“Their website doesn’t specify band members,” Nakayla said. “But from other appearances, I gather the older generation is involved if a play date is local. The boys do the more extended travel gigs on their own.”
“It’s Loretta’s two brothers I’m interested in. They were the ones who seemed to be against Loretta’s relationship with Frank.”
“And I’m sure they’re aware of us,” Nakayla said. “I found her brothers’ addresses. Danny and Bobby Case. They both live farther out Dusty Hollar Road.”
“Where Loretta was headed after we left.”
Nakayla threw her hands up in mock surprise. “Sometimes your deductive powers amaze me.”
“Sometimes I amaze myself. What can I say?”
“How about nothing. Quit while you’re ahead. Now let me get back to work.” She swiveled her chair to her keyboard.
I’d just sat at my desk when the door from the hallway opened and a tall, thin white man entered. He appeared to be in his fifties, mainly because of his close-cropped steely gray hair. His most distinctive feature was his blue uniform and the sheriff’s badge above his left chest pocket.
Nakayla and I both rose from our chairs.
“Can we help you?” she asked.
His brown eyes darted back and forth between us for a few seconds. “You Blackman and Robertson?”
Nakayla eyed the brass nameplate on his right chest pocket. “I’m Nakayla Robertson, Sheriff Hickman. This is my partner, Sam Blackman.”
“Heard a lot about you. Both of you.” He spoke without any emotion, leaving us to guess whether he’d heard good things or bad.
“Then what can we do for you?” I asked.
He looked beyond us to the sofa and chairs. “Got time to talk a few minutes?”
“Certainly,” Nakayla said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks. I won’t be here that long.” He brushed by us and went to the sofa.
Nakayla looked at me and shrugged. We took the chairs.
“I won’t beat around the bush. You called on Loretta Johnson yesterday.”
“We did,” Nakayla said.
“Care to tell me why?”
“To make sure she heard that the remains of Frank DeMille had been discovered. We were doing so at the request of Frank’s sister. I assume you knew Frank and Loretta were close.”
“I did not. I had to learn about it yesterday afternoon from Lindsay Boyce at the FBI. I assume you know the feds are sticking their noses into my case.”
“We’re not surprised,” I said. “It sounds like the jurisdictional history of when and where the crime happened could create a tangled mess of local, FBI, and even national park ranger involvement.”
Hickman nodded. “What about private detectives?”
“If you’re referring to Nakayla and me, our interest is in seeing justice done. If you can make that happen, then more power to you.”
“I understand some letters are involved. Letters that came to the FBI.”
“They didn’t come from us,” I said.
“But you know the contents.”
I didn’t want to stonewall the sheriff, especially if he was making a good faith effort to solve the crime. But I wasn’t ready to share the speculations Nakayla and I were following.
“Frank had asked Loretta to marry him,” I said. “He disappeared before she gave him an answer. We learned that from Frank’s sister.”
“Do you know if there was another boyfriend?”
“No, but it’s my understanding her family wasn’t thrilled that she was dating someone from the NASA tracking station.” I leaned forward in my chair, locking eyes with Hickman’s and hoping I looked the part of a tough-guy detective. “We’ve been straight with you, Sheriff. Why don’t you be straight with us? You didn’t learn about our visit to Loretta from the FBI. We haven’t told anyone. Maybe Agent Boyce has come into possession of letters and she’s ahead of you in some areas. That’s not our fault. If you want our continued cooperation, then we expect you to be straight with us. When did you speak to Loretta?”
His cheeks reddened, and for a second, I thought he was going to get up and storm out. But he took a deep breath and reclined back into the sofa’s leather cushion. “Yesterday afternoon, she came speeding up Dusty Hollar Road like the devil himself was on her tail. I had my patrol car parked in Bobby Case’s yard and was talking to him and his brother Danny. She had to brake real hard to keep from rear-ending me.”
“What did she tell you?” Nakayla asked.
“She said you two had told her Frank DeMille’s bones had been found and you were talking to her like it was her fault. I had no reason to doubt what she said. It was clear she was upset and had been crying.”
“Let me assure you we made no such accusation,” Nakayla said.
He nodded. “Well, I got the feeling she’d raced up to talk to her brothers and I happened to be an unexpected visitor.”
“Possibly she was angry at them but then redirected it at us,” I said. “Avoid an ugly scene in front of the law. Were you there because of DeMille’s murder?”
“No. At that point, I didn’t realize there was a connection between Loretta Johnson and Frank DeMille.”
“Now you do.”
“Now I do. And now I’ll follow up on it.”
He emphasized I’ll to make us understand we sure as hell weren’t going to mess any further with his investigation.
“I told you the truth about speaking to Lindsay Boyce,” he said. “She told me about the letters. She also said the more thorough FBI forensic exam of DeMille’s skull revealed bone damage that occurred earlier than that caused by the road scraper’s blade. Could have been anything from a blackjack to a shovel. I’m betting on a shovel, the one that probably then dug his grave.”
“So death was caused by a blunt object,” I said.
“Unless he was knocked out and buried alive.”
“Would either of Loretta’s brothers be capable of something like that?”
He shrugged. “Singly? Probably not. But Danny and Bobby Case are identical twins. Put them together and they can be mean as two snakes. They’ve got to be seventy-five by now, and I tell you, they haven’t mellowed with age.”
“I suspect they’ll alibi each other regardless of whether it’s true or not,” I said.
Hickman pointed a finger at me. “You got the picture. They’ll swear to have been together the night Frank DeMille disappeared whether they’re guilty or not.”
I thought about what the sheriff had and had not said. “Then why were you there?”
Hickman stood. “Thanks for your time. If you’re really interested in justice, you’ll let me know if something else comes to light.” And he was out the door.
Chapter 9
I called Jack of the Wood to confirm that Case Dismissed was playing that night and learned that although their start time was scheduled for eight, they often took the small stage anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour early.
“Why’s that?” I asked the man on the phone.
“You know the difference between a bluegrass band and a rock band?”
“You mean other than the music?”
He laughed. “Yeah. A bluegrass band will tune all night without playing, and a rock band will play all night without tuning. Case Dismissed is one of those groups that can spend half an hour preparing to play.”
“I know sometimes there are four band members and at other times seven.”
“We’re set up for seven. They’re here a lot. The three old-timers play a couple of the classics, take a break, and then join for a few more tunes toward the end. The whole show will be over by nine, and then we open up the stage for a jam session. So come early and stay late.”
Nakayla and I decided to shoot for around six thirty when we felt pr
etty sure we could get a table close to the stage and easily stretch our drinks, appetizers, dinner, and dessert for a couple of hours. Our outing expanded when we brought Cory up to date and she asked to come. She wanted to see the woman who nearly became her aunt. Hewitt Donaldson then invited himself, claiming the evening would make up for the interrupted birthday lunch. Only Shirley begged off, saying a night of bluegrass would set back her meditation progress. Something about banjos disturbing her harmonic balance. She offered to take Blue to her house for a sleepover.
The temperature had dropped into the midseventies when we left the office. The pleasant walk to the pub took about ten minutes.
Stepping into Jack of the Wood was like stepping into any good Irish pub. It made no difference whether you were in Dublin, Boston, or Asheville. Rich, dark wood; a full bar heavy on the Irish whiskies; Harp, Guinness, and Smithwick’s on tap. The geographical distinction played out in the local beer offerings, and Asheville, a multiyear winner of the Beer City, USA, designation, had the full run of excellent brews from lager to stout.
We entered to find about half the tables occupied. Lively pockets of conversation rose above the clink of glasses. The stage fit snugly into one corner diagonal from the bar, and we claimed an empty table right in front. Loretta would have to close her eyes the entire set not to see us.
Hewitt intercepted a waiter and made it clear he was picking up the tab and didn’t want to be rushed. We ordered drinks, fried dill pickle chips, and loaded nachos to get the evening started.
With the food in the center of the table and pints of beer in hand, Hewitt gave Cory another birthday toast and then said, “So where do we stand? I know we’re here to see this Loretta Johnson and her family, but what else is going on?”
I took a sip of Guinness and licked the unavoidable foam mustache from my upper lip. “I’ve got a call into an army buddy who might make inroads into Eddie Gilmore’s service record.”
“The point being?”
“I’d like to pick up any trail on what Frank DeMille wrote to his brother-in-law. With both Eddie and Frank out of the picture, the army might have dropped its pursuit of the matter, but it still might be in some dusty file box somewhere.”
“Sounds like a long shot,” Hewitt said. “But that’s what it’s going to take—a long shot.”
“At least the FBI is taking an interest,” Cory said. “I believe Agent Boyce will do what she can. She’s trying to track down everyone from the NASA station who’s still alive.”
“That means she’ll interview Loretta,” Nakayla said. “I’d like to see if there’s any discrepancy between what she told us and what she tells the FBI.”
An unanswered question sprang to my mind. Unanswered because we’d neglected to ask it. “Damn.”
Hewitt stared at me. “What?”
“We never asked Loretta where she was the night Frank disappeared. Rule number one’s always look at the people closest to the victim. On a night when the Apollo 15 mission was in full execution, all hands could have been on deck, including Loretta.”
“Then ask her tonight,” Cory said. “She’s got to walk right by us to get to the stage.”
Hewitt speared three fried dill pickles with his fork. “Frankly, I’m surprised Sheriff Hickman seems determined to pursue the case.”
“I’m not sure he’s pursuing the case as much as pursuing the Cases,” I said. “He wouldn’t tell us why he was talking to Bobby and Danny.”
“Maybe Newly or Tuck have some police contacts in Hickman’s county,” Hewitt said. “Have you run a background check on the four sons? They’re probably in their forties. I doubt if they make enough to live on playing bluegrass.”
“I’ll check in with Newly first thing in the morning,” Nakayla said.
There was a commotion at the pub’s front door as a group wrestled cases of musical instruments inside. From the shapes, I spotted two guitars, a banjo, two mandolins, and a stand-up bass bigger than the person carrying it. I didn’t recognize any of the six men, although they could have been in Loretta’s family photograph. I hadn’t studied it in great detail. Only when Loretta and her fiddle case followed behind them did I know for sure that Case Dismissed had arrived.
Her brothers were easy to distinguish. Gray hair pulled back in ponytails, matching beards that brushed their chests, tall and broad shouldered, dressed in bib overalls over white T-shirts and round-toed brown boots. In short, they were seventy-five-year-old clones except that one nurtured a larger beer gut.
The sons were more diverse in appearance, at least beyond blue jeans and boots. Where the fathers had plain white T-shirts, the younger men sported colors that ranged from tie-dyed to something that looked like shiny chain mail. The smallest of the four, a narrow-faced, weaselly man with a shaved head and diamond-stud left earring, wore a star-speckled black shirt with the ghostly image of the classic yellow alien face—almond-shaped black eyes and slits for nostrils and a mouth. Beneath this cosmic visage were the blood-red words “I’m coming for you.” The man stepped up on the stage carrying a banjo case. He turned and surveyed the room as if fearful one of the patrons might be abducting him to the mothership.
Nakayla leaned over and whispered, “Why are the banjo players always the weird ones?”
Loretta let her brothers and nephews arrange themselves while she waited just inside the pub door. Her outfit was more in line with what I expected of a professional performer—wheat jeans and a sky-blue, square-necked tunic with three-quarter sleeves. Her hair was pulled back by a turquoise band.
She too scanned the room that was now nearly full. Her eyes passed over me, then snapped back to fix me with a stare of recognition.
I smiled and gave her a nod. Her brow furrowed, and she raised the fiddle case to her chest. She appeared to be debating whether to stay or leave. I decided to make the first move.
I rose from the table and walked to her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Having dinner. And looking forward to hearing your music.”
“And?”
“And I thought of a question or two since yesterday. Again, I’m just trying to get to the truth about what happened to Frank.”
She sighed. “So am I.”
She looked over my shoulder, and I knew she was studying the others at my table.
“Who’s the white woman and the old man?”
“The woman is Cory DeMille. Frank’s niece he never knew. The man is Hewitt Donaldson, an Asheville defense attorney.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Defense attorney? Is he planning to defend Frank’s killer?”
“No. Cory’s his paralegal. He’s helping us investigate Frank’s death.”
“Death? I thought you said it was murder?”
“Yes. We now know he was struck in the head with a blunt instrument. Possibly the shovel used to bury him.”
Her face paled. “Shovel,” she whispered.
“Yes. You might be able to help us with some more information. Were you at the tracking station that night?”
“Aunt Loretta, we need to tune up.”
I turned to see the alien T-shirt guy lifting his banjo in his right hand like Moses parting the Red Sea. With his left, he urged her to the stage.
She scooted around me. “We’ll talk afterward.”
I watched her step up on the stage and immediately become engulfed by the six men. It was clear they were grilling her about me, as at various points, each of them gave me a hostile glare.
I returned to the table. Hewitt was draining the last of his first porter.
He set the empty glass down with a thud. “Well, what did you learn?”
“We’re going to talk when they finish playing. I think she has something to share.”
“Good,” Hewitt said. “My advice is that you talk to her one-on-one. Otherwise, it might
look like we’re ganging up on her.”
Cory laughed. “You’re going easy on a witness?”
“Of course. What else would you expect from someone who has the milk of human kindness flowing through his veins?”
“Not the title of attorney at law after his name.”
Hewitt waved at our waiter and pointed to his empty glass. “I’m mellowing,” he told Cory. “Like a fine wine.”
His paralegal flashed a devilish grin. “Then put a cork in it.”
Even Hewitt had to laugh. I was glad to see Cory in such good spirits, the happiest she’d been since the discovery of her uncle’s remains.
Case Dismissed took about twenty minutes with what seemed an unending process of tuning and retuning. My mental calculation of two guitars, two mandolins, one banjo, one bass, and one fiddle totaled forty-one strings. On average, thirty seconds for each one. I was grateful they didn’t bring a piano.
The band finally moved from tuning to playing. The transition was simply Danny or Bobby (I had no idea which twin was which) coming to the microphone and announcing, “We’re Case Dismissed, and we’re going to play for y’all.”
Loretta kicked off a fiddle intro to “Darlin’ Cory.”
“Just for you,” Hewitt said, teasing Cory.
Loretta didn’t hold the instrument under her chin but tucked it into her collarbone so that she could sing and play at the same time. The band put out a wall of sound, even though only the vocal microphone was amplified. Players moved in and out for solos and harmonies. The fast instrumentation was tight, like you’d expect from a family who had been playing together all their lives. They ran through a medley of old mountain and bluegrass standards: “Cripple Creek,” “Rocky Top,” “Salty Dog Blues,” and “Alabama Jubilee.”
Murder in Rat Alley Page 7
