Weak Flesh (2 page)

Where she'd been all this time was likely at the bottom of the Pasquotank River where the fish and scuttling animal life had done remarkably little of their nasty work on her beautiful young face and form. Would the cold water account for the relatively unmarked condition of the body, he wondered?

He motioned for the fishermen to come closer. He couldn't fault them for dragging the body from the river, but he resented their informing the family before the authorities. He'd liked to have seen the parents' reactions first hand.

Gage rose, dusting off his pant legs. He heard the hardness in his voice when he spoke to the two fishermen. "Did you leave something to mark the spot in the river where you found the body?"

The first man looked puzzled. "We needed the oar to hurry back. Was afraid she'd – "

"Fall apart," the second man finished blithely. "Thought she might just break up into little pieces." He looked pleased at his insight into the workings of water on the human body.

"Next time you find something like this, gentlemen, report to me first."

They looked from Gage to each other and back again. "Well, sure, Marshal," the first said, "but the family, you know, they been waitin' a long while."

"Yes." He knew that explaining the importance of preserving evidence would fall on incomprehensible ears. "Keep this to your selves," he added, also knowing the futility of that request.

The news of their grisly find would spread like wildfire. Folks had waited with macabre interest to learn what had happened to Nell Carver.

Various rumors over the last month had her dragged off by kidnappers, sold into white slavery, or murdered by blood-thirsty Indians and dumped in the Great Dismal Swamp. Some said she lived a life of wealth and ease over in Raleigh. False sightings had come from all along the Outer Banks.

Gage heard the crunch of boots and saw Dr. Henry Williams making his way across the field.

"Marshal Gage." The young coroner nodded respectfully and then knelt down beside the body, turning it over with a tenderness that belied his massive hands and hulking size.

After a cursory examination, the doctor asked, "You believe it was an accident? A drowning?"

Gage fingered a patch of bristle he'd missed on his face during his hurried grooming. "What do you think?"

"Not sure."  Williams frowned and turned the head from side to side. "I guess she could've hit her head and fallen into the water."

"An accident then?" Gage thought a moment, gazing off into the distance where the sun shone hazily over the water. "Was she sexually assaulted?"

"No shoes, could've lost them in the river." He lifted the hem of her skirt to reveal underclothing all in their proper places.

"You'll do an internal examination to be sure?"

Sexual congress could mean the girl's death wasn't an accident, but Nell was a girl known for having far too many suitors. One of them might've hurt her.

"If she's had recent intercourse, I need to know if she was willing." Gage pierced the doctor with a stern look. "Can you tell me that?"

"The water would've washed away any fluids," Williams answered. "I need to examine her right away." He looked across the road. "The Carvers have an outbuilding they use as kitchen quarters. There'll be a large table I can use."

Christ.
"Her parents' house?"

Williams lifted his beefy shoulders. "It's close. Don't want to risk more damage to the body."

"I can take her there, Marshal," offered Pruitt. His fresh, young face looked pale, but he was steady on his feet.

Gage swiped a hand over his brow. "Find a board and some sheets to carry her. Get the fishermen to help." He nodded toward the field where he'd left his horse and buggy. "There's a blanket in the back of my gig. Cover her up, Will, and for God's sake, don't let her family see her."

#

After helping Dr. Williams transport Nell's body, Gage sent the fishermen home and Pruitt to search the length of the river in both directions for evidence of recent activity. While Williams began his autopsy, the Marshal walked to the front of Pine Grove, the Carver family home.

Gage might've appointed someone else to the onerous task of speaking with Harold and Mabel Carver about the discovery of their daughter's body – Dr. Williams, or even Will Pruitt. God knew he wanted to. But he'd faced death far more often than either of them, and the responsibility was his.

From their appearance he realized both parents had been resting, but they answered the quiet knock at the door before Bessie, their Negro servant, responded. Mrs. Carver's unbound hair fell in faded yellow tangles around the shoulders of a hastily-donned wrap. Her feet were bare on the unforgiving hardness of the oak floor.

Mr. Carver was dressed in shirt, tie, and vest, but his broad face looked haggard and gray. He sagged against the door frame the moment he recognized the Marshal standing on the porch, his hat in hand.

Gage noted the flash of anger, along with the sorrow, that shuddered through Carver's body and knew the father saw only a cold, aloof man who bore bad news. This visit merely confirmed what the fishermen had already hurried with salacious eagerness to tell him.

Carver staggered back into the parlor and sank into a wing chair, his wife kneeling beside him.

Even though he'd thought himself long inured to such pain, Gage felt Carver's grief like a knife heated in a roaring fire. He dispatched his news with a quick precision that belied the old pangs of horror and memory and guilt.

Gage took a seat opposite Mr. and Mrs. Carver in a delicate chair that ill accommodated his length. "You may see her soon, but you must allow Dr. Williams to complete his work first," he cautioned after explaining where Nell's body lay.

His expression brooked no argument. "We should have answers in a few hours. I must ask you to be patient until then." He hesitated and looked away from their bleak faces. "I'm sorry for your loss," he added, just remembering those were the correct words of condolence.

As soon as he decently could, Gage left the Carvers to their private grief and returned to the police station to write his report. He relieved Sergeant Henderson, the officer on duty, and dispatched him to neighboring towns to begin the task of assembling a coroner's jury.

Although Nell's body was now secured in the Carver's outbuilding, most of the day would involve summoning the men who would determine how she'd died. If, indeed, they could.

Henderson and six other officers besides Pruitt made up the whole of the Tuscarora City police force. Eight men – nine, counting Gage. Would this small group be sufficient to investigate Nell's death if they determined it was a crime?

He thought briefly of informing Bailey of her friend's death, but decided against it. Meghan could be like a bulldog in her persistence and intensity and he wanted to determine the cause of Nell's death first.

Still, there'd be hell to pay. Fiercely loyal, Meghan loved her friend and would be royally pissed that he hadn't rushed to inform her they'd found Nell's body.

Chapter 2

Meghan Bailey fancied herself an amateur sleuth.

She'd read the entire volumes of Arthur Conan Doyle's brilliant detective and was quite certain she had as quick a mind as Dr. Watson at the very least. Whatever Meghan lacked in experience and skill, she made up for in self-confidence.

And she did not believe for one minute that her friend Ellen Carver drowned.

The moment she released her students from Albemarle Elementary School, Meghan stacked up the tablets and books, arranged papers on her desk, and wiped down the chalk board. She knew these were delays to put off the inevitable confrontation with Tucker Gage.

Since he'd returned from the Army, the easy friendship they'd once enjoyed had turned to awkwardness. She couldn't say why except that he'd become a stranger compared to the light-hearted boy who'd eagerly trotted off to West Point over ten years ago.

And of course she'd become a woman, not at all the little girl he'd once teased about her skinny legs and dark hair, forever tangling on her. She sighed, leaned her chin on her fist, and looked out the window at the bare trees and muddy sidewalks lining the street.

Before Tucker had gone West with the Army, he'd been so beautiful he made her heart hurt. Now his eyes no longer laughed and deep lines surrounded his perfect mouth. When she looked at his ruggedly handsome face, a skittering started in her chest, but a deep sadness accompanied it.

Damn!
She shook herself out of her reverie. She wasn't that same giddy girl who'd worshipped the younger Tucker, but an accomplished, intelligent woman. And right now her primary concern was that the coroner would hastily conclude that Nell's death was an accidental drowning.

She must quickly abolish that silly notion.

With renewed determination, she summoned Mr. Johnson and asked him to lock up the two-room school after he finished the cleaning. As there were no sessions for the next several days, she intended to learn everything she could about what really happened to her friend. As uncomfortable as facing Tucker Gage was, that was the practical place to start.

And Meghan was nothing if not practical.

As she walked the five blocks to the Police Station House on Clinton Avenue, the swishing of her skirt kept determined rhythm with the clicking of her heels. She climbed a narrow stairwell to the second story landing of the square brick building that also contained City Hall and the Fire Department on the ground floor.

Marshal Tucker Gage stood at military attention behind a long oak barrier, his lean form impeccably covered in a waistcoat and shirt, morning coat, and neck tie. The Stetson he'd taken to wearing since he returned from the Army lay on the counter. The tight flaps of his collar looked stiff and forbidding, and even though her pulse jumped at the sight of him, Meghan wasn't deterred.

"They're saying Nell drowned," she challenged without preamble. "That's absolutely impossible."

#

Gage should've been accustomed to Meghan Bailey's blunt manner by now. She possessed strong opinions about almost everything, and as the local school teacher, involved herself in the lives of most community members through the children she taught. Gripping her over-sized handbag tightly in front of her meager bosom, she flashed those green eyes in confrontation, and her lips thinned to a determined line.

At another time, Gage might've given her a proper set down, but a picture of the cold, pale body of Nell Carver and the possibility of murder so close at hand unsettled him. Instead, he sighed and lifted his eyes from the papers lying on the counter.

"Bailey." He heard a trace of the soft drawl he thought he'd eliminated creep into his voice. "How pleasant to see you. In my Station House. Yet again." He didn't bother to keep the irony from his voice. Bailey seldom grasped the subtle nuances of wry humor.

"Don't call me Bailey," she muttered in half-hearted protest, clearly distracted.

Gage peered into her white face. Her brows knitted together across her forehead, their dark hue sharp arches against her pale flesh. He unconsciously stiffened. Good God, was she going to faint? "Are you all right?"

She roused herself with an impatient shake of her head. "Don't be silly. Of course, I'm not
all right.
Nell was my closest friend – " She faltered and blinked her eyes rapidly several times. Huge and richly dark like the grass in spring, they dominated her otherwise unremarkable face.

Though he knew she wouldn't appreciate the effort, he took her elbow and led her to a ladder-backed wooden chair on the other side of the oak divider. He settled her onto the hard seat and poured water from a pewter pitcher on a table in his office.

After shoving the glass into her hand, he leaned against the counter, eyeing her carefully, his arms crossed. Bailey didn't need words. In fact, she'd be thoroughly annoyed if he offered trite condolences, so he waited, watching the play of emotions that raced across her face.

After a few moments of silent staring, Gage eased a look at his pocket watch. "Now, what did you want to speak to me about?"

He recognized the mutinous tightening of her lips. Bailey was about to unleash that famous black Irish temper of hers.
Jesus, such fiery emotion for such a small woman.

Her flat tone allowed no argument. "Nell didn't drown."

"So you said." Gage resisted the impulse to rake his fingers through his short-cut hair. He had an investigation to attend to and was in no mood to put up with Bailey's antics.

"Dr. Williams' inquest committee has yet to examine her, however, and there's no conclusion of drowning yet."

She blanched, her eyes wide, her lips twisted in horror. "They're cutting Nell open? Good God, why –-"

He raised a hand to silence her, surprised that the gesture stopped her short. "We have to be certain how she died. We must issue a report for the solicitor and the judge."

She paused, swallowing hard. "Of course." After a few moments she repeated quietly, but firmly, "Nell did
not
drown."

"If she has water in her lungs – " he began.

"I don't care," she exclaimed, a sharp edge to her voice. "Drowned? And Nell raised all her life on the Pasquotank? How does a strong woman like Nell come to drown? When she swims – " She choked and went on, "When she
swam
like a fish?"

Gage bit off a harsh retort, reminding himself that Bailey grieved for her best friend. "I can't ignore the coroner's findings."

She stood up, her boots clattering on the bare planks. "I know my friend, Tucker Gage. She was a sensible woman."

Gage lifted one brow. No one could accuse Ellen Carver of being sensible.

"All right," she conceded, "perhaps Nell was ... tumultuous in her personal relationships, but she never would've gone to the river alone at this time of the year." A line deepened between her brows. "She knew the dangers of the Pasquotank
."

Gage suddenly felt sorry for the woman standing in front of him, her small fists tightly clenched at her handbag, her hat slightly askew and God-awful in its hideous purples and pinks. Did no one try to teach her how to dress properly with all that tangle of hair? But then he remembered that her mother had died when she was four and was ashamed of the thought.