A Specter of Justice (4 page)

Chapter Four

“Nathan, do you copy?” I released the transmit button of the handheld, two-way walkie-talkie and waited for Nathan Armitage's response.

“Yes. Loud and clear. Any problems?”

“I haven't seen Molly yet. I thought she'd check in with me.” I stood under the arch of the stone bridge spanning College Street. The steep slopes on either side of the road made climbing up to the top of the bridge impossible.

“Well, she didn't check in at the base,” Nathan said. “Maybe she went straight to your site and parked above the bridge. That's where she's supposed to appear, right?”

“No. She's going to walk up to me out of the woods, but it's getting foggy up here.”

Dusk deepened the shadows into impenetrable darkness, and clouds began dropping onto the high crest of Beaucatcher Mountain. The first busload of ghost tour patrons was scheduled to arrive in less than thirty minutes. They would disembark and gather under the bridge around the old storyteller, who was I wearing bib-overalls and a floppy, leather hat, looking like I'd just walked down from my still.

The fundraiser promised to be a huge success. We'd scheduled the ghost tour for the second Friday night in October when leaf colors brought a spike in tourists and yet the evenings weren't bitter cold. Nakayla, Cory, and Shirley sold out all the tickets; Hewitt Donaldson and Jerry Wofford landed as many sponsors as the event could handle; Angela Douglas and Collin McPhillips delivered on their promise of media promotion; Molly Staton and Lenore Carpenter booked buses and coordinated volunteers; and Tom Peterson worked city hall to get the necessary permits.

I hit up my friend, Nathan Armitage, for communications equipment and some off-duty guards from his company. Nathan owned Armitage Security Services and provided radios of law-enforcement caliber for all transportation vehicles and guides. Nathan agreed to man our base at Pack Square while Hewitt and Tom Peterson drove backup vans that circulated along the route.

Peterson joined the conversation. “I didn't see Molly before I went mobile.”

“Does she have a cell phone?” Hewitt Donaldson's question boomed from the receiver with surprising clarity.

“She should,” Peterson said. “Her friend Lenore must have the number. But Lenore's in costume. I doubt if she'll have her phone with her.”

Lenore Carpenter was stationed at the Grove Park Inn, one of Asheville's most famous and distinctive resorts with a history of guests including Harry Houdini, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and presidents from Woodrow Wilson to Barack Obama. One unknown guest had long overstayed. Known only as The Pink Lady, she roams the inn as a misty, spectral shape, the ghost of a young woman who plunged to her death in the Palm Court Atrium in the nineteen twenties. Her identity remains a mystery, but her eerie presence has been sighted for over ninety years. Whenever she does check out, she's going to have a hell of a hotel bill.

“I'm parked in the Grove Park lot. I'll see if I can find Lenore in the hotel,” Peterson said.

“Okay,” I said. “Meanwhile, if the first bus shows up before I hear from you, I'll tell my tale and summon whomever or whatever I can from beneath the bridge.”

“Maybe you'll get the real Helen, Sam,” Peterson said. “That would create terrific publicity for the cause.”

“Nathan, who's on the first bus?” I asked.

“Nakayla's the host. Angela and Collin are riding along to get some photographs of Helen's first appearance for Angela's article. If Molly hasn't arrived, they can stick around until she gets there. I'm not sure how successful you're going to be with this first group anyway.”

“Why's that?”

Nathan's voice tightened as he tried to stifle a laugh. “They don't speak English.”

“What?”

“Hewitt sold a block of tickets to UNC-Asheville and so you've got a university mini-coach heading your way with twenty Japanese students on a cultural exchange program. But, they have an interpreter and I'm sure he can translate ‘Helen, come forth!' with the same dramatic zeal you proclaim it.” Nathan clicked off his transmit button but not before his laugh was broadcast to everyone on the team.

I shouted up to the bridge, “Molly! Molly, come forth!” No answer. Molly could have parked her car farther up the mountain where I wouldn't have seen her, but the plan was for her to check in with me at the base of the bridge.

I directed my flashlight beam over my head. Mist descended from under the arch high above me. I felt the dampness penetrate my overalls and I feared the rain predicted for after midnight might be moving in early. The deteriorating weather might add to the spooky atmosphere, but a downpour would be a disaster for the walking tour through Asheville and the food and beverage vendors along the route.

There was no sense waiting out in the open when I could be warm and dry in the car. I walked thirty yards down the slope to the turnout spot where Nakayla and her group would meet me. I started the Honda CR-V's engine and set the heater on high. Then I rehearsed my speech.

Twenty minutes later, the fog on the crest of the road beneath the arch brightened. The glow concentrated into two headlights and the oncoming vehicle swung wide to park on the turnout behind me. I grabbed the floppy leather hat off the seat, plopped it on my head, and stepped out of the car to face what I thought would be a mystified group of Japanese intellectuals who wondered what kind of culture I represented.

Nakayla's voice crackled from the walkie-talkie on the passenger's seat. “Arrived at Helen's Bridge. Sam is waiting.”

“Okay from base,” Nathan replied.

I closed the car door, walked back to the small bus, and stood in front of the headlights.

Nakayla alighted first, wearing an orange slicker and carrying her walkie-talkie in her right hand. A thin Asian man followed her into the pool of light.

“Sam, this is Mr. Tanaka. He'll be your translator, although everyone in the group has at least a rudimentary knowledge of English.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” I said. I wasn't sure whether I should nod, bow, or offer my hand.

Mr. Tanaka did all three. His grip was firm. “Thank you, Mr. Blackman. Miss Robertson has informed me as to what will transpire. I ask that you pause every few sentences so that I might translate and make sure no one misses a word of your marvelous story.”

“Then stop me anytime if I'm going too fast.”

Mr. Tanaka turned to the bus and waved. I didn't realize it was a signal for The Charge of the Light Brigade. The Japanese riders cascaded out like a bomb on the bus was seconds away from detonation. The light of Light Brigade became an explosion of camera flashes as they encircled me. Had they meant me harm, there would have been no escape.

I removed my hat, vainly thinking the bare-headed look might not appear as stupid when my picture was posted back to Japan.

Mr. Tanaka waved his hand again and the photo frenzy instantly ceased. He raised his voice and made a short statement. I recognized two words, “Sam Blackman.” Several members of the group repeated my name in reverent whispers I fantasized might have been the awestruck tone women used when they said, “George Clooney.”

More flashes came from behind me. I turned to see Collin McPhillips, camera close to his eye, documenting this international encounter. Angela stood beside him jotting notes in a small journal.

“Sam, you can begin now,” Nakayla prompted.

What the hell. I pulled the hat down to my ears. “Follow me to the base of the bridge.”

They jumped in line like a platoon called to move out and we marched up the rise to the looming arch. As soon as I stopped, they fanned into a perfect semi-circle with Mr. Tanaka and me at the center point of its radius.

I cleared my throat and then spoke with as much solemnity as I could muster. “The bridge over us was built in 1909 as a carriage way to the mansion on top of this ridge.”

I paused and Tanaka delivered unintelligible, rapid-fire syllables while heads bobbed in unison.

When he finished, I picked up my story and we continued this verbal leapfrogging as I went through the history of the Pennsylvanian John Evans Brown making his fortune in New Zealand, returning to his native country, and settling in Asheville, where in 1889 he constructed the mansion he called Zealandia. I told of a small, nearby cottage that mountain lore claims housed a beautiful woman named Helen and her young daughter. Then, with dramatic intensity, I described the young girl trapped in the burning mansion and the mother's vain efforts to brave a barricade of flames and rescue her. I wandered off script in the enthusiasm of the moment, feeling myself swept up by the currents of my imagination.

“And in her grief and desperation, Helen dragged a rope from her cottage to this very bridge. Blinded by tears, she tied one end through a chink in the stone work and then pulled the knotted noose over her head. Calling out to the daughter whose name has been lost to time, she flung herself from the center of the bridge and hanged herself.”

Mr. Tanaka nudged me and I realized I'd gotten so carried away, I'd forgotten to wait for his translation.

Although I couldn't understand his words, I felt the emotion with which he infused the tale. His listeners' mouths opened and their eyes danced back and forth from Mr. Tanaka to the top of the bridge above us.

“Now, the ghost of that poor woman walks forever searching for her daughter. Maybe Helen will come to us tonight, asking if we have seen her child.” I turned around and stared at the bridge while Mr. Tanaka translated.

When he finished, I let the silence build for a moment, and then stretched both arms up to the sky. “Helen, come forth! Helen, come forth! Helen, come forth.”

Mr. Tanaka mimicked my gestures and started speaking.

A blur of pale fabric appeared on top of the bridge's stone wall, hung for only a second on its edge, and then tumbled down toward us. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as we all jumped clear of the falling object. But it never struck the pavement. A thick rope snapped taut, jerking the object to a halt with a distinct crack. Then, swinging in the night breeze, the blur became the recognizable shape of a woman, her neck crooked at an impossible angle, her bare feet dangling six feet above the ground.

The Japanese group broke into spontaneous applause. Camera flashes fired like strobe lights making the gowned woman seem to twitch as the wind blew stronger.

“Oh, my God!” Nakayla ran to my side and clutched my arm.

Above us hung neither an apparition nor a theatrical specter, but Molly Staton in the flesh, and very dead.

Chapter Five

“Sam Blackman, you're as contagious as a medieval peasant with the plague.” Homicide Detective Curt Newland made the accusation as he, Nakayla, and I watched the second ambulance roll down the mountain bound for Mission Hospital.

Two of the Japanese students had fainted when they realized a real body dangled from the bridge. Nakayla and Angela had tended to them while Collin and Mr. Tanaka herded the others back on the bus. I radioed Nathan Armitage to set both police and medical responders into action. Then I personally collected every camera and cell phone, insisting that they were evidence that would be returned as soon as any photographs were transferred to the police. I didn't want Molly's body posted on Twitter and Facebook. The Japanese were most cooperative and understanding.

“First, Heather Atwood and now Molly Staton.” Newland turned and looked up at the body still suspended above us. “It doesn't pay to stand too close to you.”

“I don't think I was close to her. At least not when she died.”

“You touched her?”

“Just her foot. Body temperature was much lower than if the hanging killed her.”

Newland shook his head. “Poor woman. When was the last time you saw her alive?”

“I didn't see her at all today. We were to meet up here about thirty minutes before that first bus arrived.”

Newland looked at Nakayla. “You see her?”

“No. She never came by our headquarters at Pack Square.”

“Was she expected to?”

“We all had our assignments and costumes. Most people checked in but it wasn't mandatory.”

“Uncle Newly, there's no sign of anyone.” The voice came out of the mist masking the top of the bridge.

Either Ted or Al Newland must have been manning the scene. The two uniformed Asheville policemen were the nephews of the old detective. Even if I could have seen the speaker, I wouldn't have known who he was. Ted and Al were identical twins, and they only called Newland “Uncle Newly” when they were excited. However, once they'd revealed the family nickname, Curt Newland had become “Newly” to his police colleagues as well.

“What's Efird say?” Newly asked.

Tuck Efird was Newly's partner and he'd gone to the upper level with the mobile crime lab. Newly had immediately requested the forensics team when Armitage told him the nature of the crime. Heavy fog and rain would erase too much critical evidence if Newly first waited to assess the scene.

“Efird's walking up Windswept Drive looking for any tire marks where a vehicle might have been parked on the side.”

“Good luck with that,” I told Newly. “The roads up here have no shoulders.”

“Let's see for ourselves,” Newly said. “I've got officers stopping traffic from all directions. And I want to release the scene as soon as I can so we can lower the body. I'm not waiting for the damned ME.”

“Thank you,” Nakayla whispered.

I knew from her subdued manner that Molly's grisly murder had shaken Nakayla to the core. Having to stand beneath the corpse of her friend was surely agonizing.

“We'll have her down as soon as we can,” Newly promised.

With our flashlights crisscrossing the terrain, he led us under the arch and over the brow of the hill to where on the left Windswept Drive dead ended at College. The narrow road rose steeply up the grade of the highest ridge in a series of tight switchbacks, passing by the top of the bridge and up to a mountain peak community of homes with spectacular views.

The brittle blue lights of police vehicles flashed above and below us, showing where the roadblocks quarantined the crime scene. Those cars coming over Beaucatcher Mountain would have a detour route available, but the homeowners above us would have to take Windswept in the other direction until Newly cleared all access.

A brilliant white light cut through the darkness as the crime lab techs turned on powerful halogen beams to illuminate the top of the bridge. We left the road at a severe switchback and followed a short path to where one of Newly's nephews guarded the perimeter. The backwash of the halogens lit his name badge.

“Hi, Ted,” I said in a flat, solemn voice. No one was glad to see anyone under these circumstances.

“Sam. Nakayla.” He turned to his uncle. “The techs are just getting started. I've got these for you.” He handed Newly a pair of shoe covers and latex gloves.

Newly took them, looked at me, and shook his head. He knew I was anxious to investigate. “Sorry, Sam. This is as far as I can let you go. When Tuck comes back, give him your statement. I'll not only need it for the record, but to rule you out as a suspect.”

“Me?”

“You were alone up here before the bus arrived. The fact that you were under the bridge when Molly was thrown over should eliminate you, but I have to do my due diligence. You understand.”

I did. I would have done the same thing. At this point we didn't know if the murder was committed by a single killer or a team, a team that could include me.

“Uncle Newly, Hawkins radioed that Nathan Armitage and Tom Peterson want to come up. They say they're part of the organizing group.”

“Is that right?” Newly asked me.

“Yes. But Nathan was at Pack Square and Tom Peterson was working near Grove Park Inn.”

“Peterson is that new lawyer, isn't he?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Just what Asheville needs. Another goddamned ambulance chaser.” He turned to his nephew. “Tell Hawkins to keep them at the roadblock. We'll get statements later.”

“You want a list of everyone who knew Molly would be at the bridge?” Nakayla asked.

“Most definitely.” He yelled over his shoulder. “Al, I need you here.”

Within a few seconds, Ted's doppelgänger materialized out of the mist. A light drizzle seemed to accompany him.

“What is it, Uncle Newly?”

“Take Nakayla to your patrol car and write down the list of names she gives you.”

“I was helping the techs,” he complained, clearly wanting to stay at the scene.

“I can help the techs. These names are a priority.”

“Okay.” Al Newland pulled out his flashlight and flipped it on. “I'm parked down at the lower roadblock on College.”

“Al Newland, can you come here?” The voice came from the glow of the bridge lights.

“He's doing something for me,” Newly shouted.

“Then have him check his shoe covers,” the bodiless voice demanded. “We found a ripped fragment and none of us has a tear.”

Al played his flashlight over first one foot and then the other. The booties were intact.

“I'd better get over there,” Newly said. “Take Nakayla, Al. Ted, wait with Sam till Tuck returns.”

Ten minutes later, Tuck Efird and a couple of uniforms walked from the road to the small clearing where we stood on the fringe of the woods under an oak whose few remaining leaves offered a little shelter.

“Newly wants me to give you a statement,” I said.

“Whatever gets me out of the rain.” Efird shifted his weight from side to side with nervous energy.

Wiry and twenty pounds lighter and twenty years younger than Newly Newland, Efird reminded me of a feral cat anxious to pounce on anything that came within range. And, like a cat, he apparently didn't like water.

“Let's go to your car,” he said. “It's closer.”

When we reached the underside of the bridge's arch, Efird quickened his pace and stepped away from me, hugging the edge of the road so that he could put as much distance as possible between himself and Molly's body. He got in the passenger side of my CR-V, leaned across the seat and pushed the driver's door open. As I slid in, I saw the rain on Efird's cheeks wasn't as heavy as the tears around his eyes. He pulled a note pad and pen from his jacket pocket.

Without looking at me, he said, “You know what I need to know.”

I gave him a concise summary of events from the time I checked in with Nathan Armitage, picked up my walkie-talkie, and drove to the bridge. I told him that I'd seen Hewitt Donaldson and Tom Peterson who were also getting their communications equipment. Tom was headed for the Grove Park Inn and Hewitt's area was near a haunted B & B on the Hendersonville Highway. Neither had a storytelling role like me, but were simply on standby should some problem develop along the bus routes.

“Didn't you wonder why Molly didn't show?” he asked.

“Yes. I radioed that she hadn't arrived.”

“Did you walk up the road to see if her car was parked above?”

“No. Our instructions were to meet under the bridge. There was no reason to go to the upper level. Did you find any tire tracks?”

Efird ignored my question. “So, Molly was supposed to appear under the bridge?”

“Yes. But when the first bus arrived, I went through my ‘Helen, come forth!' routine, thinking maybe she'd improvised and decided to appear at the top.”

“Was that rope part of the props?”

“No. Molly was going to walk out of the dark asking if anyone had seen her daughter. That's the way Helen's sightings have been reported.”

Efird drummed his pen on the note pad. “Well, did you see anything at all?”

“The occasional car came by while I was waiting. I saw headlights of a few going up to the houses, but if someone cut their lights, I wouldn't have known they stopped atop the bridge.”

“So, you didn't hear anything?”

“Nothing that caught my attention.”

Efird continued to stare at his note pad, yet to write a single word. For all his experience, the death had really shaken him.

“When Molly…” he paused a second and started again. “When the victim came over the bridge wall, did you see a flash of someone else? A hand? A sleeve?”

“No. I'm sorry. It happened so fast. And then camera flashes bounced off the mist like blinding lightning.”

“Newly sent the tour bus to the station,” Efird said. “Maybe we'll get lucky with the photos. That was quick thinking confiscating the phones and cameras. Thank you.”

“I didn't know Molly very well,” I said. “Do you have any idea why someone would kill her?”

Efird shook his head. “No. Probably some psycho who saw an opportunity to create a spectacle. Or some religious nut who considers the spiritualists to be devil worshipers. We've got plenty of backwoods preachers who see Satan at work behind every bush.”

A sharp rap sounded on the driver's window. I turned to face Nakayla through beads of raindrops.

“Newly's ready to lower the body,” she said. “He wants to know if Detective Efird's finished.”

Efird closed his note pad and opened his door. “You can observe.” He hurried away without waiting.

I pulled an umbrella from the backseat and shared its shelter with Nakayla.

“Learn anything?” she asked as we walked to the bridge.

“Not really. Just that Efird's upset. I've been with him at other crime scenes, but he's never been this distraught.”

“You don't know about him and Molly?”

I stopped, forcing Nakayla to halt under the umbrella beside me. “No. What?”

“They were a couple. She and Efird dated for several years.”

“Jeez, no wonder Newly sent him up the hill away from the body. Had they broken up?”

“About four months ago. Right before we started planning the ghost tour. Molly said it wasn't pleasant.”

“She broke up with him?”

“Yes. She got into this spiritualist stuff and went to some psychic who claimed she was in a doomed relationship. You know Efird's been divorced twice.”

I didn't, but I wasn't surprised. Law enforcement takes a tough toll on marriages. “What did Molly mean by wasn't pleasant?”

“I guess he took it hard. She didn't say he was violent or anything like that. Shirley or Lenore know more. They were all good friends.”

“That's going to be touchy.”

“Yes. Former boyfriends make prime suspects. Efird needs an alibi.” Nakayla grabbed my hand holding the umbrella. “Come on, let's go. They've got another ambulance in position.”

We stopped by the rear bumper and watched the EMTs wheel out a gurney. They maneuvered it directly under the dangling corpse so that the body could be lowered faceup.

“You ready?” Newly asked.

One of the techs nodded. The rope had been anchored by a grappling hook lodged in a crevice in the stone wall. Someone had chiseled it in advance so that the hook could be securely wedged.

“Okay, Al, Ted,” Newly shouted. “Extract the hook and let the rope down slowly.”

Newly and the two techs gently guided Molly onto the gurney with as much dignity as they could. Efird stood apart, almost at attention. One of the techs retrieved a folded sheet from the ambulance while his partner and Newly secured safety straps across Molly's torso.

As the tech with the sheet started toward the body, Nakayla stepped from under the umbrella.

“Wait a minute.”

I followed behind her.

“What?” Newly asked.

“Her gown. It's not the costume she was supposed to wear.”

“It looks old-fashioned to me,” Newly said.

“It is. But I borrowed one from the North Carolina Stage Company and it was a dingy white. This is ivory and in much better condition.”

“It's not Lenore's?” I asked.

“Who's Lenore?” Newly asked.

“Lenore Carpenter,” Nakayla said. “She's playing the role of the Pink Lady at Grove Park.”

“We should make sure they didn't switch and forget to tell you,” Newly said.

“That didn't happen,” Nakayla insisted. “The Grove Park Inn's ghost is dressed in pink. That's how she got her name.”

We stared at the vintage gown in silence, wondering what significance it might have.

“Cover her,” Newly said. “There's nothing more to be learned here.” He searched the perimeter for his partner. “Tuck. Contact the morgue and leave word for the ME to treat that dress as critical evidence.” He turned to the EMTs. “And leave that sheet with the body. If we find fibers, I'll want to rule it out.”