Until recently, Lindsay could not understand anyone fearing the woods. Now she could almost put herself in Rosellen’s fearful shoes. There was something in the woods to be afraid of. She shut her eyes and listened to the evening sounds, willing away the evil. She was so tired of being afraid.
Maybe she shouldn’t will it away, but confront it. There was a time, not long ago at all, when she would have argued with anyone who cautioned her against running headlong into danger to investigate a murder. Now, she avoided even talking to the police about her own close brush with death.
She knew about crime scenes—not so different from archaeological digs. Maybe she should mentally examine her own. Perhaps the mental energy would push out the fear before it took root in her brain forever. She made herself return in her mind to the incident.
She’d left the conference in Knoxville after the last presentation—Derrick demonstrating a primitive fire piston. They’d said good-bye, and he’d kissed her cheek and told her to take care. She hadn’t, had she?
She had chosen the scenic route to Asheville, along 411 and 25. At no time during the trip had she noticed anyone following her, or seen anything suspicious. It took less than an hour to reach Sevierville where she stopped to buy a bag of chocolate fudge for Jane Burroughs. Lindsay didn’t recall seeing anyone who seemed to be watching her. But, she wasn’t looking.
After Sevierville she had been on the road about twenty minutes when it happened, on a lonely stretch of highway at the northeastern cusp of English Mountain. An old green truck, a much lighter shade than the emerald green of her Explorer, came roaring past on her right, veering into her side. The impact caught her completely off guard, and she skidded across the road and drove headlong into the ditch.
It had happened so fast. She tried to slow it down in her mind, but it was still too fast. Her air bag deployed, hitting her in the face. She reached up and touched her cheek, now healed, where it had been burned from the friction of the bag.
She’d barely caught her breath when she saw a glimpse of someone in her side mirrors. Somehow, she knew it wasn’t an accident. She knew to flee. She opened her door and ran into the woods. The sound of her own heart pumping in her ears was so loud she couldn’t hear them behind her, and she didn’t want to chance a look. It would slow her down. She would have to take her eyes off her flight path. There was a shot and a chip of bark flying off a tree. She ran faster and was winning the race—until an old piece of rusted barbed wire grabbed her ankle and pulled her down.
They were on her so quickly. One pointed the gun at her, screaming epithets under his ski mask. He didn’t like the woods. He hadn’t wanted to chase her—didn’t want to break a sweat. He wanted it to be easy, her to be a willing victim. Running her off the road had been fun. This wasn’t fun. The other one pulled at her, trying to get her to her feet. Then what?
Lindsay folded her arms across her chest, holding in her heart. She felt as if she were still running in the woods, still out of breath, still scared. But what had happened next?
Next they were somewhere else in the woods. She sort of remembered being half dragged, threatened, hit with the gun—trying to formulate a plan. After that was the big blank spot, the gray nothing, the place where nothing existed until she awoke, clawing out of the ground.
Don’t panic. You’re on the porch in a place surrounded by people—of whom only a few are mildly hostile. The bad guys don’t know where you are. It was random anyway. Was it? What do I know? If this were a story told to me by someone else, what would I make of it? Think about that.
The perpetrators were not well educated. They were white and young—late twenties, early thirties? Not forties. Not teens. Height? She didn’t remember.
They were not professional. Why? Because they were so disorganized. Disorganized. That’s another thing. Disorganized crime scene.
She was buried very shallow. Had to be to have gotten out. They were in a hurry, were interrupted, or it didn’t matter if she were found. Then why bury her at all? They wanted to conceal the crime, but for some reason were in a hurry. Okay. That’s something. The authorities probably had already thought of this.
Was it random? Was it some serial crime? There were two of them. Not common in serial crimes. The Hillside stranglers were two cousins.
But what if she was their specific target? Why? She didn’t believe for a second that one of her colleagues would hire assassins. It was almost too ludicrous to think about.
Maybe it was connected with her forensic work. But she wasn’t even working on a case at the time, and hadn’t for at least a month.
Could it have been something she was about to do? She was on her way to visit her friend, Jane Burroughs, and then go home to Georgia. In a couple of weeks, come here.
It swept through her like a tidal wave. It would have knocked her out of the chair, had it been solid. Could it be here? Someone thought she was coming to investigate the death of Mary Susan Tidwell and wanted to stop her?
No, surely not. Lindsay shivered. If that were true, then the perpetrators did know where she was, and her enemy could be someone she worked with and ate with every day. Go home. That’s what she should do. Just go home.
She opened her eyes. A man with honey brown hair to his shoulders and dark eyes was standing in front of her, reaching a hand toward her. She screamed. Not loud, just a shriek, and he vanished.
“What?” Adam came out onto the porch, holding a sheaf of papers. “Anything the matter?”
“No,” she said, staring into the thin air where the man had stood. “I’m sorry. I thought I saw a snake.” She lied. What could she say? Sorry, just the resident ghost? Or worse, sorry, just hallucinating again?
“A snake? What kind?”
“Black—kind of long and black.”
“Probably harmless. They eat the poisonous varieties. I wouldn’t worry.”
“Thanks. I won’t. Sorry I disturbed you.”
“You didn’t. I was just looking at the printouts of the profile. I can’t think about anything but the coffin. I hope Lewis can get those people to come.”
“He probably will.”
“Hey, guys.” Kelsey Calabrini came out onto the porch and pulled up a chair. “Did I hear somebody yell?” She combed her fingers through her short dark hair.
“Me,” said Lindsay, starting to feel really embarrassed.
“She saw a snake.”
Kelsey lifted her feet and sat cross-legged in the chair. “Ugh . . . where?
“I may have been mistaken. I was dozing in the chair.”
“Probably a black snake,” said Adam. “They’re harmless.”
“So . . .” Kelsey unfolded her legs and stretched them out in front of her. “You think there’s another coffin?” It flitted through Lindsay’s mind that Kelsey had studied ballet. She had dancer’s legs.
“I think so.” Lindsay was relieved to change the subject before her lie spun itself into a really tangled web.
Kelsey leaned forward and whispered, “Claire seems really happy. I hope your Lewis guy can come through.”
“Lewis will come through.” She had no doubt.
“Uh, Lindsay.” Adam cast his eyes out to the site. He seemed embarrassed.
“Oh, go ahead and ask her,” said Kelsey. “For heaven’s sake.”
Adam frowned at Kelsey. “Lindsay, Claire said I was sucking up to you. I wasn’t. I want you to know that.”
“I haven’t felt sucked up to the whole time I’ve been here.”
Adam’s lips turned up into almost a smile. “But one thing she said is true. I’ve been thinking for a long time about applying to graduate school at UGA.”
“And you want me to recommend you?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“What area are you interested in? Historical?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I’ve seen your work. It’s very good. How’s your GRE?”
He waved his hand in a noncommittal motion.
“All right, I guess.”
“Your GPA?”
“Much better. I graduated UT with a 3.8.”
“It sounds like it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. When I get back, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation.”
Adam let out a breath of relief. Kelsey stood up and put her hands on his shoulders and her lips to his ear. “See, that wasn’t so bad.” She laughed and bounced into the house.
“Thanks. I really appreciate this.”
“It’s no problem. We are always on the lookout for dedicated students.”
The light was fading fast, and Lindsay had already slapped two mosquitoes. She stood, stretched, and announced her intention of getting to bed early.
In her room, she pulled out her book and read herself to sleep. The night brought no more surprises. No bad dreams, no quick trips down to sleep in her vehicle.
Lindsay opened her eyes and looked at her clock. 5:00 A.M. Almost time to get up. Her mind wandered to the man who had stood in front of her on the front porch. Was that her imagination? Had to be. She didn’t believe it was a ghost, however much it looked and acted like a ghost. Things that look like a duck, walk like a duck, and quack like a duck are not always a duck. Sometimes it can be a goose.
What was going on in her brain? Maybe later on in the day she’d call George West and tell him about it. Now, she had to get dressed and go meet with Alfred Tidwell.
She had meant to do only the bare minimum necessary to satisfy her word to Lewis. She hadn’t really believed there was anything to the accusations against Drew, but now, after taking a walk through her memory . . . Even the smallest possibility that the answer to what happened to her lay here with Drew had to be taken seriously. Maybe whoever was after her was after Drew as well—or maybe Drew was involved.
Ellie’s Diner, a white-shingled shack on the outside of Kelley’s Chase, was already open for business when Lindsay drove into the gravel lot. Three cars were parked in front and another was driving up. It was a small restaurant, five tables and four booths and a counter with six stools. Most of the customers were sitting at the counter. One man and woman sitting side by side in the far booth looked up expectantly when she opened the door. Must be the Tidwells. As she walked over to them, the man rose and held out his hand.
“I’m Alfred Tidwell. This is my wife, Sugar. You must be Lindsay Chamberlain.”
Alfred Tidwell looked to be in his mid-fifties, with gray wavy hair and a weathered complexion. He had wrinkles around his lips like he had smoked all his life. The kind of lines that in women made tiny channels for lipstick to seep into and feather the boundaries of their lips. The last joint of the index finger and middle finger of his right hand were stained a deep nicotine yellow.
His wife, Sugar, probably wasn’t a smoker. Nothing about her lips, teeth, or fingers indicated that she had anything to do with cigarettes. She was a thin woman with fine hair, dyed dark brown and pulled up in a large loose bun on top of her head. She had startlingly large blue eyes behind black cat-eye glasses.
Lindsay shook Alfred’s hand and slid in opposite them. “Yes, I’m Lindsay Chamberlain. How did you come by my name?”
“Let’s just say we heard about you.”
“What, exactly, did you hear?”
“That you might be an objective party in a position to help.”
“Objective, yes. I’m not sure about the help part.”
“Just the same, I’d like you to just listen to what I have to say.”
“All right.”
A waitress came over and looked at Lindsay, her pencil poised over her order pad. She said nothing, as though her intentions should be clear.
“I’ll have pancakes, bacon, orange juice,” said Lindsay.
The Tidwells ordered the sunrise special.
“My aunt,” began Tidwell, “was always her own woman. She liked to save things, and she liked to go to flea markets and yard sales.” He shrugged. “It was her money. She earned it. She could spend it like she wanted.”
“What did she do for a living?”
“She was a schoolteacher. Never married. Had only herself to worry about. She lived all her life in the house her and her brother—my daddy—grew up in.”
“What makes you think someone from the archaeology site killed her?”
“I say it, ‘cause it’s true.” He held up a palm. “I know what the doctor says, and the sheriff, and I ain’t saying she didn’t have a heart attack. But that don’t mean somebody couldn’t of brought one on.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“Yes, I do. Sugar does, too, don’t you, Sugar?” Sugar nodded.
“And you think Drew Van Horne is the one who brought on her heart attack?”
“I do.”
“Can you tell me why you think that?”
“Aunt Sue died March 5 in the evening. This Horne woman was with her all morning and afternoon, taking her places.”
“Taking her places?”
“Having my aunt show her old places around here. Says it was some kind of historical research.”
“That’s what she was paying your aunt to do,” said Lindsay.
“I know. But she was old and not in good health. She had no call to keep her out all day. People who saw her told us how tired she looked—plumb worn out, they said.”
“Mr. Tidwell . . .”
“I know, that’s not a whole lot to go on. That’s why no lawyer, except that Mayhew, would take the case. I know we can’t take that to court. But there’s more. It was raining all day and it was cold. Miss Horne got Aunt Sue tired and sick, then brought her back, and while she was sleeping, went through her things, stealing her papers.”
“What’s missing?”
“We don’t know, exactly. Aunt Sue was one for keeping things to herself.”
“How do you know anything was stolen?”
The waitress brought three plates of breakfast. Three sunrise specials—it seems a sunrise special was pancakes, bacon, and orange juice. Lindsay spread the butter on her pancakes and poured maple syrup over them.
“Ellie makes good pancakes,” said Sugar.
“Aunt Sue always said she had valuable papers. Said we’d be surprised at what’d been handed down in the family and what she’d found over the years. She said we was to split everything—me and my sister, Bonnie. Right now, things are up in the air, because Bonnie’s . . . well, Bonnie is Bonnie.” He pounded the table with the flat of his hand. “But Aunt Sue said she had valuable papers in a safe. We found the safe and there was nothing in it.” He gave the table one last slap, punctuating his last statement.
“Mr. Tidwell . . . ,” Lindsay said again.
“I saw some papers once,” said Sugar, leaning forward, whispering. “She showed me a stack of papers. They was all done up in some kind of plastic like. Looked like the kind of clear cover my grandchildren put over their school reports. She wouldn’t let me touch them, even all done up. Didn’t want me seeing what they was.”
“Could you tell what kind of papers they were?”
“Letters, papers. I remember the name Beau something on one of them. They were real hard to read. That was all I could make out. They looked real old and speckled like.”
“And none of these turned up?”
“The safe was cleaned out,” said Sugar. “Was nothing in it.”
“And that’s not all,” said Alfred Tidwell. “About twenty years ago, when Aunt Sue got around better, she used to go all over, looking for finds, as she called her things. Estate sales, old printing companies, and dead newspapers—she liked those. Not just here in Tennessee, but North Carolina, Virginia, and even up the coast once.” Tidwell leaned forward and whispered, “She found a trunk filled with something. Wouldn’t tell none of us what it was, but she was happy. Never showed it to nobody, but she told us it was her best find.”
“You talked to the sheriff. What did he say?”
“Him? Huh. He’s no help,” Alfred said. Sugar sta
rted to speak, but he waved her away. “I know he’s just doing his job. I know we got nothing. I’m not a fool. I know he can’t arrest someone for carrying a person around in the wet and cold all day, and I know if I can’t identify what was stole, there ain’t nothing he can do. But there’s got to be something somebody can do.”
“What do you want of me?”
“To find out what happened.”
Sugar finished her orange juice and set the glass down on the table hard. “There’s people that says Miss Mary Susan was crazy. Crazy like a fox. Last year she sold one of those old Barbie dolls for five thousand dollars. Five thousand dollars.” She slapped the table as her husband had. “She did things her way, all right, but she wasn’t crazy.”
“Is there anyone in your family Miss Tidwell might have confided in about what was in the safe? You said you have a sister, Bonnie. Might she know?”
“She don’t know more than me and Sugar.”
“Was an autopsy performed?”
“No. Sugar found her dead at home in bed and called her doctor. He said her heart gave out. Nothing looked wrong. We didn’t find out ’til after she was buried about her being out all day and about her papers being missing.”
“Would you ask the funeral home director to speak with me about her?”
“Sure. Does that mean you’ll help?”
“It means I’ll try to find out what happened.”
The waitress brought the bill and Alfred Tidwell snatched it up. “We asked you here. I’ll pay for it.”
Lindsay left the restaurant and got into her truck. She waited a moment before starting the engine, wondering what she was doing. Why didn’t she just go home? There appeared to be nothing whatsoever that she could do. No one but the Tidwells saw a crime here. They didn’t even know if the woman had valuable papers or not. They certainly wouldn’t be able to describe them well enough to claim them if they turned up in Drew’s possession. Why, she asked herself again, was she doing this?
Because you think it may be linked to what happened to you, and you’re tired of being afraid.
Airtight Case Page 12