A Murder In Passing (19 page)

I shrugged. “Who knows? There's a good chance Overcash phoned him on his way to get the collection kit and said mission accomplished. When it fell apart, he wasn't so anxious to share bad news.”

“I hope Chesterson lied because that pushes him farther out on a limb. Hewitt can call his bluff.”

“I bet Chesterson calls Jennifer Lang directly,” I said. “He won't want Hewitt to find out if he can help it.”

Nakayla gave me a sly smile. “Isn't going to happen. I told Jennifer to call Overcash immediately and say she would like to help but wants to talk to her attorney first. She has an appointment Monday. That preempts the district attorney's pressure and gives Hewitt a chance to see the victim's DNA report.”

I looked at my partner with amazement. “Miss Robertson, where would you like me to take you for dinner?”

“I'll think of somewhere nice, Mr. Blackman. Meanwhile I'll cover Hewitt on what we've learned.”

I stood. “I'll do it.”

“No, you won't. You've got a houseguest arriving tomorrow. Go get some groceries for him. Then clean your apartment and pack what you'll need to bring to my place.”

“Anything else while you're giving orders?”

“Yes. I expect you to pick me up at six dressed for dinner at a fine restaurant. And bring plenty of money.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Oh, my God. Is this where you live?” Jason Fretwell pressed his nose against the side window of the front passenger's seat and stared at my apartment building.

We'd just crested the top of the ridge above Biltmore Village where the Kenilworth Inn sat on several acres of expansive lawn. Built as a grand hotel in the 1890s and rebuilt in 1913 after a devastating fire, the Kenilworth stood as a historic landmark representing Asheville's rich architectural past. Five stories high, the Tudor-revival building had nearly a hundred apartments ranging from lower-level basement to fourth floor and from studio to two bedrooms.

“This certainly is a change from the V.A. hospital,” Jason said.

From the backseat of my CR-V, Nakayla tried to smother a laugh.

“What's so funny?” Jason asked.

“Nothing really,” Nakayla answered. “Just that for a good part of its life, this place was a military hospital. Both World Wars. Then it was a private mental institution for a while before being converted to apartments. When my sister lived here, she called it the asylum.”

Jason leaned forward and looked across me to the tall flagpole with Old Glory flapping proudly in the morning breeze at the front of the inn's stone porte-cochère. The backdrop of blue sky and white puffs of clouds provided a picture-postcard setting for the grand structure. We looped around the lawn following the blacktop to the rear. In nice weather, I parked behind, not needing to let passengers out under the shelter of the main entrance.

“Your sister lived here?” Jason asked with undisguised awe. He knew Nakayla's sister had been murdered.

“Yes. Sam took her apartment after she died. He came here straight from his hospital discharge.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Jason's face pale.

“She was killed here?” he asked.

“No. Tikima died during the course of a personal investigation. It had nothing to do with where she lived.” Nakayla sighed. “But it's ironic. You're the third amputee to use the place. My sister lost an arm serving in Iraq.”

“I heard she worked for Armitage Security Services,” Jason said. “I hope I can follow her there as well.”

I pulled into a parking space near the rear door of the wing where my fourth-floor apartment was located. “Whatever the outcome, Nathan Armitage will let you know soon enough. He won't leave you hanging. If he doesn't have something appropriate, he'll help us brainstorm the next step.”

“Does he know how to reach me?”

“He has my landline number. Feel free to answer it.” I pointed to the small duffel bag at his feet. “Need a hand with that?”

Jason reached his left arm across his chest and opened the passenger door. “No thanks. What I can do for myself, I need to do.” He grinned. “Especially carrying my dirty laundry.”

Nakayla came with us and I showed Jason my access code for opening the outside door.

“The same sequence works for all external entrances,” I told him.

He followed us down the long, narrow corridor to the centrally located single elevator. The floors were the original hardwood and the walls had mounted lights every twenty feet that accentuated the sense that the hall went on forever.

“It is like a hotel,” Jason remarked.

“Quite the place in its day,” I said. “And quite a history. A hotel that was carved up into hospital rooms and then renovated into apartment floor plans. Because of the challenge of working around old piping and sprinkler systems, no two units are exactly the same. That's what I like about it. Lots of character and lots of characters.”

Nakayla pointed at me. “Sam fits right in.”

“Maybe I could get my own place here,” Jason said.

“Maybe,” I agreed. “This way you'll get a chance to try it.”

When we reached my door, I opened it and waved Jason to enter.

“Nice.” He turned in a half circle. On his right was a long granite counter that divided the open room into a compact kitchen and an ell-shaped living/dining area that wrapped around it. To his left were a leather sofa, an upholstered reading chair, and a flat-screen TV sitting on a bookshelf that I de-cluttered the previous afternoon. Beyond that area, the dining space had room for a small table and four chairs. Comfortable and cozy.

Along the hall to the right of the kitchen were a louvered door shielding a stacked combination of clothes washer and dryer, a second door to the bathroom, and at the end of the hall, the doorway to my bedroom.

I pointed in that direction. “Toss your bag on the bed and we'll give you the cook's tour.”

We began at the most important spot in the apartment. The refrigerator. I'd stocked it with a variety of local beers.

“Didn't you buy any food?” Nakayla asked.

“Sure. Lots of frozen dinners in the freezer.”

Nakayla shook her head. “Men.”

I gave Jason instructions on how to use the washer/dryer so he could clean his clothes. In the bedroom I slid open the mirrored closet door where I kept my wardrobe. “We're about the same size. I took plenty of clothes with me yesterday so feel free to wear anything that fits. You may as well wash all your dirty laundry in one load.” I pulled out a pair of jeans and a hiking shirt, the same outfit I'd worn to the ill-fated mushroom hunt. I'd washed out all traces of my fall into the log.

“I don't know what to say.” Jason's voice broke. “You're being so kind.”

“A lot of people were kind to me. Unfortunately, our country seems to be making wounded vets an ongoing industry. So, at some point you can do the same for someone else.”

“I will. I promise.”

I walked to my desk by the bedroom window. “Here's my computer. You don't need a password to use the Internet.” I rested my hand on a black cordless phone beside the keyboard. “This is the landline and the other extension is in the kitchen.”

“You'll call me if you hear something from Armitage?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I'm sure he'll deal directly with you. You've got my cell number if you need me. Coverage may be spotty where Nakayla and I are going so leave a message. Otherwise, just hang loose today, walk around the grounds, and we'll catch up with each other this evening.”

“For dinner,” Nakayla insisted. “I'm cooking at my place. I'm not leaving you with frozen food for your first night out of the hospital.”

“Sounds great,” Jason said. “Don't worry about me. I'm used to spending time alone.”

As a sniper, I remembered. Patient. Deliberate. Deadly.

The drive from Asheville to the John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown was over two hours. Much of the road was four-lane, but stretches shrank to two where it ran through the rugged Nantahala Gorge, a steep canyon with the Nantahala River, the narrow highway, and a railroad track fighting for space between the nearly vertical slopes. Where the gorge did widen, entrepreneurs had built rafting and kayak services catering to the whitewater enthusiasts who challenged the rapids.

We stopped for lunch in Murphy at a downtown restaurant with the unusual name of ShoeBooties Café. Nakayla had eaten there several years ago while investigating a fraudulent insurance claim in the area. Murphy was about eight miles from Brasstown and the folk school. We'd made good time and didn't want to arrive any earlier than fifteen minutes ahead of our one o'clock appointment. David Brose would be eating lunch till then.

I ordered a Reuben, my customary move when testing a lunch menu. If the establishment can't make a good Reuben, everything else is suspect. Nakayla went for the veggie burger.

While we waited for our food, Nakayla gave me some background on the school.

“John C. Campbell was a Mid-westerner educated in New England. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Southern Appalachia was viewed as a mission field, not for religion, but for educational and social enlightenment.”

“So he wasn't a preacher.”

“He studied theology but he was inspired to improve the quality of life for people in this world. He and his new bride, Olive Dame of Massachusetts, stocked a wagon as their traveling home and studied the culture of the mountain folk from Georgia to West Virginia. John researched the agricultural practices of farmers. Olive collected the old Appalachian ballads and studied the crafts that had been handed down from generation to generation.”

“Sounds like they were getting more of an education themselves.”

“They never lost the goal of improving life through teaching the educational basics, but they were also captivated by the tools, techniques, and artistry demonstrated by the mountaineers in their daily life. John and Olive sought to preserve and share those skills with the world.

“Unfortunately, John died in 1919 before his dream could be fully realized. Olive and a good friend, Marguerite Butler, traveled to Europe to study folk schools in Scandinavia. They came back determined to start one in Appalachia.”

“How'd they come to Brasstown?”

“A local shopkeeper bought into the idea. His family donated land bordering two counties and the people of those counties pledged labor and building supplies. In 1925, the John C. Campbell Folk School began its mission.”

“That's about the time Doris Ulmann began her summer treks to the mountains.”

Nakayla nodded. “You can see how Olive Dame Campbell and Doris Ulmann would be a perfect match. Doris tried to preserve the mountain ways through her photography, and the school's collaborative instruction kept the old ways alive.”

“Explains why Ulmann left the school a substantial part of her estate,” I said.

“And maybe why John Jacob Niles was anxious to push her for a bequeathment. He knew firsthand Doris Ulmann's close relationship with Olive Dame Campbell.”

“Does the school have a lot of Ulmann prints?”

“I believe she sent Olive copies of the photographs she took in the area.”

“Would that include the Kingdom of the Happy Land?”

“We'll soon know.” Nakayla looked up as our waitress brought our food. Then she eyed my Reuben. “Want to swap?”

I pulled the plate closer. “Don't even think about it.”

The sandwich was spectacular. I chased it with caramel fudge pecan cake. We could have turned around and gone back to Asheville and the trip would have been worth it. But, duty called and we pressed on to our appointment.

The John C. Campbell Folk School spread over a beautiful green valley. Numerous outbuildings could be seen as we followed the signs to the parking lot.

“This place is big,” I said.

“They offer a lot of things. Quilting, weaving, blacksmithing, woodworking, pottery, music lessons on every instrument ever played in the mountains, and classes on home crafts from cooking to soap making.”

“Then I know where I'm coming for the apocalypse.”

We found David Brose in a two-story stone building called the History Center. If the school was more than I was expecting, so was the curator. In a realm where most wore jeans or other heavy-duty work clothes, Brose appeared at the door in a light orange dress shirt with a multicolored tie and a suit vest with matching trousers. He sported a full mustache and neatly combed brown hair. I guessed he was about twenty years our senior.

“Nakayla,” he said warmly. “Good to meet you.”

Nakayla introduced me and we followed Brose up a narrow staircase to the second story. It was basically an open floor plan with a few interior walls subdividing off small sections for locked storage. The main room had walls covered with mismatched bookshelves jammed with a variety of volumes and manuscripts. A small pedestal table accommodated four chairs. Brose indicated we should take seats.

“You said on the phone you were interested in an Ulmann photograph.”

“Yes,” Nakayla said. “It would have been taken in the summer of 1932 and probably identified as the descendants of the Kingdom of the Happy Land.”

“The freed slave commune near Flat Rock. Interesting. I don't believe I know the photograph. Can you describe it?”

Nakayla gave the most detailed description she could.

Brose got up from the chair and went into a small storage room. He returned with a sturdy box about a yard long and two-feet wide. A label on the side read 1932-1933. “Let's see what we can find.”

The prints were loose inside. We carefully examined them one at a time. There were portraits of old men and women, close-ups of hands carving wood and working with looms, shots of potters and musicians, and children who looked aged beyond their years. But nothing matching the photograph stolen from Lucille Montgomery.

“Just because it's not here doesn't mean it doesn't exist.” Brose closed the box. “Have you contacted the other repositories of her photographs? Berea College? Oregon University? University of Kentucky?”

“Yes,” Nakayla said. “So far no luck.”

“Well, don't give up. It might be in a very small collection. I'll do a little research and see what I can come up with.”

Brose started to rise with the box.

“What do you know about John Jacob Niles?” I asked.

“He was Doris Ulmann's traveling companion through the Appalachians. Primarily the trips she made from 1930 to her death in 1934. He claims to have known her since 1925 but there's no real proof of that.”

“I've heard him described as a leech and a gigolo.”

Brose smiled. “I doubt you were in Kentucky at the time.”

“This was from a letter of Julia Peterkin's and comments by Doris Ulmann's chauffeur,” Nakayla said.

“Niles is a native son of Kentucky,” Brose said. “He's revered there. Other places? Well, let's just say Niles never missed an opportunity to promote himself and some people say he never let the truth get in the way of casting himself in the most favorable light.”

Brose got up and left the box of photographs. He walked to a shelf behind him and returned with a small, clear glass bottle. “Here's something of John Jacob Niles'. We found it under the cabin where he used to sleep when Doris Ulmann came to visit Olive Campbell. The cabin had gaps in the floorboards and Niles' empty bottles of moonshine would fall between them. Evidently he drank himself to sleep each night.”