A Murder In Passing

by Mark de Castrique

  “Aloof? I reckon that’s one word. Asshole’s another.”

  “I take it he’s got a lot of money. Owns some paper plant?”

  “That’s his daddy’s business.” Emory swung his arm in a wide arc. “Because of them Langs, I’m stuck in this place. They stole a contract that drove me and my daddy out of business. So, when you look at Willie P. Lang, you’re seein’ everything that shoulda been mine.”

  I nodded sympathetically while I thought there was no way this bitter man would have been able to parlay a school trash collection business into an industry-leading paper mill.

  “Willie P. Lang?” Jason laid the Henry back on the counter.

  As Emory turned to him, I shook my head. Jason and I hadn’t discussed any names and I didn’t want him inadvertently jumping to the skeleton before I was ready.

  “You know him?” Mick Emory asked.

  Jason caught my warning. “No. I’m from Indiana. Just sounds funny that a guy who heads a big company would be called Willie. It’s more like something you’d hear in the army.”

  “And maybe that’s why we lost ’Nam because Willie P. was over there instead of me.”

  “Then he and his dad destroyed your business after he came home?” I asked.

  “No. I think Willie was still in the army. But I’m sure he was part of the scheme. He made no secret he had big plans. He and his uncle Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy Lang?”

  “That’s right.” Emory cocked his head and studied me a second. “But how would you know him? He ain’t been seen round these parts for over forty years.”

  “Maybe he has. Rumor is the skeleton they found over near Tuxedo might be his remains.”

  Emory stared at me, the shock clearly evident on his face. “They found Jimmy Lang’s body?”

  I shrugged. “Nobody’s saying anything official. I know some people in the Sheriff’s Department.”

  Wariness replaced shock. “Who are you, mister?”

  “Sam Blackman. And this is Jason Fretwell.”

  “And you know people in the Sheriff’s Department and just happened to come in here and get me talking about the Langs.”

  “We came shopping for a rifle.”

  He gritted his yellow teeth and looked back and forth between us. “Sounds to me like a setup.”

  “Yeah,” Jason snapped, “I cut off my arm so we could pretend to find me a gun.” He reached out with his prosthesis. “You want to touch it again? Make sure it’s real?”

  Emory took a step back. “Look, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” He picked up the two rifles. “I’ll hold these for you, if you like, and I’ll try to find a pump 7600 for you.”

  “Okay,” Jason said.

  “How can I get in touch?”

  Jason looked to me. We had to go through with the charade.

  I pulled out my wallet and handed Emory a card.

  As he studied it, the wariness returned to his eyes. “Sam Blackman. You’re a damned detective?”

  “Yeah. I investigate secrets and my speciality is detecting the bullshit used to hide them. I’ll be expecting a call about that rifle. Now that we know where to find each other.”

  Jason pointed his prosthetic hand at Emory again but this time he shaped the fingers like a pistol, pulled an imaginary trigger, and dropped his thumb mimicking a hammer. “Catch you later, Mick.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Awesome.” Jason shouted the word as soon as he closed the passenger door. “You manhandled him. He never saw it coming.”

  I started the engine. “But he’s on full alert now, and he didn’t say anything incriminating.”

  “He admitted shooting a Remington fourteen and a half,” Jason argued.

  As I pulled away from the Double G Pawnshop, I saw Mick Emory watching us through the front door. “The man has hundreds of guns coming through his store. There probably aren’t many models he hasn’t shot. The woman charged with the crime has had only one gun, the murder weapon.”

  “Oh.” Jason’s euphoria fizzled. “So we didn’t accomplish anything? I didn’t help?”

  “You were great. We caught him off guard by the way you played it. We just have to proceed carefully. Don’t push too hard or fast if you don’t need to. As it is, we got confirmation that there was bad blood between the Lang and Emory families. I knew that was the truth going in so I used his responses as an indicator of how truthful he might be in his related statements.”

  “I see. Know more than he thinks you know.”

  I took my eyes off the road long enough to flash him a grin. “Exactly. And my job is to uncover possibilities for Hewitt Donaldson to pursue.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The attorney we’re working for. He’s the person to best catch Mick Emory in a lie. Preferably in front of a jury.”

  Jason thought about that a moment. “Is that the rule about never asking a question you don’t know the answer to?”

  “A large part of it. You want the surprise to be on the suspect or witness, not the other way around. That’s why when you started to ask about Willie P. Lang, I signaled you to drop it. We don’t want Mick Emory thinking we’re involved with the Langs. He’ll shape his story to either match or contradict what he thinks the Langs will say, depending upon what’s in his best interest.”

  “But I meant—”

  “You meant no harm,” I interrupted. “And I hadn’t given you the full background on what we already know. I have to respect the attorney-client privilege Hewitt Donaldson is working under. Let’s just leave it with what you said earlier. Know more than your adversary thinks you know. Get as many facts as you can before any confrontation. And when you’re working for an attorney, always run the information by him or her first because in the end the defense attorney is going to have to present it to the jury.”

  “I got it. Know when to pull the trigger.”

  I laughed. “That pretty much sums it up.” I looked at my watch. Ten thirty. “If you don’t mind, I’ll let you hole up in our office a while. My partner and I have an eleven o’clock appointment I need to prep for and I won’t get to Armitage Security Services and back in time.”

  “No problem. Do what you need to.”

  We drove in silence the rest of the way into downtown Asheville. I was thinking ahead to the interview with William Lang’s daughter that could change the course of our investigation. Jason’s thoughts must have been about the upcoming HR interview that could change the course of his life.

  When we entered the office, Nakayla was sitting in a leather armchair studying a few sheets of paper. I made the introductions and explained that Jason would wait here while we walked to the art gallery.

  “Can I answer the phones or something?” Jason asked.

  “Thanks,” Nakayla said, “but that’s not necessary. Sam will forward them, won’t you, Sam?”

  “Always do.”

  “Right.” Nakayla grabbed her purse, folded the papers she’d been reading, and stuffed them inside along with a small notepad. “Make yourself at home, Jason. There’s a coffee maker in my office and the computer’s on if you want to check email or the Internet. All other files are password protected so you can’t get in trouble.”

  “Thanks. I’m good. Don’t rush back for me.”

  I switched the incoming lines to our cellphones and we left Jason to manage the empty office.

  We stepped out into the diverse humanity that made Asheville Asheville. Tourists snapped photos as they rode by in open-air buses with guides spewing historical facts and anecdotes. On the sidewalk, white-haired retirees mingled with the pink-haired and the pierced. A field trip of middle schoolers stood in Pack Square beneath the monolithic monument to Civil War Governor Zebulon Vance while a teacher tried in vain to hold their attention. There were young couples pushing strollers, peopl
e of all ages walking dogs of all sizes, and the competing sounds from street musicians playing everything from tenor sax to fretless banjo.

  As we turned the corner on Walnut Street headed toward Lexington, Nakayla said, “Jason seems like a good kid. I understand why you want to help him.”

  “And he really wants to help us.” I gave her a summary of our visit to Mick Emory.

  “Well, there might be occasions when we could use him.” Nakayla slid her arm through mine. “Hewitt will be glad to get the info about Emory.”

  “Damn it. I forgot I’m briefing him at noon. Maybe we should get Jason a cab to Armitage Security.”

  “I’ll run him out there. I don’t need to be in the meeting, do I?”

  “No. And I am kinda tired from forwarding the phones.”

  She squeezed my arm tighter. “Poor baby. Then lean on me while I give you the background on Jennifer Lang.”

  “Were those the papers you stuck in your purse?”

  “Yes. Printouts I made off the Internet. Jennifer Lang is thirty-two. She majored in Business at UNC-Chapel Hill and she started Dimensionless Horizons four years ago with a mMaster’s degree in Art History. I assume Jennifer runs the business side while Judith makes the artistic decisions.”

  “Do we know which of them placed the call to the Getty?”

  “No. And I didn’t push it with the museum.”

  “Just as well,” I agreed. “Did Jennifer Lang have other jobs between college and the gallery?”

  Nakayla waited to reply until we navigated around an old man in bib overalls who was playing a musical saw on the corner of Walnut and Lexington. I think the tune was “Barbara Allen,” although the sliding notes made it difficult to tell.

  “Yes,” Nakayla said. “Jennifer worked for five years in the billing office of Lang Paper Manufacturing. In fact, she was the youngest member on the board of directors. Then she abruptly left to start the gallery.”

  “Does she have siblings?”

  “No. Her mother and father divorced when she was fourteen. Neither remarried. The mother moved back to her home town of Raleigh taking Jennifer with her. Jennifer spent summers with her father and interned at the plant.”

  “Looks like she was being primed to run it someday.”

  “Maybe,” Nakayla said. “Maybe she saw enough to decide paper manufacturing wasn’t for her.”

  “She would have crossed paths with Marsha Montgomery,” I said.

  “Yes, and surely she knew Marsha was her illegitimate cousin.”

  I mulled that over. “Maybe not. Marsha and her mother both said the kinship wasn’t publicly acknowledged. I’d say we let it alone unless she mentions it.”

  “Okay. So, we’ll play it straight. I’ll tell her we’re working for a client trying to recover a stolen photograph and we learned her gallery was searching for the same one. We’ll see where that leads.”

  I opened the door to Dimensionless Horizons. “And it will be you doing the leading. I’m just here to watch a professional at work.”

  “Right. It has nothing to do with the fact that you wouldn’t know a Van Gogh from a Van Winkle.”

  “I know Van Winkle fell asleep for twenty years and then woke up to find his ear ripped off. What kind of rube do you take me for?”

  “My mistake. You’re in a class by yourself.”

  “Thank you.” I pulled the door closed behind me.

  Dimensionless Horizons had worn hardwood floors that had a protective coating of polyurethane to preserve the authentic patina without further deterioration. The plaster walls were painted off-white. Exposed, rough-hewn beams overhead provided the anchor for numerous sets of track lighting directed to illuminate particular works. Pieces included framed photographic and painted compositions on the walls—some impressionist, some detailed landscapes, some black and white documentary-style images of mountain people, and some streaks and swirls of multiple hues with meaning inaccessible to my unappreciative eye.

  There were also handblown glassworks that refracted the spotlight beams into pools of vibrant colors. A few metal sculptures suggesting human forms in limber, elongated poses stood on pedestals of varying height. The gallery housed an eclectic array, but all shared a common trait—a powerful sense of human creativity breaking through dimensions beyond craftsmanship and into a realm of unique artistic expression. Dimensionless Horizons was an apt name indeed.

  “May I help you?” A woman in black slacks and a white blouse approached. Her shoulder-length brown hair showed strands of gray and she looked like she could have been the branch manager of a bank. I wasn’t that familiar with the art world, but the few galleries Nakayla had dragged me to were usually run by people dressed to draw more attention to themselves than the works they sold.

  “We’re here to see Jennifer Lang,” Nakayla said.

  The woman gave each of us an appraising glance. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.” Anticipating the next question, Nakayla added, “We’re not selling anything. It’s a personal matter.”

  “Personal.” She repeated the word as if we’d announced we were here for an IRS audit. “And you are?”

  Nakayla handed the woman her card.

  The front door opened behind us and an older couple came into the gallery.

  “This might be just the place to find something for over the mantel, Herb. It won’t hurt to look.” Herb’s shopping companion smiled at us and headed for the larger glassworks. Herb followed a few steps behind wearing an expression most commonly worn entering a dentist’s office.

  Jennifer’s gatekeeper hesitated, caught between a potential sale and a potential scene with two people she now knew were private detectives.

  “We need to speak to her.” Nakayla’s voice carried both urgency and authority.

  “Wait here.” She whirled around and disappeared through a door to a back room.

  In less than two minutes, she returned with a younger, auburn-haired woman by her side.

  “I’m Jennifer. How can I help you?”

  “We’d like to talk to you about a photograph,” Nakayla said. “Preferably somewhere private.”

  The older woman took a step closer to Jennifer like a big sister protecting her younger sibling. “I’m Judith Crenshaw and I’m in charge of our acquisitions.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Nakayla replied. “But this is a legal matter involving Ms. Lang.”

  Jennifer Lang clasped the other woman’s hand. “It’s all right, Judith. I’ll speak with them in the office.” She nodded to Herb’s wife who was fawning over a glass bowl. “You’d better engage them before hubby drags his wife out on the sidewalk.”

  Before Judith could reply, Jennifer said, “Follow me. And don’t mind the mess.”

  She led us into the back where two desks sat among storage shelves and shipping supplies. Other than the chairs behind each desk, there was no other place to sit.

  “Sorry. We rarely get office visitors. You can wheel Judith’s chair into the open. One of you is welcome to sit at my desk.”

  I gestured to her chair. “Please take it. I’m fine to stand.”

  Nakayla rolled the second chair directly across from Jennifer. She sat and took out her notepad. When Jennifer was seated, Nakayla asked, “We’ve been hired to find a stolen photograph.”

  “The Kingdom of the Happy Land,” Jennifer said.

  I relaxed. Her ready identification meant we weren’t starting on a confrontational note.

  “That’s correct,” Nakayla said. “And we know you’ve been looking for it as well.”

  “As a favor. Nothing more. May I ask why you’re interested?”

  “We were approached by the daughter of the original owner. She’s recently become aware of the photograph’s value.”

  “Marsha Montgomery. Did she tell you she as
ked me to find it?”

  “No.”

  Jennifer frowned. “She didn’t tell me there was any secret about it. If what you’re saying is true, I don’t know why she wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want to get you involved. Maybe since you failed, she didn’t want us eliminating any of the possibilities you pursued. I spoke with the Getty. Did you contact anyone else?”

  “I didn’t contact anyone. Judith made the calls. She’s more tied into the network of galleries and museums than I am.” Jennifer shifted her gaze from Nakayla to me and back to Nakayla. “What do you mean by not getting me involved? Involved in what?”

  Nakayla looked at me. I picked up the cue that we were going to play good detective, bad detective.

  I cleared my throat. “This is a very serious matter, Ms. Lang. We were originally asked by Marsha Montgomery to search for the photograph, then by your grandfather—”

  “My grandfather?” Her face flushed as she interrupted me. “What’s he have to do with it?”

  “Nothing right now. We’re working for a defense attorney. As you may know, Lucille Montgomery has been arrested for murder.”

  The blood that rushed to Jennifer Lang’s face only a second earlier drained just as suddenly. “Murder?”

  “Yes. And the theft of that photograph might be a crucial part of the defense’s case.”

  “The woman’s in her eighties. Who’s she supposed to have killed?”

  “The remains haven’t been identified, but the prosecutor is working under the assumption the victim is your great uncle Jimmy.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “He left before I was born. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Marsha didn’t tell me.”

  I realized Jennifer Lang was completely in the dark. And that wasn’t only Marsha’s doing. “Your father or grandfather hasn’t said anything to you?”