Cold Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  15

  Davina stopped in the basement restroom to try to lasso her wild emotions into something resembling control. She gripped the edge of the porcelain sink hard and absorbed the enormity of her discovery. It was almost beyond her ability to comprehend. Almost, but not entirely.

  She was a bona fide Big Freaking Deal. And Margot and Sully were going to screw her over and bury the news. Bodhi and Eliza might fool themselves into believing Chief Dexter would do the right thing. She had no illusions.

  Unless. Unless she beat them at their own game. She didn’t have time to hang out in the bathroom. She needed to get out of here and call Micah.

  She pushed the door open and spied Sully walking away from the lab. He was headed straight toward her.

  Her heart thumped triple-time in her chest, and she turned on her heel and made a beeline for the supply closet to the right of the bathroom door. She grasped the knob two-handed, but her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t get the door open before Sully passed by.

  She needn’t have bothered. He didn’t so much as glance at her. Deep in her belly, she felt a stab of the visceral anger that Verna carried around with her. But, mainly, she was grateful to be treated as if she were invisible. Explaining what she was doing lurking around the office museum in a cleaning crew outfit was a conversation she was happy to avoid.

  And knowing Sully, he might have her arrested. That would lead to an even more uncomfortable conversation if she were searched. She snaked her hand inside the uniform’s large patch pocket and removed the brooch.

  She was confident Bodhi and Eliza hadn’t seen her unpin it from Cassie’s blouse and palm it. And they wouldn’t have noticed the pinholes in the fabric. They’d been one-hundred percent focused on the ligature marks on the woman’s neck.

  She’d thought the round pin was special from the moment she’d first viewed it through the coffin’s window, still half-buried in the earth. But once she’d seen it up close, without a barrier, she could see nothing else.

  She traced the intricate filigree that encircled the large faceted garnet stone in the center. It wasn’t one of a kind—she knew that much. But it proved that the woman Bodhi had christened Cassie was significant in more ways than one.

  She heard whistling and heavy footsteps and dropped the piece of jewelry back into her pocket in a hurry. She cast her eyes down on the ground.

  Marvin Washington strolled by and, like Sully, didn’t even glance in her direction. But, unlike Sully, he very much noticed her.

  “He’s in the boardroom with his grandma. This is your chance to get out of the building,” he murmured, the words just audible.

  She wished she could thank him, but it was better not to. She settled for a short nod and rushed to the stairwell. She was home free. All she had to do was race up the rear stairs and dart out through the employees’ door. Yet, somehow, her feet took her in another direction, and she found herself with her ear pressed up against the board room door, straining to hear any sounds coming from within.

  Sully’s voice, muffled and indistinct, drifted through the door. “I explained that we would not be looking for any publicity about this corpse.”

  His grandmother murmured her faint assent.

  “But they insist on speaking with Chief Dexter anyway,” Sully continued.

  Margot laughed, and, this time, when she spoke, her words rang out. “Leave Lewis Dexter to me.”

  Sully’s voice rose in a question.

  His grandmother assured him, “Lewis will understand his situation. He won’t move forward with a criminal investigation into the supposed murder of a supposed one-hundred-and-fifty-year old corpse. It would be tantamount to tendering his resignation.”

  Davina pursed her lips and nodded to herself. It was just as she’d suspected. The Sullivans were going to sweep the corpse—and with it, the historic coffin—under a pricey Persian rug.

  Margot wasn’t finished, though, “Have you dealt with Davina Jones yet?”

  “Not yet. The fact that the corpse and the coffin aren’t frauds means we’ll have to tread lightly.”

  “Not too lightly, Eugene. Pressure must be applied.”

  That sounded ominous.

  She needed to get out of the building, both before she got caught, and before she did something regrettable, like burst in on them Scooby-Doo-style to catch them scheming. She crept away from the door and made her way to the employees’ door in the back of the building.

  16

  Pressure must be applied.

  Sometimes, Sully thought, his grandmother could be a tad dramatic.

  She stared at him, waiting for some response.

  “I’ll reach out to her.”

  “Reach out to her,” she echoed. Her upper lip curled ever-so-slightly. A display of cultured disdain.

  She pushed herself away from the conference table, opened the credenza that held the foundation’s records, and paged the through the bound volumes.

  “What are you looking for?” He was much more familiar with the filing system for the organizational documents than was she.

  She didn’t respond. After a moment, she selected one of the leather books, blew the dust off the cover, and placed it down on the table with a dull thud.

  She flipped it open, paged past the index, and placed her finger on the page that appeared to be a formation document, either the charter or the irrevocable charitable trust agreement. Then she put on the reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck and began to read aloud:

  I, Louisa Anne Rutherford, being of sound mind and body, as the Grantor under this Rutherford Family Irrevocable Trust, do hereby proclaim that the assets herein shall be held in trust for the female descendants of the Rutherford family, for their care and ease, with the following conditions:

  (1) The initial trust principal of one million dollars shall be invested and kept in trust in perpetuity. The annual income generated by the trust shall be divided as follows: (a) 25% to fund the operations of the Rutherford Nature Preserve and Open-Air Museum and any buildings constructed thereon for the benefit of the Trust; (b) 25% to the community in the form of grants and scholarships; and (c) 50% to the living female descendants of Louisa Anne Rutherford, per stirpes, to spend as they wish.

  “Need I go on?”

  Sully choked back his initial response and chose a more measured one, “It won’t be necessary. I assure you, I am well acquainted with Louisa Anne Rutherford’s grant.”

  Oh, was he ever.

  “And you understand, Eugene, that your generous allowance is at my discretion, as was your father’s when he was alive?”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” he gritted out.

  “You also realize that I am, as far as anyone knows, the last living female descendant of Louisa Rutherford?”

  “Quite.”

  She thumped the book shut and returned it to its place in the row. Then she braced her sinewy arms against the table and leaned forward.

  “So, you understand that unless another female descendant turns up, the Trust and the Family Foundation, as currently constituted, dissolve upon my death, and your allowance vanishes with them?”

  “As currently constituted, yes.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Don’t get your hopes up, Eugene. Louisa Anne’s intent was clear, and I don’t see a way forward to subvert it. No matter what your lawyer friends from Birmingham and Montgomery say.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.”

  What else could he say?

  “So, it’s important to get clarity on the brooch and on Davina Jones’ necklace.”

  “I don’t know about the brooch, but surely that necklace is a knockoff.”

  Another cutting gaze. “Reach out to the Jones woman, Eugene. I’ll take care of the brooch myself.”

  17

  Marvin escorted Bodhi and Eliza up from the basement and said goodbye to them at the front doors. Outside, Eliza called Jason to arrange for transportation back to the lodge, while Bodhi cal
led Chief Dexter to set up a time to deliver their report.

  “Jason’s on his way,” Eliza said when Bodhi ended his call with the chief. “How’d you do?”

  He pulled a face. “He’ll give us ten minutes between the breakout session on ‘Rural Terrorism Response’ and lunch.”

  “Ten minutes to brief him? Even though this may have just become a murder investigation?”

  He gave her a long look. “I think Davina was probably right. I get the sense that the chief takes his marching orders from the Sullivans. If they don’t want there to be a full-fledged investigation, there won’t be.”

  The only way to describe her expression was thunderous. He almost ducked for cover, but Jason pulled up, so Bodhi hustled her into the car. They passed the short ride in ominous silence.

  As they pulled up to the lodge, Jason commented, “I guess the museum was a let-down, eh?”

  Eliza brightened for a moment before she stepped out of the car. “It wasn’t quite what we expected, but I’m so thankful we met you.”

  Bodhi echoed the sentiment, glad to see that she’d cheered up.

  After they waved goodbye to Jason, Bodhi turned to her. “Are you going to keep your cool when we talk to Dexter?”

  “Keep my cool? Are you insinuating that I’m a hothead?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he deliberately dropped his gaze to her right foot, which was stamping the pavement. She stilled her foot and removed her hand from her hip.

  “I’ll be the perfect southern lady,” she demurred.

  For reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, that promise did nothing to ease his concerns. But he managed a strangled “great” and followed her up the stairs to the lodge.

  Dexter was waiting for them just inside the doors. He yanked the door open when he saw them approaching and hurried them over to a seating area tucked into the far end of the lobby where three oversized club chairs formed a conversation pit. He gestured for Eliza to take a seat and waited for her to sit before lowering his bulk into the chair next to hers. Bodhi took the remaining seat, directly across from Eliza.

  “What’s your big news?” Dexter asked, glancing at his watch before he clasped his hands together and rested his arms on his thighs.

  “Professor Jones is correct. That corpse is approximately one hundred and fifty years old.”

  “I’ll be ….” Dexter shook his head vigorously. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “It’s true,” Eliza informed him. “And she was hanged.”

  Dexter scratched at his neck under the collar of his plaid shirt. “Really, hanged?”

  “Yes, hanged, possibly lynched.” Eliza’s voice faltered, and she threw Bodhi a look that said ‘how about a little help?’

  “But, you already know all this, right, Chief Dexter?”

  Dexter coughed in response.

  “Mr. Sullivan called you.”

  Bodhi didn’t phrase it as a question, but Dexter answered it anyway.

  “It was Margot, actually. Uh, Mrs. Sullivan.” He stared down at his hands.

  “And she told you that the foundation wouldn’t fund the forensic experts.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I know you were counting on the generosity of the Sullivans to cover the costs, but you can’t refuse to investigate a suspicious death because some rich family doesn’t want the bad publicity. You’ll have to find the money in the department’s budget.”

  Dexter slapped his knee. “You’re kidding, right? No offense, Doc. There’s no money to find in my budget. Not for that sort of thing. Heck, we’ve got a whole panel devoted to stretching a department’s dollars this weekend.”

  “Yes, but—"

  “I’m running a shoestring operation. My coroner is a fish doctor. So if the Sullivans aren’t paying for it, it’s not happening.”

  Eliza flushed all the way to her hairline. Bodhi hurried to try to find a diplomatic response before she exploded. This was not his strong suit. He was a truth-teller, and he could be blunt.

  “I do understand the financial constraints you’re facing. But you have to investigate crimes. It’s your duty.”

  Dexter bristled. “Thank you both for your work. I appreciate it more than you can know. But this is the end of the line.”

  Eliza jumped in. “The end of the line? When there’s likely been a murder committed in your town? What about seeing justice done?”

  “If—if—a murder was committed, it happened in the 1800s. I don’t think I’m gonna have anyone to bring to justice. Unless you’re suggesting the killer is the undead, like a vampire.”

  He guffawed at his own lame joke. They ignored it.

  “But the historical record—” Eliza began.

  Dexter grew serious. “I’m not a historian. That’s not my job. My job’s to protect and serve the current citizens of this town, not the ones who’ve been dead for over a hundred years. Is your Jane Doe interesting? Sure. Historically important? Maybe. But it’s a cold, cold case, and there’s no law enforcement reason to investigate it.”

  “Especially not when you’re in the Sullivan family’s pocket,” Bodhi observed.

  Dexter stood. He eyeballed Bodhi coldly. “As a courtesy to Bette, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

  He strode off before Bodhi or Eliza could say another word.

  Eliza exhaled. “Well, that’s disappointing, but not surprising.”

  “True.”

  “Are you going to let Davina know?”

  He should. But not yet. “Let’s wait. We’ll pick Fred and Bette’s brains over lunch. Maybe they’ll have an idea.”

  Davina trudged up the stairs to her apartment, unlocked her door, and tossed her keys and the stolen brooch into the empty fruit bowl on the kitchen island. She made a mental note to buy some fruit, flung herself into the chair by the window, and closed her eyes.

  The original adrenaline rush that had come from learning that Cassie really did date to the Reconstruction Era had morphed to anger while she was eavesdropping on Sully and his grandmother. Then, during the drive from the museum back to her place, the rage had dissipated, leaving nothing but fatigue.

  She felt wrung out. Drained. And bone tired. Exhaustion with a side of disappointment at the injustice of it all. She should be flying high, reveling in her discovery. Instead, here she was wondering if there was some way to salvage the find before the Sullivans buried it—and trashed what was left of her reputation in the process.

  She toyed with the idea of indulging in a round of life’s not fair, but her granny’s words rang in her ears: “You go and forget you’re a black woman? What gave you the idea that life was fair? You get kicked, do something about it.”

  She snorted. Stood up and stretched. Rolled her tight neck and shoulders.

  Gran was right. And she’d definitely been kicked. Now she had to figure out what to do about it. She couldn’t sit around and wallow.

  Her stomach growled.

  Food first; strategy second. She always thought better on a full stomach, anyway.

  She used her phone app to place her standing Chinese takeout order, then she took a long steamy shower to wash away the remnants of her morning.

  By the time she emerged and wrapped a towel around her head, she felt marginally less pissed-off and moderately more hopeful.

  She picked up her phone to call Micah, the librarian at the Isaiah Matthew Bell Archives.

  He answered on the third ring. “What’s up, ’Vina? It’s been a hot minute since I heard from you. Aren’t you supposed to be working around the clock on your excavation?”

  She snorted. “Yes, but no. I was. But I’ve been canned.”

  He let out a whoop of disbelief. “No way. What’d you do? Did you finally lose your cool with Sully?”

  “Nope. I excavated a coffin from under a tree on the Bell farm. It dates back to Reconstruction.”

  “No crap? That’s amazing. How could they fire you for that?”

  “Long story.”
/>   “I’ve got time.”

  “There’s the well-preserved body of a woman inside.”

  “Okay, so—that’s what coffins are for, right?”

  “So, Chief Dexter thought she was so fresh looking that she couldn’t be the original occupant. He thinks someone killed her and dumped her in the coffin recently.”

  “He’s a bit light in the brains department, isn’t he?”

  She chuckled. “You could say that. Anyway, you know the Sullivans. Sully and his grandma were all pearl-clutching and flustered. Can’t have a scandal. So, they had to cut ties with me.”

  “That makes zero sense. What—do they think you killed someone and stashed the body in an antique coffin?”

  “They don’t rule it out.”

  She could almost hear his eyes rolling.

  “There’s something wrong with those two.”

  “You think? Luckily, Chief Dexter is hosting some conference of police chiefs this weekend. Two of the chiefs brought forensic pathologists or coroners or whatever with them. They’re both experts in unusual cases. They examined Cassie today and said she’s the real deal. A hundred-and fifty-year-old corpse.”

  Micah let out a long, low whistle. “For real? That is lucky. You oughta buy a lottery ticket.”

  “Yeah, well, the experts say she was hanged. And Sully and his grandma definitely don’t want that kind of stain on their museum. They’re going to quietly bury the news of the discovery.”

  He was quiet for a long, long time.

  Finally, she said, “Micah?”

  “I’m here. They can’t do that. This is history.”

  “That’s why I’m calling you, Micah. I thought maybe you could find out who this woman is and maybe get the word out.”

  “Who she is? I thought you said her name was Cassie?”

  “Oh, right. No. That’s just what one of the pathologists calls her. He doesn’t like the dead to have no identity or something. But we don’t know who she is.”

  “Hmm … a woman who was hanged. Buried on Jonah Bell’s farm. Maybe she was lynched. I’ll look through the records of the freed slaves and sharecroppers Bell was close with, but I’m not coming up with anything off the top of my head.”