For the next five minutes we watched the Tucker brothers trade off as they buried the manual posthole digger deeper into the ground with each thrust. It ranked up there with watching PJ give haircuts.
Then a muffled clank rose from the hole as the blades bit into something harder than earth. Barney lifted up the dirt and when he dumped it to the side, we saw shards of pottery mixed with the soil.
“What’s that?” Archie asked.
I saw Melissa’s eyebrows arch as she studied the pieces.
Barney lifted the digger higher. “Probably some ol’ jug.” He brought the tool down like he was smashing through granite.
Another crunch. He extracted the digger and opened its jaws. More shards of pottery.
And I saw something else. Pieces of bones. What looked like human bones.
Barney stared at me, his grizzled face pale as chalk. “Oh, man. Not again.”
Melissa’s camera whirred like a machine gun.
Chapter Two
Melissa Bigham’s photograph made the front page of the Gainesboro Vista the next day, but neither the mayor nor a severed ribbon were in the shot. Above the close-up of pottery shards and bone fragments read the headline, “New Cemetery on Cherokee Burial Ground?” At press time, no one knew the answer to that question.
To the horror of Archie, Luther, and His Honor, I’d cleared everyone away from the posthole, first concerned we had unearthed a crime scene. Melissa said the pottery showed Cherokee markings, and Mayor Whitlock jumped in, claiming the bones were only from an old Indian.
Melissa smiled as she scribbled because she knew what was coming next.
I agreed with the mayor and so did the government of North Carolina. I told everyone all construction and development would stop immediately. State law required notification of archaeologists and tribal representatives to insure any remains were dealt with respectfully and thoroughly. I had no idea how long the process would take, but I was obliged to enforce the legal statutes. My quotes, along with the mayor’s, appeared accurately in Melissa’s front page article, an article Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins reviewed again as we sat in his office the following morning. I watched his face closely. His good right eye scanned quickly down the page. A black patch covered the left, intersected by a curving scar that ran underneath it and across his cheek to his chin. Tommy Lee’s heroism in Vietnam had come at a cost, but a cost I knew he would pay again for the safety of his men.
He tossed the paper aside. “Statute Seventy, Article Three.”
“What?”
“It’s what you should have said if you really wanted to look smart. The law contains the specific procedures for when human bones are accidentally discovered.”
“Should I have done something differently?” The sheriff’s approval was important to me.
Tommy Lee laughed. “No. When you called it in, I set everything in motion.”
“Why didn’t you bring me in?”
“Because you had the afternoon off. Thanks to me.”
“And the mayor. Why’d you let him talk you into changing my schedule?”
Tommy Lee stood and refilled his cup from the Mr. Coffee in the corner of his office. “And if you hadn’t been up there?” He let the question hang.
“How’d you know there’d be trouble?”
“Come on, Barry. Archie and the mayor in a scheme together? I didn’t know what would happen, but I sure as hell figured some fallout would wind up in this office.”
I couldn’t argue. “Where do things stand now?”
Tommy Lee sat on the corner of his desk and looked down at me. “The bureaucratic machinery has started. I notified Mack Collins. He’s on the state senate’s committee for Indian affairs.” He paused and took a sip of coffee. “And that’s a good thing because there’s nothing I can do to circumvent the process and I can tell the mayor to whine to Mack.”
“Are we out of it?”
Tommy Lee shook his head. “No. After Reece took statements at the scene, I sent Wakefield up for overnight security. We’re responsible for making sure the scene is protected.”
Reece Hutchins was one of Tommy Lee’s more experienced deputies. He took his work seriously, second only to how seriously he took himself. He resented my part-time role with the department and my close relationship with Tommy Lee. Before my father’s Alzheimer’s forced my return to Gainesboro to run our family’s funeral home, I’d served three years with the Charlotte Police Department and loved to hang out with the detectives. Tommy Lee considered me his best investigator, a position Reece coveted but for which he had no aptitude.
Tommy Lee set his cup on the desk beside him and crossed his arms over his chest. “Even though you speculated the bones were Cherokee, and the mayor, God bless his greedy little heart, unwittingly gave his endorsement of respecting Native American remains, we still have yet to rule out foul play. I’m meeting the ME from Buncombe County at nine.”
Laurel County, the sheriff’s jurisdiction, was too small for anything but a coroner. I looked at my watch. Eight fifteen. “I’ll be surprised if they’re not relics.”
“Me too. But he has to sign off. Then an archaeologist comes from the state and if he or she says they’re Cherokee, the executive director of the North Carolina Commission on Indian Affairs is notified.”
“What kind of say do the cemetery owners have?”
“They can either agree to protect them, or request they be removed.”
An image of Archie Donovan replacing the bronze Heaven’s Gate Gardens plaque with one reading Happy Hunting Grounds flashed through my mind. “They’ll do whatever they think will make the most money. Is their request for removal of the remains only that, a request, or is it an unchallengeable demand?”
“That’s the potential problem. Usually if it’s a development project, the owners and state archaeologist confer as to whether there are prudent steps the owner can take to preserve the burials.”
“What’s more prudent than leaving a burial in a cemetery?”
The somber expression on Tommy Lee’s face transformed to a wide grin. “Which is why our illustrious mayor and his partners should be as cooperative as they can be. The ME rules out homicide, the remains do just that—remain, and the cemetery designates the spot as an existing grave.”
“How do the Cherokee fit in?”
“If the archaeologist confirms the remains are Cherokee, then the Commission of Indian Affairs notifies tribal leaders and the Commission and tribe work together to insure the remains are treated respectfully.”
All the steps sounded logical and orderly. And if something was logical and orderly, I was confident Archie and the mayor would screw it up.
***
Tommy Lee asked me to join him for his meeting with the medical examiner. We found Deputy Wakefield with his patrol car parked across the new entrance to Heaven’s Gate Gardens South. He wasn’t alone. Three other vehicles were lined up single file, as if waiting for the deputy to pull aside so they could enter.
“Oh, boy,” Tommy Lee muttered. “Curly, Moe, and Larry are already here.”
The sight of Archie’s BMW told me Tommy Lee wasn’t comparing the ME to the Three Stooges. Archie, Mayor Sammy Whitlock, and Luther Cransford had all driven up to protect their investment. They clustered around Wakefield and turned to face us as Tommy Lee pulled onto the shoulder of the gravel road, clearly giving room for our unwanted friends to exit.
The cemetery investors came hustling to meet us, Luther in the lead followed by Archie and then the huffing-and-puffing mayor.
“How much longer is this nonsense going to go on, Tommy Lee?” Luther stepped close to the sheriff, an effort to use his height as a physical intimidation.
Instead of backing up, Tommy Lee leaned in and rose on his toes, putting his face inches away from the bigger man. “If you mean by nonsense that you’re
trying to tell my department or the state of North Carolina how to do our jobs, then this nonsense could go on quite a while, and this so-called gate to heaven could be closed till Gabriel blows his trumpet, for all I care.”
Luther couldn’t take staring into Tommy Lee’s scarred face and eye patch. He blinked and retreated. “We’re just frustrated. I mean we got the Tucker brothers to deal with.” He glanced at the backhoe still parked on the cleared slope. “And we got interest in the plots already. Nobody knows when they’re going to die.” He turned to me. “How long can we keep somebody in your refrigerator?”
The image of bodies stacked with “sell-by” dates left me speechless. I was saved from concocting a suitable response by the crunch of gravel as a black Land Rover pulled behind Tommy Lee’s patrol car. Close on its bumper came the Buncombe County mobile crime lab.
Tommy Lee shouted instructions to the arriving team. “Hold up. We’ll clear these cars so you can get closer.” He turned to the hapless trio. “OK. Either move your vehicles to the shoulder below the crime lab or park over the hill at the original cemetery.”
“We can stay?” Archie asked.
“Yes. As long as you stand where I tell you and don’t interfere.”
The three men scurried to their cars.
Deputy Wakefield laughed. He was a long, lean man in his forties, quiet and competent, but not particularly ambitious. “They were up here at the crack of dawn. I think if I hadn’t been on site, they would have pulled some stunt. God only knows what.”
“Probably planning to substitute chicken bones and the remnants of a picnic basket,” Tommy Lee said. “Or something equally hare brained.”
“What’s this about chicken bones?”
We turned to face a small man wearing jeans and a blue flannel shirt. A neatly trimmed gray goatee framed a welcoming smile.
“If you expect me to know the difference between chicken and turkey bones, then I brought the wrong equipment.” He lifted a black bag in his left hand and extended his right to Tommy Lee.
“Good morning, Howard.” The sheriff grasped the offered hand in a firm grip. “Nice of you to make the trek to our humble county. These are two of my best deputies, Barry Clayton and Steve Wakefield.” Tommy Lee gestured to the diminutive man. “This is Howard Tuppler. He’s forgotten more about autopsies than the big-city boys will ever know.”
“Simply a product of growing old,” Tuppler said. “Well, what have you got for me today that your coroner couldn’t handle?”
“More a case of history than mystery,” Tommy Lee said. “We’re pretty sure it’s an Indian burial.”
“Then I’ll keep the lab men back till I’ve made a preliminary exam.” He held up a hand to two techs standing by the mobile crime lab, signaling them to wait. “OK. Lead on, Kemosabe.”
Tommy Lee gave instructions to Wakefield to stay with Archie, Luther, and the mayor at the newly constructed gate. That would put them close enough to observe without being in the way.
I followed Tommy Lee and Tuppler to the spot where the post-hole digger unearthed the bones.
Tuppler didn’t bother to bend down for a closer look. “Cherokee. No doubt about it.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“The pottery. The blackened coloration is indicative of the way the Cherokee fired their clay.” He surveyed the round curve of the cleared ridge. “Beautiful spot.” He rolled on latex gloves and knelt beside the relics. “Yes, a beautiful spot. I wager our friend here isn’t the only resident.”
“There’s more of ’em?” Mayor Whitlock wailed the question from behind Wakefield’s outstretched arm. Luther and Archie peered over the deputy’s shoulder.
“That’s my guess,” the ME said. “The state archaeologist will give a more accurate assessment, but if I were you, I’d plan on selling these plots as pre-owned.”
“What’s the next step?” Tommy Lee asked.
“The archaeologist should be here within a few days. Maybe even sooner. Once he makes the official determination of their origin, then the state, the tribal representatives, and the property owners will have a powwow.”
The sound of a damaged muffler roared up the hillside. Tuppler got to his feet as we watched a battered pickup brake to a sudden halt behind Wakefield’s patrol car.
The driver’s door flew open and a man jumped out. He wore faded jeans, a yellow tee shirt with the words Preserve the Qualla Boundary printed in red on the front, and a checked blue bandanna tied across his forehead. Black stubble of a buzz cut sprouted above it. He jogged toward us.
A man and a woman emerged from the passenger door. Both wore jeans, with the second man in an untucked green flannel shirt and the woman in a loose-fitting, rust tunic. Her hair hung in two long braids. His was covered by a John Deere cap. They approached slowly, eyeing their companion more than watching us.
Wakefield raised his hand. “Hold up.”
“What’s going on?” the driver demanded.
“A lawful investigation.”
The man grunted. “We’ll see. Who’s in charge?”
“I am.” Tommy Lee walked toward the gate. “Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins.”
Archie, Luther, and the mayor stepped aside.
“And you are?” Tommy Lee asked.
“Jimmy Panther.”
His two companions stopped behind him, one at each shoulder.
“You’re from the tribal council?”
Jimmy Panther crossed his arms and stared at Tommy Lee. “We represent preservation, not termination.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Take it how ever you want.” Panther looked beyond the sheriff to Tuppler. “Who’s he?”
“The medical examiner. He’s determined we’re dealing with Cherokee remains. We’re notifying the state archaeologist.”
Panther dropped his hands to his side and started forward.
Tommy Lee blocked his path. “Sorry. We’re protecting the site.”
“I’m Cherokee.”
“But not an authorized tribal representative.”
Jimmy Panther took a deep breath. He scanned the hillside. “This is sacred ground. Remember that.”
He pivoted and jogged back to his pickup, leaving his passengers to chase after him.
The truck backfired once and rattled down the mountain.
Mayor Whitlock edged closer to the sheriff. “What do you think, Tommy Lee? Is that Indian going to make trouble?”
“Hard to say. There are people who make trouble, and there are people who are trouble.”
“He sure got here fast,” Luther said. “Must have driven from the reservation as soon as he saw the morning paper.”
Archie Donovan looked at me with wide eyes. “He said this was sacred ground, Barry. I hope we haven’t let loose some curse.”
Luther kicked the ground in frustration. “God damn it, Archie. You spread that foolishness around town and we’ll be lucky if we sell someone a plot to bury their dog. Indian curse, my ass. I’ve got too much money tied up in your expansion scheme to let a pile of old bones get in the way.”
***
That afternoon our funeral home got the call. Luther Cransford’s wife had dropped dead.
Chapter Three
“And he found her facedown in a bowl of Cool Whip.” Archie Donovan described the bizarre scene as if he’d been an eyewitness, and then he glanced around Mom’s kitchen like she might have an identical deathtrap on the counter.
“You sure it wasn’t whipped cream?” my uncle Wayne asked. “Eurleen looks like she chowed down the real stuff.”
“Wayne, don’t talk nonsense,” Mom said. “She was probably icing a sponge cake.”
“Maybe. One she was going to eat single-handedly. Connie, last night it took four of us to get her onto the embalming table.”
; “I won’t hear it. The poor woman’s dead.” Mom rose from her chair. “Archie, would you like more coffee?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Clayton. I’m jittery enough. Who knows where the curse will strike next.”
The four of us, Mom, Uncle Wayne, Archie, and I were in the kitchen of the funeral home the day after Luther Cransford walked into his house and found his wife dead at their kitchen table. At eight o’clock in the morning, Archie had stopped by unannounced, anxious for any assurance that he wasn’t facing imminent doom.
“Eurleen had nothing to do with those remains,” I said. “If there’s a curse, why her?”
Archie made his case to my uncle. “Don’t you see, Wayne? Who’s the one person the curse could kill and hurt both Luther and the mayor?”
“The woman who was Luther’s wife and the mayor’s sister,” Wayne said, actually giving Archie’s theory serious consideration.
“Come on. That’s ridiculous.” I pointed at my uncle. “You just said Eurleen was overweight. She was in her sixties with heart and blood pressure issues. Susan said she was the poster child for a coronary.”
My uncle cocked his head and eyed me with undisguised skepticism. “But at the same time this Cherokee proclaims a curse?”
“He didn’t proclaim a curse. He urged us to respect the dead. You of all people should appreciate that.”
Uncle Wayne straightened in his chair. He was tall and lanky, a distinct contrast to his sister, my mother, who struggled to keep weight off her short frame. The one trait they did share was their curly, cotton-white hair.
My uncle ran his gnarled fingers through his thick locks. “My point exactly. Digging up those remains might bring a curse from the dead, not the living. Imagine a bunch of Indians planting a post through your father’s grave.”
“Wayne! That’s enough.” My mother turned from the counter, her eyes welling with tears. “Jack would never kill anybody.”
My uncle took a deep breath. He knew he’d crossed a line. Although my father had died from complications of Alzheimer’s more than a year ago, his loss was still raw.
Risky Undertaking Page 2
