A Murder In Passing

by Mark de Castrique

  Jason’s mouth dropped open. He stared at the alien fingers digging into my skin. Confusion swept over his face and then amazement as he marveled at the precise manipulation he’d unconsciously made. He looked like a kid whose basketball shot just swished through the net from half court. Hell, he was a kid, barely in his twenties.

  “Sorry.” He released his grip, but he wasn’t sorry. Suddenly, he was alive.

  I shrugged. “No problem. For three weeks, I kept kicking people because I didn’t know where my new leg ended.”

  “And now you chase down bad guys.”

  “Maybe, if they’re eighty-years-old and on a walker.” I rapped his prosthetic hand with my knuckles. “Look, this device isn’t ever going to be as good as your own flesh and blood. If you make that the standard, you’re going to go through life bemoaning what you can’t do instead of pushing yourself for what you can. I know. I’ve been at that crossroads and I came close to taking the path to self-pity.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because a woman without an arm yanked my chain.” I didn’t tell him the woman was Marine veteran Tikima Robertson, Nakayla’s sister, and that her interest in me was part of the actions that led to her murder. “She bluntly told me to get off my ass and on with life.”

  Jason nodded. He studied the curve of his prosthetic fingers. “I’ll never be able to shoot again.”

  “Yeah, and you’ll probably never be able to salute without knocking yourself in the head.”

  He straightened his mechanical fingers, brought his hand just above his eyebrow in one smooth movement, and shouted, “Yes, sir!”

  A smattering of applause broke out from adjacent tables. Evidently, our exchange had drawn an audience.

  Jason held the salute but he couldn’t hold back the broad grin.

  ***

  A victory is a victory, whether solving a case or helping a young soldier through a crisis of hopelessness. So, my encounter with Jason Fretwell did as much for me as for him.

  I entered the offices of Blackman and Robertson light of heart and ready to impress our potential client with my deductive skills. Maybe I’d solve the case from an armchair in our conference room, besting Sherlock Holmes and even his smarter brother Mycroft.

  “Good morning, my love.” I stepped across the threshold into a room not unlike Mycroft Holmes’ Diogenes gentlemen’s club. An Oriental rug covered most of the hardwood floor. Two brown leather armchairs sat opposite a matching sofa. We’d designed the decor to project the air of stability and trust. Like we’d been in business over a hundred years. At least that’s what I told Nakayla. Actually, I pushed for the purchase because we could get the furniture for a huge discount off the showroom floor and the sofa was long and comfortable enough for me to lie down and nap.

  The conference room was the first area a visitor entered. A door to the left led to my office, a door to the right went to Nakayla’s. I found her at her computer, staring at an online newspaper.

  “I said, ‘Good morning, my love.’”

  She swiveled her chair to face me. “You have to be more specific as to who you are. So many men love me I didn’t know what to say.”

  “How about ‘Sorry, I’m taken.’”

  “Okay. As long as I’m not taken for granted.”

  “Never.” I leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  She kissed me back, and then looked at me quizzically. “No alcohol on your breath. I would have sworn you and the boys had been passing a bottle.”

  “I’m drunk on life.”

  “So that’s why you fell on your face Saturday.”

  “Way to rain on a guy’s parade.”

  She laughed. “The rain was going to fall sooner or later.” She gestured to her computer monitor. “I forwarded you the updated stories about Mr. Bones that ran in this morning’s Asheville and Hendersonville newspapers.”

  Sunday’s papers only reported that a human skeleton had been found on the North Carolina–South Carolina border, probably because newspaper staffs on Saturday and Sunday were skeletal themselves. Even the Internet had been quiet last night as the law enforcement agencies from the two states must have agreed to limit details so early in the investigation.

  “Has Mr. Bones got a name?”

  “Not yet. The remains are staying in Greenville, South Carolina. That county’s population is about four times the size of Henderson County and they have more lab resources.”

  “They’ll probably keep the case unless circumstances bring the investigation back across the state line.”

  “You made the papers.”

  “I did?” Suddenly I was more interested in the journalistic quality of the reporting. “No one ever called me.”

  “That’s because the person who locked up Friday forgot to forward the phones. There are five messages on the machine from reporters wanting to talk with you.”

  “Oh.” Of course, I was the person who neglected to forward the phones. I waited for Nakayla to rub my nose in it, but she gave me a pass.

  “Actually good publicity,” she said. “Both articles describe you as Asheville’s most famous detective. They make it sound like you went looking for the body.”

  “Who am I to argue with the press?”

  “Who are you to argue with anybody? Just go read your clippings. The mysterious Marsha Montgomery will be here in less than thirty minutes.”

  I did as I was told and closed the door to my office. Not that I had a need for privacy but because my office was always a mess and we shielded it from a client’s curious eyes.

  I rolled my chair away from the cluttered desk to the side credenza where I kept my computer. I’d forgotten to turn that off as well and the screen glowed to life as soon as I moved the mouse.

  I first followed Nakayla’s link to the Asheville newspaper story. It was in the regional section and simply stated that skeletal remains of an unidentified man had been discovered in the woods near Tuxedo on the North Carolina–South Carolina border. The report said the preliminary forensic analysis conducted in Greenville, South Carolina, determined the deceased had been an adult male who may have died between twenty and forty years ago. No law enforcement authorities were quoted.

  The article touted me as the man who found the remains. I was described as one of the top private investigators in the state with a reference to the successful solution of the high-profile murders of Tikima Robertson and Asheville police detective Roy Peters, the case that brought Nakayla and me together. The reporter speculated I might have uncovered the remains as part of an investigation, but that I had been unavailable for comment. Just as well, I thought, since it saved me detailing the headfirst plunge into the rotten log.

  The article in the Hendersonville Times-News landed on the front page below the fold and offered more details. Deputy Overcash was quoted saying, “The investigation will be jointly conducted by the Henderson County and Greenville County Sheriff Departments, given the skeletal remains were found within a few feet of what might be an inaccurate marking of the state boundary. We are particularly concerned if the deceased turns out to have been a Henderson County resident.” To my relief the deputy downplayed my role saying, “Mr. Blackman happened upon the remains while on an outing with the Blue Ridge Mushroom Club. The discovery was accidental and Mr. Blackman isn’t involved in the investigation.”

  However, despite Overcash’s accurate statement, the newspaper article went on to give a one-paragraph profile of me, highlighting the case Nakayla and I solved the previous year that was triggered by a death on the mountain behind the historic farm of poet Carl Sandburg. I was again lauded, this time as one of the top private detectives in the South, a statement Nakayla saw as good publicity and Deputy Overcash probably saw as an incentive to run me over with his patrol car.

  Both the Hendersonville and Asheville stories had one glaring omi
ssion: neither mentioned the discovery of the slug. That wasn’t bad reporting, it was withheld information. I understood the play. Why tip someone off that the police were looking at a homicide?

  At the scene, Nakayla and I had been advised by one of the Greenville deputies not to give any details to the press, but no one had specifically mentioned the bullet. I suspected the decision to leave the nature of the investigation vague had been made at a higher level than Deputy Overcash and his counterparts from South Carolina. ID the remains first and then look for suspects and motives before the public, and thereby the guilty, realizes the case is a full-blown murder case. That’s the way I’d have played it.

  A single rap sounded on my door. I clicked out of the article. “Be right there.”

  “Keep your seat.” The door swung open and Hewitt Donaldson entered. He held his ever-present mug of coffee in one hand and a curled newspaper in the other. “I just came to bask in the glow of the best detective in the friggin’ galaxy.”

  Hewitt was Asheville’s top defense attorney and his offices were next door. In his sixties and a product of the Sixties, the former hippie-turned-Perry Mason relished any case that went up against the system. He’d championed so many underdogs he could have started a kennel club.

  “You’re the one to talk about glow. You’re hurting my eyes.”

  Hewitt’s orange and red flowered Hawaiian shirt looked like it was powered by a nuclear generator. I was surprised he wasn’t followed by a swarm of honeybees.

  “You can borrow it. I hear mushrooms grow in the dark. With this shirt, none of them will be safe from your amazing detecting skills.”

  “Can it, Hewitt. If you must know, I tripped and found the skeleton by accident.”

  He looked at his newspaper. “So, the story’s correct? I thought surely the mushroom gig was a cover to get you on the property.”

  “Nope. The galaxy’s greatest detective is also the galaxy’s greatest klutz.”

  “That’s much more believable.” He took a sip of coffee, clearly relieved the world order had been re-established. “Still, your fungi knowledge could come in handy. I have this case of athlete’s foot needs investigating.”

  “As often as your foot lands in your mouth, it’s probably spread to your tongue.”

  Hewitt laughed, and I knew for once I got the best of him.

  A knock sounded, not from my door but the one to the hall. Hewitt turned around and stepped to the side. I saw the door open slowly, and a pretty African-American woman stepped inside. She stopped at the sight of Hewitt. Maybe she thought she was interrupting a luau.

  “Mr. Blackman?” She spoke my name like an affirmative answer would be her worst nightmare.

  I expected Hewitt to make some sarcastic remark at my expense, but he either respected we had a possible client or sensed the woman’s timidity.

  I stood. “I’m Sam Blackman. Please come in.”

  The woman hesitated, and then Nakayla appeared in her doorway.

  “Ms. Montgomery?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Nakayla Robertson. We spoke on the phone.”

  The woman smiled. She appeared to be at least fifteen or twenty years older than Nakayla. Probably around forty-five. Her skin was a shade lighter and she wore her hair cropped closer to her head. She was taller, and as she walked forward, she carried herself with an ease of movement that reminded me of a dancer. She wore a smartly tailored, dark blue business suit that identified her as someone who took pride in a professional appearance.

  She and Nakayla shook hands.

  Hewitt stepped forward. “I’m Hewitt Donaldson. I was just leaving.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “You’re the lawyer?”

  “I’m a lawyer. And my office is right next door.” He left, closing the door behind him.

  Nakayla gestured for Marsha Montgomery to take a seat. “Would you like coffee or some water?”

  “No, thank you.” She crossed the room and chose the leather chair on the right.

  I took the matching one to the left, and Nakayla sat on the end of the sofa closest to our potential client. Neither one of us pulled out a notepad. At this point, we were simply having a conversation. I waited for Nakayla to take the lead.

  “You said this was about a burglary.”

  Marsha Montgomery nodded.

  “Have you notified the police?”

  “They were notified.”

  I caught that Ms. Montgomery didn’t specify she had notified the police. My partner was also as attentive.

  “Who notified them?” Nakayla asked.

  “My mother. Lucille Montgomery.”

  “Was she the one who was burglarized?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “At the Golden Oaks Retirement Center.”

  Nakayla flashed me a quick look. We were both familiar with the site and knew some of the residents. “That’s a surprise. The security there is excellent.”

  “It didn’t happen there. It happened in her home.”

  “So she still owns her home?”

  Marsha Montgomery shook her head. “No. I live there now.”

  “You were burglarized?” Nakayla asked.

  “No.” She looked at me and then back to Nakayla. “My mother was the victim.”

  Again, Nakayla zeroed in on the question I wanted to ask.

  “When did this happen?”

  “In 1967.”

  “1967?” I blurted out the year, unable to contain my frustration at the prospect of a case with zero chance of a solution.

  “I know,” she admitted. “It was a long time ago. But it was the summer, if that’s helpful.”

  “The summer,” I repeated. “What did they steal? Bathing suits?”

  “A photograph, Mr. Blackman.” The ice in her voice was as cold as the glare Nakayla gave me. “A photograph I’ve just learned might be very valuable.”

  “Okay.” I ratcheted down my exasperation. “That’s helpful. Do you have a way to prove ownership?”

  “I do. You see my mother is in it. The photograph was taken at the Kingdom of the Happy Land. Ever heard of it?”

  I looked at Nakayla. Our world had just taken a very interesting turn.

  Chapter Four

  Nakayla leaned forward on the sofa. “Ms. Montgomery, didn’t the Kingdom of the Happy Land disappear over a hundred years ago?”

  “Please call me Marsha. And yes, it did. Then the property was sold for back taxes in the mid-teens.”

  “Then how old is your mother?”

  “She’s eighty-five. She never lived in the Kingdom. That’s just where the picture was taken.”

  “The one that was stolen?” I asked.

  “Yes. I know it sounds complicated, but it’s really not.”

  “Maybe you’d better take us back to the beginning,” Nakayla said. “Assume we know nothing about the Kingdom.”

  Marsha Montgomery nodded. “All right, but my knowledge is limited to what my mother knows. She said her mother’s mother, my great grandmother was born on the Kingdom sometime in the eighteen-seventies. There weren’t any real records kept so we’re talking oral tradition. My mother says the Kingdom was founded by a former slave owner from Mississippi a few years after the Civil War.”

  “Slave owner?” Nakayla asked. “I thought they were freed slaves.”

  “They were. Led by their former master, the first king. My mother says he was the son of a white plantation owner and young slave woman. The plantation owner freed the woman before the birth and the mulatto child was born as his acknowledged progeny. The boy was educated and given his own farm and slaves.” She looked at Nakayla and shook her head. “Seems strange he would own his own people.”

  “Sounds like he didn’t abandon them,” Nakayla
said.

  “No. At the end of the war, Mississippi was in ruins. The plantation house and land had been razed. He gathered the now freed but destitute slaves together and they set off for greener pastures. They trekked across Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina till they came to the wall of mountains.”

  “Moses leading the children of Israel through the wilderness,” I said.

  “Definitely. They were searching for the Promised Land. In this case, the Happy Land. And they found it when they met the widow of Confederate Colonel John Davis. Her plantation, Oakland, was on the North Carolina–South Carolina border. In exchange for housing and food, the king and his band of freed slaves farmed the land. They also earned money doing work for neighbors. Everything was given to the king to hold in common. He purchased mountain land from Mrs. Davis and the commune members began building cabins. More freed slaves joined the group and an itinerant preacher traveled through South Carolina encouraging others to migrate.”

  “How many people are you talking about?” Nakayla asked.

  “No one knows for sure. Estimates for that first group range from fifty to two hundred. My grandmother says the wanderers attracted more during the journey. The free men and women were no longer slaves to the masters, now they were slaves to abject poverty. The king promised a fresh start for all who joined him.”

  “Why did the Kingdom disappear?” I asked. “Did the king die without an heir?”

  “My mother was told the first king died not too many years after arriving. A natural leader had joined the group whom everyone turned to. Robert Montgomery.”

  “You’re his descendant?” Nakayla asked.

  “Not blood kin. But babies were named for him. My great grandmother Loretta was born during his reign.”

  Her comment sounded so strange. His reign. Like we were sitting in some castle in England discussing the royal lineage of Queen Elizabeth.

  “That’s why there’s a lot of Montgomery folk in these parts.” She sighed. “But two things killed the Kingdom. Jim Crow and the railroad.”

  “How?” Nakayla asked.