Outcast In Gray

by M. Glenn Graves

  I nodded and smiled at him. I raised my right palm to him as if waving goodbye.

  As we entered Ponder’s store I noticed that Sheriff Murdock was still interviewing Mamie Shelton. That is to say, he was standing near her and waiting for her to speak while he was looking in our direction. I also noticed that he was pacing in front of her talking while staring at us. Mamie was watching him without saying a word. Interesting interview.

  Starnes and I walked around the small store for several minutes. Time really has no meaning when one is investigating a potential crime scene. You simply look, study, think about what things might have looked like before this incident occurred, and remain bewildered until you have an inspiration. Inspirations don’t always come.

  You also spend your time looking at the actual part of the scene that has been disturbed. You look for anything which might be out of place or odd.

  I walked in one direction while Starnes traveled in the other direction. We met each other twice. The second time we were standing at the front door where we had entered the building.

  “What’d you see?” I said to her.

  “Nothing much disturbed except for where Hack was killed.”

  “Devoured.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  “I did notice that there wasn’t much blood splatter,” I said.

  “Yeah, I made a mental note about that as well. You have any ideas about that?”

  “Maybe the kill wasn’t so violent. Maybe the killer surprised Hack and was able to subdue him without slashing.”

  “Makes sense,” Starnes agreed. “Or…”

  She stopped talking and walked back to the center of the store where a few bones were found near the stove. She then turned right and walked over to the closest wall behind the glass counter. There was a nail in a two by four with some electric handsaw blades hanging there. They were mounted to the wall by the nail using the center hole in the blade. Starnes took out a pair of disposable plastic gloves and put them on. She then removed one of the saw blades and walked back over to a deputy who was standing near the stove.

  “Bag this and have it sent to the lab for prints or residue.”

  The deputy put it inside a paper bag and headed out the front door past me. Starnes was on his heels but stopped when she reached my position.

  “Something you wanna share?” I said.

  “Maybe we missed something.”

  “Like the animal brought a circular saw to the kill?” I said as I followed her out of the store.

  24

  “I need some comfort food to help me think,” I said to Starnes two days later.

  We were still mulling over the crime scene at Ponder’s place while waiting on Mamie Shelton to regain her sensibilities.

  It was late morning moving on towards midday. The rains had returned along with the fog, but no snow had fallen. Once again the meteorologists had fallen short in their forecasts. It was yet another spring-like mountain day which contained some crisp air that brought on some hunger for me. It could have been another late winter mountain day since that crispness in the air was downright cold. The calendar said it was the middle of February. I’d call it winter.

  I had spent a couple of hours on the front porch musing while Starnes was going through boxes in her attic. She joined me with a cup of coffee in her hand just as I had finished my fifth cup.

  “What would you have me fix?” she said after swallowing a swig of her black brew.

  “I want to go out to eat. Nothing against your cooking, mind you. Just a change of pace. How about some Italian cuisine?” I said.

  “Olive Garden?”

  “Maybe less of a franchise thing. How about a mom and pop’s restaurant that specializes in some Italian dishes?”

  “Okay. We can do that. Now or supper time?” she said.

  “Now.”

  “Dogs, too?”

  I walked over to the living room window and glanced in on the dogs. They were both sound asleep. Dog was resting much too comfortably in Spud Carver’s favorite chair. Sam was asleep in the corner diagonally across from the front door. He appeared to be hiding at the corner of the couch and the rocking chair. It gave him a good view of the comings and goings through the front door without having to get up and move around whenever someone walked past.

  “I think the dogs are resting rather well. Besides, it’s raining. And, I want you to drive.”

  “The truck?” she said.

  “Yeah. I don’t really trust your car.”

  “Car’s newer than the truck.”

  “Only in mileage,” I said.

  We followed Highway 213 through the small village of Athens, North Carolina. The normally tiny town swelled to over a thousand when the college there was in session. Athens College was a small, parochial school begun by the Baptists back in the 1800’s. It was still going well despite the financial crunch that most all institutions of higher learning faced. Rumors had it that there was a plan for it to become a university soon. That rumor came by way of Starnes Carver. It had been her school of choice for her undergraduate work back in the 90’s. After she had finished there, she moved on to do her post-graduate studies at North Carolina State University in Raleigh.

  Highway 213 crosses over NC 19/23 and the future name of Interstate 26. Starnes turned right off of 213 and headed us southward towards Asheville.

  “Taking me to the big city?” I said.

  “Not that far. Good dining spot before we get to the big city.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Good place. Worth waiting for.”

  “Then I shall try. Say, did you find anything interesting in your rummaging around the attic?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Yeah.”

  I waited, but nothing came forth.

  “Care to share?”

  “A book. Daddy had a book on Celtic history. I wanted to check on something.”

  “We could go to the library. We could’ve stopped at the college library. They might have had something on Celtic history.”

  “I wanted to use Daddy’s book. I know it’s there somewhere.”

  “What color is it?” I said.

  “What color is it?” Starnes repeated with disdain in her voice. “What difference does the color make?”

  “I remember books by the colors of the binding or the jacket.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said.

  “Never. My brain files some things by color.”

  “But books? Please. Too many similar colors,” she said.

  “That’s why you mix up the colors. Helps with the ambience of your room as well. Never place two red books side by side.”

  “You know, for a smart woman, you’re an idiot,” Starnes said to me.

  “Well, I love you, too. There is really a great deal of logic to this. So, what color is the book?”

  She drove on in silence for a minute or so.

  “Dark blue with a stone colored face on it. White lettering across the front top, just above center. Most dark blue.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “You know I like details.”

  “Sure, but it’s not that,” I said.

  “Then what?” Starnes said.

  “The book you are describing is on the shelf beside Spud’s chair. I saw it several days back.”

  “I looked there first. Didn’t see it.”

  “That’s because I dropped some of your delicious spaghetti on it and Sam helped me clean it off. Since he didn’t remove the stains, I took it and tried to get the tomato sauce off of the spine.”

  “And?” she said.

  “It wouldn’t come off. Evidently you have some spices in your sauce that are permanent.”

  “You’re blaming my cooking techniques for the damage you perpetrated on my book,” she said.

  “Well, Sam licked it and I tried to use soap to remove the stains. Nothing doing.”
<
br />   “And the book?” she said.

  “I put it underneath a pile of papers on the shelf next to your dad’s chair,” I confessed.

  “Underneath.”

  “Didn’t want you to find the stain until after I had left.”

  “Wow. Some friend you are.”

  “Protecting you.”

  “Me, huh?”

  “Well, maybe both of us.”

  “And it was my daddy’s book on Celtic history?”

  “As I recall, it was.”

  “Did you read any of it?”

  “Some,” I said.

  “Anything strike you of interest?” Starnes said.

  “A chapter on St. Ciwa.”

  “St. Ciwa.”

  “Yes.”

  “And …?” Starnes prodded.

  “Welsh mythology. She was also known as St. Kew the Virgin from Gwent.”

  “You making this up as you go along?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And you remember these details?” Starnes said.

  “It was an interesting chapter.”

  “And why haven’t you mentioned this before now if it was so interesting?”

  “Hadn’t had a reason.”

  “So what made this chapter peak your interest and you tell me now?” Starnes said.

  “St. Ciwa was raised by wolves. I figured that was what you were checking on in your daddy’s book.”

  “Your intuition really is kicking in, Clancy.”

  Twenty-Five

  The sun was shining by the time I had finished my delicious comfort food in the Weaverville restaurant. I had the suspicion that Starnes had enjoyed her order as well. Nothing quite like good comfort when anxiety has a grip on you and you can’t get a handle on a puzzling case, especially one that had so far involved the possibility of coyotes, wolves, three murders, an old lady who has visions about wolves, and only a smattering of bones left at each of the crime scenes.

  I was watching the sunshine shimmer on the water puddles in the parking lot of the restaurant. I could recall as a young girl that I had a penchant for things that sparkle, like rain water in puddles along the dirt road that took me to my favorite fishing hole. My brother Scott would jump into the puddles with both feet simultaneously against my wishes and constant chastisements. He was incorrigible, not that I was the dutiful daughter. I just didn’t like to disturb the glistening effect of the sunshine and water meeting along our journey.

  “Now that you have discovered what I had thought I had remembered from the book, what do you make of it?”

  “Celtic mythology?”

  “Well, I was referring more specifically to the story about St. Ciwa. You don’t find it particularly interesting?” Starnes said.

  “In light of our current debacle?” I said.

  “That would be the thing.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Well, it has to do with wolves, right?”

  “The book said so.”

  “And preacher Smathers mentioned the first time he could recall Mamie’s vision about a woman turning into a wolf,” Starnes said.

  “Far cry from a saint from the British Isles living with wolves,” I said.

  “Maybe not so far,” she said.

  “I think you’re connecting dots that I can’t even see.”

  “Maybe I know more than you do.”

  “That would not surprise me,” I said. “Tell me more.”

  “Let’s go see Aunt Jo,” Starnes said.

  “Wow. I had forgotten about her.”

  “You should never forget about Josephine Starling.”

  “It wasn’t intentional, I assure you.”

  Starnes chuckled a little.

  “Aunt Jo is a legend around here. People go to her when all else fails. I think she might be able to point us in a direction that could provide some clarity.”

  Josephine Starling was a mountain woman in her nineties. No one knew for sure how old she really was. They just knew that she had been around for all of their lives. Few people could recall when they came to know her or how. They did, however, know exactly what she had done for them, if she had done anything at all for them. Everyone in the county, except newcomers, had great respect for her abilities. She had what folks referred to as the sight. While that is generally hard to explain, it has to do with the ability to see things, hear things, feel things, and know things which most of us do not see, hear, feel or know. Josephine Starling also had what Starnes referred to as the touch. She could handle something, literally, and offer some insight about the owner of the article she had touched.

  My first impression of her was slightly less awe-inspired than what Starnes allowed. I thought the woman was weird. After she had helped us to solve some particularly brutal murders a few years ago, my appreciation of her abilities was heightened.

  I still remained skeptical. Some things in life defy logic. I like logic, but I also realize that some things are beyond logic and defy explanation. Those are the things which I do not enjoy coming up close to in my cases. Logic is the thing which helps me the most, most of the time. Then there are cases like this.

  I had discovered a couple of other interesting things about Aunt Jo. One, she liked a variety of homemade tea. She grew the herbs and concocted the teas according to her tastes and peculiarities. Two, she walked on air.

  As soon as Starnes drove through Athens and past the small college campus heading towards Madison, I had the distinct impression that we were not bound for the county seat. My impression was substantiated when Starnes turned off 213 and wound her way in the back country of McAdams County. It looked faintly familiar as we curved our way into the wilds.

  “We’re headed towards Josephine Starling’s place,” I said, more of a question than a hard statement of fact.

  “Wonder what kind of tea she’ll be drinking today?” Starnes said.

  The thing about Ivy Gap was that for my money no one could ever accidentally go there. It had to be intentional and extremely deliberate. It was a lot like many of the places Starnes had already exposed me to in the county. A map would help as well. Along with a seasoned driver who knew every turn, every crook, every bump in the road. Starnes was the one.

  Not only did Aunt Jo, as Starnes referred to her, live in the remote section named Ivy Gap, she lived at the end of the holler way past where the paved road ended, past where the graveled road ended, and at the end of the footpath that led up the holler towards the top of Ivy Gap Mountain. The last stop before the top of the mountain. The last human being on the right.

  She drove her red truck as far as she dared due to the rain and the muddy road conditions of the road that normally might take us closer to Aunt Jo’s house. We parked and walked the rest of the way.

  “We should’ve stopped by your place and picked up the dogs,” I said.

  “It would’ve been out of the way.”

  “Stopping anywhere coming here would have been out of the way.”

  Starnes smiled and headed on up the footpath towards Aunt Jo’s quaint little hovel. I followed along cautiously. I liked Josephine Starling even though I did not understand her gift. There were times I didn’t understand Aunt Jo.

  Gift would be one word to describe what she could do, see, perceive, and know. It was beyond anything rational for me. I had the idea that Starnes felt that way as well. But since Starnes grew up with this woman, she accepted it better than I did.

  We approached a small fenced-in yard. White picket fenced-in yard. It appeared to be newly painted. There were some tiny green shoots poking through the ground on both sides of the fence in the front near the gate. No doubt these were some vigorous plants. The warmer-than-usual winter weather no doubt had contributed to their early appearance. A small rocking chair was stationed to the left of the front door on the small porch.

  Starnes knocked on the door while I kept noticing things I hadn’t seen before. This was my first time to visit Josephine Starling in the daylight.
Nocturnal visits often hide many quaint niceties as well as suspicious stuff which lurks about during the nighttime.

  Aunt Jo had two herb gardens that I could see. One was located on the right side of the house around from the front porch. The other was located on the left side. The one on the left appeared to be newer, judging from the soil and the smallness of the plants.

  “My, oh my, what a delightful surprise,” Aunt Jo said as she opened the door.

  “You didn’t know we were coming?” Starnes said.

  “Oh, goodness yes. Come in, come in. Welcome Miss Clancy. I hope you are doing well.”

  “Good to see you again, Miss Jo.”

  “Call me Aunt Jo, if you would. Most everybody refers to me that way. Has more of a family context, you know.”

  “Aunt Jo it is,” I said.

  “Please have a seat. Why don’t you sit on the red cushioned chair this time, Clancy,” Aunt Jo said.

  I was taken aback by her memory. On the other occasions of my visits I had used the green cushioned chair and the sofa. Aunt Jo moved to position herself in front of the sofa leaving Starnes with the option of sitting next to Aunt Jo there or sitting on the green cushioned chair. Starnes chose the green chair.

  “What’s the tea specialty for today?” Starnes said.

  “Well, the herbal tea made with Reishi is always appropriate for investigative people like you. But you might consider a new one I have made just for this occasion.”

  “And what might that be?” I said.

  “Well, goodness, child. I ain’t named it as yet, but it is old as far as I can tell. Been around for centuries. It’s made with green tea leaves, red clover tops, Indian sage leaf; and, I add some fruit leaves for whatever mood I’m in.”

  “What mood would that be for today?” I said.

  “Raspberry,” she said and stood up.

  “I’ll try your unnamed ancient specialty,” I said.

  Starnes nodded in agreement and Aunt Jo left the room.

  “Why do I always have an uneasy feeling when I’m around her?” I said to Starnes.

  “She knows things she isn’t telling and you have no idea how she knows them.”

  “Yeah, there’s that. But there’s something about her, something beyond …” I said, then stopped, searching for the right word to use.