Blackman's Coffin

by Mark de Castrique

  “We’ve got to dig up Hannable Robertson’s grave.”

  “What?” Nakayla sounded bewildered.

  I’d called her on her cell phone and caught her as she entered her house. I realized how preposterous the idea must seem.

  “The records in the family Bible state he died in 1917 in East St. Louis. I think Elijah used Harrison Young’s father for the safe transportation of his gold.”

  “Slow down, Sam. I’m not following you.”

  “Then let me back up. Elijah had discovered gold and managed to either mine it or pan it from one of the streams on the estate. The Jim Crow laws were becoming intolerable and he planned to move to the home place in Georgia. For all we know, he might have been working his gold source for twenty or twenty-five years. Back to when he and Olmsted were first diverting streams and creating the landscape for the estate.”

  “But what about Bessie and Uncle Hannable?”

  “Don’t you see? Elijah gave Bessie enough gold to take her family north. The dinner in the cabin, the peach wagon blocking the view of the hearse—everything was set up for Bessie to get a share. As for Uncle Hannable, who would interfere with a black man’s coffin, especially when they didn’t know that it wasn’t a white person being transported by a white funeral home?”

  “What do you hope to prove?” Nakayla asked.

  “The motive. If we find an empty coffin, or better yet, gold or traces of gold, then we’ll know our theory is correct.”

  “And if we find a body?”

  Her question stopped me. I was so sure of my deductions that the possibility of the coffin housing an occupant hadn’t entered my mind. “Then I hope to God it’s Uncle Hannable. Otherwise, we’ve really opened a can of worms.” I regretted the worm analogy as I said it.

  “So, we’ll have to file a request for an exhumation with the state of Georgia?”

  I’d had my fill of bureaucracies—from the V.A. to the U.S. Congress. “No. That would be a nightmare of red tape.”

  “You’re saying we’ll do it ourselves?”

  “With Harry’s help. He can guide us to the location.”

  “What about the research on the genealogy?”

  “That can wait. I want to call Harry now. Can you miss work tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I guess so. But digging up a grave…” She let the thought hang on the phone line.

  “I know. But everything now points to that 1919 trip to Georgia. I think Tikima knew she’d have to go to extraordinary lengths to solve Elijah’s murder. That might be why she came to me.”

  “Okay, Sam. Call me back.”

  “I will.” I thought of something else. “Do you have any tools to dig with?” But Nakayla had already hung up.

  I let Harry’s phone ring, hoping he was in the apartment but needing time to reach the receiver.

  “Hello.” His craggy voice told me he’d been sleeping.

  “Harry. It’s Sam. You’re not going to believe this.” I gave him a summary of what I’d found in the Bible and my theory of the trip to Georgia. “So we need to open that coffin, Harry. That way we’ll know for sure.”

  “Can’t be done.”

  “One night’s all we need. We don’t even have to lift it out of the ground.”

  Harry sighed. “I took Harrison there back in 1960 to show him where his grandfather was buried. Amos had lost the land to back taxes, but I thought maybe we could find the spot. People are hesitant to move graves. I’m afraid Elijah and his kin are at the bottom of Lake Lanier.”

  “Lake Lanier?”

  “Yep. The government built a dam in the Fifties and flooded thousands of acres of farmland. Every road I remembered ended at the water.”

  Now I was the one who sighed.

  “But I think you’re on to something,” Harry said. “Explains a lot of what happened on that journey. Elijah was a clever enough fellow to have pulled it off.”

  “Yeah,” I said half-heartedly. “I guess we’ll have to prove how clever some other way.”

  I hung up, deflated by Harry’s news, and then called Nakayla to tell her the grave angle was a dead end.

  As I took off my leg, I realized how foolish I’d been. What was I going to do? Hop up and down on a shovel? How would I and a hundred-year-old man with two good legs between us dig up a coffin in the middle of the night? Just as well that the family cemetery lay underwater. My gold fever had crowded out my common sense. Nakayla would have to find the genealogical connection and then we’d plan our attack.

  ***

  I slept till nearly ten—an indication of how much the events of the past few days had exhausted me. After a quick shower to clear my head, I hobbled around the apartment on my crutches, microwaving a bowl of oatmeal and browsing through Tikima’s collection of books. Exploring the Geology of the Carolinas caught my eye. One of the authors was a professor of geology at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Tikima had earmarked a section on the western part of the state and I read in greater detail the story of ancient continents crashing into one another. Diagrams depicted the Brevard Fault that at one time made the action of the San Andreas in California look like the gentle rocking of a yard swing.

  I was immersed in a section on gold deposits when the phone rang.

  “Phil Ledbetter.” Nakayla’s voice crackled with excitement. “I was able to trace him back and guess who I hit?”

  No Ledbetters made Harry’s list of Biltmore employees so I was clueless as to the connection. “I have no idea.”

  “Galloway. Phil Ledbetter is the grandson of Jamie Galloway, the man who supposedly died in World War One. Ledbetter’s mother was Galloway’s daughter.”

  “But that property is the opposite direction from where Elijah prospected.”

  “How do we know that? Elijah and Junebug were all over these hills.”

  “But his body was found in the French Broad, Junebug was on Biltmore property—and Tikima might have been killed on the estate. The evidence doesn’t support Elijah’s involvement with the Ledbetters’ gem mine.”

  “Look how bodies and cars have been moved around, Sam. And we’ve got the bracelet. Maybe an expert could match those emeralds to what Phil Ledbetter mined.”

  I didn’t know enough about emeralds and gold to agree or disagree.

  “And I’ve found something else,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to show you. I’m in the car and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Whatever Nakayla had discovered certainly boosted her spirits.

  I put on my leg and quickly straightened up the apartment. Then I had an idea. I called information and got the number for the geology department at UNC. I expected to get voicemail, but the woman who answered transferred me to Dr. Kevin Stewart, the co-author of Exploring the Geology of the Carolinas. I hadn’t thought through my approach but I decided to tell enough of the truth to get the information I needed.

  “Kevin Stewart.” The voice sounded younger than what I’d expected from a professor who studied old rocks.

  “Dr. Stewart. My name is Sam Blackman. I’m calling from Asheville.”

  “Then I’m envious. It’s ninety-five degrees down here. How can I help you?”

  “Our family has a gold and emerald bracelet made in the early 1900s. We wondered if it’s possible to determine where the gems and gold came from.”

  “Hmmm.” He paused. “I assume you’re talking about the geological source.”

  “Yes.”

  “That would depend upon their distinctive qualities. Ideally, you’d have a few samples for comparison—ones with a known origin. That would be especially true for gold. The geochemical fingerprint depends on what other trace elements are present.”

  “And the emeralds?”

  “The best way to fingerprint them is with oxygen isotopes. Most natural oxygen is oxygen-16. That is eight protons and eight neutrons. But a small percentage is oxygen-18 with two extra neutrons. Emeralds from different sources will have different
ratios of oxygen-16 and oxygen-18. When those ratios are the same, then it’s a good bet you’ve found the common site. Even the rock around the emeralds will have the same ratio because everything crystallized at the same time from the same fluids.” He laughed. “Are you still awake? This is when my students normally nod off.”

  “I’m still with you. But I don’t have site samples. We think the gold and emeralds might have come from Gold for the Taking.”

  Dr. Stewart laughed again. “You sure they’re not plastic?”

  “A jewelry designer tells me they’re high grade emeralds.”

  “Could be. The tourist bait at Gold for the Taking isn’t worth much, but there’s a rich emerald deposit somewhere on that property. I’ve seen some of the stones, but to my knowledge no one’s been able to dig other than the owner. Ledbetter’s his name?”

  “That’s right. So you might be able to match the emeralds?”

  “If I had a sample emerald or even rock from the mine. Otherwise it’s more likely I could tell you if they didn’t come from there, not definitely prove that they did.”

  “What about the gold in the bracelet?”

  “Highly unlikely that gold and emeralds would be found at the same site. Gold for the Taking’s not known for much gold other than what’s washed downstream. Gold’s trickier because the extraction process and refining purifies the precious metal while obscuring its origins. If you had the ore, then you’d have a better chance.”

  I figured I’d gotten what useful help I could from Dr. Stewart and thanked him for his time.

  “No problem. And if you get down to Chapel Hill, bring the bracelet. I’d love to see it.”

  Nakayla came into the apartment clutching a manila envelope. She went to the dining table, unfastened the clasp, and pulled out several sheets of paper.

  “I spoke to a geologist,” I said. “He doesn’t hold much promise that we’ll be able to identify the exact source of the bracelet’s emeralds without a sample from the site.”

  Nakayla didn’t seem interested. “Look at this.”

  She handed me a picture that had been downloaded from the internet and printed on standard paper. The website was Historical Graves of Georgia. The image quality was poor, but I could make out several large rocks behind a wrought-iron fence.

  “What is it?”

  Nakayla gave me a second sheet. The close-up showed a weather-worn gray surface with faint depressions that had once been distinct letters. MALACHI ROBERTSON.

  “Elijah’s graveyard,” I said.

  Nakayla grinned. “Brilliant, Sherlock. Glad you told me.”

  “How did you ever find it?”

  Nakayla sat at the table and I took the chair beside her.

  “I knew graves created problems. Native American burial sites and slave cemeteries usually have no descendants to insure their preservation and so historical societies and heritage foundations have lobbied for governmental protection. State laws have been enacted that make it extremely difficult to develop property containing a cemetery. I thought even in the Fifties, efforts might have been made to relocate graves lying in the proposed bed of Lake Lanier. Turns out these graves weren’t moved at all.”

  “Harry was wrong?”

  Nakayla slid me a third sheet. “Yes. But it’s easy to see why. The lake changed so much of the landscape and it’d been forty years since he’d last seen the cemetery. The graveyard is at the edge of a county park. When the lake was formed, the stream became a cove and the water level rose nearly even with the graves.”

  I looked down at a wider shot of a green lawn with picnic shelters and barbecue grills. In the background, I saw the cemetery’s fence and beyond, a wide stretch of water. Then I remembered the journal mentioned the graves were on a knoll above the stream. Elijah’s people had chosen well. “You know where this is?”

  She nodded. “Found it on the Hall County website.” She tapped the papers in front of her. “I printed out Mapquest directions. It’s about a three-hour drive.”

  I studied the pictures. “I don’t know. A public park?”

  “That’s even better. It closes at ten. You said we only have to dig down to the coffin’s lid.”

  But last night the reality of using a spade with only one good leg had come crashing down on me.

  “Harry can hold the flashlight while we both dig.” Any reservations Nakayla expressed earlier had been cleared away by her discovery.

  “Do you have any tools?” I asked.

  “No. But we’ll buy them this afternoon. How soon can we pick Harry up in the morning?”

  The idea of the three of us digging in a public place at two in the morning reminded me of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn watching Injun Joe in the graveyard. That had gotten Tom buried in a cave, and I wasn’t the Samuel Clemens who could write our way out.

  “We shouldn’t get Harry before nine,” I said. “We’ll say he’s staying overnight with me. I’ll tell the Captain so he can stand down his patrols.” I stood and walked to the kitchen counter. I leaned against it with my back to Nakayla.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  I spun around. “Face it, Nakayla. I’m a damn cripple. We don’t know how hard or rocky the ground will be. You’re the only able-bodied man and you’re not even—” I halted, realizing I’d be completing a sentence I’d regret.

  “And I’m not even a man?” Nakayla’s brown eyes narrowed. “Is that it?”

  “No.”

  “The answer to my sister’s murder may be in that grave. I’ll dig with my bare hands if I have to.” Her voice trembled and I knew there’d be no stopping her.

  “Police or county rangers could swing by the park,” I said.

  “Then drop me off at midnight and pick me up in the morning. I can always hide behind a tombstone. You’re not too crippled to drive, are you?”

  Her words stung like a slap across my face.

  “No,” I said flatly. “I can drive.” I could also think. The first rule of combat is don’t launch an offensive undermanned. The second rule is that something always goes wrong with every plan. Have backup.

  I returned to the table and picked up the map. Lake Lanier was almost halfway between the two cities. “All right. We’ll do it. But I’m getting another digger.”

  “Who?”

  “My brother Stanley. He can drive over from Birmingham.”

  “Why would he help?”

  “Because I’ve got something he needs.” I dropped the map and turned toward the phone.

  “Sam. Wait.” She stood. Tears glistened in her eyes. “You’re going to let him settle the lawsuit?”

  “That’s my leverage. That’s what he needs.”

  “No. You can’t. That’s too much to lose.”

  “Coming from a woman who’s on her hands and knees clawing at the ground with her fingernails?”

  Nakayla had to laugh at the absurdity of the scene.

  “Someone fired a bullet that missed my head by inches,” I said. “Somehow, I’d forgotten that. This is personal for me too. I won’t tell Stanley any more than I have to.” I smiled. “Besides, it’ll be worth the money to see his face when I hand him a shovel in that graveyard.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “May I help you?” The woman’s voice sounded tinny coming from the small speaker beside the keypad.

  “We’re here to see Harry Young,” Nakayla said.

  “Come on through.”

  The crossbar next to the unmanned guardhouse lifted, and we began our ascent to Golden Oaks. The Hyundai’s trunk contained three new shovels, a pick, and a ten-by-ten tarp. I’d also purchased a crowbar and a hammer, but I had no idea as to the condition of the coffin’s wood after nearly ninety years in the ground.

  Exactly one week ago, Tikima Robertson had been buried. Tonight, in another cemetery, I hoped to unearth the reason for her murder.

  My call to Stanley the previous night had gone as well as I could expect. Thanks to Nakayla’s insistence, my lett
er had arrived that morning, and, though I didn’t back down from my position on the lawsuit, I’d written a profuse and sincere apology for the personal things I’d said. That probably kept him from hanging up on me.

  When I asked Stanley to meet me in Gainesville, Georgia, he’d hesitated, saying anything we needed to discuss could be done over the phone. I said since writing the letter, I’d reconsidered my objections and would be willing to discuss them. But I needed his help with something else in return and I had to explain in person. I’d be in Gainesville at eight the next night. Otherwise, we’d leave things as they were and hope the lawsuit wouldn’t drag on.

  Stanley bit the bait. I just had to keep him hooked. I’d left him wondering when I’d told him come dressed for gardening.

  Golden Oaks Retirement Center looked beautiful in the morning sunlight. Automatic sprinklers showered beds of begonias and impatiens lining the parking lot. A multitude of rainbows appeared in the fine spray as we drove to the main lobby. Nakayla found a visitor’s spot and as we left the car, Captain came out the front door. He wore a pith helmet, a khaki safari shirt, and brown-checkered Bermuda shorts. Except for his walker, the old guy was ready to hunt crocodiles.

  “Good morning, folks. It’s a glorious day.” His voice rang out like the town crier’s. Then he dropped to nearly a whisper. “Hilda at the front desk said someone just buzzed at the gate for Harry. Glad to see it’s you.”

  “We’re going to take him out with us,” I said. “Probably won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  Captain’s eyes darted left and right looking for eavesdroppers. “Part of the case?”

  “Yes. But that’s all I can say. I guess I’ll need to sign him out.”

  Captain waved off the idea. “No. I’ll take care of it. Anybody comes looking for him, we’ll say he’s not feeling well.”

  “Has somebody been by?” Nakayla asked.

  “Not for Harry. Yesterday, Mr. Armitage dropped in on Sandra Pollock, the resident manager. I had Bertha stationed outside her office. He was asking about Tikima’s visits, but Sandra didn’t mention Harry.”

  So, Armitage was conducting his own investigation. I regretted hanging up on him. Maybe Detective Peters was right. I am a hothead. I’d better cool down if I hoped to find Tikima’s killer.