“A man named George Cannon was supposed to have created the masks, and made the coffins, when they lay in state at Nauvoo, Illinois.”
“Witnesses?”
“The quoted source of the casting was a five-year-old boy, Cannon’s son.”
“Seriously? Just how much do you think a five-year-old understands?” I picked up a wire sculpting tool. “They were supposedly murdered in Carthage at about five in the afternoon. When did they arrive in Nauvoo?”
“Three the following afternoon. They were transported in coffins on an open wagon.”
“So the coffins were made in Carthage. And . . .” I wrinkled up my nose. “June. In Illinois. They wouldn’t be embalmed. Not to put too fine a point on it, but by the time the two bodies reached Nauvoo, they would be getting rather, um—ripe.”
“So their faces would be—”
“Quite distorted. Certainly Hyrum with the bullet wound.”
“Interesting. By the way, I found the reference to a Le Fort fracture.”
“What is it?”
“Remember Joseph Smith’s missing grave? When his body was unearthed in 1929, all the bones of his face were fragmented. The name for this type of facial damage is a Le Fort fracture. A research team from the LDS Church surmised the damage occurred when Smith fell from the window onto his face.”
“But—”
“Right. He didn’t fall on his face.”
“Now we know why no one noticed the switch. Richards smashed the face of the substitute body. So, that means—”
“Yes?” Beth asked.
“Put it together, Beth. The mob struck Joseph in the face, but no scar or injury is on the mask.”
“You’re excogitating—”
“Don’t make me get a dictionary. The only way Joseph’s mask could appear without any marks was if it was cast before he entered the Carthage jail.”
“He did believe he was going to die,” Beth said.
“Right. And he would want his image preserved. Hyrum’s face, on the other hand, showed no distortion from decay.”
“So Hyrum’s face was cast at the Hamilton house before the bodies were transferred to Nauvoo.”
“Yep. You know the difference between a death mask and a life mask?”
Beth shook her head.
“Nothing.”
Beth stared at me.
“We do, however, now have another witness to the cover-up. If George Cannon made the life and death masks, as well as the coffins for the bodies, that places him in Carthage. What was his motivation for remaining silent?”
Beth glanced at the computer screen. “He was the brother-in-law to John Taylor.”
I nodded.
Beth sat up straighter. “Two months later Cannon was working in St. Louis, Missouri. He died under suspicious circumstances. And the family was never able to locate his grave.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
FOOTSTEPS ECHOED DOWN THE HALL, AND MIKE appeared at the door to the studio. Beth and I were still grinning. “What?” he asked.
“I think we’ve figured out how Smith could have faked his death,” I said. “It fits the facts. This could actually be true.”
“What about his wife?” Mike asked.
“I was just about to relay that information to Gwen,” Beth said. “In order to hide what had really happened to Joseph, his wife, Emma, required two character traits: deception and discretion. She demonstrated both abilities—”
“Oh boy.” Mike took a seat in the wingback chair. “I have a feeling the Mormon Church won’t like this.”
Beth furrowed her eyebrows. “But I researched from their own materials.”
I smoothed a hunk of clay hair. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean people will like it or believe it.”
“Illogical,” Beth said.
“You sound like Mr. Spock. Tell me about her lies and secrets.”
“Well, Emma lied on her deathbed when she said Smith didn’t practice polygamy, nor had ever taught it. Yet by some accounts, Smith had over thirty-five wives. He did, however, burn his revelation about polygamy before he died. She kept secret that sand, not bodies, were buried in the cemetery.”
“What?” Mike asked.
“Emma thought that Joseph’s and Hyrum’s bodies might be desecrated by their enemies. Or maybe, knowing it wasn’t really Joseph, she wanted to be sure the switch wasn’t discovered. Anyway, she had the corpses secretly removed, replacing them with sand.”
“What happened to the bodies?” I asked.
“That night at midnight, ten men buried the remains in the floor of the Nauvoo House, an unfinished structure Smith started several years earlier. The bodies remained for six months. Then Joseph and Hyrum were exhumed and reburied—”
“Only to be lost until the 1928 search done by the RLDS. What a twisted story,” I said.
“Replacing Smith’s body and pretending he’d been murdered was a perfect solution.”
“Wait a minute.” A melody floated in my brain. Frances, the kind woman who’d rescued me on the road to Jarom. What had she called it? Mike and Beth were silent as I rummaged around in my memory. “Do me a favor, Beth. Look up the words to ‘The Lost’ . . . no, ‘The Unknown Grave.’ ”
Beth tapped on the keyboard. “Found it.”
“Wait,” Mike said. “A poem?”
“A song. It stayed with me for some reason.”
“Well,” Beth said, “according to history, Emma was pregnant when Joseph supposedly died. Her son, David, was born several months later.”
“Okay,” I said.
“When he grew up, he wrote a poem attributed to the time his father was buried, hidden, in the floor of the Nauvoo House.”
“ ‘The Unknown Grave.’ ”
“Right. The song says no one knows the location,” Beth said.
“But if this is referring to the grave’s location in the Nauvoo House floor,” I said, “then that’s wrong because you said that ten men buried him.”
“It also says no one would disturb Smith’s body.”
“Yet he was dug up and reburied six months later.”
“This grave is supposed to be green and covered with trees.”
“The dirt floor of an unfinished house?” I asked. “Hardly.”
“You nailed it, Gwen. It doesn’t fit the facts of Smith’s first interment. But the song perfectly matches an unmarked location in Utah.”
Mike leaned forward. “Why pretend Smith died in the Carthage jail?”
Beth ticked off the points on her fingers. “Smith was destitute, in debt up to his ears, fleeing arrest, and—well—everyone wanted him dead.”
“So Emma wanted him dead too.” Aynslee looked up from her book.
“I suspect,” I said. “Emma loved him, but didn’t want to share her husband with a bunch of other women. Maybe she planned to join him in exile—”
“But didn’t I read somewhere that Emma remarried?” Mike asked.
“Emma believed they were sealed—” Beth said.
“What?” Aynslee asked.
“Married for eternity.” I thought about being married to Robert for eternity. I clamped my jaw tight.
Beth was reading the screen. “Here it is. She married a man named Lewis Bidamon.” She hummed quietly under her breath for a moment, still looking. “So, according to this, she might have figured it didn’t count when she married Bidamon after Joseph’s supposed death. Bidamon was a Congregationalist, not Mormon, and they married on Smith’s birthday.”
“Just coincidence?” Mike asked.
“Only a drudge would allow her husband to—” Beth glanced at Aynslee. “Ah, well, be adulterous, then take in his mistress and care for his illegitimate children. Not to mention Bidamon was considered a foul-mouthed drunk by those who knew him.”
“So Emma and Bidamon had a sham marriage,” Mike said.
“There is one other possibility.” I rolled out some clay. “When did Emma remarry?”
“Uh . . . 1847.”
“Maybe . . .” I tapped my lip. “Maybe she found out Joseph wasn’t coming back to her. He married someone else. Maybe even started a new family. So much for their reunion.”
“Poor Emma,” Beth said.
A chill went through me. I’d looked for a few holes to throw the Avenging Angels off me, and found catacombs in the official history.
“Well,” I finally said. “Thanks so much, Beth. How are you doing on your research, Aynslee?”
“I’m bored.” She stood, dropped the book onto the floor, and strolled out without a backward glance. Winston trotted after her.
“The dog probably needs to go out.” I looked at Mike. “If they’re watching, Winston’ll find them. Would they hurt—”
“Follow me,” Mike said. “I need to show you something.” We trooped into the kitchen. Mike had turned my post-lunch kitchen table into a war room, with his laptop computer and notepads scattered across the surface. He brought up a program that showed an aerial photographic map. I recognized the location. My house squatted in the center. “You have only one road going past here.” He traced it with his finger as I nodded. “It dead-ends at Copper Creek Lake. No one lives east between here and the lake. Your nearest neighbor is this abandoned farm—”
“It sounds like you’ve been spying on me.”
Mike compressed his lips and waved away my words. “I’m just trying to keep you safe. What I’m getting at is there’s no reason for close surveillance of this house. They’d stand out like—”
“A moose in pink spandex.”
Mike tried not to smile. “All they have to do is watch this road from a safe distance, say, around here.” He pointed.
“You’re saying Winston can go outside?”
“I’ll keep watch.” Mike touched his pistol. “Looks like you’re about done with the reconstruction.”
I nodded. “I get the hint. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”
The hall was now littered with boxes of books that Robert had hauled down from the attic. A quick glance told me they were his research materials. Good. That would save me several trips to the dump.
The sun had set, and the only light in the studio came from the computer screen, bathing Beth’s face in a cold, blue glow. I checked my watch. Six thirty. “Beth?”
She jumped. “Oh. You startled me. I found out about Hamilton.”
I switched on some lights and took my seat. “The non-Mormon who helped transport the bodies to his hotel after the attack on the jail. Yes?”
“His fourteen-year-old son was in the militia, the youngest member—”
“And could be identified by Willard Richards as one of the killers. Artois Hamilton offered his silence to protect his son.”
“A silence he must have kept until Richards and Taylor left with Brigham Young for Utah,” Beth said. “In return, the church gave Hamilton the keys to the Temple—”
Just then the window cracked and there was a loud boom!
A bullet struck the wall inches from Beth’s head.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
THE FLOOR WAS COLD. WHEN I LOOKED UP, BETH was still sitting in her chair, frozen.
I swiftly crawled to her side. Her body was rigid, eyes wide. I yanked her arm and she toppled sideways, landing next to me with a thump. “Ouch,” she said.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Ah . . .”
“Were you hit?”
“No.”
Racing footsteps crunched the driveway gravel. Pop! Pop!
My heart thundered. I could barely breathe. The studio had windows on three sides.
Another shot, farther away.
My pistol was in the bedroom. “Move!”
I shoved my friend through the door and into the hall. The thick log walls would stop bullets. Aynslee crouched by her bedroom, eyes huge in the dim light. Without saying anything, I opened my arms. She dove into them, shaking. The three of us cowered on the floor between the boxes of books.
Robert joined us, sitting cross-legged against the opposite wall. He reached for Aynslee, but she’d buried her face in my shoulder. No sounds penetrated our hiding place. I sweated through another hot flash. The odor mingled with Beth’s perfume and Robert’s floral aftershave.
Mike. And Winston. They’d been outside.
This was ridiculous. We were crouched like a bunch of feral kittens hiding from a hawk. And this hallway wasn’t going to stay safe. Someone could simply kick in my outside doors. Maybe in the past the Avenging Angels attacked solitary targets, but apparently not anymore. I had to get my pistol.
Robert glared at me, as if this were my fault. In a sense it was, but I didn’t ask for trouble. I’d done nothing wrong. I signaled him to hold Aynslee, then got on my hands and knees.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Robert whispered.
“Take your daughter. All of you stay put.” I sprinted to the bedroom door, twisted the knob, slipped through, and dropped to the floor. Only one window in here. I would put bars over them if we got out of this.
The closed drapes kept me hidden, but also prevented me from seeing what was happening. The oak flooring chilled my hands and knees. Dog hair dusted the rag rug by the bed. The dresser drawer stuck, then squealed in protest. I hefted the pistol, checked the magazine.
Winston barked at the kitchen door.
He’s alive. Mike?
Beth and Robert stared at my handgun, but neither moved to stop me from edging to the kitchen. Twilight slightly illuminated the butter-yellow curtains. Winston scratched and whined outside.
I crouched and raced to the door. The dog panted and whined again.
Thinking about the pulverized drawing cast, I didn’t chamber a bullet or put my finger on the trigger.
Okay. Count of three. Gun ready.
One. Two—I slammed open the door and aimed the gun.
Mike threw up his hands. “Stop! It’s me.”
Winston plowed past me, heading toward the studio.
I lowered the pistol.
Mike slipped inside, swiftly locking the door behind him.
“What, who—”
Mike leaned against the counter. “Is everyone okay?”
Beth entered the room. “That was invigorating.” Her pale face belied her calm words. Aynslee, arms wrapped around her father, stood in the doorway.
“I thought you said the Avenging Angels watched from a distance,” I said. “That bullet almost killed Beth!”
“I’m sorry,” Mike said. “Winston spotted someone and took off after them. I think they were just checking up on you, and Winston surprised them—”
“They were shooting at my dog?” My voice shook.
“Calm down, Gwen,” Mike said. “Backup agents will be arriving soon. No one was hurt. They’ll keep their distance now that they know you have a dog, and that he’s as big as a bear.”
I didn’t want to calm down. I wanted my life back. I wanted to be rid of this whole nutty fringe group and their private war against the Mormon Church. I made an effort to relax my fists. “The reconstruction is finished.” I turned and headed to the studio, not waiting to see if anyone followed.
The creamy-white clay was almost the same color as the death mask, and the resemblance extraordinary. I’d taped the death mask photo below the face.
Mike remained in the darkened doorway while I approached the sculpture. The image faced the window, and I gently rotated it toward Mike until it was fully lit by my overhead work light.
He didn’t move. Only the sharp intake of breath gave away his response. His eyes darted between the photograph and the sculpture. I waited for a comment, but he didn’t speak.
“Well,” I finally said. “Will this work?”
“Astonishing.” He cleared his throat. “I have a glass case to mount it in. Do you need extra clay?”
“I had just enough.”
He remained in the doorway a moment longer, placed a
small, black object on my desk, then left.
I wandered over and picked up the object. It resembled a garage door opener.
Mike returned a few minutes later with a cardboard box and placed it on the windowsill.
“What’s this?” I held up the object.
“Oh. Universal remote. Useful in my job for opening garage doors.”
I put down the remote, crossed to the box, and opened it. Inside I found a square, glassed-in display case.
“I think you can screw the sculpture base into the bottom of the case to hold it securely,” Mike said. “Then put it back in the box.”
I packed the sculpture, now looking like a bloodless disembodied head, and carried it to the kitchen. Beth and Aynslee huddled with Robert at the kitchen table. I placed my work on the counter.
Aynslee jumped to her feet and left the room. Something about her teased at my memory, but I couldn’t grasp what it was.
“Gwen, Beth, and Robert,” Mike said. “We’re going to treat this reconstruction as evidence.” He handed me an envelope. “This is a chain of custody form. Also some evidence tape. Would you fill it out and tape up the box? Beth, Gwen’ll hand the box to you, so you’ll need to sign and date the form. You’ll keep the form with the box, and when you hand it over to the agent in Seattle, be sure she signs and takes the form.” We completed the paperwork.
“Let’s go over my plan.” Mike folded his arms and stared at me. His eyes twitched with a suppressed smile. I looked down at the box, ignoring his bulging arms straining his shirt. When I next looked up, he’d turned to Beth and Robert. “Do you have a garage where we can park the Porsche?”
“Yes.” I didn’t wait for Robert’s response.
“Beth, do you mind driving your Sequoia?” Mike asked.
“Not at all. It’s quite spacious.”
“So then, Robert, Beth, Aynslee, the dog, and the sculpture will leave together. Tonight. Robert, you said you had a motel room in town, so Beth will drop you off and Aynslee will spend the night with Beth.”
“I’ll need to get my research materials home,” Robert said. “And I have an important meeting tomorrow.”
“Can’t you cancel the meeting?” I asked.
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