We turned onto a narrower road and left the commercial sprawl behind. The forest closed around us and we drove a couple miles until we saw signs for the Rangers Welcome Center. We found a space at the end of the parking lot and walked past minivans and SUVs loaded with mountain bikes, kayaks, and camping gear.
The building looked well maintained and the grounds were landscaped with flowers and shrubs. Stone and wood construction created a rustic atmosphere. Inside, displays and interactive maps provided orientation to the trails, streams, and recreational activities the park offered.
Visitors of all ages wandered through the large space, collecting brochures and plotting their adventures. Surprisingly, the ranger at the information desk was free.
“May I help you?” The woman smiled at us. Her brown hair was braided in a long pigtail that drooped over her shoulder and touched the edge of her nameplate. Rita Carson.
“We were hoping to speak with Ranger Taylor,” I said. “Is he here?”
“Not unless a fight broke out in the parking lot.” Her eyes twinkled. “Just kidding.” She pointed to the ranger insignia on her sleeve. “James has Enforcement written on his. He gets to carry a gun.”
“So he doesn’t have a particular station?” I asked.
“No, he has an office in administration. James is head of enforcement for this section of the park. Any crimes committed here come under his jurisdiction. But right now he’s up at the Cradle of Forestry. They’re having a chainsaw sculpture demonstration, part of the Lumberjack Festival this weekend.”
“Can we talk to him?”
“That depends upon how loud the chainsaws are. And whether you want to pay the admission charge this late in the day.”
Nakayla reached in her purse. “Admission’s no problem.”
“Good. But you pay up there.” Ranger Rita took a notepad from the desk. “Give me your names and I’ll have the base dispatcher radio that you’re coming.”
The Cradle of Forestry was almost ten miles farther into the park. Although we averaged only forty miles an hour, the time passed swiftly. For most of the journey, we traveled beside a cascading stream, often broken by waterfalls. At one point, we passed a line of cars parked along the road’s shoulder.
“That’s Looking Glass Falls,” Nakayla said. “One of the most photographed sites in the mountains.”
I caught a glimpse of mist boiling up from unseen turbulence and then a quick flash of whitewater tumbling over a slick rock face. “I’ll have to come back sometime and explore. Good place to test my sports leg.”
“You’d better do your testing away from this stream. If you fall in, it won’t matter which leg you’re wearing.”
“I’ll ask Hinnant if they make one that converts into a raft. Maybe collect a bunch of specialty legs—like golf clubs.”
Nakayla didn’t laugh and I decided to keep my morbid sense of humor to myself.
We paid six dollars each at the Cradle of Forestry entrance and obeyed multiple attendants as they waved us to a parking space.
“Vanderbilt established the Biltmore School of Forestry in the 1890s.” Nakayla locked the car and we started walking. “He had brought in a guy named Pinchot to manage his forest.”
“How do you manage a forest?”
“Avoid clear cutting, re-plant seedlings, and remove trees that hinder the growth of stronger ones. Remember Henderson Youngblood mentioned Vanderbilt’s forestry in the journal.”
One of the other things in addition to Elijah’s murder we knew to be true, I thought.
“The Cradle of Forestry has reconstructed some of the original buildings,” Nakayla said. “A German, Carl Schenck, followed Pinchot and developed the school to its full potential.”
“Why’d it close?”
“I think Schenck went back to Germany just before the outbreak of World War One. Either he didn’t want to return to America or he couldn’t. And then Vanderbilt died in 1914.” Nakayla nodded to the large building now visible at the end of the parking lot. “You can find everything you want to know in there.”
Off to our left, a chainsaw roared to life.
“Right now everything I want to know is down there.” I pointed to a trail that branched off toward the whine of the saw’s engine. “Let’s see if Ranger James Taylor has more than Carolina on his mind.”
The even surface of the trail made walking easy for me. A late afternoon breeze cooled the air and for a second I thought snowflakes swirled around me. Several stuck to my lips. Sawdust.
We emerged in a small clearing where a blizzard raged. An enthusiastic crowd stood upwind of a chainsaw-wielding man who attacked an upright section of a tree trunk at least three feet in diameter. A cluster of Brownie scouts held their hands over their ears and watched in amazement as chips and dust spewed like the eruption of a geyser. Scattered on the sawdust-covered ground were a menagerie of freshly carved wildlife: a bear cub, squirrel, coiled rattlesnake, and doe with a fawn. Each sculpture stood at least a yard high and the detail exacted by the lethal blade created uncanny likenesses.
We started to circle around the clearing when I saw a hand wave behind the Brownie troop. Partially hidden by the spray of sawdust, the figure moved away from the crowd till I recognized a uniformed ranger. Shouting a greeting was useless so we waited for him to get closer. He had the energetic strut of a bantam rooster and the build of a pipe cleaner man, the figure Stanley and I made as kids out of the fuzzy wires our father kept with his tobacco humidor.
“James Taylor,” he shouted above the noise. He took Nakayla’s hand first and then shook mine.
A gust of wind suddenly whipped across the clearing engulfing us in a shower of sawdust. We jumped like we’d been drenched with a tsunami of cold water.
“Let’s get closer to the exhibit hall,” Taylor said, “where we can hear ourselves talk.” He set off at a quick pace while Nakayla lingered with me.
I moved as fast as I could, but in addition to the artificial leg, I was plagued with woodchips sliding under my shirt and rubbing against my back. I looked at Nakayla. Her face was coated in dust. I must have appeared the same because she started laughing, laughing so hard she had to stop and catch her breath. For the first time, I noticed the dimples deep in her cheeks. Maybe the sawdust exaggerated them or maybe the sawdust for a brief moment covered the layer of sadness Tikima’s murder had cast over her.
Ranger Taylor waited by a bench outside the exhibit center. He hadn’t fared much better. Underneath his wood particle veneer, he looked to be in his mid-fifties, thin faced with crooked yellow teeth. These showed in a broad grin as he watched us approach.
“Well, you can imagine what kind of day I’ve had. Chainsaw sculpture is good for the tourists but I’ll be digging woodchips out of my ears for a week.” He pointed to the bench. “Take a load off. I’m used to standing.”
I didn’t know if he was being chivalrous to Nakayla or considerate of my obvious physical challenge, but I didn’t argue. Nakayla sat beside me and Taylor stepped back a pace so that he didn’t tower over us.
“Sam Blackman and Nakayla Robertson,” he said. His expression turned serious. “You related to Tikima?”
“She was my sister.”
“I was so sorry to hear what happened. Tikima had helped us with the security system here. I’d hoped to get her as a ranger someday.”
“I think she’d have liked that,” Nakayla said.
Taylor wiped sawdust away from his eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Nakayla put her hand on my knee. “Sam’s a veteran. A friend of Tikima’s. He worked in criminal investigations for the military. We’re unofficially checking with some of Tikima’s favorite clients.”
Taylor studied me. “About what?”
“About anything that might give the police a lead,” I said. “You know how it is. When somebody close to you dies, you want to do something.”
He nodded. “Sure. And I’ll help any way I can.”
“W
hen did you see Tikima last?” I asked.
He thought for a second. “Must have been the end of May. Before Memorial Day Weekend because that kicks off our heavy tourist season. I try to get administrative things out of the way before then.”
“You contacted Tikima?”
“No. She called me. Tikima knew our schedule and wanted to meet before the summer crunch. We lease equipment from Armitage and she pitched some upgrades.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary?”
“No. I prodded her about becoming a ranger and she just laughed and said she was done with uniforms.”
I decided to pursue another angle. “Does the national park stretch to the French Broad?”
“Close. Especially at the North Carolina Arboretum.”
That was the second time today the arboretum had been mentioned. Jake Matthews had linked it to the Bent Creek section of the river.
“At Bent Creek?” I asked.
“Yes.” Taylor’s eyes widened. “You think Tikima was killed at Bent Creek? I thought her body was found farther downstream.”
“You tell me if that’s possible. I saw the high water marks the river left from recent flooding and wondered if the police estimate took the current surge into account. Luther Rawlings says Tikima wouldn’t have been on the Biltmore Estate property.”
Taylor spit to his side. “Rawlings. Pardon my French, but he wouldn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.” He took a step forward. “Did Rawlings say Tikima was killed on park land?”
“No. I’m just looking at all upstream possibilities. If it was park land, then it’s your case.”
Taylor mulled that over for a moment. “Was Tikima in her car?”
“At first the police thought no, but new evidence suggests otherwise.”
“What new evidence?”
“Soil samples on the tires and a man’s footprint on the driver’s carpet.”
“Who’s working the case from Asheville?”
“Peters.”
Taylor nodded. “He’s competent.”
“But Sam’s the one who found the clues in Tikima’s car,” Nakayla said.
“That so?” He examined me closely like I might be withholding other information.
I shrugged. “Sometimes you get lucky.”
“Give me a description of the car. I know it was some kind of Japanese make. They all look the same to me.” He pulled a notepad and pen from his chest pocket and blew sawdust off both of them. “I’ll cross-reference it with any vehicular reports my staff made around the time she disappeared.”
Nakayla gave him the information including the Avalon’s plate number.
Taylor flipped the pad closed and stuffed it and the pen back in his pocket. “If I turn up anything, I’ll send it straight to Peters rather than have you take it to him.”
“I understand. Nakayla and I are strictly low profile. Might be easier if you didn’t mention we contacted you.”
Taylor grinned. “Gotcha. Everybody’s got their turf to protect.”
I stood. “But I’d appreciate your telling us whatever you learn after you talk to Peters.”
Nakayla handed him her card. “Here’s how you can reach me.”
Taylor read it. “Investigative Alliance for Underwriters. You two are quite the detective team. Tell me, did Luther Rawlings ask for a description of Tikima’s car?”
“No,” I said.
“There you go.” He spit again and our interview was over.
***
Instead of turning back the way we came, Nakayla drove us farther into Pisgah Forest.
“I want to take the Blue Ridge Parkway back to Asheville,” she said.
“Won’t that be longer?”
“Not from where we are. The view is spectacular at sunset, and we’ll exit at Bent Creek.”
“Then you’ve got my vote.”
The ridges blocked the late afternoon sun and plunged the winding road into deep shadow. We climbed steadily until I saw a sign for the Parkway. Nakayla took the ramp and we came to the top of the mountain. Suddenly light streamed through the windows and off to the left the enlarged golden sun hung poised above the distant peaks. As we drove along the spine of the Appalachians, the mountain ranges looked like waves on the ocean. Gold-tipped and frozen, they rolled away from us on either side.
The Parkway made a slow descent with the panoramic vistas changing from right to left as we crossed from one side of the ridge summit to the other. Several times the road went through unlit tunnels where sudden crests were easier to bore through than build the road over.
Dusk had darkened the sky by the time Nakayla left the Parkway at the exit for Highway 191. As we traveled down the curving ramp, I saw a sign for the North Carolina Arboretum.
“I didn’t know we had a state arboretum,” I said.
“Over four hundred acres. At one time, it had been within Pisgah National Forest, but now it’s part of the state’s university system. Guess who first envisioned it?”
I named the only plant guy I knew. “Frederick Law Olmsted?”
“Give the man a prize. But the arboretum wasn’t created until nearly a hundred years after he proposed it.” She braked at a stop sign. “And there’s the Bent Creek put-in.”
Almost directly across the intersecting two-lane highway lay a wide strip of dark sand beside the river. Kayakers were coming off the water and loading their boats onto roof racks and trailers. Nakayla crossed over and parked along the shoulder, leaving room for the exiting vehicles to pass.
“Want to take a look?”
I was halfway out of the car before she finished the question. Together we walked to the water’s edge. Above the sounds of the kayakers and car engines rose the calls of frogs and katydids. Lightning bugs flickered along the opposite shore. Before us ran the wide river, inky black now that no light penetrated its surface.
I bent down and scooped up a handful of sand. The grains were coarse and dark. Those on Tikima’s tires and carpet had been lighter. How much different would this sand look once it dried?
Upstream, a pair of headlights flew across the river. The Blue Ridge Parkway continued on, spanning the French Broad, oblivious to what might have happened beneath its stone arch.
***
Nakayla let me off at the front door of the Kenilworth. She offered to come up and fix me a late supper, but I wanted only a shower and bed. I itched from the sawdust and my stump ached from the exertion of the day’s activities. She promised to pick me up at nine the next morning so we could visit the Gold for the Taking mine and the Woolworth Walk in downtown Asheville.
Once in the apartment, I stripped out of my clothes and dropped them into the washer/dryer combo off the kitchen. I removed my leg, hand-washed the liner and socks, and then hit the shower. Washing took twice as long since I had to steady myself with one hand at all times. I thought about the showers Tikima must have taken, her prosthetic arm probably left outside the door where my artificial leg now lay. I felt her presence around me.
The phone rang as I sat on the edge of the bed, drying my hair. Probably Nakayla or Peters. She’d given the detective the number.
I picked up the receiver from the nightstand. “Blackman.”
“Nathan Armitage here.” His voice was clipped and strictly business.
“Hi, Nathan.”
“So you didn’t go to Birmingham.”
“No. I’m staying in town a few days.”
“Yeah. Well, thanks for the heads up.”
The files. Peters had interviewed Armitage about his client files and told him they were found in Tikima’s apartment. Now Armitage was pissed at me.
“Look. Your files were at the scene of a break-in. Tikima’s sister and I turned them in to the police. Peters told me not to say anything to anyone. You know how cops are with evidence.”
“I’m not concerned about the cops. I’m concerned that you seem to be snooping into my clients’ affairs. Luther Rawlings called me and said Nakayla and
some hotdog were pumping him for information—a day after you did your civic duty and gave the police my files.”
His accusatory tone punched all my wrong buttons. “Maybe I’m just speaking up for Tikima again when you won’t. Do your own god-damned investigation.” I hung up. If Tikima hadn’t confided in Mr. B. C. Cure, then neither would I.
Although it was only a little after nine, I felt exhausted. As I crawled between the sheets, I patted the well-worn Bible Tikima kept on her nightstand. I’m not one for praying, but I told Tikima if she could put in a good word with the Big Guy, we could use a little help.
The ringing of the phone woke me. Tikima’s digital clock read 10:14 p.m. I reached over the Bible and picked up the receiver.
“Blackman,” I mumbled.
“Sam.” Nakayla’s voice was tight with excitement. “A man just called. He wouldn’t give his name but he said if I wanted to know what happened to my sister I should meet him tonight.”
“Where?”
“Riverside Cemetery. It’s north of town near the Montford historic district.”
The directions meant nothing to me. “Nakayla, that sounds like a setup. Why wouldn’t he give his name?”
“He said he didn’t know who to trust. That the police are covering up things and he has proof. He said he’d heard I’d hired a private detective and to bring him.”
The skin on my neck was crawling. “I don’t like it.”
“Riverside’s not that isolated. There are houses close by.”
“And the river?”
“The French Broad.”
The damn French Broad. Everything kept coming back to the French Broad.
“If you don’t want to go, that’s fine,” Nakayla said. “I just wanted you to know about it.”
“You’re not going there alone.”
“Sam, this might be our only break. I’m not going to lose him.”
I ran my fingers through my hair trying to jumpstart my brain. “Is he going to be at the entrance to the cemetery?”
“No.” She hesitated. “He said to meet him at Thomas Wolfe’s grave.”
Blackman's Coffin Page 15
