“Yes. Henderson Youngblood didn’t write this journal. Thomas Wolfe did.”
Chapter Nine
“We need to talk with this Mitchell guy as soon as possible,” I said. “Tikima might have gotten information from him that put her in danger.”
Nakayla pulled her cell phone from her purse and punched in the number Tikima had written. After a few seconds, she said, “His answering machine. Should I leave a message?”
“Yes. Tell him you’re Tikima’s sister and you need to speak to him.”
The beep sounded from the receiver. “Mr. Mitchell, I’m Tikima Robertson’s sister, Nakayla. She left me some information you might find interesting. Please call me.” Nakayla gave her cell number and flipped the phone closed.
“If he works at the Wolfe Memorial, maybe he’s there now.” I looked through the file and passed Nakayla the number.
Whoever answered told Nakayla that Ted Mitchell was off and would return Friday. She should call back then.
“Maybe he’s out of town,” Nakayla suggested.
“Maybe. But see him first thing Friday morning.”
Nakayla’s brown eyes widened. “Won’t you come with me?”
“I’m supposed to go to Birmingham. Stanley will be anxious to get back.”
“I’m not sure what to ask Mr. Mitchell and he might be the key to everything. We could go by as soon as you’re discharged. We’d delay your brother no more than an hour.”
Nakayla’s plea drove straight to my heart. “All right. I can hold Stanley up an hour or so. I’ll try to get out of here early.” I patted the journal. “We know your great-great grandfather was murdered. I hope Mitchell can help us separate more facts from fiction.”
Nakayla rested her hand on the journal next to mine. “I’d like to know who gave Tikima this. We’re a family who’s always been proud of our heritage. This wouldn’t have been kept a secret.”
“Maybe she told Mitchell where she got it.” I slid the journal away. “Let’s see what we can learn from the rest of the files.”
Nakayla pulled her chair around to my side of the table.
“Did Tikima ever talk about any of these clients?” I asked.
Nakayla tapped the Biltmore Company file. “She had a season pass to the estate. She said it was her only perk.”
“How many times can you see a house?”
“A house whose interior takes up four acres? Quite a few times. But the gardens and winery were her favorites. We’d go there to picnic and pretend the estate belonged to us.” Nakayla looked me in the eye. “It does in a way. Starting with Elijah, our family helped build it. Free men and honest labor. We can still see the work they left behind.”
I sorted through the Biltmore documents while Nakayla explained them.
“Tikima negotiated an annual contract that included a review of their security procedures and a rate should Armitage provide extra personnel.”
I skimmed the five-page contract. “Were they having crime problems?”
“No, but at peak seasons like Christmas and the summer, Armitage supplies supplemental guards. They usually work the service entrances and other points where they don’t have to interact with visitors.”
“Why?”
“Biltmore stresses guest satisfaction. All employees are trained to make visitors feel welcomed and give them information about the estate. Tikima’s security people just don’t know enough to be able to do that.”
“How many guards does Armitage carry on its payroll?”
“About two hundred.”
I whistled. “That’s a lot of employees?”
“But when you figure many of the clients have round-the-clock needs, the manpower required mounts up.”
“So, a number of Armitage guards would know the back roads and entrances to the Biltmore Estate?”
“I guess so. None of them work there permanently. They rotate in and out. What are you thinking?”
“I’m just wondering if Tikima asked any of the Armitage guards to look out for something, not only at Biltmore but with any of these clients.” I waved my hand over the files.
Nakayla looked doubtful. “You mean she took someone into her confidence?”
“Not necessarily. More like made a special request or asked a question that might sound out of the ordinary.”
“Do you think all of the guards need to be interviewed?”
I shook my head. “But ask Armitage if the police spoke with any of the guards at these sites. He’ll make the connection and probably speak to them himself.” I didn’t tell Nakayla I intended to mention the guards to Peters after he got the files. Since Tikima’s body had been discovered downstream from the Biltmore Estate, I couldn’t assume Armitage guards weren’t involved. Better to have simultaneous internal and external investigations going on in case Tikima had uncovered wrongdoing in her own company.
“Maybe Tikima asked something of the wrong guard,” Nakayla said.
Her brain and mine were in lockstep. I smiled, impressed that her grief hadn’t clouded her thinking. “At this point, you’re smart not to rule anything out.” I grabbed the next folder. “Gold for the Taking. There’s an enticing phrase.”
“A mine-it-yourself tourist attraction. You buy a bucket of dirt to sift in a water sluice. You keep what you find.”
I opened the file. A few photographs of the site were taped to the inside flap. A big sign on a hillside glittered with gold letters—GOLD FOR THE TAKING—and had a cartoon of a prospector lifting a nugget the size of his fist. There was a photo of a gift shop and another of kids lined up at what looked like a feeding trough. The papers in the file included quotes for security hardware and overnight guards. “Does the company need security for what they pick from the ground or what they pick from the tourists’ pockets?”
“A little of both,” Nakayla said. “They salt the buckets with semi-precious gemstones and fool’s gold. But at least they’re honest about it. You can also buy buckets of native dirt if you’re a purist.”
“Anybody ever find anything?”
“Yes. A few years ago an eight-year-old girl found an emerald estimated to be worth over twenty-five thousand dollars. It was in all the papers.”
“I bet the sluice was hopping the next day.”
“For a few weeks.” Nakayla pointed to the picture of the gift shop. “They have a display case in there of some of the gemstones that have been discovered. Tikima installed the security system.”
“Do they buy the gems back?”
“No. These are examples of what the family’s unearthed over the years.” Nakayla pointed to the signatures on the contract. “Phil and Judy Ledbetter. They own over a hundred acres and have reserved the most promising areas for commercial mining. Every few years you’ll hear of some huge emerald or sapphire they’ve discovered. The tourists don’t set foot on those sites.”
“Is this near the Biltmore Estate?”
“No connection. Gold for the Taking is over ten miles outside of Asheville in the other direction, closer to Black Mountain and this hospital.”
I set the file aside. The next folder was labeled Woolworth Walk. “What’s this?”
“A place downtown. It used to be a Woolworth Five and Dime, but now people rent booths. All sorts of arts and crafts.”
“Like a studio?”
“No. Like an arts department store. Painters, woodworkers, sculptures, and jewelry designers sell their creations. Tikima dealt with the building owners when they installed a security system.”
A paperclip held a note card to the inside of the folder. Tikima had written two names: Herman Duringer and Malcolm Grant. I flipped to the last page of the contract. The signature read Andy Culpepper. “Did the building change hands?”
Nakayla studied the names. “Not that I know of. The store’s not a big client. Tikima rarely mentioned it.”
The next file proved to be the thickest one. The U.S. Forestry Department—Pisgah National Forest. Most of the papers were
government contracts, bids, and completed application forms to be an approved Federal vendor.
“Don’t tell me Armitage supplies freelance rangers,” I said.
“Hardly. The National Park Service has some gift shops and exhibits that use security and surveillance systems. Tikima liked working with the rangers. I think if she ever thought of changing jobs, she would have become a park ranger. She loved being outside.”
Like most government documents, the paperwork in the file was dense and unreadable. Another note card was clipped to the back of the folder. James Taylor—Cradle of Forestry.
“You think this is James Taylor, the singer?” I asked.
Nakayla laughed. “No. If Tikima met that James Taylor, she would have told me.”
“Maybe it’s a song. Cradle of Forestry. Like Sweet Baby James.”
Nakayla laughed harder. “The Cradle of Forestry is an historic site in Pisgah. It’s where George Vanderbilt established the first school for forestry in this country.”
“Okay.” I closed the folder. “Now that you know I nearly failed North Carolina history, let’s move on.” The last file bore the title Senior Sanctuaries. “Sounds like places for old birds,” I said.
“In a way. The company owns several retirement communities in the area.”
The paperwork was almost as thick as the Forestry documents, but clipped together in packets representing different operations. Names like Restful Ridge and River’s End seemed more appropriate for cemeteries and I guess in fact they were the next to the last stop. I thought of a marketing brochure my parents had received for a mausoleum. My dad had called it a post-retirement condominium.
Of the six communities in the file, only one had a note attached in Tikima’s handwriting. Golden Oaks. Her note read “find out who he talked to.”
I showed the paper to Nakayla. “Any idea what this means?”
“No. Tikima was always jotting herself notes. You saw that in the apartment.” Nakayla flipped through the Golden Oaks papers. “Looks like they were building a new wing and she gave them a quote on security hardware. Maybe she wanted to know if there were any other bids.”
“The estimate is dated two months ago. Would she keep the file at home that long?”
Nakayla looked at the folders spread across the table. “I hadn’t seen any of these files in her apartment. She must have brought them home a day or two before she disappeared.”
The quote sheet was addressed to Sandra Pollock, Director of Operations at Golden Oaks.
“Odd that the note says ‘find out who he talked to’ when Sandra is a woman. Mention that to Peters.”
“Okay.” Nakayla didn’t sound very enthused.
“Peters will do all right. Just stay on him.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
Since I had no idea what I was supposed to get, I could only stare at her.
“I’m an annoyance to Peters. I can read it in his eyes. Maybe because I’m a woman, maybe because I’m a black woman. He’ll humor me and then go on about business as usual. But with you he’s competitive. The way you nailed him on Tikima’s car. If he solves this case, it’ll be because of you pushing him.”
I didn’t believe she had pegged Peters correctly, not after the way he had barked at Stanley. But Nakayla hadn’t seen that fire in Peters’ eyes. For her, Peters had already dismissed the case as unsolvable, not worth any particular effort. Given the way Elijah’s murder must have been handled, I couldn’t blame her for being skeptical.
“Look. I’m going to Birmingham but I’m not disappearing off the face of the earth. Keep me posted on what develops and I’ll dog Peters long distance until he’s afraid to answer his phone.”
A smile burst across Nakayla’s face. “Would you?”
“Sure. I’ll even get a cell phone and make Peters one of my free-call buddies.”
She squeezed my hand as a thank you. Then she kissed my cheek. I remembered how tough it can be to bear your grief alone and wondered how many family members Nakayla had sharing her sorrow. I’d gotten the word about my parents’ death as I lay in a hospital ward. The nurses sent a chaplain to talk to me, but I only wanted to speak to Stanley. I wanted family. Our phone conversation was one of the few times we hadn’t ended up arguing. Still, I’d been left with words I’d wished I’d spoken to my father. They haunt me because how can you be reconciled to a dead man?
I cleared my throat. “Tell me about your family. Do you keep up with Bessie’s side?”
“Bessie?” She looked at the journal. “Yes, there was a Bessie. In our family lore she migrated north and she’s someone who did disappear off the face of the earth. But my great grandfather Amos came down from Chicago when Elijah was killed.”
“Amos?”
“Yes. He worked at the Biltmore Estate, married, and had a son named Harrison. I guess they’d used up all the prophet names by then. Grandpa Harrison died ten years ago. My father had been his only child. His name was Clyde. For three generations, only one child, a son, had been born in each marriage.”
“Until you and Tikima,” I said.
“Yes, but Tikima tried to be a son. Our father had been a Marine in Vietnam. She enlisted as soon as she turned eighteen. Daddy was very proud. For awhile.”
I turned toward her in my chair, sensing the story was heading in another direction.
“Our mother died of breast cancer at the age of forty-five. She’d been everything to Daddy. Tikima was stationed overseas, and I was a teenager and totally into myself.” Nakayla sniffled and wiped her eyes. “He went into depression and six months later killed himself. I’d been out all night. As I snuck in the next morning, I found him on the kitchen floor. No note. An empty Jim Beam bottle on the table and a pistol by his hand.”
Nakayla’s tears fell freely and she made no effort to wipe them away. “Grandpa Harrison died shortly after that. His heart just quit.” She looked up at me. “It must be a terrible thing to bury your child.”
I thought of the countless Iraqi women I’d seen wailing in the funeral processions for their sons and daughters. And the stateside burials of my fellow soldiers with mothers and fathers crying and clinging to each other. Grief for a lost child knows no borders of language or geography.
“So, the other people on the front pew at the funeral, they weren’t family?”
“No,” Nakayla said. “Close friends and church people who’d seen Tikima and me grow up. But no blood family.” She bit her lower lip and stared at the wall.
“I’m the end of the line,” she whispered. “The last of the Robertsons.”
Chapter Ten
At eight the next morning, I stopped by Dr. Anderson’s office in hopes of catching him before he started his rounds. Anderson had final say on my release and I wanted to be first on his next day’s schedule. Fridays were especially hectic with discharges and weekend passes, so a morning release could drag on into the afternoon.
His assistant was away from her desk. I knocked on his door under the Private sign. Anderson opened it quickly. His craggy face frowned as he saw me as yet another unexpected problem.
Anderson was career army, a no-nonsense medical man whose displeasure could extend to the brass above him as well as the veterans in his care. He played no favorites and suffered no fools.
“Blackman, what is it?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir. I have a favor to ask.”
Anderson rubbed a hand through his close-cropped gray hair and looked around his messy office. “You’ll have to ask it standing. There’s no place to sit.”
“This won’t take long. You know I’m being released tomorrow.”
He grunted. “As if you haven’t already been out of the hospital enough.”
“I’m sorry about that too. But my ride to Birmingham needs to leave first thing in the morning and I was hoping—”
“Hoping you could have an early discharge,” he said, finishing my sentence.
“Yes, sir.”
Ande
rson sighed. “I suppose so. Be sure and get your supplies from Hinnant this afternoon.”
“My supplies?”
He glared at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “Right. If you’d been here when you were supposed to be yesterday, you’d have been given an appointment. The Hinnant people are up from Charlotte.”
I knew Hinnant constructed the prosthetics for many of the vets. They’d fitted me for my permanent leg upon my transfer from Walter Reed and had shown me how to use the socks and liners needed as the swelling went down and my stump became better conditioned.
“Don’t I just order from them?” I asked.
Anderson’s expression softened. The old doctor seemed amused by my confusion. “Yes. But I want them to check you out one more time, especially since you’re leaving the state. And I want to make sure the second leg fits properly.”
“What second leg?”
“You’re entitled to two. Sometimes the bean counters in Washington discourage us from ordering them. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew the request had cleared and I’d gotten the model I wanted.”
Crusty Dr. Anderson had evidently gone to bat for me. “Thank you.” I offered my hand and he gripped it firmly. “Did you get me the one with racing stripes?”
“Better than that.” He glanced down at my prosthesis. “What you’ve been working with is fine for everyday use. If you land a desk job or walk on smooth sidewalks, you’ll find it more comfortable.” He winked. “But you’re a young, active guy. Hinnant’s fitted the second leg with a foot model called Venture, designed for more rugged activities. Uneven terrain, running, why a guy in Florida is a champion surfer. Hinnant will check you out on it, and I’ve ordered a supply of multiple ply socks, liners, and gels. You’ll continue to have some atrophy and shrinkage in that left limb, and even the humidity will affect how well the socket fits on some days.”
I’d learned the paraphernalia required could fill a small suitcase. I had several liners with attachment pins that fit over my stump for locking into the prosthesis’ socket. A team of horses couldn’t pull the leg free. But fit was crucial and special socks went over the liner to ensure I wasn’t rubbing tissue that was never meant to bear body weight. Adding and removing socks of different ply thickness was key and adjustments were constantly being made as conditions changed.
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