“I know who Conor’s daddy is. He’s the man who didn’t want to have him.” She left me standing there, not moving, just holding on to that towel for the longest time. It was all twisted up when I used it to wipe my eyes.
I was surprised how fast that old pain seared my heart again. I felt sick to my stomach. But as I went over and over what Fiona had said, I could see how her big sadness just had to come out. Fiona wasn’t talking about only Conor but also the children she’d never have, thanks to me.
I went out to my shop to work on something, anything. I picked up some wood for the spindles of a rocking chair I’d started. I turned a couple, and then as I turned anothern, I noticed how a weevil of some kind had burrowed into the wood. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to use that piece, but when I looked closer, I saw it hadn’t gone deep enough to ruin the wood. In fact, it’d made it more interesting, adding texture and a hint of color before it stopped chewing.
That seemed like such a small thing at the time. But gradually, as I shaped and sanded that wood into something good, it came to me that my problem with the doctor wasn’t all that different. I needed to stop the hurt from burrowing any deeper and let that seven-year-old heartache color my life in a good way, with gratitude for how things turned out.
I liked how that sounded. The hard part would be living into it.
Chapter 39: Abit
Fiona and I made up late that evening, though a stillness hung heavy throughout the house. It felt cold lying in bed next to her, like being underwater too long.
First sign of dawn, I got up, made coffee, grabbed a biscuit, and drove over to Spruce Pine to see Wallis. We needed to make some decisions. When I got to the hospital, he was sitting on his bed, dressed in a faded flannel shirt and overalls.
“I’m going home,” he said, his words filled with relief. “Finally.”
“Can I drive you?”
“And make me hike all the way to the FRIGGIN’ cabin?” Then he chuckled a little. “Just kiddin’ with you, young Abit. Keaton’s coming. We both have four-wheel drive so we can actually navigate my road. Maybe I’ll get it graded and graveled, though don’t count on it, boy. I’ve been saying that for a long time.” I asked when Keaton was coming. “Not ‘til later this afternoon, after work.”
I was about to ask what Keaton did, but I decided to let that lay. Besides, I wanted to spend our time together talking about the murders. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee—and get you the H-E-DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS outta this room?”
“Now, don’t you go stealing my swear words. Think up your own! And yes, hand me my boots over there. Let’s get the FRANK outta here.”
I bought us each a coffee and a decent-looking blueberry muffin. I noticed Wallis sipped his weak coffee as if it were fine wine. “Ah, real coffee,” he said, “even if it is weak as cat piss.” He looked over at me and winked. “No pretend word for that one—and no, I don’t know what cat piss tastes like.”
He had me laughing with crazy things like that. He musta felt like a guy just let outta prison, and I was glad to see that side of him. When I turned the conversation round to the murders, I asked if he’d had any more inspiration while he was on all those drugs.
“Not that much more than the last time you were here, but I know we’re close. And so is our deadline. The fact that he strikes every seventy-three days means we’ve got only twenty days before ...”
“So we’ve got to get moving,” I interrupted. “Are we ready to go to the sheriff?”
“Right on one count. As I was saying, we’ve got only twenty days before tragedy could strike again.”
“What’s the other count?”
“I don’t know who this we is you’re talking about. You’re on your own with the sheriff, young Abit.”
That evening we had an early gig in Spruce Pine. (Seemed to be the only place I went these days.) We were playing first, which meant the crowd was cold, and we warmed them up for the next act. But on weeknights, early was just fine. Those of us working or going to school the next day could get a decent night’s sleep.
The band arrived in dribs and drabs, and we’d just gotten tuned up when Owen asked if we could play “Arch and Gordon.” None of us had even heard it before. “It’s from Kentucky,” he added with a pride that made me think that must be his homeland. But then I remembered he grew up down near Murphy. Didn’t matter. Thanks to Bill Monroe, Kentucky held a special place in the hearts of all bluegrass players.
He showed the band the music and lyrics, and I wasn’t surprised we’d never heard it. As Fiona read over the music, her eyebrows shot up a time or two where the lyrics went on about dying sons and such. “The music looks too slow and dreary,” I said. “It’ll put the audience to sleep.”
“We can fix that,” Owen shot back, “with a little practice.”
They were going back and forth when I interrupted. “We’ve got to go on in a minute. Let’s talk after the show.” I wanted to let the others decide, especially since I’d already made up my mind. I hated those lyrics; I was sick and tired of murder and death.
Chapter 40: Della
I had the day off, and I wanted—no, make that needed—to do something fun. Get out into the woods or maybe drive up to that new café in Banner Elk. Rascal picked up on my energy and started following me everywhere.
First, though, there was something I wanted to check in DEEP POCKET’s latest report. I’d looked it over last night, but it wasn’t until this morning that it struck me something was off about the names. Sure enough, William James on one list became James Williams and Liam James on others. Allen David became David Allen and Nella Davis. They couldn’t even come up with fresh names? Then again, why bother? Regulatory oversight appeared to be a joke.
That led me to take another look at some strange-sounding companies—likely the LLC shell companies money launderers favored. I found a few of them on the Internet, but most either had no presence on the Web or the barest of home pages. And no answer when I called the phone numbers listed.
Same with the lists of individuals. Mostly no one answered, but when someone did, they told me they were just visiting—renting a mountain home for a few months. One even asked if I could come over and unblock the toilet. I hung up.
When I checked the clock, what had started as a quick look turned into another shot morning. This whole mess was crazy; I had to get out. I called Cleva. She was up for lunch but insisted on making it. I just had to bring wine and something from the new baker I’d told her about.
I packed the Jeep with a couple of bottles of her favorite white wine—Gruner Veltliner—and a coconut cream pie. And Rascal. She hadn’t met him yet, and I planned to ask her to spread the word among her sizeable cadre of friends and family that he needed a new home.
She’d made some of her favorite vegetable dishes—yellow squash casserole, corn pudding, ratatouille. I worried the pie might be too heavy after all that, but neither one of us complained. Afterwards we were sipping a silky brew of Arabian Mocha-Java when Cleva asked to see the documents I’d brought.
“How did you know?” I asked.
She just smiled. I had brought the lists from DEEP POCKET just in case I got the opportunity to run it by her. She scanned one, then another. I didn’t expect much since she seemed rather blasé, turning the pages quickly. Maybe that’s what happened when you turned 88.
Wrong again.
“Some of these addresses caught my eye,” she said. “I’m certain they’re all out Beaverdam way. Really nice second homes overlooking the Black Mountains. May I mark on these pages?” I gave her a pen, and she circled some addresses while she talked. “I used to wonder about whether these homes were rented out too. Does that thing say anything about that?”
She was referring to the primer I was leafing through. “Yeah, it says they can’t lose money on real estate deals and probably make a bunch more through rent and appreciation—all while laundering sizable fortunes.”
“And I’d always thought
those rich folks were just treating themselves to a mountain getaway.” She handed back the papers. “I think we need a road trip.”
We drove to Beaverdam, looking for addresses on our list. Not as easy as it sounded. Out in the country, people knew where each other lived by ancestral names or landmarks like “the old school yard” or “J. B. McCutchen’s daddy’s place.” Once 911 was introduced, the county assigned everyone an address to help EMTs and firefighters find them. But that was rarely painted on a mailbox, if you could even read the name and address through all the bullet holes. (Apparently new mailboxes made for irresistible target practice.)
These days GPS helped, though too often, way out there, it sent you to the edge of a cliff or you couldn’t even get a signal. Thanks to Cleva’s keen eyes, we managed to locate the cluster of second homes on our list and several shacks. The records showed that two of the shacks with surrounding land sold last year for more than $700,000.
This chicanery seemed so obvious to me I couldn’t believe they could get away with it. But as I kept reading, I learned there were virtually no reporting requirements for suspicious deals. Add in busy loan officers, shady lawyers, and no telling how much palm greasing, and I could almost smell the steaming pile of illegal transactions in and around our county.
“This is giving me a bad case of the jitters,” Cleva said. She reached over and patted my hand. “But I sure am enjoying the countryside—and your company. And Rascal’s.”
At the sound of his name, Rascal stretched from the backseat all the way to the console, positioning himself for some petting that Cleva generously supplied.
We weren’t ready to head home, so I drove down curvy mountain roads ‘til we came to a stunning overlook. I stopped and turned off the engine. Rascal jumped in the front seat and sat on my lap. Now we could both pet him. We sat there for the longest time, not saying much. Not needing to.
After I dropped off Cleva, I drove home under a cloud of gloom. I was long over the notion that I’d escaped D.C. for an idyllic mountain community, but this blatant fraud was a new low. Not only did it line the pockets of greedy crooks, but they forced poor and hard-working families to fork over money to pay jacked-up property taxes.
I got madder and madder on the drive back to Coburn’s. By the time I arrived, I couldn’t wait to place another ad for DEEP POCKET.
Chapter 41: Abit
I sat outside the sheriff’s office in Newland, unable to make myself get out and go talk with Airhorn. I mean Sheriff Horne. Man, that was the last thing I needed to do—slip up and call him Airhorn to his face.
That morning, I’d asked Fiona if we could meet up for our midday dinner together since the sheriff worked in the same town as her hospital. Things had been tense round the house, and I wanted to do something different to help break the spell.
My heart sank when she said she never knew when she’d get a break. “Never mind, then,” I said, sounding like someone closer to Conor’s age. But I’d been counting on having something to look forward to after talking with Airhorn.
“Well, if you don’t mind waiting for my call, Rabbit.” Then she acted like she’d just thought of something. “Oh, wait. You don’t have a cell phone.” She looked so smug, I turned to walk away. She grabbed my arm. “I’ll do my best to make it by one o’clock,” she said, smiling. “But bring something to read in case you have to wait.”
Our former Deputy Sheriff Lonnie Parker had gotten a promotion, though I had no idea why. He’d never showed a bit of gumption except a time or two when he got Della some information the previous sheriff didn’t want her to have. After Parker moved to Gaston County, two women took his place, one a deputy and the other some kind of office manager. I walked toward the one with the kinder face, which happened to be the deputy.
“I’m Abit Bradshaw, and I’ve got some important information to share with Sheriff Horne.”
“He’s with someone.”
These people never gave out more information than they had to. “Can I wait?”
“Of course you can, but you may not want to. I don’t know how long he’ll be.”
I didn’t know what she was on about with that can and may business; I’d have to ask Della. But I figured since I’d screwed up my courage, I’d better wait. I sat down and pulled out a notebook, where I made some notes about what I wanted to tell him.
Airhorn wasn’t a bad guy. I’d gotten to know him when Della and I worked together to try to find that missing mother a few year ago. He’d worked hard on that case, and he was nice enough to me, mostly because Della wouldn’t have it any other way. But on this day, he made me wait over an hour. I tried being reasonable—maybe he really was busy, and after all, I didn’t have an appointment. But when he came out, no one else was in his office, and he had crumbs on his chin. Okay, we’ve all got to eat, but it was just after eleven o’clock.
“Hello, Bradshaw. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got information about the murders.”
The office woman stopped typing. The deputy’s head shot up from whatever she’d been reading.
“Did you do them?” he asked. That shook me; I felt myself jump back a little. Then he started chortling. Like that was hilarious. And of course the women tittered right along with their boss. The only consolation was they didn’t really think I’d killed anyone.
He showed me into his office and motioned toward a couple of chairs. I sat in the one opposite his desk. “So Sherlock, tell me what you’ve discovered.” He did that bunny-ear thing with his fingers round that last word, like he was just pacifying a fool. I couldn’t figure out why he was in such a foul mood. I knew if I’d been Alex Covington, he would’ve been nicer, which irritated the tar outta me. But by now I was an old hand at dealing with this shit.
“Listen, Sheriff Horne. I know you think this is funny, a man like me telling you your business. But I’m trying to save lives. Wallis Harding and I have been working hard on this, and we know when the killer will strike again, though I wished like anything we knew where.” His sneer got bigger and he actually sighed. “But me and Mr. Harding are still studying on that. Whatever you’ve been doing hasn’t worked. Just ask the families of that poor man in Kona or that woman in Ferguson.”
He nodded, letting me know he wanted me to go on, I reckoned to finish hanging myself. So I told him everything Wallis and I had come up with. I explained how we were trying to take the pattern further, to find the where and how of the next one. When I finished, I felt spent. But I looked Airhorn right in the face and waited. And waited.
After what seems like forever, he smiled a scary smile and tented his fingers under his chin. I knew I was in for it. “First, I’m sheriff of Avery County. I have no jurisdiction in Mitchell or Randolph counties. Second, you don’t know what I have been doing. And third, I don’t think much of your Nancy Drew detective work. Any questions?”
Man, that guy had a burr up his butt; I barely recognized the man I oncet knew. But I also knew I’d let Airhorn get my ire up, especially when he called me Sherlock, though I believe even Shiloh would’ve taken offense. Any way you looked at it, I’d blown my chance.
As I drove over to the hospital for dinner with Fiona, I was dreading telling her how much I’d screwed up. When I got there, the only parking place was a ways from the front doors, but I was early, so I took my time.
I was already feeling bad enough, but when the sliding front doors opened and that awful hospital smell came wafting out, my stomach did a flipflop. I didn’t know how Fiona stood it, but I guess she got used to it, like I was used to Shiloh’s finishing oil. I gave the woman at the information desk my name and told her Fiona O’Donnell was expecting me.
“Oh, Mr. Bradshaw. She left a note for you.”
I opened an envelope and took out a quickly scrawled note saying there’d been an emergency she had to help with. All kinds of things ran through my mind, wide open to hurt after the beating I’d taken from Airhorn. Then I read “And get a cell phone so I
can let you know proper-like.” She drew a smiley face and signed it.
To be honest, I was relieved I didn’t have to tell her right then about me and Airhorn. As I walked back to my truck, I saw Dr. Gerald Navarro drive off in his Porsche—alone. At least one of my fears was gone: she wasn’t having lunch with him.
Chapter 42: Della
FOUND LOTS, CALLED #s, NOTHING ADDS UP. WHAT NEXT?
It’d been three days since I’d placed that ad in the Observer. No answer yet.
I was in the back wrapping four-year aged gouda wedges when two men in white shirts and narrow black ties walked into the store. I knew immediately who they were. Especially since the younger one was a Black man, and we didn’t see many of them in Laurel Falls.
They picked up bottled water, dried fruit, and mixed nuts. Healthy types, and their waistlines backed that up. When they came to the counter, I felt like a 25-year-old reporter again. I wasn’t about to let this opportunity go to waste.
“Just passing through?” I asked. The older one nodded. The young man smiled and said yes. “Headed for Ferguson?” That got their attention. I figured I needed to dive in before they turned to leave. I purposely hadn’t taken their money yet.
They just looked at me, thinking their steady gaze would put me off. Not a chance. I’d dealt with the FBI more times than I cared to remember. It was part intuition and part know-how that told me who they were.
“How do you know that?” the older agent asked. He was a good-looking guy, in spite of his military-style haircut and stance. His partner had the fresh face of a relatively new agent, around Abit’s age or a little younger. I felt for him; I’d written several stories about Quantico and the training they put new recruits through.
“Well, I don’t believe you’re Mormons, and I know you’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses,” I said. “And we’ve had three murders in this neck of the woods. Seems like a reasonable guess. What I can’t figure out is why you’re on our windy road, since I assume you’re up from Charlotte.”
Murder Ballad Blues Page 13