“But she wasn’t a sharecropper. She was wealthy. Oh, and she was white.”
There were white sharecroppers in post-Civil War Alabama. But not many, and they definitely didn’t get rich.
“Hold up. A rich white woman? Buried on the farm? That doesn’t track.”
“Maybe she was a teacher, working with the Freedman’s Bureau. Didn’t Isaiah set up a school?”
“Yeah . . . But, Isaiah and Jonah weren’t tight. Isaiah was in Washington trying to pass civil rights legislation, and Jonah was a subsistence farmer.”
“Still. Didn’t the Klan sometimes lynch sympathetic whites?”
“They threatened to. There was an infamous cartoon about it. But . . . offhand, I can’t think of local lynchings of affluent white women. And that would have been news.”
“Can you dig into Isaiah’s papers and see if anything pops?”
“Sure. It might take me a while. We’ve been archiving reverse chronological order, so the early papers, the ones from the 1860s and 1870s, haven’t been indexed yet. Do you know anything about this ’Cassie’ person other than the fact that she was buried on Jonah Bell’s property?”
She sighed. “No.”
“Well, why do you think she was well off?”
“Her clothes were fine, the coffin was made entirely of iron and would have cost several hundred dollars. And …”—she scooped the brooch out of the fruit bowl and traced the filigree—“she was wearing a piece of custom-made jewelry that I know for a fact was expensive.”
“Can you send me any pictures of her?”
“I don’t have any. And there’s no way I’m going to be able to sneak back into the museum to take any.” She turned the pin over in her hand. “I can send you a picture of the brooch.”
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Better than nothing, I guess. Text it to me.”
“I will. And, Micah, thanks.”
“You can thank me when I get you something.”
“Drinks at The Distillery?”
“And dancing.”
She ended the call feeling hopeful, almost triumphant. But Jones women were nothing if not clear-eyed.
Easy, now. You still have Sully to deal with.
She snapped a picture of the brooch and texted the image to Micah. She swiped over to her text conversation with Bodhi King to let him know what she’d overheard at the museum, but before she could thumb out the words, her apartment buzzer rang.
Her stomach rumbled again.
She hit the intercom and unlocked the door to the building. “Come on up.”
Chinese food first; Bodhi King later.
18
Bodhi spotted Bette and Fred in the buffet line and pointed at an unoccupied table out on the terrace. The air was crisp, which meant there were few hardy souls eating al fresco, despite the heaters spaced throughout the seating area. It would afford them some privacy.
Bette nodded. Eliza joined the buffet line while he headed outside to secure the table. Once the others arrived with their sandwiches and chips, he went inside and piled a plate with salad and fruit, swept four bottles of water into the crook of his arm, and maneuvered through the crowd back out to the terrace.
“It’s a little chilly,” he acknowledged as he handed out the waters. “But we want to be able to talk without being overheard.”
Fred and Bette exchanged a look.
“What?” Bodhi asked.
Bette smiled knowingly. “Using my keen investigative insight, I sense this is a working lunch.”
Fred nodded. “You two are up to something.”
Eliza shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”
“Let’s hear it,” Bette prompted.
Bodhi arranged his napkin on his lap. “Sure. But if you want to tell us about your morning first, we’re all ears.”
Bette arched an eyebrow. “Right. The panels are so fascinating that Fred and I have been debating the merits of finding a caffeine drip to keep ourselves awake for the afternoon sessions. So, let’s start with your news. Spill it.”
“The body that Davina Jones found almost certainly dates to the mid-1800s.”
“Holy crow,” Fred murmured.
Bette shook her head, in a fast, short motion, as if she were shaking water from her hair. “So . . . She’s—a hundred and fifty years old?”
“Thereabouts,” Eliza confirmed.
“Obviously, we can’t date her with precision just by performing a visual examination. But we’re confident that specialized testing will back up our assessment.
“And she’s so well-preserved that Dexter really thought she was a contemporary corpse?” Bette mused.
“Yes. The relatively good condition of the body actually makes it easy to tell she didn’t die recently,” Eliza explained. “If she’d been killed and dumped without embalming, she’d have been putrid and bloated, skin peeling off, the whole deal.”
Fred blanched and dropped his sandwich to his plate.
Eliza leaned across and stage-whispered to Bette, “Weak stomach.”
Bodhi pressed on. “She’s not just an old corpse. She’s an old hanging victim.”
Bette paused, her water bottle hovering midway to her lips. “Are you saying she was murdered?”
He made a slow down motion, palms out, urging caution. “We can’t say that for sure. She may have committed suicide. But there’s no doubt she was hanged, the ligature left deep furrows in her neck—they’re still visible.”
“Hanged,” Fred mused.
“Possibly lynched, according to Davina Jones,” Eliza added.
“We’d need to autopsy her to see if her hyoid bone was fractured or if any petechiae signs are visible on her eyes or elsewhere, but the likely cause of death was cerebral anoxia.” Even though he realized the words were gibberish to the two police chiefs, he wanted them to have as much information as possible.
But they weren’t listening anyway.
“Wait. Professor Jones was at the autopsy? Dexter told you that was a no-go.” Bette’s tone was mild, but her lips were ever-so-slightly downturned—an early-warning irritation sign.
Bodhi and Eliza exchanged glances. Fred noticed. Now he was frowning, too.
“Did you disregard Dexter’s explicit condition?” he pressed.
“It wasn’t like that,” Eliza insisted.
“What was it like?”
“I texted her and told her she couldn’t participate. But she managed to find a way into the museum and into the lab. Her lab,” Bodhi couldn’t resist pointing out.
“Chief Dexter’s our host, not to mention the chief law enforcement officer here. You may think he’s a windbag, but this is his town,” Bette said.
“Bette, I didn’t invite her. And we didn’t mention her presence to the chief.”
“Withholding information? That doesn’t make it better.” Bette’s sigh was deep and exasperated.
Eliza cleared her throat and fiddled with her fork. “It’s true, though. We had no idea she would be there. She apparently borrowed a uniform from someone on the cleaning crew and, um, sneaked in. It just didn’t come up while we were briefing Chief Dexter.”
Bodhi added, “As it turns out, I’m glad she was there. She helped us get the case open without damaging it too badly.”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? As long as she did it to protect the historical value of the coffin, there’s no problem with the fact that she trespassed.” Fred’s voice was thick with sarcasm.
The table fell silent. Bodhi sipped his water. He needed to get everybody on the same page, working toward a common goal—his goal. Sniping at one another was counterproductive.
He spread his hand in a gesture of appeasement. “Look, I agree that it was reckless for her to come, but it’s done. The past is the past, right?” He locked eyes with Bette as he parroted her words from the night before.
She twisted her mouth, skeptical and unconvinced.
“I don’t want to argue. And, besides, we need your h
elp,” he added.
“Aha.” Bette unknotted her lips and smirked. “It’s all making sense now.”
“What kind of help?” Fred wanted to know.
“Chief Dexter claims he’s not going to investigate the murder.”
“What murder?”
Bodhi cast him a questioning look, but Fred didn’t appear to be joking.
“The murder we just told you about, honey. Cassie,” Eliza explained.
“Your Jane Doe from the 1800s?” Bette said.
The incredulity in her voice didn’t give Bodhi a warm and fuzzy feeling.
“Yes.”
Bette shook her head. “Bodhi, you can’t expect him to spend resources investigating a possible murder that happened a century and a half ago.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, there’s no one to bring to justice. If she was killed, the killer is long dead, too, by now.”
“I know but—"
“And for another, there’s no family out there waiting for closure. We don’t even know who this woman is.”
“So, we just forget about it? Let the Sullivans and Chief Dexter bury the news and move on?” Eliza demanded, her chin jutting out and her eyes sparking with anger.
Fred and Bette exchanged a look.
“Yes,” they said in unison.
Bodhi inhaled through his nose, settled in the pause, and then exhaled through his mouth. He hadn’t expected the conversation with Dexter to go well; he’d hoped this one would go much better. When he spoke, he chose his words deliberately.
“I understand there are budgetary concerns and practical concerns. But if this had happened in either of your jurisdictions, neither one of you would just close the book on an unidentified dead body. Murder victim or not. Ancient or not.”
Bette tipped her chair back on two legs, her preferred thinking posture. After a moment, she twitched her nose and allowed, “I’d reach out to the historical society in town. Share whatever evidence I had and let them run it down if they wanted to, or could.”
“And what if the local historical society—or museum, for that matter—didn’t want to get its hands dirty? What if they directed you not to investigate? When then?”
“You know I don’t take marching orders from a citizen, even a corporate one. But I wouldn’t divert police resources for something like this. I couldn’t justify it.”
Fred nodded his agreement. “She’s right. Aside from being off-mission, it’d be expensive and time-consuming. Why don’t you contact the Smithsonian or the state archives? Ask them to take a look at your Jane Doe, er, Cassie. Or post an image on the Internet. Lots of genealogy buffs out there. But, while it’s an interesting question and an unsolved mystery, it’s not a law enforcement priority.”
“And it wouldn’t be a priority for you either if you were managing a medical examiner’s office caseload with active cases that affect living family members. Fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, children, and siblings desperate for answers,” Bette added.
Bodhi shook his head from one side to the other. What they were saying was true. That didn’t mean he had to like it. But it was true.
“I guess you’re right. It’s just unfortunate. Davina Jones can’t pursue it, not really. And once we leave town, we can’t really drive the investigation forward. With the Rutherford Family Foundation and the local police department unwilling to pick up the ball, Cassie will remain a Jane Doe and a potential murder victim. The coldest of cold cases.”
Eliza scrunched up her face as if she were going to challenge him. But she didn’t. Instead, she tilted her head and gave him an appraising look.
Then she said, “It is a shame. But I guess this frees us up to participate in the horseshoe tournament this afternoon.”
Fred stared at her for a long moment with a skeptical expression. He might as well have had a thought bubble over his head reading ‘What are you up to now?’
Before he could express his palpable doubt, a waiter came by to clear plates and pass out cookies, coffee, and tea. They nibbled on the sweets and sipped the hot drinks, and the conversation turned toward the conference programming and Bette and Fred’s upcoming sessions.
They continued to chat as they tidied their table and walked back through the dining room to the lobby. Bette checked her watch.
“Fred, we should run.”
She leaned up to give Bodhi a quick kiss. Her lips brushed his, and then she said, “I know you’re upset, but please remember we’re guests here. This is Lew Dexter’s town, not mine or yours.”
“You’re right.”
“I’ll find a way to make you forget about it.”
“I’m counting on it. But, do me a favor and don’t mention anything to him about Davina being there today. Please.”
She hesitated, then nodded her assent.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Eliza and Fred having what was no doubt a very similar conversation, complete with hushed innuendo about the evening’s activities. Eliza straightened Fred’s collar and smoothed his hair before sending him off with Bette.
As Fred and Bette hurried off to their next session, Eliza painted Bodhi with a look. “That didn’t go as planned.”
“Not even remotely.”
She sighed heavily. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to call Davina and let her know that we can’t help her.”
“Or ….”
“Or what?”
“Or we could help her. You and I both know she’s going to investigate no matter what. We could give her a hand so she doesn’t run afoul of the Sullivans and lose her teaching position, too. Do you know if she has tenure?”
“I don’t. Back up. Bette and Fred just made it clear that they’d like us to let it go. Are you proposing that we lie to them?”
“No, I’m proposing that we find something to occupy ourselves other than horseshoes. Look, all they asked is that we back off Chief Dexter. So we’ll do that. Let’s ask Davina if her librarian friend came up with anything useful. Maybe they could use our help. We don’t have to do anything that would step on anybody’s toes.”
She twirled a strand of hair around her finger and studied him while he considered her idea. He had to admit it sounded reasonable. It felt deceitful, though.
She must’ve read his thoughts on his face. “Hey, this is our thing—an unidentified dead woman who may have been murdered. I can’t just walk away from Cassie just because she’s a cold case, and I know you, Bodhi. Neither can you.”
That was the thing about Eliza. She was quiet, but when she cared about something or someone, she was tireless, impassioned. Unstoppable. And, just as he knew Davina would investigate with or without them, he knew Eliza would help her—with or without him.
“Sure. Let’s do it. I never did care for tossing horseshoes.”
19
Davina heard footsteps in the hallway and pulled open the door before the delivery guy could knock.
“I’m starving. Boy, am I glad—oh. I thought you were my Chinese food.” She stopped and took a step backward into her small foyer. “What are you doing here?”
Verna stomped inside uninvited. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” Her mind raced to piece together what could have happened at the museum after she left to warrant this visit.
Verna closed the door with a bang. “You know what.”
“I really don’t.”
“You stole jewelry off that dead woman’s body, cuz.”
How could she know? And if Verna knew, who else knew?
“I . . . it’s not the way it looks.”
“Yeah? Because the way it looks, you used me to get into the lab to steal it.” Verna’s eyes flashed, and her hands were balled into fists.
Davina knew her cousin had a temper. She’d done a stint or two in the county lockup after bar fights got out of hand. But she wouldn’t get physical with Davina. Would she?
Her eyes fell on her basket full
of archaeological tools sitting just beside the coat closet. If she could reach the basket, she’d have ready access to multiple serviceable weapons—a pointed trowel, a flat-edged trowel, a wicked screwdriver, and a rock pick hammer, among them. Shoot, if she could reach the closet, her ax was inside, on the floor propped up against the wall.
“Don’t think about it.”
Davina’s phone rang. She glanced down at the display. Eugene Sullivan.
“You told Sully?” Now Davina wasn’t scared, she was pissed.
Verna blinked. “What? No.”
“What did you do?”
“I saw you by the supply closet, admiring that pin. But, c’mon, you know I’m not a snitch.” She looked wounded by the suggestion.
Davina forced herself to speak calmly. “I need to run some tests on the brooch. To establish a date. Margot and Sully won’t let me near the lab, so I can’t exactly test the body or the coffin, you know?”
Doubt clouded Verna’s eyes. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” she lied. “You say I know you’re not a snitch. Okay. And you know I’m not a thief.”
Verna’s expression soured. “I guess that’s true. Little Miss Perfect would never steal.”
“I’m just borrowing it. I’ll get it back to the lab without involving you. No one will ever know, and you’re not going to get blamed. Okay?”
She huffed something that Davina chose to take as agreement.
“Listen, I ordered Chinese. It should be here any minute. You want to stick around and help me eat it?”
Verna’s lips softened, but she shook her head. “Can’t. Vance has to work. I need to get home to watch the kids.”
“Some other time?”
“Yeah, sure. Some other time.”
Davina walked her to the door and stood watching as she trudged down the hallway like she carried a weight on her shoulders.
They’d never been close—and they probably never would be—but she could make more of an effort with Verna. She’d make a point of it.
Cold Path Page 10
