Risky Undertaking (8 page)

For what must have been five minutes, Emma comforted her granddaughter.
Emmama
. It dawned on me the name was a child's contraction of Emma and mama. The woman must have been more mother than grandmother to Jimmy and Skye.

When the two did break apart, Emma clutched the young woman's hand. “We need to help them. Otherwise we're helping whoever murdered Jimmy.”

Skye's lower lip trembled, but she nodded. She pulled loose and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

Emma walked to the front corner of the makeshift house where a rock about the size of a cantaloupe rested next to the wall. She flipped it over and retrieved a rusty key. “I'll bring out another chair.”

“I'll get it,” chorused three male voices.

“All of you might as well come in,” Emma said. “I reckon you need to see where Jimmy lived. I haven't been inside since we got the news. So many people have been by.”

With Skye close behind her, Emma lifted the padlock and inserted the key. The plank door squealed on dry hinges and we followed her inside. The room was dimly lit by only the open door and four small square windows, one on each wall. The floor was packed clay. Although Jimmy had built his own shelter, his handcraft didn't extend to the interior furnishings.

A few lawn chairs were scattered around a circular metal table. Eight lanterns hung from wrought-iron arms spaced two to a wall. A ninth lantern sat on a low stool positioned beside an army cot in the back right corner. A patchwork quilt was neatly folded at its foot, and a few magazines and books were visible on a tarp beneath it.

In the other rear corner was a waist-high, dingy metal cabinet that could have been salvaged from some kitchen in the 1950s. It must have held dry goods and other supplies. A double-burner Coleman stove sat on top.

There was no sink or bathroom. I figured Jimmy had an outhouse about fifty feet in the rear and that he brought his drinking water up from the stream.

Pine boards and cinder blocks created shelves that reached the sill of the windows in each side wall. One section held folded clothes, another contained an assortment of hand tools like screwdrivers, hammers, and a bucksaw. One lay empty, surplus shelves offering space in a room of no more than three hundred square feet.

Skye stumbled in front of me, as if the dirt floor had an unseen hole. I caught her arm, but she wrenched it away.

“Emmama! They're gone.” She staggered toward the empty shelves and ran both hands over the smooth wood of the top one. “Someone stole Jimmy's collection.” She wheeled around to face Detective Sergeant Romero. “My brother's Cherokee artifacts were right there. You find who stole them and you'll find his murderer.”

Chapter Eight

“Don't touch anything.” Detective Sergeant Romero gently moved Skye away from the empty shelves. “There might be fingerprints. We should all go outside.”

Tommy Lee and I exchanged a glance. The robbery was clearly beyond our jurisdiction, but according to Romero we were also off the reservation.

The Cherokee policeman ushered the women through the door and gestured for them to sit.

He turned to Tommy Lee. “Technically, we're in Swain County. I should call Sheriff Lott, but then we'll potentially have five agencies involved. You, me, the state boys, the FBI, and Swain County. Might as well invite the CIA and Homeland Security.”

“No,” Emma Byrd insisted. “No more outsiders. You and these gentlemen are all I want to deal with.”

I looked to Tommy Lee. He was the one to speak for our department.

“Why don't we see if there are any signs of a break-in,” he said. “Then we'll know for sure we're dealing with a robbery.”

“Of course we're dealing with a robbery,” Skye snapped. “Jimmy's been collecting those artifacts since he was a kid. He wouldn't have given them away.”

“Let Detective Romero and me do our check,” Tommy Lee said. “Then we'll talk about the next step. Barry will wait with you.”

Tommy Lee and Romero disappeared around the corner of the building. I sat in one of the plastic chairs, not sure why I'd been left to babysit.

“Emmama, was anybody up here yesterday?” Skye asked.

I understood Tommy Lee's wisdom. I was left to listen, to make sure a story wasn't concocted if the women had something to hide.

“Not unless they came while we were at church. I took some clean clothes up for Jimmy that morning. Surely I would have noticed the empty shelves.”

“Did Jimmy go to church?” I asked.

“Jimmy wasn't a churchgoer,” Emma said. “But he was spiritual in the Cherokee way. He was still here when we left. Skye was kind enough to drive me.”

“Was he here when you returned?”

“No. His truck was gone. I didn't see him till supper.”

“Do you know where your brother went?” I asked Skye.

“No. He just told us he had business to tend to.”

“For his job?”

“Probably. There was a game yesterday afternoon.”

“Game?”

“Ball-play.”

She must have read the blank expression on my face. “Indian ball.”

“Oh, like lacrosse,” I said.

Skye scowled. “Yeah, just like preppy, intercollegiate lacrosse.”

Emma took pity on my ignorance. “Ball-play was a very important part of Cherokee life, involving the honor of the entire town. Preparations for a game lasted for days and were highly ritualistic.”

“Jimmy was playing?”

“He would have loved to.” Emma smiled. “In the old way. No, it was for the youth only. Jimmy worked at the Cherokee Boys Club. It's an integral part of the school system and not just for boys. But, that's its heritage and no one feels inclined to change the name. Jimmy drove an activity bus during the week. He also taught youth classes on Cherokee life and trained students to work at Oconaluftee Village.”

I knew Oconaluftee Village was the cultural attraction that created an authentic and populated Cherokee town from the era of when white settlers first arrived. Living history, like Williamsburg. “And so ball-play was one of the things he taught?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “Not just how to play, but also the rituals involved.”

“And how to craft the sticks and the balls,” Skye added. She looked at me with less hostility. “Jimmy's prized possession was a ball-play stick that's been in our family for nearly two hundred years.” She glanced at the closed door. “It was part of his collection.”

“You should itemize what you remember,” I said. “We can put out a notice to museum dealers and other potential buyers.”

Emma patted her granddaughter's leg. “We can do that. What I don't understand is if somebody robbed Jimmy here, how did he wind up in the cemetery?”

“I don't know, Miss Byrd. Maybe after he was killed, the perpetrators knew his house would be vulnerable. But at this point, we can only speculate. It's premature to draw conclusions.”

Tommy Lee and Romero emerged from the side of the house.

“We checked all the windows,” the detective said.

“Were they locked?” I asked.

“Yes. No broken glass, no marks of a crowbar.” Romero walked to the front door and eyed the padlock and clasp. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and tilted the lock up to see the key slot. “No scratches. This wasn't picked. Who knew about the key under the rock?”

“Anybody who came up here with Jimmy,” Emma said. “He never carried the key. He would have opened the lock in front of whoever was with him.”

Romero glanced at Tommy Lee and shook his head. The suspect pool was hopelessly large.

“Why bother with a lock at all?” I asked.

“We've had hikers wander onto the property,” Emma said. “And fly fishermen sometimes come downstream from the national forest. The lock discourages people from thinking this is some kind of ranger outpost.”

“And you heard no vehicle during the night?” I asked.

“No,” Emma said. “And I didn't particularly sleep well.”

I turned to Skye. “What time did you leave last night?”

“Around ten.”

“You didn't see any vehicle on the way out?”

“No. Just those parked along the roadside by the houses. No one between here and the nearest neighbor.”

“And you went straight home?”

She flushed. “Yes, of course.”

Skye was lying and I had a good idea why. Some questions could wait till we weren't in front of her grandmother.

“Who is the man who came with you and your brother that first day at the cemetery?”

“Eddie. Eddie Wolfe. He's a friend to both of us.”

“Your grandmother said he's your boyfriend.”

She shot her grandmother a questioning look. “Yeah. It's no secret.”

I wasn't certain but I estimated Skye to be in her early twenties and from the driver's license in Jimmy Panther's wallet, I knew he'd been twenty-nine. Sometimes boyfriends and big brothers don't get along.

“Eddie had to work last night?” I asked.

“Yes. Second shift.”

“On a Sunday?”

“He works at Cherokee Boxes. Every three months they pull apart the corrugating machines for cleaning and maintenance. It happens over the weekend so as not to disrupt production.”

“Did you see him when he got off?”

“Oh, God, no. He's a mess of ink and grease.”

“You talk to him?”

Skye stiffened. “Why are you so interested in Eddie?”

“He was Jimmy's friend. Maybe he heard from Jimmy before going into work.”

“Eddie was with me in the afternoon. We were hanging out at his place. He left for work a little before three.”

“Have you seen him today?”

“Yes. He came by as soon as he heard about Jimmy.” She looked at her grandmother. “He wanted to stay but Emmama said there was no sense in him missing work.”

Emma nodded in agreement. “Nothing he could do.”

I looked up at Romero. “Would you set up a time for me to talk to him?”

“Yeah. Any angle in particular?”

“I want to know why Jimmy was happy.”

“Happy?” Skye asked.

“Your grandmother said he seemed more content than usual. Do you agree?”

Skye thought about the question. “I don't know. I guess so. He was no longer upset about the cemetery, if that's what you mean. He thought he'd made his point, and when that man attacked him, he received a lot of sympathy both inside and outside.”

I stood. “My thanks to both of you. And I'm very sorry we're meeting under these conditions.” I helped Emma up from the bench.

Romero stepped back to clear the way. “I'd like to dust for prints on the shelves. No need for y'all to wait here. I know you've got company to tend to. I'll get my kit from the car.” He took Emma by the arm and started down the trail.

I stepped in front of Skye, blocking her path. “One word in private, please.” I nodded for Tommy Lee to go on.

Skye took a step back, startled by my action.

“I want to apologize. I shouldn't have asked you about your personal relationships in front of your grandmother.”

“She knows Eddie and I go out.”

“I understand. It's just when I asked if you went straight home last night, you hesitated. I thought maybe you stopped someplace else. Someplace you didn't want to mention.”

Skye's eyes narrowed. “What I do is my business.”

“What I do is everything I can to find who murdered your brother. And when someone's not being honest with me, I ask why. Nothing is too trivial or too personal.”

She exhaled slowly and looked over my shoulder. I turned to see Emma, Romero, and Tommy Lee disappear into the woods.

“All right,” she said. “I swung by Eddie's first.”

“I thought he was working.”

“Sometimes the maintenance weekend finishes early. Eddie's trailer's in a dead zone for cell coverage, and he keeps his phone in a locker when he's on the job. When he didn't answer, he could have been either place. But he wasn't home.”

“So you left?”

“I have a key. I waited about an hour and then went straight to my apartment. When Eddie saw me today, he said they didn't clock out till midnight.”

I stepped aside and we started walking together.

“Any particular reason you went by so late?” I asked.

“To apologize. We had a silly argument yesterday afternoon.”

“Anything to do with Jimmy?”

“Everything to do with Jimmy. Eddie was worried the demonstration at the cemetery had backfired. The man was burying his wife. I said Jimmy wasn't afraid to put it all on the line. Eddie took it as a criticism. That he was less committed to our people.”

“And you wanted to apologize for that accusation?”

She stopped at the edge of the woods. “No. Because I never made that accusation. I wanted to tell him he might have been right about the cemetery. It was too much.”

Her candor surprised me. Perhaps because I'd been on the other side of that demonstration, she was saying what she thought I wanted to hear.

“What changed your mind?”

“Jimmy. Emmama told you he was happy. I saw something else last night. Smugness. I was afraid the confrontation on Saturday had gone too well and to his head. He called for a new beginning and new tougher tactics. He would reveal them when the time was right. The word ‘we' vanished from his vocabulary, and I wanted to talk to Eddie about it.”

“At supper last night, Jimmy didn't say where he was going afterwards?”

“No. He only made his little speech to me while Emmama was in the kitchen. Other than that, we had a very pleasant evening. I understand why Emmama thought he was happy.”

I ran out of questions. Nothing Skye said seemed to offer any real leads.

“Thank you,” I said. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“Have you got a card?”

I pulled out my wallet and saw all I had were Clayton and Clayton business cards. I handed her one. “This is my cell.”

She glanced at it, and then read it more closely. “The funeral home. How fitting.”

***

Tommy Lee and I returned to Gainesboro a little after six. I checked for any messages that might have come through the department, but the only note was from the dispatcher saying State Senator Mack Collins would like to speak with me. The number wasn't a Raleigh area code, and so I figured it was his cell. I also figured he could wait until tomorrow.

I had three priorities for the case: follow up on why Darren Cransford no longer worked where his father said he worked, and therefore couldn't have been urgently returning to his job; push for the ME and forensic reports; and nail down time to interview Eddie Wolfe and perhaps Jimmy Panther's colleagues at the Cherokee Boys Club.

But my immediate priority was to check in with my wife. I had learned a good husband stays in touch, especially near meal times. I called her on speed-dial from the jeep.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Just finishing rounds.” Susan usually had several surgeries on Monday and always checked on her patients at the end of the day. “Where are you?”

“Leaving the department.”

“Any progress?”

“It was a day of collecting information. I'll tell you when I see you.”

“Are you headed home?”

I checked the dashboard clock. Six twenty. “I'm going to swing by the funeral home. I should be at the cabin about seven thirty, if that's all right.”

“How does pizza and wine sound?”

“Superb.”

“Good. I'll pick up a Supreme and have it ready with a salad. Don't be late.”

“I wouldn't dare, Mrs. Clayton.”

“Smart man, to use an oxymoron.” She hung up.

The parking lot at the funeral home was empty except for a large, white Lincoln. I parked beside it and noticed a North Carolina State Senate license plate. The owner had to be Mack Collins, and I wondered if his call to me had been about a death in the family. He was married, but I couldn't remember his wife's name. Carol or Caroline?

He sat in the parlor with Uncle Wayne. A cup of coffee and plate of Mom's oatmeal cookies were on the side table by his chair.

“There he is.” Uncle Wayne stood. “I told Mack you might be by. Barry, Mack was asking my advice on some legislation he's proposing. He wants to make funeral expenses tax deductible. I told him it's a great idea. High time too, don't you think?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. I doubted Senator Collins called me at the Sheriff's Department to discuss tax policy, but I played along. “What can we do to help?”