Nakayla looked down. Blue sat between us, looking back and forth at our faces.
“What about our friend here?” she asked.
I picked up the leash. “Come on, Blue. Let’s take a walk.”
Outside our office, Blue turned left back toward the elevator, but I pulled him down the hallway to the next suite. “Hewitt Donaldson, Attorney at Law” was engraved on the frosted glass. I opened the door and let the dog enter first.
A face peered around the back of a computer monitor. I say, face, but it was more a white mask of heavy makeup with dark mascara eyes and spirals of jet black hair framing cheeks and temples.
Blue froze, unsure if he was confronting a person or a beast.
“Well, look what the dog dragged in.” The woman rose from her desk. Shirley the Strange. Today, she wore a black shirt with pearl buttons, black jeans, and black boots. Death comes calling on a motorcycle.
This specter was Hewitt Donaldson’s office manager and probably the smartest person in the firm, if not our entire building.
“Did you finally qualify for a service animal?” Shirley asked. “Does he make sure you come in out of the rain?”
I decided to derail the “make fun of Sam” monologue with a surefire counterattack. “Shirley, this is Blue. His master died this morning and he’s having a tough time.”
Shirley’s shoulders slumped. She knelt down. “Poor baby.” She patted her knees. “Come to Momma Shirley.”
Blue trotted over and lay down in front of her, chin resting on his front paws. Shirley ran her hand along his side. “How old is he?”
“I don’t know. But I suspect he’s lived with his master since he was a pup. We just came from where the man died and Blue could sense it.”
“The dog wasn’t with him?”
“No. And this isn’t for broadcast, but I think the man was murdered. I know it’s hard to believe but Blue’s bonded with me.”
Shirley sat on the floor and lifted Blue’s head in her lap. “The poor thing must be in shock. Is he hungry? Hewitt’s probably got a bag of pork rinds stuffed in a desk drawer.”
“We’ve got food. Is His Highness here?”
Shirley laughed. “No. He came in late so he said he’d make up for it by leaving early.”
“Do you know if he was heading home?”
“You think he’d tell me? I’ll be lucky to get notice of his funeral. Is it business? Maybe I can help.”
I looked at the dog. “It’s Blue. Nakayla and I need to leave town tomorrow on a case and I was hoping Hewitt could take him for the day.”
She looked aghast. “Hewitt with a dog? The man can barely take care of himself.”
Hewitt Donaldson was the top defense attorney in Asheville, and although he mastered juries and prosecutors alike, his free-spirited nature had been forged in the nineteen-sixties. Hewitt liked nothing better than taking on the establishment, but taking on personal responsibility, like caring for a dog, or, God forbid, a child, could be a life skill beyond his capabilities.
Shirley was reacting exactly as I’d hoped.
“It’s just for tomorrow. We have to fly to New York for the day. We’ll be back late, but we can pick up Blue so he doesn’t stay overnight.”
She looked up. “What about me? I could take care of him.”
“That’s generous of you, but I couldn’t ask you to give up your Saturday. We’ll probably have to leave early in the morning.”
She laid Blue’s head aside and stood. “Then you definitely don’t want Hewitt. He doesn’t know the world exists before ten on Saturdays. I can be at your apartment as early as you like. Leave me the keys and I’ll be there with Blue when you return tomorrow night.”
“You’re sure it’s no trouble?”
“No trouble at all. I have an early evening meeting of the Asheville Apparitions, but they won’t object.” Her black-lined eyes widened.
Blue sat up, staring at her face. For a moment I was afraid he’d mistaken her for a raccoon.
“What?” I asked.
“We’re having a séance.”
The Asheville Apparitions was a group of paranormal activists who sought spirits and other manifestations of the supernatural. Shirley was the club president, or Chief Ghostbuster, or whatever title such responsibilities bestowed.
“I’m sure Blue will be fine.”
Her eyes sparkled. “How cool would that be? The spirit of Blue’s dear departed master could be lingering near him. Give me the man’s name.”
“Shirley! You are not channeling a spirit for a coonhound.”
“It could give Blue comfort.”
“If he needs comfort, buy him some cookies and a squeak toy. I’ll reimburse you.”
Shirley chewed on her lower lip, trying to fool me into thinking she was considering my request. “You’re right, Sam. Maybe some other time when Blue’s not present.”
“And any messages can be passed along to me. I’ll see that he gets them.”
She nodded her agreement, but I knew full well Shirley was about to do what she damned well pleased.
Chapter Thirteen
At twelve-forty on Saturday morning, a Yellow Cab dropped Nakayla and me on South Oxford a block up from Lafayette Avenue in Brooklyn. The street was lined with brownstones and we found Eleanor Johnson’s address in brass numerals on a dark wooden door at the top of a stoop.
Nakayla carried the book with the Black Mountain College photographs and I had a small backpack containing a laptop and Wi-Fi hotspot so we could retrieve information off the Internet. If Ms. Johnson identified anyone and they happened to live in the New York area, we wanted to see them before returning to Asheville.
Nakayla took the lead up the stairs while I stayed on the sidewalk below. She rang the bell, stepped back, and leaned against a wrought-iron railing. She must have figured a ninety-year-old woman wasn’t likely to bound out of a rocker and be at the front door in less than thirty seconds. To her surprise, the door opened inward almost immediately and a lean African-American woman around Nakayla’s age stood on the threshold. She wore a light blue tunic over navy tights. Her brown leather boots were mid-calf and trimmed with tan fur. She looked at Nakayla and then down at me. She frowned as she noticed the book in Nakayla’s hand.
“What are you selling?”
Nakayla flashed her engaging smile. “Nothing. My name’s Nakayla Robertson and this is my colleague, Sam Blackman.”
I gave a little wave. Always the charmer.
Nakayla lifted the book, showing the woman its cover. “We were hoping to speak with Eleanor Johnson. We’re researching Black Mountain College, the institution Ms. Johnson attended. We hope to learn things from her first-hand experience and also have her identify some other students in the book’s photographs.”
The woman nodded. “Gramama Ellie’s told me about the school. What are you planning to do with this research?”
Nakayla went into the cover story we’d invented to get by any gatekeepers. “We hope to speak with as many former students as possible. Unfortunately, the pool of attendees is shrinking rapidly. We know Ms. Johnson went on to have a wonderful career in dance. We hope to document the accomplishments and contributions of as many students as we can.”
“I’m her granddaughter. Mercy Thompson.”
“Were you named for Merce Cunningham?” Nakayla asked.
“No. For my mother. But Gramama named her for Merce.”
“Do you think your grandmother would be willing to speak with us? I promise we won’t stay long and you’re welcome to sit in.”
Mercy Thompson shook her head. “I was just about to walk to a class at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.” She looked at me as if I were the unknown factor in a decision she was pondering. “Where are you from?”
“Asheville, North Carolina,” Nakayla said. “Th
is is a local story for us, but we’re only here for the day.”
“All right. I’ll introduce you.” Mercy stepped out, closed the front door, and locked it behind her.
I was confused. “Is your grandmother someplace else?”
She laughed. “She has the lower floor. The entrance under the stoop. I’m on this level and we rent out the upper two floors.”
I remembered Eleanor Johnson’s bio stating she rented rooms to students. Nakayla followed Mercy down to the sidewalk and I stepped aside as the two women went to the lower door. Mercy knocked once and then used a key to open it.
“Gramama might be napping in her chair. She often does when she’s finished her lunch. Let me check.”
Nakayla and I waited while Mercy entered.
“Gramama. You’ve got company.”
A reedy voice answered. “Company? Was I expecting someone?”
The high volume of the two voices led me to believe Eleanor Johnson might be hard of hearing.
“A woman and man from Asheville, North Carolina. They want to talk to you about Black Mountain College.”
“All the way from Asheville?”
“Yes.”
“Then, for Lord’s sake, get my teeth. They’re by the bathroom sink.”
I looked at Nakayla.
“Just like my granny used to do,” she said. “Except she would have told me to fetch ’em.”
I thought about my own Nana, now gone for ten years. She would have been wearing fuzzy slippers and a housecoat over a slip. “Don’t be surprised if we have to wait for her to change clothes.”
I was wrong. Mercy returned to the front door in less than a minute and ushered us in. We were met in the living room by a woman as slender as her granddaughter. Her wide brown eyes were full of life and instead of a housecoat she wore a green jogging suit with yellow trim.
My grandmother Nana’s living room had been furnished with a velvet sofa and matching chairs. There were even arm doilies that had been crafted by my great grandmother. Eleanor Johnson’s room had chrome and gray leather furniture, a brushed aluminum coffee table, and wall hangings in bold, colorful, abstract designs. The only concession to what I considered the style of her generation was a dark oak corner curio shelf holding a collection of figurines. All were dancers, some white porcelain, some painted ceramic.
The face of the elderly woman was lined with wrinkles like the palm of a hand. She didn’t appear frail, but rather as someone who had allowed herself to age naturally, secure enough in her own appearance to avoid the extreme cosmetic surgery and Botox treatments that so many celebrities embraced.
Nakayla and I introduced ourselves and she gestured that we should take a seat on the leather couch.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked. “Mercy can brew a pot.”
“No, thank you,” Nakayla said.
“And we don’t want Mercy to be late for her class,” I added. “No sense in our causing problems with her teacher.”
Mercy laughed.
“She is the teacher,” Eleanor Johnson said.
“Music?” I asked.
The grandmother’s wrinkles deepened. “Oh, no. Dance. The body’s music.”
I glanced again at the multiple figurines. Some detective.
“Ms. Johnson,” Nakayla said, “why don’t you sit by me so that I can use the coffee table to show you some pictures in this book?”
“Call me Ellie, dear.”
“Ellie, we’d like your help in identifying some of your fellow students.”
“Oh, my, that’s so long ago. Nearly seventy years.”
“Gramama, you know your mind’s sharp as a tack,” Mercy said. “But if you get tired, just say so.”
“Yes,” Nakayla agreed. “And I promise we won’t take long.”
Mercy turned to leave and then paused. “Make sure you hear her lock the door when you go.”
Ellie waved her granddaughter away. “I remember when we could leave the house unlocked.”
Mercy walked over and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “And bread was twenty cents a loaf. Those days are gone, so I’d better find that door locked when I return.”
Mercy left and Nakayla and Ellie sat down. I pulled one of the chairs closer to the coffee table where I would be able to see the book on its surface.
“Your granddaughter seems very nice,” I said. “You’re lucky to have some of your family so close.”
“She is my family. My daughter was taken with breast cancer five years ago. My son-in-law died in that first Gulf War. Mercy was their only child. I keep telling her to find a good man, but between teaching and performing, she hasn’t the time to be serious with anyone.” She chuckled. “Can’t complain. I was just like her.”
Nakayla set the book on the coffee table. “We appreciate your taking the time to talk with us. Just for our clarification, when were you at Black Mountain College?”
“From 1948 to 1953. I studied four years and then helped Merce when he formed his dance company there in 1953. Then I moved back to New York and stayed involved with Merce till he died. He was still active at ninety. What a spirit! I wish I had half the energy of that man.”
“Did you like your years at Black Mountain?”
“Like them? They were exhilarating. Not just because of the dance but because of all the artistic talent in so many disciplines. When I pass over, I won’t be surprised to find heaven remarkably similar to Black Mountain.”
Nakayla opened the book to the page where Paul Weaver and the unknown woman were with Ellie in the photograph by Lake Eden. “This is you, isn’t it?”
Ellie adjusted her glasses and leaned closer to the picture. “My, my. I remember the day that was taken.” She shook her head. “Poor Paul.”
“What happened to Paul?” Nakayla asked.
“He loved to hike. They said he went out one night and slipped off a trail. Not long after this picture was taken.”
“Do you believe that’s what happened?”
Ellie looked up at Nakayla and then turned to me. “Are you all saying that’s not what happened?”
“We don’t know,” I said. “We’re here seeking your help. Paul Weaver’s younger sister wants to be certain. It’s a long time ago, but it’s weighing on her. She saw you and Paul together in this book and thought you might have some insights. Were you and Paul friends?”
She nodded. “Yes. He was quiet. Very serious. That was common among the returning veterans. But there were times,” she tapped the photograph with her slender forefinger, “there were times like this when he came out of his shell and could be very funny. And that was happening more and more frequently.”
“Do you know of anyone he might have argued with?” I asked.
“At the college? No. Like I said, he was quiet. Architecture wasn’t, shall I say, one of the more flamboyant areas of study.”
“And away from the college?”
Ellie bit her lower lip. Her eyes moistened. “He was local, although he didn’t talk much about his family. I remember he did talk about his little sister. He was worried about her growing up in that environment.”
“The mountains?”
Ellie clutched her hands together in her lap. “Once we stepped out of that magical world at the college we entered the Jim Crow South. Whenever we went off campus, Paul insisted on accompanying us.”
Again, I thought about Paul Weaver’s fight over the admittance of black veterans to the Asheville American Legion post. Had that carried through to the black students in a segregated South?
“Were there confrontations with the locals? Did Paul try to protect all the African-American students?”
Ellie pointed to the picture again. “Just Leah and me. When we went into town together. He joked that he was our interpreter. My Brooklyn accent was pretty thick back then.
Leah was a German immigrant and her English was limited. And then the locals had that mountain twang.”
“Was there ever any trouble with the locals that justified his concerns?” I asked.
Ellie sighed. “Yes. The first time Leah and I went to town some men loitering by the drugstore yelled at us, ‘Go back to Africa’ and mean things like that.”
“And Leah?”
“They called her ‘Jew girl’ and ‘Yankee bitch.’”
“And you told Paul about it?”
“No. Leah and I agreed it would just upset him. The men were punks. Leah said she’d faced worse.”
“So, who told him?” I asked.
“There was some kid in town who worked at the college doing odd jobs. He witnessed what happened.”
“Harlan Beale?”
Ellie sat up straight. “I believe you’re right, sir. I haven’t thought about him in years. He was a nice boy. Rather shy, but he would show up at all our events. Do you know him?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to say he’s deceased.” I left it at that.
Nakayla lifted the book from the table and examined the photograph more closely. “What was Leah’s last name?”
“Rosen.”
“Was she a dancer?”
“No. She wanted to be a writer. Since English wasn’t her native tongue, she had to put her thoughts down in German and then craft it into English. She worked very hard. We all admired her determination.”
“Do you know what happened to her?” Nakayla asked.
“Yes. We stayed in touch. She left Black Mountain shortly after Paul’s accident and returned to New York. She worked in a department store and attended classes at Brooklyn College. Sometimes she would come to see me dance. We would meet for coffee. She earned her undergraduate degree and then an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. And she went full circle—back to North Carolina, where she wrote and taught.”
“Back to the mountains?” I asked.
“No. The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. I have one of her books on a shelf in my bedroom. Would you like to see it?”
Hidden Scars Page 12
