Ghosts

by Bill Noel

  “Know he was murdered. I don’t think it.” She had raised her voice and was staring at me with her angry gaze that was beginning to come back to me from decades long gone by. Charlene put her arm around her. Joan took a deep breath and then continued.

  “Two months ago, he started getting calls. If I was with him, he would hang up and tell me that it was a wrong number. At first, I thought he was having an affair, but then I heard the other person’s voice once—it was a man.” She laughed without enthusiasm. “And don’t think Daniel was gay. I can assure you that he definitely was not.”

  I hadn’t said anything. Truth be told, I could almost believe that it was the wrong number. “Anything else?” I said.

  “I started seeing a man, and sometimes two, watching me when I went to the grocery store. They looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place them.”

  “Could it have been a coincidence?” I said.

  “I’m talking about a half dozen times,” she said. “Statistical … statistically, that’s way more than coincidence.”

  She abruptly turned to Char. “I hate to ask, but will you pick up the urn in the morning? I don’t think I can handle driving yet.”

  Char agreed “I’ll drop it off on our way out of town.” She then turned to me. “My husband and I have a business obligation in Memphis tomorrow afternoon or I’d stay with Joan.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” said Joan.

  I questioned that but chose not to say anything.

  Joan waved her hand in the air and said, “Daniel had two wishes for when he … when he was gone. He didn’t want a funeral—he wouldn’t tell me why, and I stopped asking long ago. And he wanted to be cremated. I had no problem with that. I want the same …” She began tearing up. “Now who’ll be there to cherry … to carry out my wish? Who?”

  It was rhetorical, and all of us sat silently.

  She took the final sip and stood. “I think I need to go to bed,” she said. “In the morning, I’m taking Daniel … Daniel’s remains … and spreading them where he said he would like to be.”

  I simply nodded. What else could I say?

  She wasn’t done. “Would the three of you come back around ten? I’d like you to go with me.”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want. Don’t you have other friends who you would rather be with—friends of Daniel … friends of yours?”

  She shook her head. “There’s nobody else.”

  So sad, I thought. “We’ll be here,” I said. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Yes,” she replied, her eyes filling with tears. “Find out who killed my husband.”

  CHAPTER 12

  It was snowing harder as we left Joan’s house. I was tense from the long ride and hyper after our strange meeting with Joan. When we reached the hotel, I suggested that the three of us take a walk. Charles thought it was a “decent” idea, and William said he’d go, but he didn’t show any enthusiasm. A couple of inches of the white stuff had fallen since we’d arrived, and Charles, and to a lesser degree William, complained every step of the walk from the hotel past some of the shops lining the main street of Gatlinburg. I reminded Charles that if he had brought anything heavier than sweatshirts, he wouldn’t be freezing. He said that his red Tennessee Temple Crusaders sweatshirt was “just fine, thank you.” He then added a snarl and shook the accumulation of snow off his hat at me. William seemed to enjoy the give-and-take—although I took far more than I gave.

  Charles turned to me as we passed the Pancake Pantry, one of the city’s culinary landmarks. “Chris,” he said as he rubbed his hands together, “did I pester you on the ride back from Joan’s house?” He shook his head as he asked. “On this hundred-mile walk through a raging blizzard, did I ask you about what you and Joan talked about in that monster wine room?” He continued shaking his head. “William, you know the answer is no and no, don’t you?”

  “My friend,” said William, “allow me to refrain from participating. I am simply along for the ride.” He smiled.

  “Hmm,” said Charles. He turned back to me. “Whatever. The point is that you have a passel of information that William needs to know, and all you want to do is walk and tell me that I don’t know how to dress.”

  William needs to know? “Okay, William,” I said, “let me tell you what I learned.”

  I shared what Joan had said about his death and where the accident had taken place. More than anything, I shared my observations about her mental state. I was interrupted approximately seventy-five times by Charles, who wanted to know every detail of the conversation. William’s questions were kinder and gentler. He was concerned about how Joan was and whether I was okay. I told him that Joan was obviously devastated, but that I was fine. A half-truth was better than no truth at all—sort of.

  I badgered Charles to stop in a gift shop on our way back to the hotel and buy something more weather appropriate than his sweatshirt. His shivering body didn’t argue, but he was disappointed when the store didn’t sell college logo wear. He settled for a heavy orange fleece jacket with the image of a black bear on the breast pocket. I had several things bouncing around in my mind, but worrying about Charles freezing to death on my watch was no longer one of them.

  * * *

  Joan had been watching for us through the side glass at her front door, and she stepped out onto the porch before the car came to a stop. She stood erect and wore black slacks and a heavy black cloth coat with fur lining. Her black leather boots were immaculate, and her smile was almost as shiny as her boots. A black leather purse strap draped over her shoulder, and under her right arm, she carried a foot-long rectangular cardboard box with a gold ribbon around the center. It looked nice enough to be a birthday present, but its contents weren’t nearly as festive.

  “I knew you’d be on time,” she said as she opened the passenger door. Charles had moved to the backseat when we stopped. “You always were.”

  “That’s one of his irritating habits,” chimed in Charles.

  Spoken from someone who considers himself late if he’s less than fifteen minutes early, I thought.

  Charles and I once again on our way to a funeral—something that had become too common in the last five years. My gut told me that this was going to be one of the strangest.

  Joan directed us to the park’s entrance and said we were going to Cades Cove, Daniel’s favorite spot. The sun was breaking through puffy white clouds and reflecting off the newly fallen snow. The snow clung to the branches of the countless trees and produced scene after scene for a photographer. I resisted the urge to pull over and grab my camera. Despite the recent snow, the roads had been cleared, and we made good time on the curvy twenty-five-mile drive to the Cades Cove Visitor Center.

  Charles “entertained” us with trivia about the national park. He shared that there were ninety historic structures, more than 130 species of trees, and (the one that got my attention) two bears per square mile. The lesson that I should have learned by now was never to let my friend loose in a hotel that had a well-stocked brochure rack. He needed more trivia like I needed shingles.

  Joan barely spoke. William remained his respectful self and simply uttered “interesting” after each of Charles’s revelations.

  The snow wasn’t as deep as we entered Cades Cove’s eleven-mile-long loop road. Joan asked me to turn left on a small dirt road. The light coating of snow had been undisturbed. We were the first vehicle on the road today.

  About a quarter of a mile down the rutted path, Joan pointed to a postcard-perfect small white church. “That’s the Primitive Baptist Church,” she said. “It was built in the late eighteen hundreds.”

  William said, “I like it. It’s simple and spiritual.”

  Joan shared one of her few smiles of the day. “Yes, it is …” She opened the door as soon as we came to a stop. “There’s a small cemetery in back. Will you join me?�
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  Charles murmured the names he saw on the tomb markers—“Gregory, Oliver, Shields …”

  “This is the oldest church in Cades Cove,” Joan interrupted. “Many of these people were the first white people to settle the area. Like everywhere around here, the Cherokee were here first.” She turned and walked to the back of the small burial ground.

  We gathered outside the rear marker of the graveyard. Joan motioned for us to come closer together. “Daniel and I used to come to Cades Cove four times a year. We tried to make it each season,” she said slowly. “We stopped here often.” She waved toward the church. “He found it so peaceful; the last two trips he said that this is where he wanted to spend eternity.” She sniffled. “I didn’t think it would be … so soon.”

  We were silent a couple of minutes, and then she continued. “He actually called the park service to see if it was okay to have his ashes spread here. She grinned and nodded. “The ranger said he didn’t know if it was legal, but that he had more to worry about than ashes in a cemetery.”

  Her smile faded. She gazed at the ground and then at us. “Could we have a moment of silent prayer?” she asked, barely audible. We stood in a semicircle, and she put her arm around my waist. Charles and William moved closer until we touched shoulders.

  My head was bowed. Not a sound was heard. Until …

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me …” William’s wonderful soothing bass voice began singing the poignant hymn.

  I was stunned. Tears filled my eyes. I had never heard William sing—never knew that he could. The idyllic snow-covered cove and the three of us were being treated to a voice that was usually reserved for the finer opera stages of the world. All living creatures within a couple of hundred yards surely stopped to listen to a melody, lyrics, and a voice inspired by the angels.

  “… was blind, but now I see.”

  Then silence. I was torn between applauding, hugging William, and crying like a baby. But then Joan caught my eye. She had untied the ribbon on the box earlier and held the urn close to her heart during William’s awe-inspiring rendition, and now she was carefully shaking the gray gristly and powdery contents in front of her.

  She watched as each particle settled on the light covering of snow. Studying her side-lit face, I realized that at that moment, she appeared exactly as I remembered her from the first time I saw her in Mr. Crosby’s tenth-grade math class. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I brushed them away before they froze.

  Joan then slowly walked toward the woods behind the cemetery. Charles started to follow, but William held out his arm and stopped him. The three of us remained beside Daniel’s ashes. Clouds began to cover the sunny sky, and the temperature seemed to drop.

  Joan returned from her slow-paced solace, carefully stepping in the footprints she had created when she walked away.

  “Could we continue around the rest of the Cove loop?” she asked as we piled back in the car.

  I said of course, and we fell in behind three vehicles for the slow drive through the beautiful, open countryside. She pointed out several historic sites along the way and shared that Cades Cove was once known as Kate’s Cove, named after an Indian chief’s wife. Charles listened intently to her every utterance, and I knew that at some point, he would be spouting this information back to someone.

  Two white-tailed deer bounded in front of the car and stopped in the meadow fewer than thirty feet from the road. They turned and looked at us. I thought I actually saw one of them smile, but I’m sure I imagined it.

  We left Cades Cove and headed toward Gatlinburg. “Chris,” said Joan, “could I ask another big favor?”

  I nodded and then realized that she was staring out the side window, so I said, “Sure.”

  “I’d like to see where he was murdered.”

  We had spread the ashes of her husband moments earlier and now this. I glanced at her. “Are you sure?”

  “I think so,” she said. “We could stop at the visitor center and get something to eat and head to the mountain.”

  She and I sat in silence for the next half hour while Charles quizzed William about where he had learned to sing and why he wasn’t rich and famous. Apparently, William had spent several of his younger years in a church choir. I was surprised when he said he had five major roles in college musicals but didn’t pursue it because he was uncomfortable performing in front of an audience.

  The parking lot at the single-story stone and glass Sugarlands Visitor Center was nearly empty when we pulled in. We raided the vending machines—the only food available. We three guys would be satisfied with chips and cookies, but I was worried that Joan would be above such a mundane meal. But she got excited when she saw Cheetos in the machine. Money hadn’t totally spoiled her.

  “Kevin and a park ranger knocked on the door three hours after Daniel left for the casino,” said Joan. She had been silently eating Cheetos after telling me which way to turn after we left the visitor center.

  “Kevin?” asked Charles from the backseat.

  She turned in his direction. “Officer Norton,” she said, “Kevin Norton. He’s with the Gatlinburg Police Department and is a friend from church.” She turned back toward the window. “It was kind of him to come with the ranger—Kevin’s nice like that. He said he was relieved when I answered the door. He was afraid I’d been in the car with Daniel. Everyone knew we went to the casino each week.”

  A thick layer of ominous gray clouds began to fill the sky, and the snow was deeper along the side as we climbed Newfound Gap Road. The beauty of the scenery was muted by the sadness in Joan’s voice.

  “Kevin’s expression went from relief to stoic when he saw me. The park ranger told me what happened—he put as much emotion in it as he would reading the phone book. He told me right on the front porch. My legs gave out, and Kevin caught me. They kept saying that it was a terrible accident—a terrible accident.”

  I had no idea how much farther we had to go. The Little Pigeon River was to our left, and the distance from the two-lane road to the nearly vertical drop narrowed to only a few feet in spots. Snow was piled a foot deep on the sides, but the highway crews had done a good job of keeping the driving surface clear. I didn’t want to interrupt her grief but had to ask.

  She shook her head and focused out the front window. “We should be close. They said it was just before the side road to Clingmans Dome. That’s up ahead.”

  The road took a sharp left, and then we entered a long, straight stretch. Yellow caution signs with an arrow indicating a sharp right turn were generously spaced ahead of the next bend. I slowed and carefully rounded the curve. There were deep ruts in the packed snow along the berm directly where the road twisted right. Two young pine trees were sheared off about a foot from the ground, and tire tracks disappeared over the side. It didn’t take a reconstruction specialist to know that this was where Daniel’s life had ended.

  A motor home closed quickly on my rear bumper, so I couldn’t stop at the tragic spot. I continued for a half mile to where the road widened enough to make a U-turn. I slowly drove past the broken pines and edged into a scenic pullover. I stopped fewer than fifty feet from where the car had gone over the edge. My two right tires cut into the snow, but I was able to park safely off to the side. The snow was deep against the passenger side of the car, and we had to exit from my side. Joan gracefully navigated over the center console as if it were an everyday occurrence.

  “They told me he must not have seen the curve and drove over the side of the mountain,” said Joan.

  We were about six feet off the road and looking down the hill where the Mercedes had vaulted to a fiery end. It had snowed since the wreck, but we could see the path the heavy luxury car had taken. There were several blackened trees and burnt shrubs at the bottom of the hill.

  “That’s possible, isn’t it?” asked William.

 
She glared at my friend. “Daniel has driven this road more than two hundred times.” She pointed in the direction of Gatlinburg. “There are five big yellow signs warning about the curve.” She turned back toward the spot where the car left the road. “That is where my husband was murdered,” she said clearly, emphatically enunciating each word.

  I thought the same thing that William had made the mistake of verbalizing but knew it wasn’t the time to say anything. Besides, what good would it do?

  Several cars passed us while we were checking out the scene. Two of them were traveling too fast for the curve. We moved farther off the roadway and precariously close to the drop-off. I finally suggested that we head back to the safety of the car. Joan nodded, and the rest of us cautiously inched our way back.

  We hardly spoke a word on the drive to town.

  We pulled into her circular drive. “Chris, do you think you could take me to supper tonight?” she asked.

  As was his habit, Charles blurted out an answer before I could say anything. “Sure he could. What time do you want him here? I’ll make sure he’s not late.”

  She laughed—the first real laugh since we had arrived. Either Charles had stumbled onto the right thing to say, or he was a well-trained psychologist hidden inside a rough, quirky shell.

  We agreed on a time and waved as she entered her log mansion.

  CHAPTER 13

  Joan and I sat at a table on the heated side of a large picture window that overlooked a narrow river. A bottle of Kendall Jackson Merlot was on the table between us. We shared the native log and stone dining room with three couples and a table of four in the far corner. Joan had recommended the Peddler Steak House. I told her that if it didn’t have golden arches, I was in. She tried to smile and fell short. I hurt for her.

  She had exchanged her black mourning clothes for a light gray cashmere turtleneck sweater and dark gray wool slacks. Her short black leather jacket was draped on a nearby chair.