“Sequoyah?”
“Sequoyah invented an alphabet for the Cherokee language. Hang around long enough and someone will buy you an ashtray decorated with the symbols,” she said.
“What was Sequoyah's family name?”
“You want my final answer?”
“I'm serious.”
“Guess.”
“This is important,” I hissed.
“His name was Guess. Or Gist, depending on the transliteration. Why?”
“Jeremiah Mitchell's maternal grandmother was Martha Rose Gist.”
“The potter?”
“Yes.”
“I'll be damned.”
“You know what that means?”
I didn't wait for her answer.
“Mitchell was part Cherokee.”
“This is a library!”
Iris's words scorched the side of my face.
I held up a finger.
“Hang up instantly!” She spoke as loud as a human can without using the vocal cords.
“Is there a newspaper printed on the reservation?”
“The Cherokee One Feather. And I think there's a tribal photo archive at the museum.”
“Gotta go.” I disconnected and shut off the power.
“I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” Iris stood with hands on hips, the gestapo protectress of the printed word.
“Shall I return the boxes?”
“That will not be necessary.”
It took three stops to find what I needed. A trip to the offices of the Cherokee One Feather, located in the Tribal Council Center, revealed that the paper had only been in print since 1966. While there had been a predecessor publication years before, The Cherokee Phoenix, the current staff had no photos or back issues in their possession.
The Cherokee Historical Association had pictures, but most had been taken as promotional shots for the outdoor theatrical production Unto These Hills.
I hit pay dirt at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, directly across the street. When I repeated my request, I was taken to a second-floor office, issued cotton gloves, and allowed to graze through their photo and newspaper archives.
Within an hour I had confirmation.
Martha Rose Standingdeer was born in 1889 on the Qualla Boundary. She wed John Patrick Gist in 1908 and gave birth to a daughter, Willow Lynette, the following year.
At the age of seventeen, Willow married Jonas Mitchell at the AME Zion Church in Greenville, South Carolina. Their wedding portrait shows a delicate girl in a cloche veil and Empire gown, a bouquet of daisies in her hands. At her side stands a man with skin much darker than that of his bride.
I studied the picture. Though rawboned and homely, Jonas Mitchell was appealing in a strange sort of way. Today, he might have modeled for Benetton ads.
Willow Mitchell gave birth to Jeremiah in 1929, died of tuberculosis the following winter. I found no mention of Jonas or his son after that date.
I sat back, processing what I'd learned.
Jeremiah Mitchell was at least one half Native American. He was seventy-two years old when he disappeared. The foot must surely be his.
My deductive centers logged in immediately. The dates didn't correlate.
Mitchell went missing in February. The VFA profile gives a postmortem interval of six to seven weeks, placing the death in late August or early September.
Maybe Mitchell survived the night of the Mighty High Tap. Maybe he ventured off, then returned and died of exposure six months later.
Ventured off?
On a trip.
A seventy-two-year-old alcoholic with no car or money?
It happens.
Uh-huh. Died of exposure in the summer?
I sat, stumped and frustrated by a million facts I couldn't integrate.
Hoping pictures would be more headache friendly, I switched to the photo archives.
Again, small things caught my attention.
I'd gone through fifty or sixty folders when an eight-by-ten black-and-white aroused my interest. Flower-draped casket. Mourners, some in broad-shouldered baggy suits, others in traditional Cherokee dress. I flipped to the back. A yellowed label identified the event in faded ink: Charlie Wayne Tramper Funeral. May 17, 1959. The old man who had gone missing and been killed by a bear.
My gaze roved over the faces, then froze on one of two young men standing apart from the crowd. I was so surprised I gasped.
Though forty years younger, there was no mistaking that face. He would have been in his late twenties in 1959, newly arrived from England. A professor of archaeology at Duke. An academic superstar about to fade.
Why was Simon Midkiff at Charlie Wayne Tramper's funeral?
My eyes slid right, and this time the gasp was audible. Simon Midkiff was standing shoulder to shoulder with a man who would later rise to the office of lieutenant governor.
Parker Davenport.
Or was it? I stared at the features. Yes. No. This man was much younger, thinner.
I hesitated, looked around. No one had poked through this file for half a century. It wasn't stealing. I would return the print in a few days, no damage done.
I slipped the photo into my purse, returned the folder to its drawer, and bolted.
Outside, I dialed Raleigh Information, requested a number for the Department of Cultural Resources, then waited while the connection was made. When a voice answered I asked for Carol Burke. She came on in less than ten seconds.
“Carol Burke.”
“Carol, this is Tempe Brennan.”
“Good timing. I was just about to close it up for the day. Are you planning to dig up another graveyard?”
Among its many duties, the North Carolina Department of Cultural Resources is responsible for heritage preservation. When development involving state or federal moneys, permits, licenses, or lands is proposed, Carol and her colleagues order surveys and excavations to determine if prehistoric or historic sites will be threatened. Highway projects, airport work, sewer lines—without their clearance, no ground is broken.
Carol and I met in the days when archaeology was my main focus. Twice Charlotte developers had retained me to help relocate historic cemeteries. Carol had overseen both projects.
“Not this time. I'd like information.”
“I'll do my best.”
“I'm curious about the site Simon Midkiff is digging for you.”
“Currently?”
“Yes.”
“He's not doing anything for us at the moment. At least nothing of which I'm aware.”
“Isn't he excavating in Swain County?”
“I don't think so. Hold on.”
By the time she returned, I'd walked to Ryan's car and opened the door.
“Nope. Midkiff hasn't worked for us in over two years and isn't likely to any time soon because he still owes us a site report from his last contract.”
“Thanks.”
“I wish all my requests were this simple.”
I'd barely put down the phone when it rang again. A journalist from the Charlotte Observer. A reminder of my continuing notoriety. I clicked off without comment.
A thousand cranial vessels pulsed in my skull. Nothing made sense. Why had Midkiff lied? Why had he and Davenport attended the Tramper funeral? Did they know each other back then?
I needed aspirin. I needed lunch. I needed an objective listener.
Boyd.
After popping two Bayers, I collected the chow, and we set forth. Boyd rode with his head out the passenger window, nose to the air, twisting and turning to suck in every discernible odor. Watching him at the Burger King drive-through, I thought of the squirrel, then the wall at the courtyard house. Just what had his former owner trained him to find?
Suddenly, I had an idea. A place to picnic and check out names.
The Bryson City Cemetery is located on Schoolhouse Hill, overlooking Veterans Boulevard on one side, a mountain valley on the other. The drive took seven minutes. Boyd did not understand
the delay and kept prodding and licking the food bag. By the time I pulled into the cemetery, the cardboard tray was so soggy I had to carry it with two hands.
Boyd dragged me from stone to stone, peeing on several, then kicking back divots with his hind feet. Finally, he stopped at a pink granite column, turned, and yipped.
Sylvia Hotchkins
Entered this world January 12, 1945. Left this world April 20, 1968.
Taken too early in the spring of her life.
Sixty-eight was a rough year for all of us, Sylvia.
Certain she would enjoy the company, I settled at the base of a large oak shading Sylvia's grave and ordered Boyd to sit beside me. He complied, his eyes fixed on the tray in my hands.
When I withdrew a burger, Boyd sprang to his feet.
“Sit.”
He sat. I peeled off the paper and gave him the burger. He rose, separated it into components, then ate the meat, bun, and lettucetomato garnish sequentially. Finished, he focused on my Whopper, muzzle spotted with ketchup.
“Sit.”
He sat. I spread fries on the grass and he began picking them delicately off the surface so they wouldn't sink between the blades. I unwrapped my Whopper and slipped a straw into my drink.
“Now here's the deal.”
Boyd glanced up, went back to the fries.
“Why would Simon Midkiff have gone to the funeral of a seventy-four-year-old Cherokee killed by a bear in 1959?”
We both ate and thought about that.
“Midkiff is an archaeologist. He might have been researching the Eastern Band Cherokee. Maybe Tramper was his guide and historian.”
Boyd's attention shifted to my burger. I replenished his potatoes.
“O.K. I'll buy that.”
I took a bite, chewed, swallowed.
“Why was Parker Davenport there?”
Boyd looked at me without raising his head from the fries.
“Davenport grew up near here. He probably knew Tramper.”
Boyd's ears flicked forward, back again. He finished the last of his fries and stared at mine. I flipped him a few.
“Perhaps Tramper and Davenport had mutual friends on the reservation. Or maybe Davenport was already building a political base in those days.”
I threw out another half dozen fries. Boyd reengaged.
“How about this? Did Davenport and Midkiff know each other back then?”
Boyd's head came up. His eyebrows spun and his tongue dropped.
“If so, how?”
He cocked his head and watched as I finished my burger. I tossed him the rest of my fries, and he ate them as I sipped my Diet Coke.
“Here's the big one, Boyd.”
I gathered wrappers and bunched them with the remains of the tray. Seeing no more food, Boyd flopped onto his side, sighed loudly, and closed his eyes.
“Midkiff lied to me. Davenport wants my head on a spike. Is there a link?”
Boyd had no answer.
I sat with my back to the oak, absorbing warmth and light. The grass smelled freshly mown, the leaves dry and sun-baked. At one point Boyd rose, turned four times, then resettled at my side.
A short time later a man came over the crest of the hill, leading a collie on a length of rope. Boyd sat up and barked at the dog but didn't make an aggressive move. The late-afternoon sunshine was mellowing woman and beast. Reeling him in, I got to my feet.
As dusk gathered, we strolled among the gravestones. Though I spotted no one from the H&F list, and no Dashwoods, I did find markers with familiar names. Thaddeus Bowman. Victor Livingstone and his daughter, Sarah Masham Livingstone. Enoch McCready.
I remembered Luke Bowman's words, and wondered what had caused the death of Ruby's husband in 1986. Instead of answers, I was finding more questions.
But one mystery was solved. One missing person found. Turning to go, I stumbled across an unadorned slab in the cemetery's southernmost corner. Its face was inscribed with a simple message.
Tucker Adams
1871–1943
R.I.P.
LEAVING THE CEMETERY, I DROVE TOHIGH RIDGE HOUSE, SETTLED Boyd for the night, and returned to my room, unaware that it would be my busiest telephone evening since junior high.
I'd hardly hit the power switch when Pete called.
“How's Big B?”
“Enjoying the mountain food and fauna. Are you back in Charlotte?”
“Hung up in the Hoosier state. Is he straining your patience?”
“Boyd has a unique take on life.”
“What's new?”
I told him about Primrose.
“Oh, babe, I'm really sorry. Are you O.K.?”
“I'll be fine,” I lied. “There's more.”
I summarized the interrogation with Davenport, and listed the complaints the lieutenant governor planned to file.
“Sounds like a mainline mind fuck.”
“Don't try to impress me with legal jargon.”
“This has to be politically motivated. Any conjectures as to why?”
“He doesn't like my hair.”
“I do. Did you establish anything more about the foot?”
I told him about the histological age estimate, about the racial classification, and about the formerly and currently missing Daniel Wahnetah and Jeremiah Mitchell.
“Mitchell sounds like a winning candidate for the foot.”
I described the photo of Charlie Wayne Tramper's funeral and my phone call to Raleigh.
“Why would Midkiff lie to you about doing a dig?”
“He doesn't like my hair. Should I get an attorney?”
“You have one.”
“Thanks, Pete.”
Next, it was Ryan. He and McMahon had finished late and would be returning to the reassembly site at dawn, so they were overnighting in Asheville.
“Problems with your phone?”
“The media are scenting blood in the water, so I've had it turned off. Besides, I spent a lot of the day in the library.”
“Learn anything?”
“Mountain life is hard on old folks.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don't know. Seems like a lot of seniors drown, freeze to death, or end up in the food chain around here. I'll take the flatlands, thanks. What goes with the investigation?”
“The chemical guys are picking up weird traces.”
“Explosives?”
“Not necessarily. I'll fill you in tomorrow.”
“Have Bertrand and Petricelli been found?”
“No.”
Lucy Crowe beeped in at that point, and I clicked over. She had little to report and no warrant.
“The DA doesn't want to second-guess the magistrate without something more solid.”
“What the hell do these people want? Miss Scarlet in the library, candlestick in hand?”
“She finds your argument contradictory.”
“Contradictory?”
“The VFA profile says something died during the summer. Mitchell disappeared in February. Madam Prosecutor is convinced the stain is from an animal. Says you can't bust in on a citizen for aging meat in his backyard.”
“And the foot?”
“Crash victim.”
“Anything on Primrose's murder?”
“Turns out Ralph Stover is no hayseed. The gentleman owned a company in Ohio, holds patents on a number of microchips. In eighty-six Ralph underwent a metamorphosis following a cardiac event. He sold out for megabucks and bought the Riverbank. Been a country motel owner ever since.”
“Any police record?”
“Two DWIs back in the seventies, otherwise the guy's clean.”
“Does it make sense to you?”
“Maybe he watched too many Newhart reruns, dreamt of being an innkeeper.”
The next to ring was my friend at Oak Ridge. Laslo Sparkes asked if I'd be available in the morning. We made a date for nine o'clock. Good. Maybe he had some more results from the soil samples.
The
final call came from my department chair. He opened by apologizing for his abruptness Tuesday night.
“My three-year-old put our kitten in the Kenmore to dry it after a fall into the toilet. My wife had just rescued the poor thing, and everyone was hysterical. Kids crying. Wife crying, trying to get the cat to breathe.”
“How awful. Is it all right?”
“The little guy pulled through, but I don't think he's seeing too well.”
“He'll come around.”
There was a pause. I could hear his breath against the receiver.
“Well, Tempe, there's no easy way, so I'm just going to say it. The chancellor asked me to meet with him today. He's received a complaint about your behavior during the crash investigation and has decided to suspend you pending a full inquiry.”
I remained silent. Nothing I was doing in Bryson City was under the auspices of the university, though I was on its payroll.
“With pay, of course. He says he doesn't believe a word of it but has no choice in the matter.”
“Why not?” I already knew the answer.
“He's afraid of the negative publicity, feels he has to protect the university. And apparently the lieutenant governor is on his case directly and being a real hard-ass about this.”
“And, as everyone knows, the university is funded by the legislature.” My hand was clenched on the phone.
“I tried every argument I could think of. He wouldn't budge.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“You're welcome back in the department anytime. You could file a grievance.”
“No. I'm going to sort this out first.”
I went through my bedtime ritual with toothpaste, soap, Oil of Olay, hand cream. Cleansed and lubricated, I turned off the lights, crawled under the blankets, and screamed as loud as I could. Then I hugged knees to chest and for the second time in two days began to cry.
It was time to give up. I'm not a quitter, but I had to face reality. I was getting nowhere. I'd uncovered nothing persuasive enough to obtain a warrant, discovered little at the courthouse, struck out with the newspapers. I'd stolen from a library and had almost committed breaking and entering.
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