“Tikima and I always stop here,” Nakayla said. “We wondered which of the men is our Elijah.”
“You don’t have a family picture?”
“No. I suspect Elijah didn’t have money for such things. Besides, any photographs would have been taken in Chicago with his wife, and he must have left them there.”
I stepped closer to the picture, peering into the faces of the black men, trying to read some sign that would show me who was Olmsted’s favorite, the one whose body would be found over twenty-five years later floating in the French Broad River. Tikima had stood where I did, asking the same question, and heading for the same fate.
***
“Want another glass of wine?” I opened the leather-bound list and scanned the Biltmore Estate whites. “Maybe a Sauvignon Blanc?”
“No. The Pinot Grigio was fine.” Nakayla took the last bite of her shrimp salad and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “The quality of the label has certainly improved over the past few years.”
Nakayla and I had eaten at the bistro right beside the winery and selected our entrees based upon the wine we wanted to drink. I’d polished off two beef medallions, grateful for anything not prepared by a hospital.
I drained the last of my Merlot and caught the eye of our waitress. “I’m no connoisseur,” I told Nakayla, “but I could get into sampling the entire list. Do my part to support the local economy.”
The waitress appeared at my right elbow. “Would you care for dessert?”
I winked at Nakayla. “You’ve still got my lunch money to burn. Try something.”
Nakayla shook her head. “I’m too full. There’s ice cream down at the stable. We can walk there later. Tikima and I always took a calorie-filled trip down memory lane.”
“Because of the stable?”
“No. The ice cream. When we had good report cards, our parents would treat us to the Biltmore Dairy Bar. It used to be in the village right outside the estate.”
“If a good report card was the requirement, I’d have never been in the place.”
The waitress returned with the check, I left a generous tip, and Nakayla and I walked to the end of the winery parking lot. A flat expanse of pasture lay before us. A river ran along its far border with a thick wall of trees lining the opposite shore.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The French Broad. Farther downstream it merges with the Swannanoa.”
Farther downstream was where Tikima’s body had been found. On this side of the river, the pasture seemed to go right to the water’s edge. Easy enough to access with a four-wheel-drive vehicle. There were probably service roads a regular car could navigate. Nakayla had driven her car from the shuttle parking lot to the winery. I wanted to get closer to the river.
“The stables are down to the right,” she said. “It’s not a bad walk.”
“Let’s drive. But not to the stables. We need to find a way to the river.”
“You’re looking for the place where they—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Right now I’m just looking. I’d like to see how fast the current flows and whether there are some sandy banks that could match the traces on Tikima’s Avalon.”
“All right.” She started for the car. “We’ll backtrack toward the house. I think I saw a service road on our way here.”
The sign EMPLOYEES ONLY by the single lane blacktop served as encouragement, not a deterrent. The smooth pavement led across the field and must have been a farm road for getting agricultural equipment to various sections of the cultivated bottom land. Not being a farmer, I had no idea if the plants around me were for people, livestock, or soil retention. No one seemed to be working the field, probably because it was Saturday.
“So, this really is a working farm,” I said.
“Yes.” Nakayla slowed the Hyundai as the asphalt suddenly turned to gravel. “Friends have asked me why I like to come here. How can I stand to be around such obscene wealth?”
“What do you tell them?”
“That the Biltmore House is both a national treasure and a business. George Vanderbilt always saw it as a working estate. His grandson Bill Cecil and the younger generation have never taken any federal money so I’m not watching my tax dollars at work.”
I looked out over the field and saw the winery in the distance. “I’ve seen enough of my tax dollars at work, thank you. This would be an improvement.”
The road arced right and brought us to within twenty yards of the river. Looking ahead, I could see we wouldn’t get any closer.
“Stop the car. I want to walk to the bank.”
Nakayla parked in the middle of the road. I got out and stepped carefully over the uneven ground. The strip of land between the river and the road was uncultivated, but the wild grass didn’t grow higher than my ankle. The terrain sloped down to the water’s edge where the vegetation changed to reeds. Between the stalks, the ground became cracked mud rather than loose soil. Some of the reeds were bent, pointing downstream.
“What do you think?” Nakayla asked.
I kneeled down on my good leg and grabbed a fistful of dirt. “This isn’t what we found in the car.” I opened my hand for her to see. “It’s sediment from high water, not sand that’s been pounded into grains by the constant turbulence of the current.”
“Isn’t it all from the river?”
“Yes, but heavy rains erode dirt from the hills, turning the water muddy. Flashfloods raise the level and as the river recedes, the soil is left to dry.” I got to my feet and pointed to the fields. “That’s one reason the bottom land is so fertile.”
“Tikima wasn’t killed along this section?”
I shrugged. “The only speculation I’ll make is Tikima’s car had to be elsewhere. It could have been here at some point that Saturday night, but the footprint on the carpet was sand from a different location.”
I sidestepped down the slope to the bank. The river flowed dark and slow, unbroken by the whitewater I’d seen on the stream along the entrance to the estate. Trees grew on the opposite bank, their tangled roots exposed where the current stripped the earth beneath them. Dragonflies darted around me. A water snake glided by, barely creating a ripple in its wake. Looking upstream and downstream, I saw no break in the shoreline, no sandy beach where Tikima’s killers would have dumped her body.
The evidence of the recent river rising made me wonder if the police had taken a swifter current into account when determining how far Tikima’s body could have traveled. I remembered we’d had several gully-washer thunderstorms over the past few weeks. I’d ask Peters.
“Someone’s coming.” Nakayla grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the car. “What should we tell them?”
A white pickup sped down the dirt road. The vehicle slowed as the driver saw us walking toward the Hyundai.
“Wait for them to ask us questions,” I said, and gave a friendly wave to our visitor.
The driver’s door bore the Biltmore Estate logo. The truck stopped directly behind Nakayla’s car. The window rolled down.
“Can I help you?” A man who looked to be in his early forties asked the question without the ever-present smile of the other employees. The Biltmore security insignia on his sleeve made clear he expected an answer.
I kept walking closer so I wouldn’t have to shout. “We just wanted to see the river. Any put-ins along here? We’d like to bring our kayaks next time.” I eased up to where I could read his nameplate. Jake Matthews.
He rubbed two fingers across his black mustache as he eyed Nakayla and me carefully. “Kayaking? You’d best go upstream to the Bent Creek section. Take 191 a couple miles and you can’t miss it. Right across from the North Carolina Arboretum and beneath the Blue Ridge Parkway.”
“Thanks. This is a pretty spot.”
He nodded. “Yep, but it’s not open to guests. You need to turn around and drive back to the public road.”
“Certainly, Officer Matthews.” I turned to Nakay
la, remembering the name written in Tikima’s file. “At least we won’t have to get Luther to bail us out.”
She hesitated a second and then picked up the cue. “You’d never hear the end of it.”
Jake leaned his head farther out the window. “Y’all know Luther?”
“Yes,” I said, “but it’s been awhile since we’ve spoken. He probably gets weekends off now.”
Jake laughed. “He wishes. Weekends we need everybody here, even the boss.”
“I suppose you’ve still got the Armitage guys covering the back entrances.”
“Yeah. If we can keep them awake.”
“Do you suppose Luther would mind if we dropped by to say hello?”
Jake grinned. “No. I’m headed back to the office now. You can follow me.”
Nakayla made a Y-turn on the narrow road while Jake swung his truck in a circle over the grass.
“What are you going to do when this guy takes us to Luther Rawlings?” Nakayla asked.
“I’ll say ‘Hello, good to see you again.’ He’ll hesitate, not sure of when we met and I’ll let him off the hook by re-introducing myself and you.”
“Okay,” Nakayla said skeptically.
“Then you’ll say that Tikima was your sister and she spoke highly of him. I’ll take it from there.”
With our script firmly in hand, we trailed the pickup to a building beyond the ticket center. A number of company vehicles ranging from golf carts to heavy-duty pickups were in the lot. Jake pointed out his window to a visitors spot and parked a couple spaces away. He took us through the front entrance and down a hall to an open door at the end. He knocked on the jamb and stepped into the office.
“Brought some friends to see you, Luther.” Jake winked at me like he’d planned the whole thing.
A beefy man pushing retirement looked up from the paperwork on his desk. His florid face was rough as sandpaper and his stony expression hinted at a personality to match.
I stepped forward, my hand extended. “Luther, good to see you again.”
Without the slightest hesitation, the head of security pushed his rolling chair away from his desk. “Who the hell are you?”
Not exactly the response I’d been expecting. “Sam Blackman.” I dropped my hand to my side. “We met through Tikima Robertson. This is her sister Nakayla.”
“Mr. Rawlings,” Nakayla said, sensing we’d better jump back on more formal ground.
“Tikima Robertson,” Luther repeated.
“Yes, sir. My sister.”
Jake Matthews rubbed his mustache, not sure what was happening.
Luther stood, and I thought he’d never stop rising. The man must have been six-and-a-half-feet tall. In his uniform, he looked like a battalion crunched into one person.
“Thanks, Jake,” he said. “I’ll catch up with my old friends Sam and Nakayla for a few minutes. You can close the door.”
His colleague backed away. “Nice to meet you folks.”
“Likewise,” I said.
No one said anything until the door clicked shut and Jake’s footsteps faded away.
“Odd,” Luther said. “I rarely forget a face, especially one connected to a gimp leg.”
I felt my face color.
“We’ve never met, have we.” His words were a statement, not a question.
“No,” I said.
“Good. So let’s start over. Who are you? Reporters?”
“We’re who we said we were, except for knowing you. I’m Sam Blackman and I was discharged from the V.A. hospital yesterday. Nakayla is Tikima’s sister.”
Luther scratched his face with a broad hand while he thought things over. “So what do you want?” He motioned us to take the two chairs opposite his desk and then he sat down.
I decided to get right to the point. “As you know, Tikima’s body was found in the French Broad not too far from here. Any way someone could have snuck onto the estate?”
He snorted. “With over eight thousand acres? Hell, yes. The police already asked me that.” He looked at Nakayla. “I understand your interest, but how does your friend fit in the picture?”
“My sister visited him in the hospital the morning before she died. He worked in criminal investigations for the military.”
Luther’s eyes narrowed. “You on this case officially?”
“No,” I said. “I guess you could call me a friend of the family.”
“And you can work looser than the police. Like lying to Jake to get to see me.”
“There’s that advantage,” I admitted.
He leaned across the desk and picked at his ragged fingernails. “More power to you, but I don’t know how I can help.”
“When’s the last time you saw Tikima?” I asked.
He grabbed a pocket calendar from beside his phone and flipped back a few pages. “May 29th. She came by that Tuesday afternoon.”
“The Tuesday before she died,” I said. “Was it related to her work?”
“I thought she was just touching base. Tikima would come by several times a year to make sure we were happy with Armitage’s services.”
“Jake doesn’t speak highly of their guards.”
Luther waved his hand at the space where Jake had stood. “He takes himself too seriously. I give Armitage the boring stuff—check-in deliveries, direct lost tourists to the main entrance, and watch for people trying to sneak in.”
“Any reports of anyone sneaking in the night of June 2nd?”
“No. I gave the same information to the police.” Luther glanced at his watch; not an exaggerated motion for our benefit, but I knew our time was limited.
“If Tikima wasn’t here for business, do you mind telling us why she came to see you?”
“She had some questions about the old days. I knew her family worked here before the house was built. She was interested in employment records. How far back they might go.”
“Do you keep those here?” I asked.
“No. They’re at the company headquarters uptown. But I told her I doubted if they went back much further than thirty or forty years. She was looking for records from the teens and twenties.”
“Did she say why?”
“Researching family history.” Luther turned to Nakayla. “I understand your great-great grandfather worked with Olmsted in laying out the master plan.”
“Yes. Elijah knew Olmsted from Chicago.”
A smile broke through Luther’s hard features. “That must have been something. The things they accomplished. Reshaping the land itself.” His eyes brightened. “That was another thing Tikima asked. Had Vanderbilt ever exploited the mineral rights on his property?”
“Like mining?” I asked.
“Yes. But I’ve never heard of such a thing. Vanderbilt was interested in renewable resources like forests, crops, and dairy cows. They used to have a prize-winning herd.”
“Did Tikima say why she was interested in mineral rights?”
“No. But there are a lot of rock hounds combing these mountains.” He chuckled. “I thought she was probably setting me up for some security system to keep the tourists from stealing stones off the property.”
“And you never had any contact after that Tuesday, even by phone.”
“No. She thanked me for my time and said she’d check back in a couple months.”
I figured we’d learned as much as we could. I got to my feet slowly, conscious that he’d noticed my leg. Luther stood and offered his hand. His grip was firm. Then he clasped Nakayla’s, gently patting it with his left in a show of concern.
“I’m so sorry about your sister,” he said. “I considered her a friend.”
“Thank you.” Nakayla put her left hand on top of his, keeping them bound together for a few seconds. Then she let go as she asked, “Mr. Rawlings? How long has your family worked for the estate?”
“This September I’ll have forty years in. My grandmother spun wool for Mrs. Vanderbilt and my grandfather and my father worked for the dairy. Guess w
e go back to the late teens. Not as far as your family, but more than most. Our kinfolk certainly would have known each other.”
I glanced at Nakayla and saw the tightening of her jaw. She knew their families would have known each other, but back in those days of Jim Crow and the KKK, would they have liked each other? A more ominous question crossed my mind. Was Tikima’s death linked to old secrets from a bygone era?
Chapter Fourteen
“You still want your ice cream?” I buckled my seatbelt, prepared to go wherever Nakayla wanted.
“No.” She checked her wristwatch. “It’s three-fifteen. We have time to run over to Pisgah. I’d like to talk to that ranger.”
“James Taylor?”
“Yes. Easy enough to remember.” She started the car. “What did you think about Luther Rawlings?”
“He seemed straightforward. He didn’t hesitate to tell us what Tikima was looking for.”
“Did he?” Nakayla arched her thin eyebrows. “All he said was Tikima was interested in employment records and mineral rights. No names regarding whose employment or what minerals.”
“Do you think he was lying?”
“I think there’s a good chance he was incomplete with the truth. His job is to protect the estate.”
“Second to protecting himself,” I said. “If we get additional information that contradicts what he told us, we’ll have to pay our good friend Luther another visit.”
She cocked her head and stared at me. “You didn’t completely trust him either, did you?”
I grinned. “Old habits die hard. I didn’t want to prejudice you. Whenever I investigate with a partner, I want two brains working independently and arguing the case back and forth.”
“Then believe me, you won’t find anyone more independent or argumentative in Asheville than me. Are we clear on that, partner?”
“Yes. That’s one thing we definitely agree on.”
We drove about twenty minutes, winding through valley roads and passing small strip malls and country churches. Then the area grew more congested. A Wal-Mart appeared on our right.
“Welcome to the entrance to Pisgah National Forest.” Nakayla put on her right-turn signal as we approached a major intersection. “Tikima and I hated when that Wal-Mart was built. Until we got caught in a cloudburst while camping and bought ponchos and dry socks from their sports department.”
Blackman's Coffin Page 14