Murder in Rat Alley

by Mark de Castrique

  “Good friends. His sister’s up in Roanoke, and his niece lives in Asheville. They’re hoping you can share what you know in light of the discovery.”

  She gripped the fiddle neck with both hands. Either she was afraid of dropping it or she wanted to be ready to swing it as a weapon.

  “What discovery?” she asked.

  I realized we weren’t showing up with questions, we were harbingers of bad news. Back here in this hollar, she’d been isolated from the press reports. I looked at Nakayla.

  My partner opened the passenger’s door and walked around the front hood, stopping between the headlights. “Mrs. Johnson, last week, Frank’s remains were uncovered at the site of the tracking station. The evidence points to murder.”

  Although Nakayla spoke as gently as she could, her words hit the woman like a tidal wave. Again, she leaned back against the post, but her knees buckled, and she slid to the plank flooring. She pushed the fiddle aside and wrapped her arms around her shins, tucking herself into a ball. She made no sound. Only the shaking of her shoulders betrayed her sobs.

  Nakayla picked up the bow and sat on the step below her. I felt useless behind the wheel, engine running and no idea what to do next. Nakayla jerked her head to the wider parking area, signaling me to leave her alone with the woman. I nodded, took my foot off the brake, and let the CR-V ease away.

  The gravel lot was rimmed with felled tree trunks. I parked near the pavilion and got out. Nakayla and the woman hadn’t moved from their positions. I stepped under the shelter of the pavilion’s roof. The cement floor was swept clean and must have been approximately fifty by seventy-five feet. Several stone firepits bordered the pavilion, and their blackened grates conjured up the image of hot dogs and hamburgers on the outdoor grills. Beyond, picnic tables awaited families and friends. The layout was far more than a backyard patio with a Weber.

  At the far end, a riser covered in green Astroturf served as a small stage. I saw no electronic equipment, but three microphone stands were tucked in one back corner, and a dull metal cabinet rose behind them. It looked weatherproof, and I assumed it housed speakers and a simple PA system. Nancy Gilmore told us Frank and Loretta had gotten to know each other through a fiddlers’ convention. Crack detective that I am, I deduced Loretta provided a small private venue for musicians to jam or perform.

  “Sam!”

  I turned to find Nakayla standing in the parking lot.

  “She’s our Loretta. She’s gone inside, but she’s willing to talk with us.”

  “Is her husband here?”

  “No. She told me they’re not together anymore. She lives alone.”

  I followed Nakayla into the log home. The front room ran the whole width of the house. The floor consisted of wide planks and scattered rugs of the handmade hook style that Loretta could have created herself. In the center of the ceiling hung a wagon wheel chandelier. To my left was a stone fireplace with an airtight wood-burning stove and a sofa and three chairs built for sturdiness over style. A flat-screen television sat on a sideboard beside the fireplace.

  To my right was a rectangular farm table with six dining chairs and a dried flower arrangement for a centerpiece. A sideboard held a CD player flanked with speakers. Loretta had set her fiddle and bow next to them.

  The three exterior log walls had sizable thermal windows that provided plenty of light. The air felt cool, and I noticed floor grates for a central HVAC system. The rustic decor of the backwoods combined with the comforts of the twenty-first century.

  The interior wall of the room ran only half its width. Then a hallway was next to an open counter dividing the kitchen from the front dining area. Nakayla led me into the kitchen where Loretta sat at a table in a small breakfast nook. A teapot and three cups with saucers were in front of her. She gestured for us to take the two remaining chairs, one on either side of her.

  “I’d just brewed some herbal tea,” she said. “Would you like some?”

  Before I could decline, Nakayla said, “That would be lovely, Mrs. Johnson. Maybe just a cup. We won’t take up much of your time, but it was important to Frank’s sister, Nancy, that we find you. She wanted to make sure you knew what happened.”

  Loretta poured the tea and then nervously tapped her fingernail on her saucer. “She wanted me to know that Frank didn’t run out on me, right?”

  Nakayla said, “Frank didn’t run out on you or his family.”

  Loretta’s eyes teared. She lifted her cup and took a sip. I sampled a taste of what I can only describe as dried grass.

  Nakayla and I said nothing. We’d agreed not to mention the letters. Two people showing up announcing the death of her former fiancé and admitting to reading her personal love letters didn’t seem like a smart move.

  So we sat, the only sounds being the tick of a kitchen clock and the tapping of Loretta’s fingernail on her saucer. Consciously or unconsciously, Loretta synchronized to the passing time.

  Finally, she took a deep breath. “I’m glad to know Nancy’s still alive. I let our friendship drift apart.”

  “I understand,” Nakayla said.

  “I liked Nancy. And her husband, Eddie. That was our last phone conversation. When she told me Eddie had been killed in Vietnam. After that, all we had in common was the loss of our loved ones. It was just too painful.”

  Nakayla gave me a look signaling to take the lead.

  “Nancy Gilmore said her brother and her husband were close,” I said. “Would you agree?”

  “Yes. Frank really respected Eddie. He thought Eddie was brave and smart. He said Eddie could learn to do what Frank did far better than he could do Eddie’s work.”

  “Did he tell you what Eddie did?”

  “No. Just that it was important to the war and it was very dangerous.”

  “After Nancy and Eddie came to visit, did you notice anything different in Frank’s relationship with Eddie?”

  Loretta gave me a hard stare. “Different how?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Closer. Stronger. Nancy Gilmore said Frank asked her for Eddie’s military address because he wanted to write him.”

  The older woman looked away as she mentally shed the years to return to that summer of 1971. “He said he thought something wasn’t right at work and Eddie might have some ideas on how to fix it.”

  “Eddie could help him with a computer program?”

  “No. It wouldn’t have been the programming. Frank was a genius in that area. Everyone recognized his talent. It could have been he felt some of his colleagues weren’t pulling their full share of the work. He wouldn’t tell me. He said it might be nothing, and he didn’t want me caught in the middle.”

  I took another swallow of the dreadful tea and tried to appear nonchalant. “In the middle between what?”

  “I was secretary to Dr. Haskford, the tracking station’s chief administrator. We knew dating in the workplace was frowned upon, and I guess Frank wanted to keep me clear of any internal clash that might be created. He knew Eddie had to deal with all sorts of people and problems in the army.”

  I decided to switch to a line of questioning I’d neglected to thoroughly pursue with Nancy Gilmore. “Did Frank ever talk about his brother Zack?”

  “A little. He worried about him. Zack had just graduated from college that spring and didn’t have a job yet.”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “No. Not then. Zack did look me up after Frank’s disappearance. When he came searching for him.”

  “Did he have any theories?”

  “Not really. Only that he thought Frank might have gone out on one of his thinking walks. Frank did that when he was working out some problem. He could sometimes walk for hours, not really aware of his surroundings. That’s why Zack kept hiking the area around the station. He thought Frank could have been lost or fallen into a ravine.” She paused. “But you say he
was found on the tracking station land?”

  “Yes. A skeleton was uncovered during the attempt to create a firebreak to protect PARI. We have a DNA match with his niece. All these years, he’s been up on the ridge behind the complex.”

  Loretta shook her head in disbelief. “So someone killed him that night? One of his colleagues?”

  “That’s a possibility. Or he came across someone on the property that night who wasn’t supposed to be there. Or he was taken and killed later, then buried on the ridge to make it appear as if he’d been killed there.”

  She sighed. “Well, security wasn’t particularly tight. Not like after the facilities were turned over to the Department of Defense. We had a gate near the highway, but coming in on foot wouldn’t have been a problem. Even high school kids used to sneak in to see the big telescopes.”

  “Did Frank ever say anything to indicate he was in danger?”

  “No, but he tended to keep things to himself.”

  Now that we were moving into her personal life, I looked to Nakayla to pick up the questioning.

  “Mrs. Johnson, Frank’s sister said he was very fond of you. How would you describe your relationship?”

  She stared down into her teacup. “Frank asked me to marry him. I didn’t tell him no, but I didn’t tell him yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I needed to think about it. I told him it wasn’t because he wasn’t a wonderful man. He was. But it was whether I was ready.”

  “How did he react?” Nakayla asked.

  “I think he was hurt. He tried not to show it. He said he understood.”

  “When did this happen in relation to his disappearance?”

  “The week before. If he went out on one of his thinking walks, it might have been because I left his proposal up in the air.” Her voice caught, and she stifled a sob. “If he did come across someone on the tracking station grounds, I fear it was because of me.”

  I found her self-blame unjustified, but I understood how guilt defied logic.

  Nakayla leaned in a little closer. “What did your family think of Frank? Did you tell them he proposed?”

  Her dark eyes flashed, and the tears evaporated. “My family put Frank out of their world a long time ago. This has nothing to do with them.”

  Nakayla refused to be put off. “You’re saying they didn’t have an opinion one way or the other?”

  “I’m saying they have nothing to do with Frank’s disappearance.”

  I jumped in, my voice firm. “Mrs. Johnson, we’re no longer talking about a disappearance. We’re talking about murder, and that fact is facing all of us.”

  She said nothing.

  I softened my tone. “Please, Mrs. Johnson. We’re just trying to find out what happened to Frank. We want justice for him, for his sister, and I hope you want to be a part of that effort, even though you’ve led a full and happy life since then.”

  “I have,” she whispered. “For the most part. I’ll help if I can.”

  “I understand you and Frank met at a fiddlers’ convention.”

  She looked at me and managed a smile. “Yes. He was surprised to see me on stage.”

  “You’re a performer?” Nakayla asked.

  “Not solo. Back then, we were just an amateur family band. Me, my two brothers, and my father. We called ourselves A Case of Tunes, you know, playing off our last name. My mother was usually our only audience.”

  “From the size of your pavilion, it looks like your family has grown,” I said.

  “That was Randall’s idea. We started playing to wider audiences in the 1980s, and he thought we could have a series of mini-festivals on the property. It took a while to save up the money.”

  “Randall’s your husband?” I asked, not wanting her to know how much we’d already checked her background.

  “Ex-husband.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Randall worked in general maintenance at the tracking station. He wasn’t a scientist or engineer, but he could construct or fix anything. After Frank disappeared, he’d speak to me every morning. I learned that a lot of people knew Frank and I were dating. And they could tell I was hurting. Randall was very kind, and we just fell into comfortable conversation. He was four years older. It was easier to stay put than move elsewhere. Five years later, he proposed. And Randall was a talented flat picker. He not only played guitar, but he taught one of my nephews.”

  “So you still have the band?” Nakayla asked.

  “It’s not called A Case of Tunes any more. My parents have passed over, and my brothers and I play occasionally, but my four nephews are the core of the band now, two from each of my brothers. Randall and I never had children.”

  “And the new name?” I prompted.

  “Case Dismissed.” Loretta Case Johnson shook her head. “At first, I thought it was disrespectful of the old band and our music. But I was told it’s what every defendant likes to hear from the judge. And the younger generation likes an edgier name and music.”

  “You could take it to mean they had a run-in with the law,” I said.

  “Yeah. You could.” She lifted the teapot and poured herself another cup. I winced as she topped mine off.

  “Did your family know that Frank had proposed to you?” Nakayla asked.

  “No. They knew we were dating, and they’d met him a few times.” She paused and lifted her cup. “But like I said, they had no opinion.”

  While she drank, Nakayla gave me a quick glance. We knew from the letters that wasn’t true. Was Loretta simply trying to keep her family from looking bad, or was there more to it?

  I pressed on. “If you’d married Frank, odds were at some point you’d move away.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “Or maybe Frank would have stayed when the Department of Defense took over. I heard Dr. Haskford once tell someone that Frank was a rising star and already on the Defense Department’s radar.”

  “They had to be upset when he went missing,” I said.

  “They were. I was interviewed twice, the second time by the FBI.” She set down her cup and eyed me closely. “A lot of the same questions you’re asking me now. You say you’re Nancy’s friends, but you talk like police.”

  “We are her friends, and I was an investigator in the army. Nakayla and I are private detectives, but our goal is just what we said, learn the truth about what happened.”

  “Well, I’ve told you all I know from back then.” She slid her chair away from the table.

  “We read your interview,” I said.

  She’d started to rise, but my statement stopped her.

  “What interview?”

  “The one that’s posted online. ‘Aliens Over Asheville.’”

  She laughed. “What a bunch of nonsense. I worked there for twelve years, and the only little green man I saw was the Jolly Green Giant on a can of peas in the kitchen.”

  “And the secret things that went on after you left?”

  “Gossip. If you ask me, it was pretty clear what they were doing with all those radio telescopes. Listening to the Russians.”

  “You didn’t say that in the interview.”

  “Out of respect for Randall. He stayed on in maintenance after I was let go. He’s the one told me it was all about eavesdropping. I don’t want anyone in the government thinking Randall shared classified information.”

  “Why’d you agree to the interview?”

  “One of my nephews told me we were going to be discussing music. All the woman wanted to talk about was spaceships and alien technology. I should have shut up and walked out.”

  “Did people believe that during the Apollo days?”

  “A few. But the Apollo program was public knowledge. It was mainly the rocket and communications technology that was secret.” She stood from the table. “No
w if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  She walked us to the door. On the interior wall beside it hung a photograph of a group of people standing in front of a farmhouse. It wasn’t Loretta’s, although she was in the picture beside a young girl who was seated in a tire swing. Other children and what appeared to be at least two generations of adults also posed for the camera.

  I pointed to it. “Family photograph?”

  “Yes. Last Thanksgiving. I celebrated it with my brothers and their families. They gave me this for Christmas.” As we stepped off the porch, she asked, “Is Nancy Gilmore still at the same address?”

  “Yes,” Nakayla said.

  Loretta nodded and closed the door.

  When we were back on Dusty Hollar Road, I asked, “What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Nakayla said softly. “I think Frank DeMille was the love of her life. Her grief is still raw after all these years. And I think she’s hiding something about her family.”

  “Case Dismissed.”

  “Not if it’s murder,” Nakayla said.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror as we started around the bend. Loretta’s jeep pulled out of her driveway and headed in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 8

  I expected the next day would be one of waiting—waiting on Chief Warrant Officer DeShaun Clark to call with information on Eddie Gilmore and waiting for Cory to report on any news from Special Agent Lindsay Boyce.

  We got to the office at nine, and Nakayla began exploring what she could find on Loretta Case Johnson and her family. Logging onto the internet, she quickly discovered the band Case Dismissed was listed in a variety of bluegrass festivals and pub appearances.

  “Sam, come look at this. They’re at Jack of the Wood tonight. I think we should go.”

  “I’m always up for Jack of the Wood,” I said. “Is Loretta playing?”

  I looked over her shoulder at the computer screen. There was only the name Case Dismissed on the pub’s events calendar.

  Jack of the Wood was one of Asheville’s most popular Irish pubs and a venue for smaller bands and open jam sessions. Located on Patton Avenue, the pub was the bottom story of a building that housed a vegetarian restaurant above it. Because Asheville was so hilly, the upper eatery, the Laughing Seed Café, had its own entrance on Wall Street, a short, narrow lane that ran atop the steep ridge directly above Patton. I wondered how the rising, wafting aromas of burgers and Irish stew tested the sensibilities of the second-story vegetarians.