“I’ve heard him described as a leech and a gigolo.”
Brose smiled. “I doubt you were in Kentucky at the time.”
“This was from a letter of Julia Peterkin’s and comments by Doris Ulmann’s chauffeur,” Nakayla said.
“Niles is a native son of Kentucky,” Brose said. “He’s revered there. Other places? Well, let’s just say Niles never missed an opportunity to promote himself and some people say he never let the truth get in the way of casting himself in the most favorable light.”
Brose got up and left the box of photographs. He walked to a shelf behind him and returned with a small, clear glass bottle. “Here’s something of John Jacob Niles’. We found it under the cabin where he used to sleep when Doris Ulmann came to visit Olive Campbell. The cabin had gaps in the floorboards and Niles’ empty bottles of moonshine would fall between them. Evidently he drank himself to sleep each night.”
“Is moonshining one of the crafts you teach at the school?” I asked.
Brose laughed. “No. But maybe we should. There’s a strong argument to be made for ensuring that one of our most famous mountain traditions is preserved.”
“Let me put my question bluntly. Do you think Niles was a thief? He was the only one alive when this particular photograph was stolen.”
“That’s going a little too far in my opinion,” Brose said. “Sometimes he might have blurred the line between songs he collected and songs he said he wrote. His most well-known one is the Christmas carol ‘I Wonder As I Wander,’ but the story round here is he heard the song sung by a little mountain girl over in Murphy. She charged him a quarter a verse to sing it to him so he could write it down. At times, he claims she sang only one line. There are instances of when he earlier said she gave him three verses. That’s the problem with Niles. His stories changed as the people who could contradict them died off.”
“Not a thief, but a long-term borrower,” I said.
“That’s a good way to put it,” Brose agreed. “And don’t get me wrong. John Jacob Niles performed a real service writing down and preserving the mountain songs as he traveled with Doris Ulmann. What can I say? He was who he was, warts and all. And we’re indebted to him.”
We thanked David Brose for his help and his promise to make further inquiries. But as we left the school, I felt discouraged.
“That was a strikeout. No picture and nothing to indicate John Jacob Niles had any proclivity to steal it, despite what Julia Peterkin wrote about him.”
“We always knew it was a long shot,” Nakayla said. “Something we had to pursue before eliminating.”
We reached Murphy and turned east toward Asheville. To the south, a wall of gray clouds moved over the mountain ridges.
“Looks like the rain’s coming like they forecast,” Nakayla said. “We’re going to have a wet ride home.”
“And a slow one, especially through Nantahala Gorge.”
“It’s two o’clock now. We might be without cell coverage during that stretch. Think we should check in with Hewitt before we lose the signal?”
I pulled my phone from my hip and raised it to my eye line. No messages. Then the screen flashed with an incoming call. Hewitt’s law office.
I turned the screen toward Nakayla. “You and Hewitt share mental telepathy?”
“Yeah. Too bad you don’t have a receiver.”
I accepted the call. “Sam Blackman.”
“It’s over.” Hewitt said the simple sentence like he was describing the war in the Middle East.
“What’s over?”
“Chesterson’s dropping the charge. He’s decided not to prosecute.”
“Hold on. Let me put you on speaker.” I handed the phone to Nakayla so I could keep both hands on the wheel. “Okay. Repeat what you said. Nakayla’s listening.”
“D.A. Chesterson threw in the towel. He’s dropped the charge against Lucille.”
“What about his plea-bargain deadline?” Nakayla asked.
“I turned it on him. He had till five o’clock to dismiss or I’d call a press conference.”
“About what?” I asked.
“About what I suspected. Chesterson had received some preliminary findings on the victim’s DNA from the Greenville, South Carolina, test lab. I have my own sources and got the same information without having to wait for Chesterson to make it available through discovery. The skeleton has genetic markers for African descent. That’s why Chesterson was pushing his offer because losing the connection to Jimmy Lang, a man Lucille could have married if he were African-American, blew up his motive. That’s why he demanded she confirm the identity of the victim. He knew it wasn’t Jimmy Lang but he still had the gun connection to Lucille so he tossed a Hail Mary pass hoping Lucille would confess.”
“Have you told Lucille?” I asked.
“Yes. She was with Marsha. Lucille broke down. She was so relieved. Marsha took the phone and thanked us for believing in her mother.”
“That rifle bothers me,” I said. “At some point it could still come back to Lucille.”
“Well, we have the theft of the photograph,” Hewitt said.
“That didn’t go anywhere.”
“But no one can contradict it was stolen, which means the rifle could have also been taken and returned. If Chesterson gets an ID on the skeleton and can connect it to Lucille somehow, then he’s still got that problem to deal with. He won’t be too anxious to repeat his folly. When he caved, he blamed Deputy Overcash for an overzealous arrest and for asserting there was unimpeachable testimony from William Lang.”
“The district attorney makes the ultimate decision to prosecute,” I said.
“I know,” Hewitt agreed. “Which makes Chesterson even more of a weasel. He threw the deputy under the bus and then backed it over him.”
“So they’ll do what?” I asked.
“I hate to say this but they’ll probably make a few half-hearted inquiries in the black communities of the area, but not push it beyond that. A nameless black man who could have been murdered more than fifty years ago? Nothing will come of it.”
“That’s not right,” Nakayla said. “He deserves justice as much as if it had been Jimmy Lang.”
“You’re right,” Hewitt said. “And maybe when the dust settles and we see the full DNA report, we can apply some pressure from outside to prompt a more thorough investigation. I’m willing to work on it.”
“Thanks,” Nakayla said. “And thanks for what you did for Lucille.”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love threatening Chesterson with that press conference. Only wish I could have done it face to face.” He hung up in mid-chuckle.
“Well, that eases the disappointment with the folk school trip,” I said.
Nakayla patted my thigh. “I have to admit I enjoyed spending the day with you.”
“Me too. We should try it again some time.”
Large raindrops started splattering the windshield.
I turned the wipers on high. “Looks like we’re going to be in for it.”
“Just stay on the road and out of the Nantahala.”
My cell rang. Nakayla still held it. She looked at the screen. “It’s your apartment. Must be Jason.”
“Go ahead and answer it. These aren’t the conditions for driving and talking on the phone.”
“This is Nakayla.” She listened a moment and then broke into a broad grin. She took the phone away from her ear and punched the speaker button. “You tell him,” she said.
Jason’s voice vibrated with excitement. “I got the job, Sam. Starting Monday I’m an employee of Armitage Security Services.”
“That’s great. We’ll celebrate tonight at Nakayla’s. Why don’t I pick you up around…?” I looked to Nakayla for the cue as to what time she’d want Jason arriving.
She mouthed, “Seven.”
“Seven. I’ll give you a call when I’m close and pick you up at the front entrance.”
“Okay. And I’ve got some other interesting information for you, but it can wait till we’re all together.”
“All right, hotshot. See you in a couple of hours.”
Nakayla ended the call. “Your battery’s getting low. We’ll charge it while we’re in the Nantahala dead zone.”
But we didn’t make it into the gorge before the phone rang a third time.
“I don’t think I can take any more good news,” I said.
Nakayla answered. She listened, and then her face fell. “I’ll tell him,” she said solemnly. “He’ll want to call you when we get off the road.”
She pulled the phone from her ear. I saw her eyes glistening.
“That was Captain. Harry Young died about an hour ago. He wanted us to know. He said the end was peaceful. He said to tell you the old man’s friend finally came for the Mayor.”
“Pneumonia. Well, we knew it was imminent. Still I hate to lose him.”
“A hundred and five. He was living history.”
The rain swept across us in sheets. We rode through the torrent in silence.
When we reached Asheville, it was after five and still raining. I went to the store with Nakayla to get the groceries she needed for dinner. She decided to fix fresh trout from the local Sunburst Farms and whatever seasonal produce looked freshest. While she examined the spring peas and arugula, I went in search of my priorities: wine and dessert.
I called Captain from Nakayla’s and learned the retirement center was holding a memorial for Harry Young on Tuesday. Captain asked me if I would say a few words and I agreed. Then I helped Nakayla prepare for our dinner guest. I liked setting the table and straightening up Nakayla’s small den. We were entertaining as a couple, inviting someone to dine at home. For the first time I could see it as our home.
At six thirty, Nakayla sent me for Jason. The storm had dwindled to a steady drizzle. As I crossed the French Broad River from West Asheville, I telephoned Jason and told him that I should be under the porte-cochère in about fifteen minutes. He could grab a rain slicker from my closet and wait inside the lobby door.
I came up the hill to the Kenilworth by the straightest, steepest route, avoiding the twisting switchbacks on the slick pavement. The heavy clouds brought early darkness and the front of the grand hotel became a checkerboard of glowing apartment lights. The lobby also cast illumination out onto the terrace running along the front of the building.
I hooked to the left onto the circular drive running under the porte-cochère. Jason must have seen my approach because he stepped through the lobby door and stood at the edge of the terrace. He raised his right arm and smiled.
A spark flew from the palm of the artificial hand. Jason’s head snapped back and he fell like the earth had been yanked out from under him. He hit so hard I heard the crack of his skull striking the stone terrace. A split-second later the sharp report of a rifle rolled over me. The sound still echoed as I jumped from the CR-V and darted around the hood out of the line of fire.
I crawled up the steps and knelt by Jason’s side. His eyes were closed and blood already flowed from a wound on the right side of his forehead. An even more ominous pool spread from the back of his head, collecting in the mortar depressions and soaking the collar of his shirt. My shirt.
His body spasmed as he struggled to breathe. I could hear rattling as his lungs filled with blood.
A older man came out of the lobby, walking a salt-and-pepper miniature Schnauzer. The dog started barking.
“Call an ambulance,” I shouted. “This man’s been shot. Then call the police.”
He jerked the dog back inside and pulled out his cellphone.
I put my lips close to Jason’s ear. “Hang on. Help’s on the way.”
There was no response.
And I was afraid, as afraid as I’ve ever been, that this wounded boy, who had endured and overcome so much, was dying right in front of me.
Chapter Twenty
I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see Asheville police detective Curt Newland looking down at me. His face was lined with worry.
“Hell of a thing,” he whispered. “Feel up to telling me what you know?”
I nodded.
He sat in one of the outdoor rockers beside me. I’d gone to the far end of the terrace, away from the spot where the medics loaded Jason into the ambulance. I’d just sat there, staring out into the dark.
“Ted called me,” Newland said. “Efird’s with me. We’re taking the case.”
“Your nephews did a good job securing the scene.”
Ted and Al Newland were identical twins and uniformed Asheville patrolmen. Tuck Efird was Newly’s new partner, and, though a bit of a hotdog, a competent enough investigator.
“Thanks,” Newland said. “They’re learning. Ted told me you just loaned the victim your apartment and helped him secure a job.”
“Nathan Armitage gave him the job. He was a good kid and now because of me, he’s hanging on by a thread.”
“How do you figure that?”
“He was wearing my clothes. We’re about the same height and coloring. In the rain, he could have passed for me.”
“Did you have any reason to believe your life was in danger?”
“No.”
“Then blaming yourself is a waste of effort. Are you going to help us with this or sit on the sidelines?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Good. So the victim is Jason Fretwell. You know a next of kin?”
“No. Best thing is to run all that through the veterans’ hospital. Jason’s from somewhere near Fort Wayne, Indiana.”
“Okay.” Newland looked back to the porte-cochère where the ambulance had rocketed away forty-five minutes ago. “Latest word I’ve got is he’s in surgery. He’s lucky Mission Hospital is less than a mile way.”
“Any prognosis?”
“He’s got some big hurdles to get over. The metal hand deflected the bullet so that it struck the forehead at a survivable angle. The fall to the stone terrace split his skull. If he survives the surgery, he’ll probably be put in a coma while they monitor and try to control the cranial pressure from his swelling brain. That could last a while. Then recovery is anybody’s guess. He may be fine or he may suffer severe cognitive disabilities.” Newland shook his head. “Why don’t you show me what happened.”
I rose from the rocker, but had taken only a few steps when I heard my name. Nakayla came running around the yellow crime scene tape and down the driveway. Her hair became a cascade of diamonds as the backlight of the flashing police cars transformed water drops into jewels.
I jumped from the terrace onto the lawn and pulled her tight against me.
“Oh, Sam,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Why would anybody want to shoot Jason?”
“I don’t think they did.”
She stiffened and then stepped back a pace. “Then you? The shot was meant for you?”
“I was still in the car and Jason had just stepped into the light. It was raining and he was dressed in my clothes.”
“But, again, why?”
“Simple. Someone doesn’t like me or what I’m doing.”
“Good evening, Nakayla.” Detective Newland joined us. “We need to press on, Sam. You know how a trail goes cold.”
He was right. Catching the shooter was the priority. My only priority.
“I want Nakayla with me,” I said.
“No problem. Walk me through it. You know the drill.”
The crime scene skills I’d developed as a Chief Warrant Officer for Uncle Sam rose to the surface for Uncle Newly. He and Nakayla followed me to the shelter of the porte-cochère. I walked twenty feet beyond and stopped.
&nbs
p; “I was about here when Jason came to the edge of the terrace. He waved and then fell backwards. I heard one shot and though my windows were up, I’m pretty sure it came from the edge of the woods.”
I turned toward the entrance off the public road. To my right were houses built on the edge of the ridge. To my left were hardwoods and underbrush, and, beyond them across the road, the slope fell so severely no houses could be constructed. “I would guess he fired from a thicket or even from the shoulder of the slope. I immediately ran to Jason. If the shooter drove away, I didn’t hear the vehicle. He had to be lying in wait and maybe parked lower down the hillside.”
“Could he have fired from a car?” Nakayla asked.
“Maybe, but the position wouldn’t have been ideal. He’d want to be prone. When that Washington D.C. sniper was killing people several years ago, he rigged a shooting platform in his trunk and had a driver. I don’t think our man would have tried that from a parking lot where so many residents were coming in and out.”
“Did you notice whether someone had been following you on the drive over?” Newland asked.
“No. And in the rain all I saw behind me were halos of headlights.”
“Hey, Newly. I think we found the slug.” Newland’s partner Tuck Efird stood by the stone column nearest the lobby door.
“Come on.” Newland climbed the steps to the terrace.
Efird nodded to Nakayla and me, and then pointed to a hole in the masonry between two rocks about seven feet above us. “Given the ascending slope, the bullet was traveling on an upward path. When we dig it out, it’ll probably be too mangled for a ballistics match.”
“Sam,” Newland said. “Take the position where Jason was standing when he was shot. Try to get the angle the best you remember it.”
I walked to the edge of the terrace and pivoted counter-clockwise so I was head-on to my CR-V. I raised my right arm, duplicating Jason’s wave.
“Okay,” Newland said. “The victim was struck first in the artificial hand and then the bullet creased his forehead. We have to allow for the deflection.” Newland walked up behind me and reached his arm over my shoulder. “If Jason raised his hand so it was between him and the shooter, then this is the line of fire.”
A Murder In Passing Page 19
