“Jim Crow laws were designed to squash any Black independence or upward mobility. They were passed in the eighteen-nineties and had the effect of creating economic slavery with white-only this and white-only that.” She shot me a glance as if daring me to challenge her.
I nodded. “Self-sufficiency would be a threat. And you don’t get any more uppity than to call yourself king.”
Marsha Montgomery couldn’t help smiling. “You got that right.”
“What about the railroad?” Nakayla asked. “Weren’t they allowed to ride the trains?”
“Riding wasn’t a problem, if you sat in the back or in a Negro car. The railroad brought a faster and cheaper way to move goods and livestock between the mountains and the low-country. Before then everything came up the drovers’ road that went right by the Kingdom. Extra hands and carts were used for the steep ascent. Stagecoaches stopped at nearby inns where servants were needed. The commune took in cash from the innkeepers or bartered for supplies from the drovers. When the railroad passed them by, the Kingdom passed away as well. People wandered off to find work elsewhere.”
“So how did your mother come to be photographed there?” Nakayla asked.
“She said Miss Julia Peterkin brought a photographer friend to see what was left of the Kingdom. Miss Julia knew my great grandmother Loretta was one of the few remaining survivors and the photographer wanted to hear the story from her.”
“And then he took her picture?” Nakayla asked.
“The photographer was a woman. Doris Ulmann.”
Nakayla’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard of her. She was friends with Julia Peterkin?”
I made a T with my hands. “Time out. I admit it. I don’t have a clue who you’re talking about.”
Marsha Montgomery turned to me. “Julia Peterkin is the only South Carolinian to win the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction. This is going back to 1929. Her novels portrayed black plantation workers as fully developed characters, not stereotypes. No one had done that before.”
“An African-American writer?”
“No. She was the mistress of a cotton plantation called Lang Syne near Orangeburg. But she learned to speak Gullah before she learned English.”
“Gullah?”
“The lowland dialect. Actually more its own language. A hybrid of English and West African tongues that originated on the Sea Islands off South Carolina and Georgia. You’ve heard of the Gullah people, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” I didn’t want Marsha Montgomery to think I was totally stupid. I’d heard of them like I’d heard of the Navajo and Eskimos. But growing up in the piedmont of North Carolina three hundred miles from the South Carolina coast and joining the army right out of high school had limited my exposure to the cultural diversity of the region.
“I need to take him on a field trip to Charleston.” Nakayla gave me a sympathetic smile. “And Doris Ulmann was a famous New York photographer in the twenties and thirties who packed up her chauffeur-driven limousine every summer and drove down the spine of the Appalachians to photograph the mountain people.”
“She also came to the lowlands,” Marsha added. “She and Julia Peterkin worked on a book of photographs and text called Roll, Jordan, Roll. That’s when she came to the Kingdom with Miss Julia.”
“And that’s why you think the photograph is valuable?” I asked.
“That’s correct.”
“Did you ever see it?”
“Yes. It was on a bureau in my mother’s bedroom.”
“Do you mind if I ask how old you were when it was stolen?”
“I was five.”
“And you remember this one photograph?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“Yes. My mother and I would look at it together. I was five and in the picture she was five. Her mother and her grandmother were in the photograph as well. It made an impression on me. That my mother was once a little girl like me.”
“Her grandmother, that would be your great grandmother Loretta, the one born on the Kingdom.”
“That’s right. Miss Ulmann wanted to meet her.”
“Did she and Julia Peterkin use the photograph in their book?”
“No. And I only learned about Doris Ulmann being the photographer a few weeks ago. I’d taken a copy of Roll, Jordan, Roll from the library and thought my mother might find it interesting. That’s when she told me she knew both women.”
Nakayla leaned forward, her brow knitted in concentration. “What do you expect us to do after more than forty-five years?”
“I thought your investigations might have established connections to art dealers who would keep records if a signed Ulmann photograph came into their possession.”
“Aren’t there duplicate prints?” Nakayla asked.
“Maybe. I’ve looked through the online catalogue at the Getty Museum but I didn’t see it. There are several colleges that have her work but those prints came from her estate. I think whoever took this would have tried to sell it.”
“Just your mother being in the picture doesn’t prove ownership.”
“She still has the letter Julia Peterkin wrote when she mailed the print.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Any other witnesses see the picture in the house? Is your father still alive?”
Marsha Montgomery’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t really know my father.”
I looked at Nakayla, hesitant to venture into sensitive territory.
She spoke softly. “I’m sorry if we’re getting too personal, but we’re only trying to determine if we can help. Did your mother and father divorce? Is there a chance he could have removed the picture?”
“No. My mother says that wouldn’t have happened. And there was no divorce. They were never married.”
“Oh. I understand.”
Marsha Montgomery gave Nakayla a sharp glance. “I don’t think you do. My father was white. Back then, they couldn’t have married. It was against the law. But he loved my mother and he loved me.”
“Then what happened to him?” Nakayla asked.
The older woman shrugged. “One day he just went away. Mother said he did it to protect us. There were people who didn’t like seeing a white man and a black woman together.” She looked at me. “I suspect you get too far out of Asheville and you find things haven’t changed all that much.”
“Do you have any idea what the photograph’s worth?” Nakayla asked.
“No.”
“Then our fee might be more than the value of the photograph.”
“I’ve looked at some recent auction prices. They’ve ranged from ten to thirty thousand dollars.”
I whistled softly. “Wow. Doris Ulmann must have been good.”
“She chose good subjects. Each photograph was like a story frozen in time.”
“And what was the story of your mother’s photograph?”
“The end of the Kingdom. My mother, grandmother, and great grandmother were standing in front of one of the few remaining stone chimneys left from the cabins. The light streamed through the pine boughs like beams from the Kingdom above. Their faces were radiant. She captured a very striking image. My mother looked like an angel. They all did.”
The end of the Kingdom, I thought. The cachet of the setting would probably add value to the print. And if it were the only one. “Who would have known the value of that print back in 1967?”
“Nobody. It was just an old photograph.”
“Then was anything else taken? Something that might be easier to trace?”
“Some jewelry. We didn’t have a TV or record player. And they took my father’s gun.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Nakayla tense.
“What kind of gun was it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He used it for hunting and left it with Mother for protection. I remember
he taught her how to use it.”
“Shotgun?” I asked.
“No. He had a shotgun but he kept it at the cabin on his family’s property. I’m pretty sure it was a rifle. Mother said he used it during deer season.” She looked from me to Nakayla. “You think someone might have pawned it?”
“Maybe,” Nakayla said.
I knew Nakayla was thinking of another possibility. The same one that took hold of my mind. Maybe a missing rifle, a missing father, and a skeleton in a hollow log were linked together.
One thing was certain. Marsha Montgomery’s arrival was no coincidence. We were being played. And I wanted to know why.
Chapter Five
“Well, that was interesting.” Nakayla made the understatement of the day as she stepped back into the office after walking Marsha Montgomery to the elevator.
We’d told the woman we wanted to look at possible avenues for a productive investigation before committing to take her case. Then we could give her an estimate of expenses and an assessment of potential success. In reality, Nakayla and I were signaling each other that neither of us took Marsha Montgomery at face value. It’s not that uncommon for clients to tell you half truths or outright lies in an attempt to cast themselves in the most favorable light. Particularly if they know uncovered circumstances could lead to a “he said—she said” outcome.
But Marsha Montgomery’s story was in a category all its own. Two events involving the Kingdom of the Happy Land don’t appear within a two-day period without some connection. Something brought Marsha Montgomery to our door and that something had once been a living, breathing human being who wound up entombed in a hollow log. If we got involved in the case, it would have to be with eyes wide open that our client sought us out for reasons yet to be revealed. Those reasons could be to keep something hidden rather than bring it to light.
I leaned back in the leather chair. “Interesting, disingenuous, deceitful. Pick a word.”
Nakayla slipped her shoes off and sat on the sofa with her bare feet tucked under her. “You want to walk away?”
“Not until I know what I’m walking away from.”
“I think it’s about the rifle.”
“I agree. I think if we hadn’t asked what else was stolen, she would have worked it in. But the way it played, she mentioned it in response to a question.”
“Why mention it at all?”
I thought for a moment. “She’s setting the stage for something yet to happen. Another shoe’s going to drop.”
“The skeleton’s got to be her father and she’s protecting her mother.”
“That’s my guess. Get the rifle out of the house before the date of death.”
Nakayla frowned. “Why not get the body out of the log? Bury it in those woods? There were probably root cellars left from the Kingdom. Dig a hole at the bottom of one of them and no one would ever find it.”
“And why fabricate such an elaborate story about this Doris Ulmann and Julia Peterkin? The best lie is the simplest lie.”
“Maybe it was the simplest lie,” Nakayla said. “Marsha had to have a reason to resurrect a forty-five-year-old burglary. She’s right about the value of those photographs increasing.”
I looked past Nakayla to the door our visitor had exited. “So, you believe her?”
“I believe she’s in trouble. Or thinks she is.”
I nodded. “I agree. I’m prone to accept her as a client.”
“You sure?”
“What else are we going to do? The phone’s not exactly ringing off the hook.”
“You’re right. And we know it’s not forwarded.”
“Smartass.” I stood. “You can start checking into Marsha Montgomery’s background. Find out what’s fact and what’s fiction. Meanwhile, we’ll hold off deciding to take the case until I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To surprise Lucille Montgomery. Let’s see how well the mother’s story corroborates the daughter’s.”
***
I drove up to the unmanned guardhouse and stopped just short of the red and white crossbar. The entry to the Golden Oaks Retirement Center had been strategically installed at the base of a mountain in Arden, a small town about ten miles outside of Asheville. It was better to turn a car away there before it had to negotiate the winding switchbacks to the summit. Golden Oaks brought senior citizens closer to heaven in more ways than one.
I rolled down my window and pushed a silver button beside a speaker in the guardhouse wall.
“Welcome to Golden Oaks. How can I help you?” The woman’s voice was friendly but officious.
“I’m here to see Ron Kline.”
“Is Mr. Kline expecting you?”
“Tell the Captain that Sam Blackman is on his trail.”
The woman laughed. “Sam, why didn’t you say so?”
The crossbar rose.
“Come on up. Do you want me to warn him? He’s with his bevy of beauties.”
“No. Better not disturb a sultan when he’s with his harem.”
She laughed again. “You think you’re joking? You’ll find him in the TV room.”
Ron Kline, aka Captain, had to be in his late eighties or early nineties. Nakayla and I met him during the course of our first case when circumstances led us to one of the residents of Golden Oaks. Captain had actually risen to the rank of Colonel, and as a former Chief Warrant Officer myself, we shared the common bond of military service. He’d been a captain in World War Two and he said that had been the most meaningful time of his army career. He’d been closest to his men and the phrase “Band of Brothers” didn’t do justice to the unwavering loyalty forged in battle. Now Captain was the unofficial commander of Golden Oaks and the darling of an overwhelmingly female population smitten with any man still breathing.
I spotted him sitting on a sofa and holding court with two ladies on either side and three at a nearby card table, their chairs angled to face him. The flat screen TV mounted on the paneled wall displayed some generic morning talk show. No one was watching. Captain was talking. I slipped up behind him and heard a sentence fragment referencing General Eisenhower.
“Captain Ron Kline,” I whispered dramatically. “Please report for duty.”
His curved shoulders snapped back and he reached for his walker. One of the elderly women beside him twisted around to see who had interrupted their conversation. The rest of the ladies seemed alarmed at Captain’s sudden movement. They hadn’t heard me and probably thought Captain was having a stroke.
He got to his feet with surprising agility, whipped the walker around one hundred eighty degrees, and gave me a brisk salute.
I returned it and added a wink. It was our special way of greeting. “Are you up for a walk?”
Captain backed up far enough so he could see all five of his admirers. “I’m sorry, ladies. A mission beckons.”
One of the women at the table eyed me suspiciously. She looked familiar but I couldn’t recall her name.
“Don’t you let anything happen to him,” she ordered.
Captain waved his hand. “Don’t worry, Joanne. I’ll take good care of Sam.”
The others giggled like school girls.
Joanne wouldn’t be mollified. “I’m serious, Mr. Blackman. Hanging out with you can be dangerous.”
I recognized her as part of Captain’s CIA. That stood for Corridor Intelligence Agency, a group of residents Captain organized to patrol the halls and keep an eye on the community’s well-being. I knew Joanne was referring to the terrible incident when a resident became our client and was murdered after speaking with me.
“I just have to get Captain’s advice on something,” I said. “I figure he knows more about women than I do.”
Even Joanne giggled. “If he doesn’t,” she said, “you ask any of us. We’ll set you straight.”
Captain looped around the sofa and stopped beside me. He stood half-a-head shorter, no more than five foot four. Old age probably had knocked a good three inches off his height.
“I fancy a stroll outside,” he said. “This store-bought air is like breathing pablum. No zest.” He lunged forward with his walker and headed at a brisk clip for a side door.
We exited onto a garden patio. Concrete pathways radiated out in multiple directions. They were painted to look like flagstone but the surface was smooth so as not to trip the unsteady steps of those whose balance had grown a little shaky. Flowerbeds displayed a brilliance of late spring blossoms and their natural perfume permeated the warm air. Zest, indeed.
Captain filled his lungs. “Makes you feel alive. I hope there’s a sense of smell in heaven.”
“Then you think we’ll have to take showers?”
He frowned. “I hadn’t thought about that. Could be a problem. Those two women on the sofa keep complaining they’ve got no one to scrub their backs.”
“Sounds like an opportunity in the here and now.”
“I’ll give them your number. My pension can’t support another paternity suit.”
We continued down one of the walkways. I was content to let Captain set the pace and decide when to ask what I wanted. The garden wrapped around the building and within a few minutes we were out of sight of the main entry.
Captain pointed to a bench on the far side of a koi pond. “Let’s sit a spell. We shouldn’t be bothered. Most people stay inside after lunch.”
He parked his walker at one end and eased onto the cedar bench. I sat beside him. Two friends separated by half a foot and over half a century.
“I’m glad you came by,” he said. “I should have called you first thing this morning.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“The Mayor’s in intensive care.”
The Mayor was the oldest resident at Golden Oaks. His real name was Harry Young, but, at a hundred and five, everyone affectionately called him by his nickname.
“When did this happen?”
“This morning. Bertha, the head nurse of critical care, told me after breakfast. I didn’t want to say anything to the girls until later when the medical team knows more. The Mayor just didn’t have the strength to get out of bed.”
A Murder In Passing Page 4
