I pushed the rocker and noticed that its rocking motion was not smooth. I pushed it again for no good reason, just doing something while I was thinking of what to do next. It moved awkwardly, as if the maker had failed to balance the two curved runners at the bottom that made it a rocker instead of an upright chair. Rufus was likely used to it.
I lifted the rocker and studied the wooden joints underneath. I noticed that the seat was thicker than most rockers. Because the seat was made of an oaken flat board, handmade for sure, there was a cushion for Rufus to rest comfortably on while he sat pondering whatever hermits ponder. I assumed the pondering since I found no evidence of books or magazines.
The thicker-than-usual oak seat raised my curiosity. Underneath where one would expect to find four supports for the lower frame to be joined to the legs, I found five such supports. The fifth one was positioned close to the right front leg. It was an oddity to be sure. If one ever picked up the rocker and looked at it from this angle, one might have easily decided that in the making of the chair, the craftsman made an error and bore a hole in the wrong place. However, there was nothing else about the chair that showed any type of craftsman’s mistake to add weight to the idea that the maker was less than careful. Only the lack of a correct curvature for the runners and this unnecessary fifth support could be termed as miscues. In all other aspects, the rocker was perfectly joined and constructed with great care and skill.
The ill-formed curvatures I could handle. Not easy to get those formed and balanced so that the rocking motion would be smooth. Doable, but not easy. The fifth support was like a single barrel shotgun with two triggers.
Enter the sleuth who trusts no one. I wondered if this was the reason that the chair rocked funny. Since I was no craftsman of rocking chairs, I had no way of knowing with any definiteness. I was simply wondering. Puzzled.
In the fifth hole next to the hole that housed the right front leg there was a round piece of wood which had some five inches protruding from its secured placement in that hole. Using my trusty penknife, I removed the round piece of wood and discovered a piece of paper lodged in the hole. Aha.
The paper was folded multiple times as many grade-school children do when passing notes in and out of class to one another. At least that was my memory and first thought. No reason, just took me back to those days when tiny, folded pieces of paper were passed abundantly with loosely guarded secrets written on them.
The folded paper appeared to have some age to it. I opened it ever-so-carefully so as not to tear it or destroy whatever historical document I might have uncovered. I was a long way removed from thinking my find might be evidence.
The unfolded piece became a half-sheet of notebook paper. The message was written in pencil with large, scripted letters by one who was new and careful to the art of cursive writing. I read the message twice—“Dear Rufus, I like you. I hope you like me. If you want to see me, meet me after school on Old Fox Road where the road forks and the mailboxes are lined up in a row. Someone who loves you, XXX.”
I was rereading for the third time when Starnes and the two dogs entered the cabin.
“Find a clue, Sherlock?” Starnes said.
“You been talking to Rosey?”
“I’ve been looking for whatever clues I might find outside in the woods, in the cold, with two dogs. I don’t talk with Rosey to amount to anything. We generally travel in different circles. So, what have you got?”
“Love letter from an unnamed grade school child to Rufus,” I said and handed Starnes the half sheet of paper with the penciled invitation.
She took the paper with two fingers of her right hand pinched near one edge of the document. With her left hand, she reached into her pocket and pulled out an evidence bag.
“Clue?” she said.
“I have no idea, but it is something.”
“Something what?”
“Something like the only thing I have found in this cabin outside of a small photograph, a newspaper folded to an old article, and the feeling that Rufus Ramsey is no longer among the living.”
“You think this place belongs to the remains we found back down the road a piece?”
“Sleuthing is largely guesswork until the evidence makes it substantive.”
“Let’s go check out that country store,” Starnes said and turned to leave.
“You find anything outside?”
“Pile of wood, axe head, broken handle, and some needed chores long overdue.”
6
The country store was located at the junction of the Ivy River Road and old highway 23, the singular link between Asheville and Johnson City, Tennessee before the coming of the I-26 corridor. The store was tiny by modern standards and supported some abandoned gas pumps closer to the entrance than I would have liked had I been the owner. There were faded red-winged horses on the pumps but no brand name. The still discernible sign above the entrance simply read Ponder’s Store. Like the horses on the gas pumps, the black lettering of the store’s name was now nothing more than a thin gray, the result of relentless time and harsh weather.
“You Mr. Ponder?” Starnes said after we had entered and noticed an old man sitting by the central heating system of the establishment. The pot-bellied stove was at the heart of the store almost dead-center in the building. The crusty old man was stationed adjacent to the inefficient heat source. He was occupying one of the four caned-back chairs. A well worn checkerboard was resting precariously on a small oak barrel in the center of the four chairs. It appeared that a game had been interrupted with no clear leader from either side.
“Who’s askin’?” the graveled voice responded.
“Starnes Carver, Sheriff’s Department.”
“I don’t know ya’,” the old man said looking first at Starnes and then at me.
“Makes us even. I don’t know you either,” Starnes said.
My kind of girl.
“Whattaya want with me?”
“You know Rufus Ramsey?” she asked.
“As well as anybody can know Rufus, I reckon.”
“Come here often?”
“Once in a while. Whenever he needs somethin’.”
“Seen him recently?”
“What’s recent?”
“Last two weeks?”
“Yeah, I think I recall him bein’ ‘round here ‘bout two weeks back. Seems ‘bout right. Why? What’s he done?”
“Can’t find him,” Starnes said.
The old man stared at me.
“What ya’ want him for?”
He was still talking to Starnes but he was staring at me.
“Make sure he’s okay,” Starnes said.
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“He’s not at home. Doesn’t seem to have been home in the last two weeks or so.”
“Why you interested in him?”
“Just making sure he’s okay,” Starnes repeated.
“You talk, sister?” the old man said to me.
“When I need to,” I said.
“Damn, you sure are tall.”
“Noticed, did you?”
“We don’t grow women your height ‘round here. Most of ‘em come short and fat.”
“There’s a world of other possibilities,” I said.
“Don’t get ‘em in here,” he said, almost sadly. “Except one I hear tell of.”
“Noteworthy, huh?”
“Not as tall as you, but big boned, you know. Maybe even a tad heavier, I don’t know. Hard to judge women. Too much clothing.”
“Yeah, we tend to hide a lot,” I said.
It was the first time he actually smiled, but it wasn’t a good smile. Too many irregular teeth showing to suit me. Crooked, broken, and dirty.
“Rufus Ramsey a regular customer of yours?” Starnes said.
“I don’t usually keep track of people comin’ and goin’, but, yeah, I’d say old Rufus was pretty regular. Buys supplies and all to keep the wolf from the door. Walks down from his place up ther
e way back in the woods. Walks here, buys what he needs, and walks back.”
“He live alone?” Starnes said.
“As far as I know. He’s never come here with anybody. Rufus don’t talk much, you know. Stays to himself. Says only what he needs to say and that’s ‘bout it. Close spitter and a tight chewer, as the sayin’ goes. Say, tell me again what county you’re with?” the old man said.
“I didn’t tell you the first time,” Starnes said.
“Okay, then tell me which county sheriff’s department you’re with,” he countered.
“If you tell me who you are,” Starnes said.
“Hack Ponder’s my name, missy. What’s yours?”
“Starnes Carver.”
“O my gosh. You’d be Spud Carver’s little gal,” he said and slapped his left knee showing the first signs of animation besides his moving lips.
“That’d be me.”
“You used to come in here when you were no higher than this,” he said and held out his right hand about three feet off the floor.
“Don’t remember it,” she said.
“Ah, that’s okay. Lotta water over that bridge since you was here. Now that I know who you are, it’s good to see you again. Now that we’re no longer strangers, tell me which county sheriff you work with,” Hack said.
“McAdams County.”
“You’re standin’ in Buncombe.”
“Is that a problem?” I said.
“Only if you’re pushin’ your weight around,” Hack said. “And speaking of that, who are you, tall lady?”
“Clancy Evans,” I said wondering what pushing weight around had to do with me.
“You’re not from around here.”
“True.”
“You with the McAdams County Sheriff’s department?”
“Nope.”
“Some other law?”
“Private.”
“Like a private detective?” Hack said.
“Something like that,” I said.
“Wow. A real, live, female private detective. Don’t get many of those ‘round here. You come back, Miss Detective. Anytime,” Hack said as I headed out the front door ahead of Starnes.
“If Rufus comes by,” Starnes said as she handed Hack Ponder a card with her cell phone number scribbled on the back, “call me. I want to talk with him.”
“If I get Rufus to stay here, you promise to bring this tall detective back with you?”
“You’re a disgusting old man, Hack Ponder,” she said.
I turned to look back and noticed that stupid, crooked smile spread across Hack’s face once more.
“You handled that well,” I said to Starnes as we got into her truck.
“Sometimes I’m glad I’m not tall.”
“You don’t begrudge me my height?”
“Not this time.”
“Why?”
“I would have shot him if he had smiled like that at me,” Starnes said.
“Can’t shoot all the men who give us stupid smiles,” I said.
“More’s the pity.”
“Too many bodies to dispose of.”
“Ah, they’re mostly harmless, I reckon.”
“Mostly, perhaps. Not all.”
She started the old red truck. It sputtered a little and then leveled off to an acceptable hum.
“We could dump the old man’s body in front of Rufus’ place and let whatever devoured that first human enjoy the second course,” Starnes said as she smiled a little.
“You’re evil,” I said.
“Makes me an effective peace officer.”
7
I played nursemaid to Dog and Sam while Starnes drove to Asheville to deposit the comb and her ever-growing bone collection with the crime lab. She told me that she was sure that the remains we discovered in the woods belonged to Rufus Ramsey. She said it was simply her rather strong intuitive hunch. She blamed working with me for the reason that she felt that way. A trained scientist for all of her life and she was now ashamed of stooping to hunches.
“It’s your fault. Guilt by association,” she said as she drove off.
Since it was probably true, I made no response as a self-defense. I relied on hunches to be sure. It was my strong suit. Hunches had often saved my bacon. Strong impressions came to me and I refused to ignore them. It was the way I was, the way I am, and the way I would likely be as long as I do what I do.
It was after ten o’clock and still on the cold side. I promised the dogs we would walk around the nearby hills, so we headed up the steep slope at the back of the Carver place. I stopped momentarily to pay tribute to Starnes’ parents who were buried on top of the knoll directly behind the house. I could still envision the pall bearers struggling to get the caskets up that slope. The dogs ignored the grave sites and my brief stop to remember the couple. I knew little about Spud and Nadine Carver, only that they birthed a girl-child who grew into quite a woman who had become my friend.
An hour later we were still hiking the long trail when the rains came. I should add that the rains that came were cold. My flimsy jacket was soaked and my heat index fell rapidly as I began searching for something with a roof that would stem the tide of wetness which might lead to the onset of pneumonia. Shivering was moments away while I dreamed of fire and heat.
When the rains came harder, I decided that jogging was the best option under the circumstances despite the fact that my foot had not completely healed. My friendly canines thought it great that we were now running the trail. They didn’t seem to mind the cold or the wet. I was the one bothered by the miserable conditions, mostly the heavy moisture. The rocky and ever-ascending terrain did not bode well with my jogging. I thought I was in decent shape until the ever-present climbing made my legs burn. Yikes. An aging detective is not something I wanted to become. Ah, the vicissitudes of life. I wonder if nearly everyone considers this once they pass the age of forty.
My foot began to complain by sending some real pain messages to my brain. I slowed to a fast walk. The rain was still pelting me and I was getting colder by the minute. I paid little attention to the dogs as I was scanning the landscape on both sides of the trail, searching for something akin to a shelter or thick grove of evergreens to help me cope with the abysmal weather and my shivering state.
The trail leveled off a little so I began jogging once more. I heard the dogs barking off to my right, out of sight. I stopped to look in the direction of their communication. Sam’s bark was noticeably different from Dog’s, so I listened carefully to see if he was trying to tell me more than something about his happiness with running in the mountains. I detected a note of discovery in his alarm system. Nice to have some history with a dog like Sam so I could distinguish his tones. Few people besides me believe that barking is a tonal language. Words would have helped more; but, under the circumstances, I glean and learn what I can.
I turned towards Sam’s noise. There was no trail, just a thicket of low-lying briars, a few tall weeds, and some spindly scrub pines which forced me to walk instead of run. Walking may be an exaggeration for what I was doing. Clawing my way through thickets, brush, and bountiful small trees would be a more accurate depiction. Despite time of the year and the thin foliage on the trees, it still took about ten minutes of this slow moving digging through underbrush in the cold rain to reach the dogs and the reason for their barking. Oh, the fun of being a private detective.
I reached the dogs finally and discovered the source of the noisy frenzy. There was a small pile of bones with some tissue remaining on a few of them. The rest of the bones, which seemed to be plentiful, were scattered around a small opening in the underbrush. The bones were large enough for me to suspect human origin, so I crawled the perimeter in search of a skull. The underbrush had grown together forming an arch about four feet off the ground. It seemed to be an ideal place if one wanted to drag a quarry to an isolated spot and dine surreptitiously without being disturbed. It was something I would think a wild animal might do as oppose
d to, say, a cannibal. Still, the fact that the bones were plentiful and some had tissue still attached, made me wonder if this bone site was at all related to the one across the county near the Ivy River.
I had no success in my search for the skull.
I told Sam to remain at the site of the bones while I widened the perimeter of my search. I crawled out of the small domed underbrush into more thickets and more scrub pines. Dog accompanied me since I had failed to tell her to stay with Sam, as if that would have done much good. I moved so slowly that Dog passed me in my exploration. She was walking, of course, while I crawled along in the dense brush on all fours. The only upside to this miserable place was the fact that the heavy rains did not completely penetrate the dense barrier. There was a constant drip, but the downpour was controlled. Nevertheless, the cold temperatures remained.
With no luck finding the skull, I returned to Sam and tried to call Starnes on my cell. No signal. Welcome to the mountains.
After locating some tree falls, I broke off twenty or thirty smallish limbs and used them to mark the spot of the skeletal remains as well as the pathway of my return to the main trail. I ran out of my broken tree limbs before I reached the trail. By then I was walking upright and searching for rocks to mark my way so I could bring Starnes back with me. I found two or three decent-sized stones that helped me.
When I returned to the main trail, I used my signal-less cell phone to take a picture of the place where I left the trail and journeyed into the thick places.
“Remember this spot,” I said to Sam.
I watched him sniff both the main trail and then the side path that Dog and I had created with our exploration. After a few minutes of inhaling whatever it was he was inhaling, he looked at Dog and barked a couple of times as if relaying a translation of what I had said. I laughed to think that such was even possible, but since I had been with Sam for several years, he had seldom acted as if he were a dumb animal. On the contrary, his skills were legend with me. If only I could tell people some of the chapters of his life stories. Then I would run the risk of making him more famous than he needs to be and I would lose him to another career altogether. I chose to maintain my silence regarding his exploits and to provide him whatever favors he might demand once we were out of the woods and back in more pleasant surroundings. I had no plans to ever divulge my strategy to him, so he was never the wiser as to my selfishness in matters of his possible career choices which would never come his way.
Outcast In Gray: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 7) Page 4
