Blackman's Coffin

by Mark de Castrique

  “And someone’s been concealing it all these years?”

  “You don’t think that’s possible?”

  She thought for a second. “No. Except with mountain people. A lot of them keep to themselves. There’re all kinds of secrets back in the hills.”

  “And how many of those families go back to 1919?” I asked.

  “Like Delores said, these mountains get in your blood. We can start with Luther Rawlings and Curt Newland. Their family trees are rooted deep.”

  Herman Duringer sat in a webbed lawn chair behind a glass-covered case. He was a portly man with tufts of gray hair encircling the bald dome of his head. His blue eyes darted through the crowd as he searched for someone to look over his wares. His gaze latched onto me, and Nakayla and I walked over.

  Unlike Delores, Herman went right into his pitch. “If you don’t see what you want, you tell me and I’ll find it for you. I dig all my own stones, each one of the highest quality and guaranteed to come out of the Blue Ridge.”

  “We’re interested in emeralds,” I said.

  “Excellent. North Carolina is known for emeralds.” He slid his hand over the glass top and pointed to a set of dark green stones. “I cut these myself.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “Hiddenite. Best emeralds in the state. Jamie Hill’s property’s the top source. Back in 2003, he found an emerald nearly two thousand carats. They say it’s the largest in North America.” Herman came close to salivating. “There’s still a public mine down there, and I’ve always got hope.”

  “What about the Ledbetters?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Phil Ledbetter’s more of a carnie than a miner. He keeps his richest land for himself and foists the poorer digs on the hobbyists. I don’t know any real rock hounds who dig there.”

  “What about the little girl who found the big emerald?”

  Herman snorted. “Advertising. Wouldn’t surprise me if Phil tossed the gem under the kid’s feet. Uncut it might have fetched five grand. He’s gotten ten times that amount from the suckers lined up at his troughs like hogs at feeding time.”

  I detected a tone of jealousy in his voice, but I didn’t feel the need to defend Phil Ledbetter’s smart business practices. “I want to ask you about emeralds and Tikima Robertson.”

  His eyes went wide. “Tikima? You know what happened to her, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I was working with her. She came to see you.”

  Herman suddenly seemed nervous. “You think that got her killed? The stones were nice but not that valuable.”

  My heart jumped a beat. We were onto something. “We don’t know.” I turned to Nakayla. “My colleague and I are trying to follow up on Tikima’s efforts. I’m Sam Blackman and this is Nakayla.”

  If our names meant anything, he didn’t react. The whole subject of Tikima had him on edge.

  “She showed you the bracelet.” Nakayla made the statement as a fact.

  I was clueless where we were going, but I nodded as if I understood.

  “Yes,” Herman admitted. “She wanted to know if I could tell where the gold and emeralds came from. She said a relative was supposed to have made it.”

  “That’s right. Her great-great grandfather.”

  “There weren’t any identifying marks but the workmanship wasn’t up to professional standards.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Have you seen the piece?”

  “No,” I said. “I heard about it.” Like ten seconds ago.

  “The emeralds weren’t cut, they were polished. The true potential of a gem is revealed through the facets. Training and an artistic eye make the difference. These stones had either been tumbled smooth or hand rubbed with a whetstone.”

  “Could you tell where they came from?” I asked.

  “I can’t give you a precise global position, but the signature composition of the emeralds is consistent with western North Carolina. Slightly different from the gems unearthed in Hiddenite. These were definitely from this area of the Brevard fault.”

  “The what?”

  “The major fault line running along the mountains. About a gazillion years ago, two prehistoric continents were smashing into each other, creating the Appalachian chain. The collision also created the wealth of minerals found here, products of incredible heat and pressure.” He ran his hand over the top of his display. “The Appalachians are believed to be the oldest mountains in the world. The piedmont and coastal sections of North Carolina are nothing but the sediment of millions of years of erosion. Fissures and veins spread like a spider’s web.”

  Herman recovered enough of his poise to laugh. “That’s why so many of the pink and purple hair people flock to Asheville. For them, it’s all about the crystals and the ancient vortex they say lies under the city.”

  “You believe that?” I asked.

  “I believe in rocks. Something I can hold, something I can cut and polish with my own hands. And I believe Tikima’s emeralds came from a source that could rival Jamie Hill’s Hiddenite mine. I wish I knew where her relative got those stones. Maybe Phil Ledbetter’s predecessors weren’t so possessive.”

  “How long have your relatives lived here?” I asked.

  “Since 1862. The first Duringer fled here from Charlotte to escape conscription in the Confederacy. He hid in the mountains. I prefer to think he was a man of principle, not a coward, which was more likely the case.”

  Nakayla bent over and peered at the gemstones set in gold rings. “Was the gold in the bracelet local?”

  “Probably. The refining process left quite a few impurities. Malcolm Grant knows more about metal work. He designs all my settings. Tikima had him look at the bracelet.”

  “Is he here?” Nakayla asked.

  “Two booths down. I’d introduce you but I don’t dare leave my gems. You’ll recognize him. He’s got the cleanest teeth in the joint.”

  Malcolm Grant did have a bright smile. He was flashing it at two blue-haired ladies, many years ahead of the pink and purple vortex generation. Nakayla and I waited until he had answered their questions and boxed a gold brooch for one of them.

  “Dr. Grant,” I said.

  He looked at me, trying to place the face, or at least the mouth.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve never met. Herman suggested we speak to you. We’re colleagues of Tikima Robertson.”

  Like Herman, Malcolm Grant froze for an instant. Tikima’s name jarred him.

  “I can’t believe it,” he managed to say. “I’d just seen her the weekend before she disappeared.”

  “She came to you about the bracelet.”

  He studied me closely. “I’m sorry. Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m Sam Blackman. This is Nakayla. We were working with Tikima.”

  “She told you about the bracelet?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “Tikima asked me not to mention the bracelet to anyone. I promised her.”

  Either Grant took his word very seriously or he had something to hide. Nakayla pulled her wallet from her purse and flipped it open to her driver’s license.

  “I’m Tikima’s sister. The bracelet now belongs to me. I’d appreciate your sharing what you told her.”

  Dr. Grant took a sharp breath. He glanced down the aisle toward Herman, wondering what he might have already told us.

  “What about the gold?” Nakayla asked. “We know the emeralds are native.”

  “The gold was excellent quality, but the workmanship was not.” He gestured to several intricate pieces in his booth. “The refining left much to be desired and the shaping of the bracelet had more in common with a blacksmith than a goldsmith.”

  “But the gold?” Nakayla pressed.

  “First rate. On a par with what used to be mined in Charlotte or the Reid Gold Mine. You know North Carolina was the largest gold producing state in the country until 1849 and that little discovery at Sutter’s Mill in California.”

>   “Could the gold have been mined in Asheville?” I asked.

  “Possibly. But no mine that I know of. Might have been panned from a stream close to a vein.”

  “Why do you think my sister was so secretive?” Nakayla asked.

  He shrugged. “Gold. The nature of the beast. If I thought I had a lead on where that gold came from, I’d be secretive too. Downright paranoid.”

  Except you’re not paranoid when you wind up murdered.

  ***

  We headed out of Asheville to Arden, a small neighboring town and the site of Golden Oaks Retirement Community.

  “Why didn’t you mention the bracelet before?” I asked.

  “I never thought about it until I realized Grant and Duringer made gold and emerald jewelry.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “No. But I know where it is. Whoever broke into Tikima’s apartment missed it. I checked.”

  “It’s still in the apartment?”

  “Unless you moved the Bible by the bed. You’ll find it in an envelope after Revelations. Tikima figured crooks would never touch the Good Book.”

  A guardhouse and gate stood sentinel at the entrance to the retirement community, but the bar across the road was fixed in the upright position. The parade of Sunday afternoon visitors probably would have worn out the lifting motor.

  Golden Oaks was built on top of a mountain, and the road switched back and forth as we climbed to the summit.

  As we walked into the lobby, I saw my face on a television across the large room. I was slamming the door of the Hyundai. The set was too distant for me to hear the report, and the residents sitting on sofas and easy chairs in front of the TV seemed more interested in each other than the news. Nakayla and I watched the camera follow us from the police station till we disappeared beyond Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist Church. Then an anchorwoman appeared with a photo of Detective Peters over her shoulder. I had no idea what she was saying.

  “And so it begins,” Nakayla muttered. “I’ll have an interesting day at work tomorrow.”

  I hadn’t thought about Nakayla’s need to get back to her job. Being unemployed meant I had no plans beyond the next interview.

  The front desk was along the wall just inside the door. A woman with dyed blond hair sat behind it, her face buried in a romance novel. Both the hero and heroine on the cover had necklines so low they probably died of chest colds by the end of the book.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  The woman tore her moist eyes off what must have been a heart-wrenching paragraph. “Yes?”

  “Is it possible to speak with Sandra Pollock?”

  “Sorry. She’s off. She’ll be in tomorrow morning at nine. If you have a family member considering becoming a resident,” she paused, realizing we had to be coming from an unconventionally blended family, “or a friend, you’ll want to talk to Nancy in Marketing.”

  “No. We have a specific question for Ms. Pollock. Is it possible to speak with her by telephone?”

  “It’s against our policy to give out staff home numbers. But she’ll be happy to talk to you first thing in the morning.”

  Finding Sandra Pollock at work after six on Sunday evening had been a long shot. I let the woman get back to her passionate whatever and turned to go.

  “Hey! You’re the people on TV.” An octogenarian man in the lobby hustled on his walker with surprising speed. Behind him, several ladies stared at us. Evidently, the seniors had been more attentive to the news than I realized.

  “I’m Ron Kline, but everybody calls me Captain.” He circled around and clunked his walker down between us and the door.

  “I’m Sam. This is Nakayla.”

  “So, the news lady said you found that poor detective’s body.”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw a lot of bodies back in the war. Never got used to it.”

  “You were a captain?”

  “Actually, I made colonel. But I always enjoyed being a captain the most. That’s when what I did mattered.” He leaned over the walker and took a deep breath. “Why are you up here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  I looked to Nakayla.

  “I guess this wasn’t on the news, but Tikima Robertson was my sister.”

  He nodded vigorously. “That’s what they said. Poor Tikima.”

  “You knew her?” Nakayla asked.

  “Certainly. She worked for that security company, but she always took time to speak to us, especially the veterans.”

  Maybe Tikima hadn’t stopped visiting vets, I thought. She’d just shifted her location.

  “Did you see her shortly before she died?” I asked.

  “Yep. Sure did. Not to speak to, other than hello. She’d come up to see the mayor.”

  “The mayor of Arden lives here?” Nakayla asked.

  Captain chuckled. “No, the mayor of Golden Oaks. Harry. He’s been here the longest. I’m the Captain. He’s the Mayor. He’s not a vet but Tikima took to him. She came to his hundredth birthday party last April. Maybe we should promote Harry to President.”

  “Is Harry here?” I asked.

  “Sure. Where else would he go? I saw him at Sunday brunch. Only meal they fix on Sundays. He’s probably in his apartment. D-133.” Captain pointed across the lobby to a hallway.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “No trouble.” The old man lifted his right hand off his walker and touched Nakayla’s shoulder. “So sorry about your sister.” Then he stood straight and saluted.

  As we walked down the D-wing hall, Nakayla fought back tears. Captain had been a bittersweet reminder of her loss.

  The door of number 133 had a brass name plaque: Harry Young—His Honor the Mayor. I gave two sharp raps with the knocker.

  “Come in,” called a raspy voice. “It’s unlocked.”

  I opened the door and let Nakayla go first. A small kitchen lay on our left as we continued into the living room. A door on the right led to the bedroom. The apartment was tidy, and the elderly man sitting on the sofa wore a neatly pressed pink shirt and navy blue slacks. A wheelchair was turned facing him. He held a section of the Sunday paper and looked up, not at all surprised to see us.

  Nakayla and I both stopped, speechless. Harry Young had only one leg.

  “Thank God,” he said. “I was afraid I’d have to come after you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Henderson Youngblood?” I blurted the name so loudly that Nakayla jumped.

  “No. But I reckon I’m as close to being that boy as anybody could be.” He waved us to sit in the armchairs facing him. “As close as Fred Wolfe was to being Luke in Look Homeward, Angel.”

  Nakayla and I sat. She hadn’t said a word and the way she kept looking from the old man to me betrayed her anxiety. I knew what she was thinking, but Harry Young said it.

  “I got your sister killed.” The wrinkles in his thin face deepened. He choked back a sob.

  Nakayla sprang from the chair and joined him on the sofa. She took one of his liver-spotted hands and pressed it between her own. “You gave her the journal?”

  “When I realized she was Elijah’s kin.” He pulled his hand away and brushed the tears from his eyes. “I saw the news tonight. About that police officer. Leaving a wife and two boys.”

  “Do you know who’s responsible?” I asked.

  “No. I told Tikima to be careful.” He eyed the way my left leg stretched in front of me. “You’re the vet she went to see. The one that took on the brass up in Washington.”

  “Yes. But we only met once. She was still sizing me up and didn’t tell me what she wanted.” I glanced at Nakayla. “Someone broke into her apartment during the funeral, but they didn’t take anything. Nakayla found the journal disguised as another book with my name on it.”

  “Then how did you find me?”

  “My sister had the Golden Oaks file at her apartment,” Nakayla said. “We came to talk to Sandra Pollock and learned Tikima had been visiting you.”

  Harry cl
eared his throat. “Would one of you get me a glass of water? I dry out when I’m talking and I expect y’all have more than a few questions.”

  I signaled for Nakayla to keep her seat. The sink was built into an island dividing the kitchen from the living room. I could see Harry and Nakayla as I checked the hanging cabinets for a glass. “Do you want ice?”

  “Just plain water. I have a little problem swallowing if it’s too cold. Right from the tap is fine.”

  I doubted a hundred-year-old man had much use for bottled water.

  “Y’all eat?” he asked. “Make yourself a sandwich.”

  Nakayla and I declined and I brought him the water and a paper towel for a napkin.

  He took a small sip and let it linger in his mouth. After he swallowed, he spoke a little stronger. “Where do you want me to begin?”

  “Tell us what’s true in the journal,” I said. “Did Thomas Wolfe write it?”

  Harry nodded. “That he did. But aside from my name and some dramatic exaggerations, Tom got most of it right.”

  “You told him the story?”

  “Yep. Summer of 1937. I’d known Tom since we were boys. He was nearly seven years older, but Daddy did business with Mr. Wolfe and sometimes Tom would be at the monument shop. Tom had an eye and an ear. If he saw or heard something, he never forgot it. Like one of those VCRs they’ve got nowadays.”

  “But the events in the story happened in 1919,” Nakayla said.

  “That’s right. So what’s at fault is my memory, not Tom’s. Why, they say the angel in Look Homeward, Angel is on a grave over in Hendersonville. Tom’s daddy sold it in 1906. Tom was still five, but when he wrote about it, twenty years had gone by since he’d seen it. The description is remarkable.”

  “Nearly twenty years had gone by when you told him your story,” Nakayla said.

  Harry smiled. “That’s true. But I wouldn’t have been a good writer. Tom made that up about me. Math was my best subject.”

  “And he changed you to Henderson Youngblood,” I said.

  “My given name was Harrison Young. So close I don’t know why he bothered. Except for my family, every other name he left the same. That’s what got him in trouble with Look Homeward, Angel. People were too recognizable. Tom didn’t come back to Asheville for eight years after that book was published.”