Wineski and I watched the pallbearers put the coffin in the back of the hearse. The coffin was a pine box, no frills whatsoever, just a rectangle construction large enough to house the remains of Starnes Carver’s mother. Rough, fresh pine and unstained. There was something quite wholesome about the pine casket.
Starnes helped her father into a small Ford Escort, and then walked back over to us.
“You can follow the parade. A hearse, my Escort along with one or two pickups. Stay close. Don’t want you two getting lost again.”
We hadn’t told her that we got lost. Must have showed somehow. Starnes didn’t miss much.
The parade to the Carver home took about forty minutes. The hearse traveled about 35 miles an hour. Starnes was two trucks in front of us and continued to ride the bumper of the hearse as if to encourage it to move faster. The hearse driver apparently ignored her doggedness.
The hill behind the Carver home was roughly a seventy degree angle. In a word, steep. I watched the pallbearers, the ones who had arrived there in the two pickups, struggle with the casket up the embankment. It was hard enough for me to walk up the hillside and I wasn’t toting a box with a woman inside it.
I thought about the difficulty of having a burial in the winter time. Perhaps they put the bodies in cold storage and just waited until spring for the interment. Glad it wasn’t winter for Starnes’ sake.
Someone had already dug the grave and the four pallbearers simply lowered the casket into the hole as soon as we arrived. Pomp but no circumstance. Someone grabbed a shovel and started throwing dirt on top of the box. A different kind of ceremony.
“Jeb,” Starnes said in her low alto voice, “let Leroy say some words before you finish that.”
Jeb stopped shoveling the dirt and leaned on the handle where he was standing. Leroy walked to the head of the casket, took his ball cap off, and quoted something from the Bible. I think it was a psalm. After he finished that citation from memory, he took a small black Bible from his back pocket, flipped a few pages toward the center of it, and began reading. This time he did read a psalm. A familiar one. It was about the Lord being a shepherd. Even with my adult-heathen ways I recognized it. As a child, church was my lot in life except for fishing and helping my father solve crimes. My mother made absolutely sure that my brother Scott and I attended church every Sunday. No exceptions. If you were in our family and claimed to be sick, then you had better be sporting a fever higher than 105 degrees.
When Leroy finished the 23rd Psalm, he closed the Bible and with eyes that appeared to be cold steel, he began talking.
“We’re gonna miss you, Nadine. The church will probably have to close its doors since you won’t be there to work no more. Thank you for being so kind and caring to the likes of us. We certainly didn’t deserve to have a lady like you around, but it was really nice. Lord, take care of her. Amen.”
I liked his remarks – genuine and to the point. Apparently the directness of speech was a family trait in the Carver clan. Probably not many preachers came out of the Carver clan.
Jeb started shoveling dirt on the box again and then handed the shovel to Leroy. He filled some of the grave for several minutes then handed his tool to another of the men who had carried the coffin to the top of the mountain. We watched as these four men took turns shoveling dirt onto the coffin and covering the grave. At some point, Leroy threw a shovelful on the almost covered casket and then walked over to Starnes and offered her the shovel. She shook her head and nodded as if to tell Leroy to finish the job. He proceeded to complete the burial. Starnes watched as the dirt methodically fell on the pine box and ultimately covered it completely.
“Come on,” Starnes said to us as she took her father’s arm and headed down the hillside. “Let’s go to the house and eat something.”
Chapter Three
For reasons unknown to me or to Wineski, the house was full of people. By the time our small burial group had arrived at the foot of the hillside, there were cars all over what little grass there was around the home. I saw more people inside Starnes’ home than I saw coming out of that little church. It could have been my imagination.
“The church people do a respectable job of burying the dead and helping the family,” Starnes said.
“These are all church people?” I said.
“Relatives and church people. They can cook, too.”
There were two tables inside the house full of dishes of food. Casseroles, vegetables, homemade breads, rolls, cornbread, fried chicken, meatloaf, roast beef, soup, and every imaginable dessert that a body could crave. I could remember feasts like this when I was growing up in Clancyville. Our church had frequent meals which we called potluck suppers. It was the chief way that Baptists in Clancyville had of expressing fellowship. Perhaps McAdams County handled their grief the same way. To say the least, the Carver Clan along with the church folk of Piney Ridge certainly did it that way.
I filled my plate by visiting both tables. It looked as if I had not eaten a meal since last Christmas. Wineski’s plate was more modest. He found the roast beef, a piece of chicken, and several potatoes.
“You embarrass me,” he said when I sat down next to him. He was staring at my plate.
“I don’t get to eat food like this in Norfolk.”
“I’ve never eaten food like this. You trust these cooks?’
“Of course I trust these cooks. Where are you from?”
“Minnesota.”
“They don’t have pot-luck meals in Minnesota?”
“Not where I’m from.”
“You should go back when you finish that plate,” I said.
“Go back? To Minnesota?”
“No, silly. Go back for seconds. Get some more food,” I explained.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not on your life. I’m going back to get dessert when I finish this.”
“Then you really will embarrass me.”
“You’re a trip, Wineski. I need to take you out more often. The rural South apparently is a bit different from your Minnesota heritage.”
I finished my plate and retrieved my several choices of desserts. Wineski watched me in wide-eyed wonder. I needed to get him to come home to Clancyville and let my mother set a spread out for him. When I returned with my dessert plate, Wineski got up and stood by the window nearby. He spent the entire time there staring at me woofing down the pecan pie, chocolate cake, and banana pudding.
Wineski nodded at me and motioned towards the front door. Starnes was going outside, so we followed her. She walked down to her Escort and took out a cigarette. She leaned against the driver’s side door and exhaled while she searched the hills around the house for whatever it was she was searching. Wineski and I watched her blow perfect smoke rings.
“You two headed back?” she said.
“Not if you need us to stay,” I said.
“No reason to stay. I appreciate you coming.”
“Glad we could,” Wineski said. “If we stay much longer, there won’t be much food left in the county. You ever see Clancy eat?”
“Food’s good here,” Starnes said.
I nodded.
“How are things in Norfolk?” she asked, looking at Wineski.
“Lots of criminals and lots of crime scenes,” he said.
I think it was his way of asking her to come back.
“Daddy needs me more than ever now. He’s got some issues.”
“More than forgetfulness?” I said.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so. I may have to hire someone to take care of him.”
“You working yet?”
“Local sheriff got shot recently and he’s laid up in the hospital. Rehab might take a few months. County Commissioners have asked me to be the sheriff on a temporary basis. Not my cup of tea; but, I have the training and I need the money. Caretaker for Daddy won’t come cheap,” she took a deep draw on the cigarette and then flipped it away using her thumb and middle finger.
“Maybe
that’s just what you need,” Wineski said.
“What I need is to get the hell out of here and back to Norfolk. You think I could get my old job back?”
“Anytime you are ready. Just call me. I’ll pull any string I have to.”
“You haven’t hired anyone to take my place?” Starnes said as she exhaled.
“We moved Jones up to be in charge and hired some new lab techs. No one has taken your place.”
“Jones can do it, but he’s not strong enough to handle the entire team,” she said.
What she meant by that was that Theo Jones was a good crime scene investigator but was too nice a guy to handle the more difficult team members. Jones could be pushed around too easily. No one ever pushed Starnes Carver around, at least no one that I ever saw or heard tell of.
“Thanks for coming, guys. You find your way out of here?”
I started to answer honestly, but Wineski beat me to a response and assured Starnes that we would be fine. I smiled and said nothing. He was driving. We had his maps.
The two wrong turns he made only cost us forty minutes. It was dark when we drove through Asheville.
Wineski drove all night while I slept. Sometime around 12:30 the next morning he stopped for coffee. It was a small diner somewhere along the 58 corridor. We were alone in the diner except for the waitress.
I drank two cups of black coffee before I spoke.
“How far to Norfolk?”
“Less than an hour.”
“You tired?”
“Does a wild bear live in the woods?”
“I’ll drive if you trust me with your precious vehicle.”
“Don’t get smart. I appreciate it. I need to close my eyes for a few minutes.”
We were back on the road after some stale doughnuts and more coffee. I drove us all the way home while Wineski had his short nap.
Chapter Four
Two days before Halloween Rosey called me from Hamburg, Germany.
“You coming home anytime soon?” I said.
“Two more weeks here and then I’ll be back in Sterling.”
“Then a month of paperwork, right?”
“You’re beginning to understand the Federal Government.”
“More than I want to.”
“How’s Starnes?”
“Hard to read. I think she has mixed feelings about being back in the mountains. Loves her father, but misses her work here in Norfolk.”
“Understandable. Pulled by two worlds.”
“Yeah.”
“She take that job offer you mentioned?”
“She did. She’s the temporary sheriff of McAdams County, North Carolina. It’ll look good on her resume.”
“I doubt if Starnes Carver cares much about resumes,” Rosey said.
“Indeed. Still,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Call me when you get back on USA soil.”
“Done. You working on anything now?”
“No. Finished up helping Wineski here in town, so I have nothing pressing at the moment. The break is good. Sam and I have more time to run and play.”
“Enjoy,” he said and our brief networking was complete.
Sam and I had just finished our afternoon jog in the park. Rogers had a message for me when we returned to the apartment.
“Starves Carver called,” Rogers said.
“You talk to her or take a message?”
“I did my best impersonation of you, dearie, and talked to her.”
Everyone should have a computer like Rogers completely equipped with all the necessary computer things plus the ability to think and sometimes act. After several years of working with her, I have concluded that there was nothing artificial about her intelligence. It was simply one of those scientific words which had little practical meaning when applied to what Uncle Walters and I had created with our computer expertise. Rogers was vital to my success as a private investigator, but her talents were a closely guarded secret known only to Sam, who hardly spoke of it, and Rosey, who had known of her extraordinary gifts for only a short while. I should add my Uncle Walters, the man who helped me build Rogers, to that short list. The inner circle was small and necessarily silent. Once in a while I would think about what it might mean if our secret got out. I usually ended up cringing at whatever scenario my brain configured.
“What’s happening with Starnes?”
“She’s over her head with a missing person’s case, and needs your help.” Rogers said.
“Starnes said that?”
“Not in those words.”
“I imagine. So, what did she say?”
“Said that she could use an extra set of eyes, some good ears, and that oftentimes infuriating smart-ass intuition you have … if you have the time and druthers to drive back to western North Carolina.”
“Sounds more like her. Any specifics?”
“Said a man has been missing for several days and she could use some tracking help.”
“Do I need to call her?” I said.
“No.”
“So when did you tell her that I would be arriving?”
“I told her that I … you … would be leaving tomorrow and arrive late.”
“I suppose you want my thanks.”
“Don’t stress yourself, honey-chops. I knew you would go. It’s Starnes for crying out loud. You weren’t going to turn her down.”
“Honey-chops?”
“I’m working on creating some new words for the English language.”
“I’m gonna go pack for McAdams County. By the way, for the future, I would like to make some decisions myself.”
“It was an easy call. I knew you would do it.”
“I’ll get Wendell to look after Sam,” I said.
“You don’t need to do that,” Rogers said.
“Why?”
“Starnes asked for the dog, too.”
Sam and I rode across Virginia and then down into western North Carolina the next day. He sat in the riders’ front seat of the Jeep. Our luggage was in the backseat – my suitcase, an extra handgun, two rifles, ammunition, and Sam’s water bowl along with forty-four pounds of dog food to sustain him for however long we would be staying and working with Starnes. That large bag would last him nearly a month.
We stopped two or three times to rest, but it seemed that it took twice as long to make the same trip that Wineski and I had made a couple of weeks earlier. Must be the difference between driving and riding as well as the stimulating conversation that Wineski provided.
I called Starnes from Asheville and told her we would spend the night there and arrive the next morning. She convinced me not to do that, and insisted that I drive on into the small town of Madison. She said she would meet us there and guide us to the home place. I agreed, followed her specific directions, and drove to Madison.
The county seat was a small village that sat precariously on the edge of the French Broad River. The lights from the town and the adjoining island reflected off the water in our approach. Rogers had printed out some information about McAdams County and the town of Madison. Her cursory notes provided some facts and a few historical references. I still knew zilch about the town and the people. I figured it to be a sharp learning curve for me.
We met Starnes at a parking space near the front of the McAdams County Courthouse. She waved us over and almost smiled when I rolled down the window. Her greeting was typical Starnes Carver.
“Follow me. That’s my vehicle over there,” she pointed across the road.
That was it. Starnes seldom said more than was necessary. To the point. There were times that she could have said more, but simply chose not to add anything to her succinctness. A woman of little verbiage.
Nothing seemed familiar when we arrived at the Carver home place. It was dark with few outside lights. An emergency light was dimly flickering on a precarious pole about one hundred yards from the door of the Carver home. Some kind of resuscitation would soon be needed in order for
it to continue to function as intended. At present it provided just enough light so that you could see a huge rock or ferocious cow if they happened to be immediately in front of you. We managed to find the porch and enter the house without serious injury. I basically followed Sam since his night vision was better than mine was.
“Sam can sleep in the room with you or in front of the couch there,” Starnes said as she pointed to the covered sofa against the wall adjacent to the television.
Her father was sitting in a dark red easy chair staring at the television screen. The news was on. Something was happening in Bolivia. He seemed engrossed in whatever mayhem was being reported. Or he might have been comatose. There was no way I could tell for sure.
“Daddy, this is Clancy Evans and Sam.”
Silence.
“Daddy,” Starnes said louder, “this is Clancy and Sam.”
He turned slowly from the televised distraction, looked at me as if I had just landed a Martian spacecraft, reached out, and gave Sam a gentle pat on the head. Sam licked his hand as if to say thanks. Southern hospitality at its finest.
“Glad to meet you, Clancy,” he said to Sam.
“No, Daddy,” Starnes said. “This is Clancy,” she moved me into his line of sight. “The dog’s name is Sam.”
“Oh. Nice to meet you,” he stood up with some effort and nodded at me. “Beauty of a dog you have here,” he said to me.
“Thanks.”
“Make yourself at home,” he called out as Starnes guided me to the bed where I was to spend some time over the next few weeks.
“Mama’s room,” she said. “She and Daddy had separate bedrooms. Lived that way for years. Never knew why. I guessed it worked for them. Made the marriage last. Who knows? Anyhow, this is it. Beats staying at a motel in Asheville.”
“Thanks. This will be fine.”
Sam moved close to me. He seemed unsure of our new living arrangements. Adjustments are hard on everyone. He was probably reeling from being referred to as Clancy. Understandable. Not often he is mistaken for a female detective.
“Bathroom is the down hall. Just knock if the door is closed. Daddy’s room is next to the bath, on the right. My room is upstairs. Holler if you need anything,” Starnes asked.
When Blood Cries Page 2
