Lovely In Her Bones

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PILOT BARNES slowed down to let a groundhog scuttle across the road. Had it appeared in his garden, he would have shot it without a qualm; the incongruity of this never struck him. “What did you think of that interview?” he asked the FBI agent.

“The Adair kid?” Garrett shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Remember at the time of the second murder, he didn’t leave the work site. That gives him a lot of witnesses for an alibi; but there’s still a chance he may know something. Our check on him didn’t turn up anything unusual.”

“He’s an Indian,” grunted Pilot.

“Oh, that’s no big deal. My great-grandmother was a Cherokee. That’s where I got my brown eyes. I still say he’s off the hook. In fact, those two might be in danger. Have you thought about putting a guard out there?”

“I don’t think they need one.”

“Better play it safe,” Garrett advised.

The deputy smiled. “Tell you what: I’ll compromise. I’ll send Dummyweed out to guard them.”

“Symbolic deterrent, huh? Might work. That will free you and McKenna to check up on the other people. Are any of the suspects from the first murder out of the picture now? What about the wife?”

“Nope. You saw her at the inquest, didn’t you? She got in last night.”

“She’s a possibility. Could have killed the husband and been seen by this Bassington fellow. Blackmail?”

Pilot thought it over. “Can we get a record of long-distance calls to her house? Or maybe get the Virginia police to search her place for blackmailing letters?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Garrett. “Anything else?”

“The girlfriend. She was out walking when the first murder took place, and right after that she left to do research at MacDowell.”

“So?”

“Yesterday she came back to get her guitar. Makes me wonder why she left it in the first place.”

“Check up on her, too,” sighed the agent. “You’re lucky we don’t charge you locals for computer time.”

Pilot felt the discomfort of obligation. “I’m mighty grateful to you for helping me out like this,” he said awkwardly.

“No problem, Deputy. You sure are putting in a lot of overtime on this case. Personal interest?”

Pilot shook his head. “I just want to clear it up before the sheriff gets back.” To show him what I can do without supervision, he finished silently. He can’t stay sheriff forever; maybe there is a promotion in this. He didn’t think it was going to happen, though. Pilot Barnes couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing some vital thread of the investigation, something that he might not even recognize if it were put before him. Duncan Johnson, he told himself, would have caught it in a minute. Pilot Barnes stared morosely at the Wise Woman of the Woods sign; it didn’t take a prophet to tell him he didn’t have a hope in hell of becoming sheriff.

Tessa Lerche, forewarned that the inquest would take place in an un-air-conditioned courtroom, did not wear black. In her beige linen suit, matching bone shoes, and touches of gold jewelry at the ears and throat, she seemed a cool and neutral observer to the proceedings inquiring into her husband’s death. In fact, she would not wear black at all except to the funeral; it seemed hypocritical in one who had lately been studying pamphlets on community property in divorce, and Tessa loathed the semblance of hyprocrisy. She gave her evidence of accompanying Milo to the site on the night of the murder, speaking in a clear, calm voice softened by sorrow. She had used such a voice once in a college production of Riders to the Sea, in the old woman’s speech: “They’re all gone now, and there’s nothing more the sea can do to me…” Traces of a brogue crept into her testimony, causing the more astute listeners to suppose her Irish by birth.

Stepping down from the witness stand, she took her seat beside Milo and listened to the medical evidence with the blank face of one whose thoughts were elsewhere. Once, at some particularly graphic phrase uttered by the coroner, Milo glanced at her, but she looked up at him with a half-smile and continued to study the placement of her neat little hands, clutching the calfskin purse in her lap.

When the verdict “murder by person or persons unknown” had been delivered, he escorted her outside, protectively watching for reporters with cameras, but none appeared. (Stuart Morton, editor of the Recorder, was off covering the 4-H camp. He would give the inquest the customary six lines on page three.)

“Thank you for seeing me through this,” said Tessa softly. “It meant a lot.”

Milo shifted nervously. “Are you driving back now?”

She looked up at him with moist eyes. “Will you think it terrible of me if I tell you I’d like to have lunch first? I guess I should get used to eating alone, but…” She trailed off, a quaver in her voice.

“Of course,” said Milo, wondering how she had managed to make him feel guilty. “Where would you like to go?”

Tessa sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I never notice what I eat any more. Only I couldn’t bear to be on public display in some local café.” She shuddered delicately.

After some discussion it was decided that the Rhododendron Inn, an Edwardian mansion outfitted as a tavern, would suit Tessa’s sense of propriety. Milo, checking his hip pocket for his credit card, agreed without noticeable enthusiasm. The Rhododendron Inn, half-timbered and decorated with farm implements on the walls, fancied itself the sort of place where George Washington might have dined, had he been willing to mortgage Mount Vernon to pay for the meal.

When they had been seated at a small pine table with a mason jar of wildflowers between them, Tessa whispered, “I hope they don’t serve that greasy country food!”

Milo, who hoped they did, said, “Why don’t you order a salad?”

Milo opted for the country buffet, leaving Tessa to quiche du jour and pumpkin muffins. He stayed in the buffet line longer than he might have had he been anxious to return to his table partner. He wondered if Tessa merely wanted to rehash the inquest or if she had something else in mind.

“How do you think it went?” she asked him, trying not to look at the steaming plate of pinto beans and fried apples.

“The inquest? Pretty routine, I guess.”

“I can’t help feeling that the police have someone in mind as a suspect, but that they don’t want to show their hand yet.”

“I doubt it,” said Milo between mouthfuls. “Since there has been another murder, I expect they’d arrest somebody if they could.”

“Poor… Victor,” Tessa responded, trying to remember if she’d met him. “I suppose he must have seen something?”

“I don’t know. Even if he did, it’s hard to imagine any of us believing him. Victor was such a liar he’d have said anything. We all ignored him.”

She shook her head reprovingly, as if to remind him not to speak ill of the dead. “Still, he will be missed. Have you told his family yet?”

“I called them this morning,” said Milo sharply, unwilling to discuss it further. Victor’s mother had succumbed to hysterics as if on cue, but his father had been gravely calm. He seemed to regard the episode as Victor’s most ambitious bid for attention.

“Even the most inconsiderate, self-centered people are mourned by those who loved them,” sighed Tessa. She managed to imply that this was the case with Alex.

When Milo, in what she supposed to be an excess of sympathy for her past and present suffering, did not reply to this, Tessa tried again: “I suppose you’ll be coming back to town soon?”

“Probably tomorrow. Depends on what arrangements are being made about Victor.”

Tessa had a sudden image of Milo conveying Victor’s body home to Maryland in a station wagon; she was sure that this was not what he meant, but since she wasn’t interested in the details anyway, she let it pass. “You will come and see me when you get back, won’t you?”

“Of course. I thought you’d want me to take charge of Alex’s papers.”

“That, too,” murmured Tessa.

Milo raised his head, like one who has just heard ticking from the luggage rack above him. “Too?”

“Oh, Milo, there are just so many things to cope with now that Alex is gone! You know, taxes, and the will…”

“Didn’t he have a lawyer?”

“Yes, but… And I have to dispose of his clothes.”

“Goodwill box, corner of Elm and Sycamore.”

“You don’t understand,” said Tessa in an exasperated voice. “I just can’t seem to cope with this… this…”

“I believe the Crisis Center has a seminar on coping with bereavement,” said Milo evenly. “I’m sure they could help you more than I.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m sure I’ll feel much better when they’ve arrested that cat-faced little colleague of yours! She meant to get Alex one way or another, and the police know it, too!”

A diffident figure in khaki approached their table. Milo was never so glad to see anyone in his life. Bewildered at the effusiveness of the greeting, Dummyweed blinked at them, surprised that the fellow who had always been curt with him should have taken such a liking to him now. Perhaps it was the new uniform; one of Pilot’s, actually, but it fit well enough.

“I saw your car outside,” he told them. “Mr. Barnes wants me to go back to Sarvice Valley on guard duty.”

Under any other circumstances, Milo would have told him to get lost, but now that he presented an alternative to prolonging the interview with Tessa, Milo was the soul of cooperation. “Of course!” he said, getting up. “Do you need me to come with you? Does Barnes need to see me?”

“No. I need a ride.” Seeing their startled faces, Coltsfoot hastened to explain. “See, we only have two patrol cars. Mr. McKenna needs one to patrol the county, and Pilot’s using the other one over at the Nunwati Nature-Friends Craft Fair, which is tonight.” He paused on a wistful note, but no expressions of sympathy were forthcoming.

“What about Harkness’ car?”

“Oh, he just used his own, and they paid him mileage. County figured it was cheaper.”

“Couldn’t you take your own car?”

“Patricia won’t let me have it,” murmured Coltsfoot, reddening. “I was wondering if you’d mind me riding out with you. I don’t know why Pilot didn’t run me out there when he went. Maybe he hadn’t decided they needed me then. I was setting up for the craft fair when they came and got me.”

Milo cut him off. “Barnes has been to Sarvice Valley since the inquest? What for?”

“I don’t know. I think he was questioning somebody. He had the FBI guy with him.”

Milo turned to Tessa. “Would you like me to drop you back at the courthouse? I think I should go back now.”

Tessa, who had just remembered what it was like to live with a dedicated scientist, managed a brave smile. “No thanks, Milo. I’ll make it on my own.”

Daniel Hunter Coltsfoot spent most of the ride to Sarvice Valley complaining about the circumstances that had led to his becoming a deputy. Patricia Elf needn’t complain now about having to set the booths up by herself at the craft fair; if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

“And I’d say that the Sarvice Valley killer is a lot more likely to get me than those Tennessee convicts were to get her when she insisted I buy that gun!” he finished bitterly.

“Why don’t you just refuse to do it?” asked Milo. “Sense of duty?”

“Of course. I am a deputy,” said Coltsfoot with a noble lift of his chin. “And besides, Pilot happened to mention that if I didn’t go through with it until this investigation is over, he was going to get a lot more interested in minor drug offenses in the county.”

“I see,” said Milo, stifling a smile.

“Damn right. The Nature-Friends would kill me.”

“I see you brought a gun,” Milo remarked, glancing at the holster on Dummyweed’s belt. “Do you know how to use it?”

“I’ve never tried, but it looks easy enough on television. Bang, bang, you’re dead. Right, man?”

“Oh, boy,” said Milo to himself.

“I’m strictly nonviolent myself. Peace marches; run for hunger; demonstrations against the nuclear power plants.” He slapped the pistol on his thigh. “But when there’s a killer out there and you’re the law-a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.”

“Right,” said Milo, turning at a cluster of houses. “I think I’ll stop and get Comfrey Stecoah. You wait here.”

He hurried up the concrete steps and tapped on the door. In a moment, Comfrey Stecoah himself appeared and ushered Milo into a small, sparse living room. Comfrey, still wearing the clothes he had on at the inquest, had been eating his lunch on the chrome and glass coffee table.

“What is it?” he asked Milo.

“Pilot Barnes assigned us a guard for the rest of our stay.”

“’Bout time,” grunted Comfrey.

“It’s that Coltsfoot guy. With a gun.” Milo enunciated each word carefully, underscoring the implications.

“Right. Let me finish eating. I’ll meet you at the church.”

He’s a good guy, Milo thought as he walked back to the car. If they fire Bevel Harkness, they ought to hire him as deputy in the valley. Maybe I’ll mention it to Pilot Barnes.

“How much longer are you guys going to be here?” asked Coltsfoot when they were on their way again.

“We should be gone by tomorrow, I hope,” said Milo. “We’re remeasuring the skulls today, and then we’ll rebury the remains. I can do the computer work back at the university. Two days, at the most.”

“I’ll still miss the craft fair,” sighed Coltsfoot.

Milo pulled the car into the parking lot below the church. Before he got halfway up the bank, Jake came running to meet them.

“Have you seen Elizabeth?” he demanded.

Milo’s eyes narrowed. “I left her here with you!”

“She sent me out for tomatoes,” said Jake sheepishly. “When I came back, she was gone!”

Elizabeth was in no hurry to get where she was going. She needed the time to think. By the time she reached the path up the mountain, Elizabeth was sure that she had not been followed. She had at least ten minutes’ head start before Jake came back and began to search for her. By the time he found her, she hoped she would have everything settled. She slowed to a walk, forcing herself to look at the plants along the path, while her mind considered the problem. Bloodroot and yarrow… could she ever tell Milo the truth? Boneset… pigweed… maybe she could have brought Jake with her. He might have understood. Could he track her through the woods? She frowned. Of course he couldn’t! Indian stereotyping again.

She stooped to examine a yellow-orange tangle of vines in a sunny spot beside the path-the love vine. She had found it in her plant book under “dodder-also known as strangleweed.” She wondered if anyone had planted this one, and if so whose name it bore. A cluster of gnats swarmed up into her face, and she batted them away. The air was thick with heat.

“Think this through,” Elizabeth said aloud wishing for a moment that she could turn and go back to the church. Whose responsibility was it anyway? She had nearly reached the end of the path-not far now. Soon Milo would figure out what she already knew, and by then it would be too late to salvage anything from the confusion that would follow. Elizabeth kept going. She had to talk to the Wise Woman of the Woods.

Amelanchier’s cabin sat in green silence in the clearing. Elizabeth was relieved to see that no tourists had made the trek up the mountain. She stood in the shadow of a sourwood tree, watching a red-tailed hawk on a reconnaissance flight. It flew a back loop toward a thatch of pines, out of her line of sight. She wondered if she ought to search for Amelanchier, perhaps at the creek whose wind-sound barely reached her ears. She looked again at the still cabin, deep in shade; its doors and windows faced her like a blank stare. She knows I am here, thought Elizabeth. She sees me. She wondered how she knew.

As Elizabeth turned over her feelings, she was surprised to find that her reluctance to go on came from shyness rather than from fear. Elizabeth was never very direct with anyone. “Are you going to the kitchen?” she would say to Bill-not, “Bring me a glass of water.” She wondered if there were any diplomatic way to discuss multiple murder, but she was not afraid. Never once did she think: I could be next.

She walked slowly through the fescue grass, knowing that she was not within the cross hairs of a rifle sight, not bothering to move in stealth. She would not ring the yard bell or “rad” a note; and she must not think of Victor or Alex for the next half hour.

Elizabeth tapped on the door.

“It’s open!” Amelanchier’s voice sang out.

Elizabeth eased the door open and peered inside. The old woman sat at her plank worktable, scooping dried herbs into small plastic bags. “Making up a batch of bitters,” she told Elizabeth. “Tourists cleaned me out.”

She motioned her visitor toward the stool against the wall. “You want to tie them tags around the neck of the bags for me?” she asked, shoving a handful of garbage-bag ties across the table.

Elizabeth picked up the wire and plastic sealer and began to wind it around the neck of the bitters packet. “We have to talk,” she said softly.

“Makes the time pass more pleasant-like when you do,” Amelanchier agreed.

“I don’t think it will this time, Amelanchier, but it’s got to be done. Just remember, I’m here to help you.”

“And I’m grateful to you,” said the Wise Woman cheerfully. “Sure is a raft of these bags to tie.”

“No, I mean about saving the valley. I don’t want the Cullowhees to lose it to the strip miners. Especially after what I’ve heard about what your people have been through already. It wouldn’t be fair!”

Amelanchier nodded and went on stuffing plastic bags.

“You have to confess to the murders, Amelanchier,” said Elizabeth quietly. “And we have to come up with some excuse for why you did it, because if the truth comes out, you’ll lose the valley!”

“What truth is that?”

“The Cullowhees aren’t Indians.”

Amelanchier smiled. “Why, sure we are girl. It’s like I told you: we’re descended from the Unakas-”

“Yes! And unaka is the Cherokee word for white man! Now who are you really?”

Amelanchier wiped her hands on her apron. “Well,” she sighed, “I think you said something about saving the valley. Why don’t I brew us some tea and we’ll study about it?”

She drew out earthenware mugs and plastic spoons. “Now how can you tell what people is?” she asked as she worked. “That word don’t prove nothing.”

“You know how I can tell. I explained it to you the first time I came up here. I told you all about the skull measurements, and how different races show up as different numbers on the chart.”

“I thought the doctor was the only one could say for sure.”

“Dr. Lerche could tell just by looking at a skull. The rest of us don’t have his experience, so we have to plod along with charts, but we’ll get there. I did the measurements twice, and they don’t match the rest of the chart. When Milo checks my work and sees that I did it right, he’ll know, too. Then the secret will be out, and we don’t want that.”

“What about saving the valley?”

“If the investigation continues, the secret will come out. But if you confess, and if I fake the report, then everyone will get the answers they want, and that will be the end of it.”

“So we both tell lies?” smiled Amelanchier.

“Yes. Except for the fact that you killed Dr. Lerche and Victor. That’s true.”

The old woman looked as if she was going to deny it, but suddenly she sighed wearily and asked, “How come you to know?”

“Because it’s my fault!” said Elizabeth, close to tears. “I realized that it couldn’t have been Comfrey, because if he had known that the Cullowhees weren’t Indians, he wouldn’t have come asking for scientific proof. And you knew all about this project from me. You even knew that Victor was allergic to bees, because I told you! I even told you that he bragged about knowing who killed Alex, but I forgot to tell you what a liar he was! I don’t think he knew anything, really.”

“Well, I couldn’t take the chance. My people have had it too hard to risk losing everything to some no-account college boy. I reckon you want your tea sweet, don’t you? It’ll have to be honey. I don’t keep the white sugar. It’ll do you in.”

Elizabeth picked up her steaming mug and took a sip. It still tasted bitter, even with honey in it. “Who are you really? Does anybody know?”

“Only me. I’m the oldest one alive, so I remember when folks knew. My grandfather still had the whip scars on his back.”

“You were slaves then? Run away from plantations?”

“Sold from the plantations,” said Amelanchier in a steady voice. “Run away from the Cherokees.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “The Cherokees? That’s impossible! They were an Indian tribe.”

“I reckon you think Indians is somebody who lives in a tepee and wears war paint and feathers,” Amelanchier snorted. “Well, I can’t speak for the ones out west, but I’m here to tell you that them Cherokees turned white faster than ash wood in a bonfire.”

“They owned slaves?”

“Yes, ma’am, and had big old farms to work ’em on. Took white last names, and got religion around 1800. Started intermarrying with the whites, too. I reckon they figured that if they got civilized, the white folks would let ’em be.”

“Did it work?” Elizabeth was hazy on Appalachian history, which wasn’t taught until fall semester.

“It did not. The Cherokee nation was good land, timber and gold, and good acres for farming. About 1830, when the settlers started running out of room on the coast, they commenced nagging the government to get the Indians off the good land, move ’em farther west.”

“The Trail of Tears,” whispered Elizabeth, suddenly remembering.

“Yep. Kicked right out, just like they want to do to us. All except five hundred who hid in the hills. It’s their descendants who have the Cherokee reservation today.”

“And were the slaves freed when the Indians were forced to move?”

“No, they were moved right on out with the cattle. But my people didn’t go. They run off and came back to the hills. Been here ever since. Most of ’em was half-breeds, mixed black and white.”

“And Indian?”

“I don’t believe so. They used to say that the Indians gave fifty lashes to any of their tribe who married a slave.”

“But why did you claim to be Indian?” asked Elizabeth, shuddering as she sipped her tea.

“Because between 1830 and very recently, being anything else was not healthy around here. If they’d said they were black, they could’a been took back in slavery till the War between the States, and even after that they was worse off than the Indians. At least we never had no lynchings to worry about.”

“But everyone knew you weren’t really Indian?”

Amelanchier nodded. “It was my gran’daddy, the Wise Man, who changed that. When I was a little bitty girl, he told folks that the best way to keep a secret is not to tell it out, so from then on, the children were told they was real Indians. When I go, the truth goes with me; I never told a one of my young’uns any different. I never knowed you could tell from the bones of the dead.”

“Not until I told you,” said Elizabeth. She mustn’t think about that now; she mustn’t! “I don’t want your people to lose the land. It isn’t fair.”

“I wish Comfrey would have told me before he asked you’uns to come here. But he thinks I’m an old woman who don’t know nothing but plants.”

“It can’t be helped,” said Elizabeth briskly. She wondered how much time they had before Jake found her. “We have to figure out some reason other than the truth for you to have killed them! How about this: you killed them because you didn’t want the bones of your relatives disturbed by irreverent white scientists?”

“I was thinking of that myself,” said Amelanchier. “More tea?”