Cold Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  After a moment, she closed the door and snicked the lock into place. Her hand was still on the knob when the buzzer rang again.

  It was either Verna, with a change of heart, or the delivery kid, with her food. She pressed the button to open the lobby door and crossed her fingers that it was the latter.

  20

  Huntsville, June 3, 1871

  Oh, love,

  It is a kind of death to me that I did not see you when you were in town! I heard many reports of your comings and goings from the chatter of the men in the parlor, and yet I could not get away. Not even for an afternoon.

  And, in truth, I was, I am, so tired. Tired and slow, almost as if I have a malaise. It must be the summer heat, but this sluggishness will not abate.

  And now Mother has an attendant glued to my side at all hours of the day and night. And Rebekah, as you know, is gone. Off to marry and start her own life as a free woman. My heart is glad for her, of course it is. But this new girl, Mary, is a stranger to me. I cannot take her into my confidence and ask her to be my conspirator, not like Rebekah.

  Mother’s behavior was so strange. ’Tis almost as if she knew. But that’s impossible. How could she know?

  I have told no one, not one soul. I want to, of course. I want to sing of my love for you from my balcony. But I see now why you urge such caution.

  A terrible thing happened here two days ago, not long after I heard that you departed for your summer house. I am sure the news will reach you eventually. A teacher from your school was threatened by a mob of Klansmen traveling through town on horseback. She was not harmed, but she was dreadfully scared and left town in a hurry the next morning.

  The climate is so fraught here, my dear. I fear that the cloud of hatred and violence hanging over the green-tipped mountains will choke out hope, progress, and even our great love.

  Oh, how I yearn to be wrong!

  Will you be returning to town before your next session in the Capitol opens? If so, please send word, and I will endeavor to meet you under our tree.

  Until then, I carry you in my heart.

  Yours, always yours,

  A.

  Eliza chatted with Jason near the front desk while Bodhi pulled up Davina Jones’ number and placed a call. A lawyer friend of his had once told him never write when you can speak; never speak when you can nod; never nod when you can wink.

  The phone rang four times. Then a man answered.

  “Please identify yourself.” The off-putting instruction was delivered in a voice that sounded uncannily familiar.

  “I must have misdialed. I was trying to reach Davina Jones.”

  “This is Professor Jones’ phone. Who is this?”

  Bodhi tilted his head, listening to the timbre and cadence of the speaker’s voice.

  “Chief Dexter?”

  “That’s right, this is Lewis Dexter. Now, for the last time, who is this?”

  “It’s Bodhi. Bodhi King. Is everything okay?”

  His stomach sank. The Sullivans must have discovered that Davina sneaked into the museum. He hoped they weren’t pressing charges, and he also hoped that Marvin Washington wasn’t going to get jammed up over it. He braced himself for Chief Dexter to tell him otherwise.

  But what Dexter said instead left him gasping for air.

  “No, everything’s not all right. Davina Jones is dead. I’m at her apartment now.”

  “She’s dead,” he repeated.

  “Yes. And as much as it chaps my hide to ask you and Dr. Rollins for help after the accusations you tossed at me today, I need to. Dr. Bean is at the beach for the weekend. And I don’t have another coroner.”

  “Of course,” Bodhi managed to croak through the fog that had seized his brain.

  “Get here as fast as you can,” Dexter instructed. Then he rattled off an address.

  Bodhi repeated it back numbly and ended the call. He found Eliza still talking to Jason and nodded hello to the driver.

  “Oh, there you are. Did you get in touch with Davina?” Eliza asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I called her, and Chief Dexter answered her phone.”

  She blanched. “She’s in custody?”

  “No. Worse.”

  “What could be worse?” She frowned.

  “Davina is dead.”

  Eliza whimpered and swayed on her feet. Jason, who was standing just behind her, threw out his arm to steady her. She drew a deep, shaky breath. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, but Dexter asked if we could come to her apartment. Apparently, Dr. Bean is out of town. Are you up for it?”

  He eyed her carefully. Her eyes were enormous in her pale face. They were both accustomed to death, of course. But it’s different when the deceased is someone you know.

  She nodded.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? I can find Fred for you.”

  She shot out her hand and gripped his wrist. “I’ll be fine. I want to do this.”

  Jason grabbed a bottle of water from the valet stand’s supply. “You don’t look so great, Doc Rollins. Maybe some water?”

  She managed a smile and took the water with a trembling hand. “Thank you, Jason. That’s very kind.” She uncapped it, took a sip, and then turned her gaze on Bodhi. “Let’s go.”

  He hesitated. It wasn’t his place to tell Eliza what she could handle. But he couldn’t ignore her history of anxiety.

  She seemed to know what he was thinking. “My panic attacks are under control. I’m not going to be a distraction.” Steel edged her voice.

  “Do you folks need a lift?” Jason offered.

  He glanced at Eliza’s set jaw and nodded. “Yes, actually. We’re going to 1400 Pecan Boulevard. It’s an apartment complex. Do you know it?”

  Jason nodded.

  “It’s down the mountain and on the edge of town. We’ll be there in about twenty minutes, give or take.”

  They formed up in a grim little knot and walked through the lobby in silence.

  Chief Dexter met them in the apartment building’s parking lot and sent Jason back to the lodge, promising that a black-and-white would return Bodhi and Eliza when they were finished. Across the lot, a female detective wearing a pantsuit and a badge on a lanyard around her neck flipped through a small notebook while a terrified teenager with floppy hair and a large earplug stammered out a statement.

  Bodhi turned his attention away from the pair when Dexter cleared his throat.

  “Thank you for agreeing to help out,” Dexter said. Then he cautioned, “It’s not pretty up there. I know you’re pros, but I think a warning’s in order. She was attacked.”

  The faint hope that Davina’s death had been a tragic freak accident faded from Bodhi’s consciousness.

  “Noted.”

  Eliza nodded her mute understanding.

  “Okay, so I’ll fill you in on what we’ve got while we head into the building—"

  “Who’s the kid?” Bodhi jerked his head in the direction of the interview taking place near the shrubbery.

  “Name’s Calvin Wagner. He’s a delivery driver for Chef Chan’s China Place over on Magnolia Road. He found the body and called it in. Detective Valtri says he also lost his lo mein in the bushes. He buzzed up, she didn’t answer. Someone coming out let him into the building, and he proceeded to the apartment. The door was ajar when he got there. And she was . . . you’ll see.”

  “No other witnesses?”

  The chief frowned. “Valtri has a uniformed officer knocking on doors, but it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday. People are out, running errands or whatever. So far, all we have is Calvin.” He gestured for them to follow him to a propped-open fire exit door.

  “Officer Rey, this is Dr. Rollins and Dr. King. They’re gonna help out with the body in Dr. Bean’s absence,” Dexter explained to the uniformed officer posted at the door.

  Officer Rey stood ramrod straight. He was alert and tense. His demean
or was a direct contrast to the bored officers Bodhi was accustomed to seeing at crime scenes. It confirmed his suspicion that Chief Dexter’s department didn’t see a lot of violent crime.

  “Yes, sir. Doctors.” Rey stiffened.

  “Officer,” Bodhi said.

  “Thank you,” Eliza added as he held the door open wider so they could pass.

  “Techs still gathering evidence in the elevators, Rey?” Dexter asked.

  “Afraid so, sir.”

  “We’re gonna have to hoof it. Four flights.”

  Bodhi and Eliza trailed Dexter to the stairwell and up the stairs. He was surprisingly spry for such a big, solid man. When they reached Davina’s apartment, he lifted the crime scene tape stretched across the door, and they ducked underneath.

  Bodhi sucked in a breath. Dexter had been right: the scene was gruesome.

  Davina’s lifeless body was splayed across the narrow hallway just beyond her kitchen. Signs of a struggle were everywhere. A ceramic fruit bowl lay shattered, its shards scattered across the tile floor. A set of keys was wedged under the refrigerator. Beside the refrigerator, a nine-inch chef’s knife protruded from the wall. And a basket of archaeological tools was tipped over next to the closet—spades and trowels, rock pick hammers and chisels, and brushes were strewn nearby.

  “There’s no mystery about the murder weapon,” Dexter observed needlessly. A long-handled screwdriver protruded from Davina’s right thigh.

  “No, no mystery there,” Bodhi agreed. He eyed her blood-soaked pant leg and the pool of blood that slicked the floor around her prone form. “And no mystery as to cause of death either.”

  “Exsanguination due to femoral arterial hemorrhage,” Eliza said softly.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “What’s that?” Dexter asked.

  “In plain English, she was stabbed through her femoral artery and bled out,” Bodhi explained. “Rapid, extensive blood loss. I expect an autopsy will confirm it.”

  Eliza knelt and gently lifted each of Davina’s hands, turning them palm up to show him. “No defensive injuries.”

  “What do you make of the knife in the wall?” Dexter asked.

  Bodhi squinted at the knife sticking out of the wall near the refrigerator. “I think Davina threw it at her assailant.”

  “She threw it?” Dexter repeated.

  “She was an ax-thrower for sport or fitness or, I don’t know, maybe just fun.” Bodhi surveyed the room. “I think she first tried to reach something in the fruit bowl—"

  “Keys, maybe? That’s where I keep mine. Hers are under the refrigerator,” Eliza observed.

  “That tracks. She’s reaching for her keys—maybe to run, maybe to use as a weapon—and she knocks over the bowl. It crashes to the ground and startles the intruder, who hasn’t advanced past the refrigerator at this point. Davina grabs a knife from the knife block, chucks it at her attacker, and misses. So she ran for her basket of tools, but the bad actor got there first.”

  “Would’ve been smarter to hang onto the knife.”

  He bristled at Dexter’s second-guessing. He took note of his reaction and allowed it to pass. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Well, sure, clearly, in retrospect. She would’ve had a fighting chance. But she was a fairly expert thrower. I watched her hit a tree stump from twenty feet at least a dozen times in a row yesterday. She probably liked her odds of taking out her assailant without getting too close. She likely miscalculated for the lighter weight and closer distance.”

  “Presumably, she knew her killer, right? She let them into the apartment,” Eliza mused, still kneeling beside Davina.

  Bodhi watched with concern as she smoothed back Davina’s hair. You didn’t have to be a Buddhist to know that emotional attachment to a corpse was inadvisable.

  Dexter shook his head and answered Eliza before Bodhi could intervene in her ministrations to Davina’s body.

  “Maybe, but maybe not. She was expecting her Chinese food, and Calvin said she was a regular. She usually buzzed him up without asking him to identify himself. She might have thought it was her Szechuan shrimp and broccoli and not a murderer when she opened the door. We’ll know more once we have a better timeline of her last hours.”

  Bodhi and Eliza exchanged heavy looks. They had to tell him that Davina had been at the museum earlier. It was critical to piecing together an accurate account of her whereabouts during her final hours.

  “It’s obvious you have something to say. Out with it.”

  “Professor Jones was at the Rutherford Museum this morning.”

  “Not possible. The Sullivans suspended her and banned her from the premises.”

  “True, but she wanted to be there when we examined Cassie—that’s what we’re calling the Jane Doe,” Bodhi explained.

  “We didn’t invite her, and we didn’t know she was coming, but she showed up,” Eliza said.

  “How’d she get past security?”

  “She sneaked in with the cleaning crew.” Bodhi saw no reason to mention that the head of security was well aware that she’d done so.

  “Just great. Now, we’re going to have to talk to Margot and Sully.” Dexter scowled.

  A suited-up tech came and stood about a foot behind Dexter. He was holding a silver smartphone. “Chief?”

  “What?” Dexter snapped as he turned.

  “I got into her activity log. She has a missed call from Eugene Sullivan, but he didn’t leave a message. She also made one phone call today. The number belongs to a Micah Birch. We’re running down his last known address, but the phone bill is paid by the Isaiah Bell Archives.”

  The librarian. She’d called and asked him for help.

  “Just one call? What about her Chinese food?” Eliza asked.

  “She placed the order through an app on her phone.”

  “What time was that?”

  “She ordered the food at eleven-thirty and placed the call twenty-two minutes later. The shower is wet, and there’s a damp towel hanging over her towel bar. She probably showered in between.”

  “Or the killer did, afterward,” Dexter mused. “How likely is it that they got blood on them?”

  “Highly,” Bodhi answered.

  “It was her. The shower, I mean. Her hair is still damp … and I can smell soap and shampoo.” Eliza’s voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, but she cleared her throat and finished firmly.

  “Thanks, Clive. Why don’t you all finish up here while I call Sully and make an appointment?” Dexter didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped out into the hall with his head bent over his phone.

  “Clive, would you mind taking a photograph of this basket of tools?” Bodhi asked. “I need to confirm something.”

  Eliza furrowed her brow at the request.

  “Sure,” Clive said. He rested Davina’s phone on the edge of the kitchen island and crouched to snap several closeup pictures of the basket.

  Bodhi stared at Eliza and jerked his head toward the phone. Understanding dawned in her eyes, and she lined up her own phone with Davina’s activity log and snapped a picture of the screen.

  Clive stood. “That should do it.”

  “Thanks,” Bodhi said.

  “Oh, here, don’t forget Professor Jones’ phone,” Eliza chirped, passing it to him with a helpful smile.

  21

  Lewis Dexter was grim-faced and quiet during the drive to the museum from Davina Jones’ apartment. The uniformed officer chauffeuring them in the chief’s black sedan glanced nervously in the rearview mirror several times, catching Bodhi’s eye.

  Bodhi sensed the officer wanted to make sure he and Eliza knew that he, too, was uncomfortable with the stony silence. He flashed a small smile of solidarity.

  Finally, Eliza broke the spell. “I’m sorry you’re missing so much of your conference, Chief.”

  He shrugged and stroked his beard, then he twisted around in his seat to peer at Eliza and Bodhi. “Duty calls. I’m sure you folks know that more than most. And again, I
sure do appreciate your help on this.”

  “Of course,” Eliza said.

  Bodhi nodded. There was nothing sincere about Dexter’s supposed gratitude—his affect was flat and toneless. But Bodhi was impressed that he managed to leave unsaid ‘even if you don’t seem to be able to follow my ground rules.’

  For the second time in eight hours, Bodhi and Eliza rolled through the property’s scrollwork gate and arrived at the front entrance of the Rutherford Museum. When the car was parallel with the museum doors, the uniformed officer parked and jumped out so quickly that Bodhi started. But he was only running around to open the door for Eliza as if he were a proper chauffeur.

  “Thank you, Officer Kincaid.”

  Bodhi smiled to himself. Dexter hadn’t introduced his driver, and, if Officer Kincaid had introduced himself, he’d missed it. But he suspected Eliza had made it a point to check his badge. Just as it was important to him to name the dead, it was important to her to name and recognize the living. He thanked the officer as he exited the car and joined the police chief and Eliza in front of the museum.

  Marvin Washington waited for them in an alcove to the right of the door.

  “Chief, Doctors, I’m to escort you up to Mrs. Sullivan’s office.”

  Dexter frowned. “Where’s Sully?”

  “He’s already up there meeting with Mrs. Sullivan.”

  Dexter pulled out his phone and spent the walk to the elevator lobby reading his messages. Eliza kept pace with him, so Bodhi fell back and slowed his stride.

  “How are you holding up, Marvin?”

  “Just fine, sir.” He answered in an impersonal, official tone.

  Bodhi gave him a close look. “Come on, Marvin. I can tell you considered Davina a friend, and I know you helped her—or, at least, didn’t give her away—when she sneaked into the lab to work with Dr. Rollins and me.”

  Marvin opened his mouth, but Bodhi stopped him before he could deny it.

  “Don’t misunderstand. I’m glad she was there. Her expertise was valuable to our evaluation, and, more than that, she deserved to be there.”