She bit her lower lip, clearly frustrated that I wasn’t going away. “Well, since this document exists,” she tapped the coroner’s report with a crooked finger, “maybe the death certificate was misfiled with it.”
“You’re looking at paper copies?”
“No. But the paper documents might have been digitized and catalogued incorrectly.” She picked up the photocopy. “Mind if I borrow this?”
“Be my guest. I’ll use the time to check with Gladys Dailey in the Sheriff’s Office.”
She smiled for the first time. “You know Gladys?”
“She’s a peach, isn’t she?”
The woman lowered her voice. “Let me make an extra copy for Gladys. Tell her Lois says hello.”
I left my new friend and went back through courthouse security in search of Gladys.
The same sheriff’s deputy greeted me. “Gladys is back,” he said. “Give me your name and I’ll page her.”
“Blackman. Sam Blackman. Tell her Lois sent me.”
The deputy reached across his desk and offered his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Blackman. I didn’t recognize you. I’m Mike Simmons.”
“Have we met?”
“No, but I’ve seen your picture in the paper. You broke some pretty big cases.”
“You know how it is. Sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time.”
He picked up the phone. “Gladys. Your guest is back. Mr. Sam Blackman.” He winked at me. “That will get her out here. She told me what you did for Roy Peters’ wife and kids. We butt heads with the Asheville police once in a while, but when an officer falls in the line of duty, it’s an assault on all of us. Know what I mean?”
“Yes. I do.” Those same feelings existed in the military. Especially among those of us who’d seen our buddies fall around us. We might have been serving our country, but we were fighting to save each other.
“Mr. Blackman?” A middle-age woman with gray-streaked brown hair stepped through a door behind Simmons. Her broad smile was a sharp contrast to the bureaucratic countenance that had greeted me in county records.
“Yes, Ms. Dailey. Have you got a few minutes?”
She waved me forward. “Definitely. Come on back.”
I followed her to a small conference room that looked like it was doubling as someone’s office. Manila folders stacked in various heights covered the back half of a rectangular table. Two cups, half-filled with cold coffee, sat abandoned near the front edge.
Gladys pushed them away. “Sorry for the mess. Have you ever been in a law enforcement office that had enough room?”
I slid into a chair across from her. “I’d be suspicious of one that wasn’t busting at the seams.”
“What can I do for you?” She swept her hand toward the folders. “That doesn’t involve paperwork.”
“No such luck.” I explained I was looking into the death of Paul Weaver and showed her the copy of the coroner’s report. “Lois in county records is searching for a death certificate and any information from the inquest. I’m hoping you might have a report if the Sheriff’s Department was involved.”
“Do you know where the death occurred?” Gladys asked.
“Mr. Weaver’s sister was told a trail along the Blue Ridge Parkway near Black Mountain.”
“That’s in our jurisdiction.” She rose from the table and picked up the cups. “Can you wait a few minutes?”
“No problem.” I pulled out my cell phone. “Always work to do.”
Gladys smiled and left. I texted Nakayla:
At sheriff’s waiting on copy of report.
That was the work I had to do. I looked at the stacks of manila folders, tempted to read one of the files. The barbecue rested heavy on my stomach and I feared Gladys would return to find me asleep.
The door opened. Deputy Mike Simmons entered. “Thought you might like a cup of coffee. I know you hang out with Newly and the city boys. Their brew would peel the paint off a patrol car.” He handed me the mug, clearly not a refill of one of the dirty cups. “It’s black. I figured as ex-Army you weren’t the cream-and-sugar type.”
I took a sip. “Pretty good. You need to give Newly some pointers.”
Simmons laughed. “You tell him. He wouldn’t ask for my help if he was on fire.”
The deputy left. My phone vibrated and I saw a text from Nakayla:
Both Citizen and Times have brief stories. No obits.
Going to library. Meet at office.
At least one of us was making progress.
I stretched the coffee over the next fifteen minutes and was thinking about finding a refill when Gladys returned.
Her smile was gone. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news and more bad news.”
“No records?”
“No. And there should be something there. We would have been called to the scene.”
“What’s the other bad news?”
“Lois phoned me. She has no trace of either the coroner’s inquest or a death certificate. From our standpoint, your Mr. Weaver never died.”
***
“So, all the official paperwork is missing?” Nakayla had slipped off her shoes and sat in the corner of our office sofa with her feet tucked under her.
I sat in the chair opposite, nursing another cup of coffee, the best brew of the day. “Yes. The Sheriff’s Department even contacted the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Raleigh, where all original autopsy and M.E. reports are archived. Nothing. It has to be more than a coincidence or sloppy record-keeping. And I called all the area funeral homes. None of their files go back that far.”
“The newspaper articles simply refer to a Black Mountain College student falling from a trail along the Blue Ridge Parkway,” Nakayla said. “They gave his name and a quote from a deputy sheriff named Thigpen, who has to be long dead.”
“The papers didn’t pick up that Weaver was local?”
“No. He was identified as a resident of the college who ventured too close to the edge of an overlook.”
Nakayla hopped up, went to her office, and returned with two books. “I got these from the library. They’re about the college and have pictures. I thought the captions might identify the people in the photographs.”
She handed me one of the volumes, a thin soft-cover book titled Images of America—Black Mountain College. I flipped through the roughly one hundred pages containing three to four pictures to a page. Short paragraphs of interspersed text explained the photos and identified some, but not all, of the people.
I glanced at my watch. “It’s a little after five. I’ll call Violet Baker. She should be the one to review these pictures. They all eat so early at Golden Oaks, we could probably see her at six.”
I dialed Violet’s number.
“Violet Baker speaking.” Her cheery answer belied her age.
“It’s Sam Blackman. I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”
“My Lord, no. I can’t swallow a morsel before six-thirty. These early-bird diners think I’m crazy.” Her voice turned serious. “Did you and your partner find out anything?”
“We’ve made some progress, but the records are very limited. Nakayla has some books with pictures of Black Mountain College, and we thought you might be able to identify your brother. If he’s in group shots, they might tell us who he hung out with.”
“Can we do that now?”
I looked at Nakayla and silently mouthed, “She wants to meet now.”
“Tell her we can be there in thirty minutes,” Nakayla whispered.
“What if we meet somewhere at Golden Oaks in half an hour?” I asked.
“Don’t you have an office in Asheville?”
“Yes. On Pack Square.”
“Then I’m coming to you. I can only stay on this mountain so long. We’ll look at pictures and then I’m tak
ing you both to dinner. A girl’s gotta have some fun.”
Violet knocked on our office door in less than thirty minutes. I ushered her to one of the armchairs and joined Nakayla on the sofa.
My partner handed Violet one of the two books she brought from the library. “I thought you might be able to find your brother in one of the photographs. If he’s with some other students who are identified, that might give us a chance to find someone still alive who knew him.”
Violet glanced at the thin volume, Images of America—Black Mountain College. “I’ve seen this book. My brother’s not in it.”
Nakayla passed her the thicker volume. “How about this one? It was published in Germany but the text is in English.”
“Must have been tied to the Bauhaus,” I said, pleased that I could show off my new knowledge.
“No, I’ve not seen this one,” Violet said. “Do you want me to take it home and go through it?”
“No,” Nakayla said. “We have time now, if you do. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”
Violet nodded and opened the book to the beginning.
I didn’t want to just sit there staring at her flipping pages. “Excuse me. I’ve got some paperwork to tend to.”
I retreated to my office but left the door open. My paperwork was a half-finished detective novel I’d picked up at Asheville’s used bookstore, The Battery Park Book Exchange. Books, wine, and appetizers were their specialty, not to mention every other person brought a dog into the shop. I fished the paperback out of my desk drawer, an underrated hard-boiled, fists and guns adventure by Ralph Dennis, whose detective, Jim Hardman, worked tough cases in Atlanta in the nineteen-seventies. If I used Hardman’s tactics in Asheville, I’d be in jail faster than my suspects.
I flipped back several pages to refresh my memory of the plot, but had read only a few paragraphs when Violet called out with unrestrained excitement. “It’s Paul. I found a picture of Paul.”
Nakayla beat me into the room and stood beside Violet. Our client was pointing to something on one of the pages.
“He’s the tall boy with blond hair sitting between the two young women,” Violet said.
I circled behind them and peered over Nakayla’s shoulder. Three students sat close together on a plaid blanket near the shore of what looked like Lake Eden. Paul wore baggy bathing trunks; the women were clothed in one-piece swimsuits. Paul had an arm draped across the bare shoulders of each. All were smiling.
The caption read “Lakeside fun—summer 1948. Dancer Eleanor Johnson with two unidentified classmates.” Eleanor Johnson was evidently the woman on the left. The black woman.
Nakayla gasped. “Oh, my.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“In 1948, a black woman would never have gone swimming with whites, especially a white man.”
“That’s true,” Violet Baker agreed. “But the college followed its own set of rules.”
“And maybe flaunted them in the faces of the surrounding locals,” Nakayla said. “You know Montreat?”
“The Presbyterian conference center?” Violet asked.
“Yes. Even though there were African-American Presbyterian churches, black members weren’t allowed to stay in the inn or use the recreational facilities until the nineteen-sixties. That’s how ensconced segregation was back then.”
I thought about our conversation with Harlan Beale and what he said would be the reaction to blacks and whites dating. What had been a theoretical possibility now became a reality photographed in black and white.
It was also a lead.
I took the book from Violet to study the picture more closely. “If this woman was well-known enough to be identified, then we should be able to trace her.”
“She was probably a student of Merce Cunningham’s,” Nakayla said. “He founded a dance company here that went on to achieve international acclaim in New York City.”
“Then that’s our starting point.”
Violet took the book back. “Paul might be in other photographs. I should check them all.”
Violet spent another twenty minutes meticulously scanning each page. She found only one additional photograph, a group of students around Buckminster Fuller and a partially collapsed geodesic dome made of Venetian blind strips. Neither the black nor white woman was in the frame.
The photograph was dated Summer 1948. No one other than Fuller was identified.
“Well, it looks like Eleanor Johnson is our best bet,” Nakayla said.
“If she’s still alive,” Violet said. “Even if she was only eighteen in 1948, she’d be in her late eighties today.”
“Plenty of people are in their late eighties,” Nakayla said.
Violet laughed. “Yes. I forgot where I now live.” Her moment of levity passed. “But if the woman is dead?”
“Then we find what enrollment records exist in the Black Mountain College Museum and start tracking down former students.” Nakayla hesitated, and then looked at me.
“But that could get expensive,” I advised. “Especially if we have to travel in person to interview them. And I’d recommend doing that rather than a phone call or Internet correspondence.”
Violet nodded. “I understand. You’ve made good progress today. Let’s at least follow through with Eleanor Johnson.” She glanced at her watch. “I promised you dinner. I’ve heard good things about Bouchon. Would that be fine?”
“More than fine,” I said. “Nakayla and I love it.” The nearby restaurant was known for good French comfort food, and I admit I’d rate their cuisine over barbecue.
***
The three of us were finishing after-dinner coffee when my cell phone vibrated. I ignored it, but Violet evidently heard the low hum.
“Answer it if you need to. You must get important calls all hours of the day and night.”
Not wanting to disillusion an impressed client with the truth that it was probably some credit card offering, I made a pretense of looking at the screen. The number wasn’t blocked nor was it one of those 800 area codes. 213. That was Los Angeles. The only people I knew from Los Angeles were on the movie set in Black Mountain.
“It’s not important,” I said.
Nakayla gave me the look that showed she’d seen my surprised reaction. She said nothing. If it had to do with our case, we wouldn’t want to hear information in front of our client without having the chance to evaluate its implications.
We walked Violet Baker to her car. When the taillights had been lost in traffic, I pulled out my phone.
“I think we got a call from someone based in L.A.”
“Really? You think it’s the film people?”
“Either that or Claire Danes is stalking me again.” I had one voicemail. I pressed play and speaker so Nakayla could hear.
“Sam. Hey, man, it’s Marty. Marty Kolsrud. Can you come to the set at seven tomorrow morning? You and Nakayla both. I want you in my movie.”
Chapter Eight
If we were going to meet Marty Kolsrud on location at seven the next morning, Nakayla and I decided spending the night in our separate residences was a pragmatic idea for a fresh change of clothes and an early start. And, frankly, I needed some time alone to process what we’d learned.
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” That last line of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby came to me as I drove home. I’m not a Fitzgerald scholar. Far from it. But the first case Nakayla and I had worked as partners in our detective agency had involved historical elements entwined with the renowned author’s visits to Asheville, and, as a consequence, I’d taken an interest in his writings.
The quote summed up the majority of our investigations. Something thought long dead and buried in the past reemerged with tsunami power that swept down the decades to explode into the present. And too often those init
ial turbulences involved race and racism.
To some degree, Nakayla and I fought that current as an interracial couple. And though we lived in a more enlightened time, like Fitzgerald’s boat, we seemed to be ceaselessly pulled back into the sins of the past. Could Paul Weaver, arm around a black woman, smiling into a camera, have fueled such violent bigotry that it cost him his life? Harlan Beale had warned the times held such hostility. If Eleanor Johnson was still alive, she might confirm it.
I took those thoughts to bed, depressed that Violet Baker’s search for the truth might yield an answer so indicative of the racist times, that her brother died because he befriended and perhaps even loved a woman whose skin was a different color. Seventy years ago, I would have been Paul Weaver.
At six-thirty the next morning, I picked up Nakayla in front of our office building. There was no sense driving two cars, plus after the meeting with Marty, we’d get back to our case. The drive to Lake Eden wouldn’t be a waste of time because our first priority was to take the photos of Paul Weaver to Harlan Beale. He was the one person we knew who might identify other students in those pictures.
The same stocky guard was on duty when we arrived a few minutes before seven. He stepped in front of my CR-V and greeted us with a stern face of authority. I rolled down my window and he walked to my door.
“Good morning, Officer,” I said. “Looks like we’ve got a brighter day than yesterday.”
“Yep,” he replied unenthusiastically. “You’re Blackman and Robertson, right?”
“Correct. We have an appointment with Martin Kolsrud.”
“He drove in nearly two hours ago. Check in at the production office.” He waved us on.
“Not even a ‘Have a nice day,’” I said.
“Remember, he’s in a costume.” Nakayla laughed. “Maybe that’s why we’re here. Kolsrud has security guard costumes for us.”
The production office was a beehive of activity, like the staff had never gone home. Camille Brooks, phone jammed against her ear, stood and signaled us to her desk. A man stood beside her, scowling at several sheets of paper in his hand. He wore a wrinkled sport coat a size too small for his pudgy body. He must have been pushing fifty in a sea of youngsters.
Hidden Scars Page 6
