by Delia Owens
“Yes.”
“So we have no evidence that proves Miss Clark was on the fire tower the night Chase Andrews fell to his death. Correct?”
“That’s what I said.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“Yeah, that’s a yes.”
“Sheriff, isn’t it true that those grates on top of the tower were left open quite frequently by kids playing up there?”
“Yeah, they were left open sometimes. But like I said earlier, it was usually the one you had to open to climb on top, not the other ones.”
“But isn’t it true that the grate by the stairs and occasionally the others were left open so often and considered so dangerous that your office submitted a written request to the U.S. Forest Service to remedy the situation?” Tom held a document out to the sheriff. “Is this the official request to the Forest Service on July 18 of last year?” The sheriff looked at the page.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Who exactly wrote this request?”
“I did it myself.”
“So only three months before Chase Andrews fell to his death through an open grate on the fire tower, you submitted a written request to the Forest Service asking them to close the tower or secure the grates so that no one would be hurt. Is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Sheriff, would you please read to the court the last sentence of this document that you wrote to the Forest Service? Just the last sentence, here.” He handed the document to the sheriff, pointing at the last line.
The sheriff read out loud to the court, “‘I must repeat, these grates are very dangerous and if action is not taken, a serious injury or even death will occur.’”
“I have no further questions.”
48.
A Trip
1969
On October 28, 1969, Kya eased up to Jumpin’s dock to tell him good-bye, as promised, then motored to the town wharf, where fishermen and shrimpers as always stopped their work to watch her. Ignoring them, she tied up and carried a faded cardboard suitcase—pulled from the back of Ma’s old closet—onto Main Street. She had no purse, but toted her knapsack packed with books, some ham and biscuits, and a small amount of cash, after burying most of her royalty money in a tin can near the lagoon. For once, she looked quite normal, dressed in a brown Sears, Roebuck skirt, white blouse, and flats. Shopkeepers busied about, tending customers, sweeping the sidewalk, every one of them staring at her.
She stood on the corner under the Bus Stop sign and waited until the Trailways bus, its air brakes hissing, pulled up, blocking the ocean. Nobody got off or on as Kya stepped forward and bought a ticket to Greenville from the driver. When she asked about the return dates and times, he handed her a printed schedule and then stowed her suitcase. She held tightly to her knapsack and boarded. And before she had time to think much about it, the bus, which seemed as long as the town, drove out of Barkley Cove.
Two days later, at 1:16 in the afternoon, Kya stepped off the Trailways from Greenville. Now even more villagers were about, staring and whispering as she tossed her long hair over her shoulder and took her suitcase from the driver. She crossed the street to the wharf, stepped into her boat, and motored straight home. She wanted to stop by and tell Jumpin’ that she was back, as she had promised to do, but other boats were lined up waiting for gas at his wharf, so she figured she’d come back the next day. Besides, this way she’d get back to the gulls faster.
So, the next morning, October 31, as she pulled up to Jumpin’s wharf, she called to him, and he stepped out from the small store.
“Hey, Jumpin’, I’m just letting you know I’m home. Got back yesterday.” He said nothing as he walked toward her.
As soon as she stepped onto his wharf, he said, “Miss Kya. I . . .”
She cocked her head. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He stood looking at her. “Kya, have ya heard the news ’bout Mr. Chase?”
“No. What news?”
He shook his head. “Chase Andrews is dead. Died in tha middle of the night while ya were over’n Greenval.”
“What?” Both Kya and Jumpin’ looked deep into the other’s eyes.
“They found ’im yestadee mornin’ at the bottom of the ol’ far towa with a . . . well, they say his neck broke an’ his skull smashed right in. They reckon he fell right off from the top.”
Kya’s lips remained parted.
Jumpin’ went on. “Whole town’s buzzed up. Some folks’re puttin’ it down as a accident, but the word is, the sheriff itn’t so sure. Chase’s mama’s all riled up, says there was foul play. It’s a sho’-nuff mess.”
Kya asked, “Why do they think foul play was . . . ?”
“One a’ them grates on the towa flo’ was left wide open, and he fell plumb through, and they reckoned that was suspicious. Some people’re sayin’ them grates are left open all the time with kids always messin’ ’round up there, and Mr. Chase coulda fell through by accident. But some folks cryin’ murder.”
Kya was silent, so Jumpin’ continued. “One reason was, when Mr. Chase was found, he wan’t wearin’ that shell necklace he wore ever’ day fer years, and his wife says he was wearin’ it that very night when he lef’ the house, ’fore he went to his folks for dinah. A’ways wore it, she said.”
Her mouth went dry at the mention of the necklace.
“Then, those two young’uns that found Chase, well, they heard the sheriff say thar weren’t no footprints at the scene. Nary a one. Like somebody done rubbed out evidence. Them boys been yappin’ all over town ’bout it.”
Jumpin’ told her when the funeral would be but knew Kya wouldn’t go. What a spectacle that would be for the sewing bees and Bible study groups. For sure, the speculation and gossip would include Kya. Thank tha Lawd she’d been in Greenval at the time ’a his death, or they’d’a put this on ’er, Jumpin’ thought.
Kya nodded at Jumpin’ and churned home. She stood on the mud bank of the lagoon, whispering one of Amanda Hamilton’s verses:
“Never underrate
the heart,
Capable of deeds
The mind cannot conceive.
The heart dictates as well as feels.
How else can you explain
The path I have taken,
That you have taken
The long way through this pass?”
49.
Disguises
1970
Stating his name as Mr. Larry Price—a man with curly white hair, cut short, and dressed in a blue suit that shone cheaply—and that he drove the Trailways bus on varying routes in this area of North Carolina, the next witness was sworn in. As Eric questioned him, Mr. Price confirmed that it was possible to bus from Greenville to Barkley Cove and back again on the same night. He also stated that he was driving the bus from Greenville bound for Barkley Cove the night Chase died, and none of the passengers looked like Miss Clark.
Eric said, “Now, Mr. Price, you told the sheriff during his investigation that there was a skinny passenger on that bus who could’ve been a tall woman disguised as a man. Is that correct? Please describe this passenger.”
“Yeah, that’s right. A young white man. Reckon he was ’bout five ten, and his pants just hung on him like sheets on a fence post. He wore a big bulky cap, blue. Kept his head down, didn’t look at anybody.”
“And now that you’ve seen Miss Clark, do you believe it’s possible that the skinny man on the bus was Miss Clark in disguise? Could her long hair have been hidden in that bulky cap?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Eric asked the judge to request that Kya stand up, and she did so with Tom Milton by her side.
“You can sit back down, Miss Clark,” Eric said, and then to the witness, “Would you say that the young man on the bus was the same height and stature as Miss Clark?”
&nbs
p; “I’d say ’bout exactly the same,” Mr. Price said.
“So all things considered, would you say that it’s likely that the skinny man on the 11:50 P.M. bus traveling from Greenville to Barkley Cove on the night of October 29 of last year was in fact the defendant Miss Clark?”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s very possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Price. No further questions. Your witness.”
Tom stood in front of the witness stand and, after five minutes of questioning Mr. Price, he summed up. “What you’ve told us is this: one, there was no woman who looked like the defendant on the bus from Greenville to Barkley Cove on the night of October 29, 1969; two, there was a tall, thin man on the bus, but at the time, even though you saw his face very close, you didn’t think of him as a woman in disguise; three, this idea of disguise only came to you when the sheriff suggested it.”
Tom continued before the witness could respond. “Mr. Price, tell us how you’re sure the thin man was on the 11:50 P.M. bus of October 29? Did you take notes, write it down? Maybe it was the night before or the night after. Are you one hundred percent sure it was October 29?”
“Well, I see what you gettin’ at. And, when the sheriff was jogging my memory, it seemed like that man was on that bus, but now, I reckon I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”
“Also, Mr. Price, wasn’t the bus very late that night? In fact, it was twenty-five minutes late and didn’t arrive in Barkley Cove until 1:40 in the morning. Is that correct?”
“Yeah.” Mr. Price looked at Eric. “I’m just trying to help out here, do the right thing.”
Tom reassured him. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Price. Thank you very much. No further questions.”
* * *
• • •
ERIC CALLED HIS NEXT WITNESS, the driver for the 2:30 A.M. bus from Barkley Cove to Greenville on the morning of October 30, a Mr. John King. He testified that the defendant, Miss Clark, was not on the bus, but there was an older lady, “. . . tall like Miss Clark, who had gray hair, short with curls, like a permanent wave.”
“Looking at the defendant, Mr. King, is it possible that if Miss Clark had disguised herself as an older lady, she would have looked similar to the woman on the bus?”
“Well, it’s hard to picture it. Maybe.”
“So it’s possible?”
“Yes, I guess.”
On cross, Tom said, “We cannot accept the word guess in a murder trial. Did you see the defendant, Miss Clark, on the 2:30 A.M. bus from Barkley Cove to Greenville in the early morning of October 30, 1969?”
“No, I did not.”
“And was there another bus from Barkley Cove to Greenville that night?”
“No.”
50.
The Journal
1970
When Kya was led into the courtroom the next day, she glanced toward Tate, Jumpin’, and Mabel and held her breath at seeing a full uniform, a slight smile across a scarred face. Jodie. She nodded slightly, wondering how he’d learned of her trial. Probably the Atlanta paper. She tucked her head in shame.
Eric stood. “Your Honor, if it please the court, the People call Mrs. Sam Andrews.” The room breathed out as Patti Love, the grieving mother, made her way to the witness stand. Watching the woman she’d once hoped would be her mother-in-law, Kya now realized the absurdity of that notion. Even in this sullen setting, Patti Love, dressed in the finest black silks, seemed preoccupied with her own appearance and importance. She sat straight with her glossy purse perched on her lap, dark hair swept into the perfect bun under a hat, tipped just so, with dramatic black netting obscuring her eyes. Never would she have taken a barefoot marsh dweller as a daughter-in-law.
“Mrs. Andrews, I know this is difficult for you, so I’ll be as brief as possible. Is it true that your son, Chase Andrews, wore a rawhide necklace hung with a shell?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And when, how often, did he wear that necklace?”
“All the time. He never took it off. For four years I never saw him without that necklace.”
Eric handed a leather journal to Mrs. Andrews. “Can you identify this book for the court?”
Kya stared at the floor, working her lips, enraged at this invasion of her privacy as the prosecutor held her journal for all the court to see. She’d made it for Chase very soon after they met. Most of her life, she’d been denied the joy of giving gifts, a deprivation few understand. After working for days and nights on the journal, she’d wrapped it in brown paper and decorated it with striking green ferns and white feathers from snow geese. She’d held it out as Chase stepped from his boat onto the lagoon shore.
“What’s this?”
“Just something from me,” she had said, and smiled.
A painted story of their times together. The first, an ink sketch of them sitting against the driftwood, Chase playing the harmonica. The Latin names of the sea oats and scattered shells were printed in Kya’s hand. A swirl of watercolors revealed his boat drifting in moonlight. The next was an abstract image of curious porpoises circling the boat, with the words of “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” drifting in the clouds. Another of her swirling among silver gulls on a silver beach.
Chase had turned the pages in wonder. Ran his fingers lightly over some of the drawings, laughed at some, but mostly was silent, nodding.
“I’ve never had anything like this.” Leaning over to embrace her, he had said, “Thank you, Kya.” They sat on the sand awhile, wrapped in blankets, talking, holding hands.
Kya remembered how her heart had pounded at the joy of giving, never imagining anyone else would see the journal. Certainly not as evidence at her murder trial.
She didn’t look at Patti Love when she answered Eric’s question. “It’s a collection of paintings that Miss Clark made for Chase. She gave it to him as a present.” Patti Love remembered finding the journal under a stack of albums while cleaning his room. Apparently hidden from her. She’d sat on Chase’s bed and opened the thick cover. There, in detailed ink, her son lying against driftwood with that girl. The Marsh Girl. Her Chase with trash. She could barely breathe. What if people find out? First cold, then sweaty, her body reeled.
“Mrs. Andrews, would you please explain what you see in this picture painted by the defendant, Miss Clark.”
“That’s a painting of Chase and Miss Clark on the top of the fire tower.” A murmur moved through the room.
“What else is going on?”
“There—between their hands, she is giving him the shell necklace.”
And he never took it off again, Patti Love thought. I believed that he told me everything. I thought I’d bonded with my son more than other mothers; that’s what I told myself. But I knew nothing.
“So, because he told you and because of this journal, you knew your son was seeing Miss Clark, and you knew she gave him the necklace?”
“Yes.”
“When Chase came to your house for dinner on the night of October 29, was he wearing the necklace?”
“Yes, he didn’t leave our house until after eleven, and he was wearing the necklace.”
“Then when you went into the clinic the next day to identify Chase, did he have the necklace on?”
“No, he did not.”
“Do you know of any reason why any of his friends or anyone else, besides Miss Clark, would want to take the necklace off Chase?”
“No.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Tom called quickly from his seat. “Hearsay. Calls for speculation. She can’t speak to the reasoning of other people.”
“Sustained. Jurors, you must disregard the last question and answer.” Then, lowering his head ganderlike at the prosecutor, the judge said, “Watch your step, Eric. For crying out loud! You know better than that.”
Eric, unfazed, continued. “All right, we
know from her own drawings that the defendant, Miss Clark, climbed the fire tower with Chase at least once; we know she gave the shell necklace to him. After that, he wore it continuously until the night he died. At which time it disappeared. Is all that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. No further questions. Your witness.”
“No questions,” Tom said.
51.
Waning Moon
1970
The language of the court was, of course, not as poetic as the language of the marsh. Yet Kya saw similarities in their natures. The judge, obviously the alpha male, was secure in his position, so his posture was imposing, but relaxed and unthreatened as the territorial boar. Tom Milton, too, exuded confidence and rank with easy movements and stance. A powerful buck, acknowledged as such. The prosecutor, on the other hand, relied on wide, bright ties and broad-shouldered suit jackets to enhance his status. He threw his weight by flinging his arms or raising his voice. A lesser male needs to shout to be noticed. The bailiff represented the lowest-ranking male and depended on his belt hung with glistening pistol, clanging wad of keys, and clunky radio to bolster his position. Dominance hierarchies enhance stability in natural populations, and some less natural, Kya thought.
The prosecutor, wearing a scarlet tie, stepped boldly to the front and called his next witness, Hal Miller, a rake-thin twenty-eight-year-old with moppy brown hair.
“Mr. Miller, please tell us where you were and what you saw the night of October 29 to 30, 1969, at about 1:45 A.M.”
“Me and Allen Hunt were crewing for Tim O’Neal on his shrimp boat, and we were headed back to Barkley Cove Harbor late, and we seen her, Miz Clark, in her boat, about a mile out, east of the bay, headed north-northwest.”
