't stolen. At least not from his home.”

“And it explains how the arrowhead came to be under his belt.”

“That could have happened carrying them to or from his truck,” Romero said.

Or if his killers dragged him across the arrowheads, I thought. “How much would the items be worth?”

“Not enough for a man's life.”

“And yet Jimmy gave the kid the ball-play stick, his most prized possession, for his silence,” I said. “That doesn't add up.”

“And Swifty ran away without taking it. Where did he go and why?”

I swept my eyes across the panorama of the Oconaluftee Village and its replication of the culture driven nearly to extinction. “Preservation, not termination.” Jimmy Panther's words rang in my head. If he were still speaking to me, what was he saying to a thirteen-year-old kid who idolized him? And how did a collection of artifacts in the bed of a pickup tie into an execution in a cemetery?