“You need a lift, don’t you?” Hewitt dangled the keys to his Jaguar. “Take mine. I’ll get a ride with Shirley. Cory can stay with Nakayla and drive her wherever she needs to go.” He tossed me the keychain. “Between the Jag and the red robe, people will think you’re either a prince or a pimp.”
I laughed for the first time that morning. “As long as they don’t think I’m a lawyer.”
* * *
I got the building’s resident manager to let me into my apartment and managed to shower and dress in time to be at the Verizon store when it opened. Although they tried to sell me the latest and greatest, I was able to use a backup credit card to purchase my same model, keep my number, and restore whatever apps and data were tucked away in various clouds. There seemed to be so many clouds these days that a virtual sun had no chance of shining through.
I also kept a spare set of apartment and car keys at home, so I returned the Jag to Hewitt unscathed. He let me into our office and offered to take me to the CR-V whenever I wanted. I had other priorities, first of which was to reschedule Chuck McNulty.
It was a few minutes past ten when I called his number. Again, it rang and rang. Again, a woman answered. “McNulty residence.” A different woman.
“May I speak with Mr. McNulty? Please tell him it’s Sam Blackman.”
“Mr. McNulty’s not here.” She sounded hesitant, like she shouldn’t be telling me she was alone.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No, sir. I’m the housekeeper. He wasn’t here when I came at eight thirty. No breakfast dishes. No note. I let myself in with a key he gave to me.”
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me the number?”
“Yes. But that’s no good.”
“Why?”
“His cell phone is sitting on the dining room table.”
“Then would you give him a message for me?”
“I need to get something to write with.”
A clunk as she set the receiver on a hard surface. I remembered McNulty’s daughter telling me the phone wasn’t cordless. It could have been rotary for all I knew.
A few minutes later, a rustling and then, “OK. I’m ready.”
“Tell him I have to postpone our meeting but to call me as soon as he can.” I gave her both the office and cell phone numbers.
“Yes, sir. I’ll leave the message right by his favorite coffee mug. He keeps it on the counter.”
“Does it look like he used it?”
“No, and there’s nothing in the coffeemaker either. Usually a pot lasts him through the morning.”
I didn’t like the answers I was getting, especially after the fiery attack. “Anything else unusual?”
A pause. “His newspaper was still in front of the door.”
“Do you know his daughter’s number?”
“Yes, I clean for her sometimes.”
I debated whether to call his daughter myself, but that might set off a needless alarm. Better if the housekeeper contacted her. What could I do anyway? If there was a problem, the daughter would take action immediately. I was more than two hours away.
“Speak to his daughter,” I said. “Let her know I called but you couldn’t tell me when her father might be back. Say I’m anxious to talk with him and reschedule our meeting. If she wants to call me, you can give her my numbers.”
The woman assured me she would do just what I requested. I heard a soft tremor in her voice and knew she was concerned.
I ended the call and rose from my desk, uncertain what the next step should be. Nakayla faced a hell of a task reorganizing her life. Fortunately, she was much better than me about backing up her laptop on a drive here at the office, but those things that are part of your personal history—photographs, letters, gifts, heirlooms connecting you to generations of family—those are things that can’t be replaced. Although Nakayla was grateful for getting out of the fire alive, a part of her had to have been consumed by those flames. She’d experienced real loss and real heartbreak. I could only do so much, but finding the person responsible was at the top of my list.
I walked to my office window. Below, Pack Square appeared significantly devoid of tourists. Heat waves shimmered over the streets’ black asphalt. The haze in the hot air blurred the ridges surrounding the city. What did Nakayla say? We were in a weather inversion? Thermal layers trapped upside down? How appropriate. The fire had turned our lives upside down. Our own personal inversion. Not a weather phenomenon but the consequence of an evil or sick mind. Someone we had provoked into murderous action.
A knock came from the hallway door. A hinge squealed. A man called, “Anyone here?”
The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“I’m coming.” I entered the center room to find Transylvania County Sheriff Hickman just inside the open door.
“Got a minute?” Without waiting for an answer, he reclaimed his spot on the leather sofa.
“Coffee?” I offered and closed the door.
“No, thanks. Can’t stay.” He glanced at my bandaged hand. “I heard about the fire.”
I sat in the chair opposite him. “News travels fast.”
“Asheville’s arson task force sent out an advisory to neighboring counties. We’re pooling information because these fires might be linked.”
“You think the fire last night is tied into forest fires?” I couldn’t see a connection. Nakayla’s house was specifically targeted, whereas the forest fires probably resulted from some psycho wanting to wreak havoc. Then the common denominator hit me.
“PARI. You think this is about PARI.”
Hickman remained stone-faced. “Why do you say that?”
“Because your last visit to our office came after we spoke to Loretta and then she confronted you and her brothers. What you’ve never made clear is why you were at Bobby Case’s house in the first place. You had no reason at that time to tie them to Frank DeMille’s murder, but you were investigating the fire. You suspect the Cases had something to do with the fire at PARI.”
Hickman folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
I nodded. “Then you’ll understand I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Your reason?”
“We’re working for Hewitt Donaldson. Attorney-client privilege may not apply, but you can bet he’d take the matter to court.” I didn’t know what rationale might apply, if any, but I was banking that if Hewitt had burned the sheriff in court in the past, Hickman wouldn’t relish another encounter.
“Now, sharing information,” I added, “that’s something else.”
The stony expression morphed into someone biting into a lemon.
“Routine,” he said. “That fire originated close to the property line between the Cases and PARI. I thought they might have seen something.”
“Do you think they would be so careless as to set a fire so close to their own land?”
He shook his head. “I told you it was routine.”
His answer didn’t square with my instincts, but I had no evidence to challenge him.
“Do you know how the fire started?” I asked.
“We have our suspicions. Given the wind direction and the way it spread, we think we found the source. There’s a rock bluff, a bald of granite that would have allowed an unimpeded roll down to the lower pines.”
“Roll of what?”
“A tire. You stuff the inside with old rags, soak them in an accelerant, light them, and then send the blazing tire on its way. It throws off flaming pieces and then continues burning when it comes to rest. Rolling it off the bald gives some distance between the arsonist and the tire’s location.”
“Nobody rolled a tire into Nakayla’s house,” I sai
d. “They poured gasoline around the exterior. The flames engulfed us in a matter of seconds.”
“That’s what the fire marshal reported. I just wanted your firsthand account. Our tire arsonist probably used kerosene-soaked rags. They wouldn’t burn off as quickly.”
I stared at him. He didn’t come to the office to ask me about gasoline.
Hickman smiled. “I hear the Cases think you had something to do with Loretta’s death.”
“I can’t stop them from thinking.”
“And I don’t have enough evidence to stop them from acting.” He stood. “You and your partner watch yourselves. And if you come across something of interest, I’ll appreciate a call.”
He dropped a business card on the coffee table, gave a two-fingered salute, and went on his way.
During our brief conversation, my cell phone and the office phone had rung. The voicemail on the mobile was from Chuck McNulty.
“Mr. Blackman. Sorry I missed your call. Sometimes I get restless and go on an early morning drive. We can reschedule at your convenience.”
I thought the voicemail on the office line would be a duplicate. I was wrong.
“Mr. Blackman. This is Theo Brecht returning your call. I’m free after five today if you want to meet. Give me a time and place. I promise not to hit you with a door. Thanks.”
I would get back to both of them, but my first call would be to Detective Tuck Efird. I wanted only one thing from him—the phone number for his ex-wife. It was time to confront the Aliens over Asheville.
Chapter 15
The Appalachian Mountains are some of the oldest in the world. Geologists claim their height could have topped the Himalayas before eons eroded them to the rounded, tree-covered peaks of today. In fact, the eastern part of North Carolina was created from the debris that time and weather whittled off these ancient ridges and deposited into the ocean. Western North Carolinians cite this as the scientific reason that Western North Carolina barbecue is superior. Who wants vinegar-soaked pork cooked by someone living on debris?
The rivers meandering through the Appalachians are also primeval. The New River, originating near Boone and flowing through Virginia and West Virginia, is new in that it is believed to be the second-oldest river in the world, edged out by the Nile.
Asheville’s waterway sporting such a primitive pedigree is the French Broad. It flows as a bisector splitting apart Asheville and West Asheville. The names are more than a compass orientation. They were not once but twice separate towns. In 1917, a final vote in West Asheville for consolidation passed by a whopping 169–161. But the ballot result didn’t eradicate West Asheville’s distinct identity, and residents take pride in their side of the river. Up until a match ignited gasoline, Nakayla had been one of them.
The east bank of the French Broad had been the site of Asheville’s industrial district. Both the river and the railroad offered transportation benefits, and the flatter terrain made construction of factories and warehouses practical. But as the years passed, Asheville wasn’t immune to the decline of American industries. Factories closed, warehouses emptied, and jobs evaporated, leaving only the carcasses of abandoned buildings.
Then, in the 1980s, a vision began to take hold: the transformation into a new kind of manufacturing—artists in studios making and selling their creations. Over thirty years later, the River Arts District, RAD for short, housed a variety of artisans whose work ranges from ceramics and glassblowing to sculpture and painting. Rebirth emerging from the floodplain of an ancient river.
So I stood by that river in front of what once had been a cotton mill. The old brick structure matched the address Detective Tuck Efird had given me for his ex-wife. He said she was a gifted and nationally known artist. Bernadette Efird worked in the tedious, slow, and painstaking craft of setting stones, minerals, gems, or tiles to create abstract or realistic images. A master of mosaics.
In contrast, her studio also had an office for her other passion, this one centered around HASTE, the Human-Alien Secret Treaty Exposé. My investigative career had led me into some strange situations and strange interviews. I had the feeling I was about to be propelled into an entirely different level of strangeness.
Nakayla and I had gone on several Studio Strolls as they are called, and I had been through the old cotton mill before. But those events are so popular, I only remembered flowing with a steady stream of people. If I’d seen Bernadette Efird’s work, it was lost in the multitude of art that had been on display.
I found the studio labeled “B-Creative” with a honeybee and flower depicted in the door’s stained-glass window. B for Bernadette, I assumed. A bell tinkled as I stepped into a showroom filled with mosaics hanging on the walls, mosaics on stands, and mosaics lying flat on counters. Each was tagged with a colored dot that I figured correlated to its price. Many of the designs were abstract, but there were also realistic images of mountain vistas, cats, dogs, even a possum. Bernadette was evidently a gifted artist who used stone, tile, and glass in place of brush, paint, and canvas.
“I’m in the back,” a woman called. “Be with you in a moment.”
Since I wasn’t there to shop, I headed toward the rear door and the sound of the voice. Then a specific mosaic caught my eye. It hung just to the side of the door leading to a back room. The picture was composed of colored stones and glass. Five figures. The iconic alien I’d seen on the banjo player’s T-shirt and four human toddlers. They stood side by side and hand in hand with the slender alien in the center. The four children, two boys and two girls, varied in ethnicity. They were dressed in rainbow-colored robes while the alien was yellow, naked, and genderless. The background was a distant ridge with two radio telescopes framing a setting sun.
“May I help you?”
I looked from the mosaic to a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway. She wore a long, heavy apron over a stained, long-sleeved shirt and black jeans. Her round face was framed by short brown hair going gray at the roots. Her smile faded as her hazel eyes widened with recognition.
“Sam Blackman?”
“Yes. Sorry, I didn’t remember if we’d met.”
“We haven’t. I’ve seen your picture in the newspaper and heard Tuck talk about you. Are you here as a shopper or a detective?”
“I’m afraid for the moment I’m a detective.” I swept my left arm toward the display room. “But I’m very impressed. I may need to come back as a shopper.”
Her face turned grim. “This is about PARI then. The skeleton up on the ridge?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’d better come in and sit down. I can talk, but I’ll have to stop and tend to any customers.”
I followed her into a second room, this one unfinished except for several workbenches with mosaics in various stages of completion. In one far corner were stacked boxes and palettes of assorted tiles. Along an exposed brick wall, metal bins held broken pieces as well as stones and glass. I saw a gem cutter and polisher that showed Bernadette refined her own materials.
In another corner, a cage enclosed a desk and two chairs, a laptop and desktop computer, and three standing filing cabinets. Clearly, this lockable space served as the office without the expense of creating actual walls. Hanging on the wire beside the cage’s door was the mosaic of colored text reading “Make HASTE.” Thanks to Tuck Efird’s warning, I knew what it stood for.
“Would you like some tea?” Bernadette asked. “It’s herbal.”
Her offer reminded me of the awful tea Loretta had served. “No, thanks. I don’t want to take any more of your time than necessary.”
She pointed for me to take the chair behind the desk. “In case I need to get up,” she explained. “Now, how can I help?”
“The niece of Frank DeMille, the man whose remains were discovered last week, is a friend. My partner and I are trying to find out what happened. The Transylvania County sheriff and
the FBI have jurisdiction, but we’re doing what we can to ensure the investigation is as thorough as possible.”
“Tuck’s not involved?”
“Not with that one.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That one?”
“It’s complicated. The woman who was murdered in Rat Alley the night before last. She’s Tuck’s case. Years ago, she was Frank DeMille’s fiancée.”
Bernadette made a little O with her lips.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s also connected to PARI. She worked there during the Apollo days. So I have little pieces of a puzzle stretching out nearly fifty years.”
“Not a puzzle, Mr. Blackman. A mosaic.”
I had to smile. Of course she’d see it that way. Harder than a puzzle because there was no box top picture for reference or precut puzzle shapes. It was like one of her creations had tumbled into a heap and only she had the vision to put the pieces back into a recognizable image. Had Loretta known the final picture? Was that why she was killed?
“I’ve read the online material about HASTE,” I said. “I know PARI figures strongly into your organization’s investigation.”
Now she smiled. “Do I look as crazy as people say I am?”
“You don’t look crazy to me. I don’t know what other people say.”
“Come now, Mr. Blackman. Don’t patronize me. I’m sure Tuck called me a UFO nutter.”
“Something like that,” I admitted.
She nodded. “I never could convince him otherwise. Which theory do you think sounds crazier? That we’re on the third planet of an insignificant star in a galaxy that’s one of countless galaxies and that we’re all alone because conditions for life exist nowhere else and God put all his eggs in one basket? Or God wasn’t wasteful, and a cosmos filled with suns and planets statistically must produce life because the sheer numbers overwhelmingly demand it?”
“But here? PARI?”
“Why not?” In rapid succession, she ticked off points on her fingers. “One, PARI is isolated. Two, PARI was set up for interspace communications. Those signals weren’t just a one-to-one secure-line chat but sent out through the solar system. Three, UFO sightings are concentrated over Western North Carolina. Four, PARI goes dark when the Apollo program ends, and immediately in come the black SUVs, enhanced security, and even poison ivy planted on the perimeter.”
Murder in Rat Alley Page 12