The Fitzgerald Ruse (11 page)

The blow had probably hurled her forward, which meant she’d been facing the bedroom door, possibly making an attempt to escape her attacker. I glanced at the pillow and then knelt beside Ethel’s outstretched right arm. Her little finger, slender as a child’s, angled from her hand at nearly ninety degrees.

“He used the pillow to stifle her cries as he tortured her.” I pointed to the dislocated finger. “Have the lab check the pillowcase.”

“I wonder if she gave up what he wanted?” Efird asked.

Newland took a closer look at the damaged hand. “Hard to say. The most stubborn person I knew was my grandmother. You could have set her on fire and she wouldn’t budge once her mind was made up.”

“Especially if Ethel Barkley was protecting something she valued more than her life.” I got to my feet. “Where are the flowers?”

We found them in a clear glass vase in the kitchen. Twelve cut carnations—the kind of bouquet you could buy at any large grocery store. The hand-printed message with my forged signature was clipped to a stem; the paper was an unlined three-by-five note card.

“These guys improvise fast,” Efird said.

Newland turned to me. “They murdered two women in cold blood. If they didn’t get what they want here, they’ll come back to their next best source.”

“Me,” I said.

“Or your partner, Nakayla. Anybody else you talked about before you found those bugs?”

“I know we discussed Hewitt Donaldson and that Ethel was his aunt.” A disturbing thought flashed. “And I told Nakayla Calvin Stuart had warned me.” I’d said more than that. I’d told her Calvin had scared off the man who attacked me. Now they knew Calvin was in Asheville. I’d have to get word to him as soon as possible.

“We need to learn as much about these guys as fast as we can,” Newland said. “Maybe we can set up a conference call with your friend.”

Efird shook his head. “I still think we should put some pressure on Blackwater for information. Demand anything in their personnel records that can help us. Hell, these guys might have relatives or girlfriends in this part of the state.”

“I’ll see what I can do about contacting Calvin.” I left them in the kitchen and walked over to the table where Ethel had read my palm. Except for the horror in the bedroom, nothing in the apartment looked amiss.

I dialed Nakayla’s cell as fast as I could. Her voicemail picked up. “Phone me as soon as you can. You’re in danger.” Then I tried the office, but the answering service took the call. I left a message for her to call immediately. Where was she?

I pulled
The Great Gatsby
from the bookshelf. Ethel might have had many secrets, but this was the one I knew. A folded piece of yellowed paper lay tucked near the back. The place it marked was the swastika page she’d showed me. I unfolded the sheet and saw a handwritten poem. The paper hadn’t been there yesterday. I slipped it into my coat pocket as Newland and Efird entered.

“What did you find?” Efird asked.

I held out the book. “
The Great Gatsby
. That was the password I had to give the banker for access to the safe-deposit box. And here’s the passage she marked about the swastika.” I showed them the underlined sentences and noticed the letter “T” in the first word “The” was circled.

“Ethel told me Fitzgerald gave it to her.” I turned to the title page and we all read the inscription: “To Ethel—my palmist-in-training. May your future always be bright.”

“There might be other notations,” I said. “If you want to sign it out to me, I’ll go through it.”

As I expected, Newland balked. “No. I’ll earmark it to be dusted by the lab. Given her fixation on Fitzgerald, we ought to go over all her books. But I’ll segregate this in an evidence bag and give you permission to examine it at the station.”

“Fair enough. Listen, I’m trying to alert Nakayla about what’s happened, but I can’t find her.” I started for the door. “And what about Hewitt Donaldson?”

“Let us contact him,” Newland said. “He’s probably the best source for information on Ethel Barkley’s next of kin.”

“You need to warn him. Anyone who bugged my conversation with Nakayla might decide Donaldson knows something about the lockbox.”

Efird glanced at his watch. “It’s after one. If he’s in court today, he’s probably on recess. Much as I despise the slimy bastard I guess I’d better give him a heads up.”

“I know some of the residents here,” I said. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll check with them before I leave.”

“Knock yourself out,” Newland said.

I found Captain in the lobby. He broke away from his friends and we sat beside the dormant fireplace near the dining hall.

“Sam. I’m so sorry.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Captain. The guy got past the front desk.”

“And we were the last line of defense. In the army, that meant failure wasn’t an option.”

I smiled at him. “In the army, Dorothy Jefferson wouldn’t have been your sentry. And I hope she’s not taking this as hard as you are.”

He rubbed his hands together in nervous agitation. “She’s pretty broke up. But I told her she did what she was supposed to. She came and got me and I had maintenance let us in.” He sighed. “But we were too late.”

“These men are smart and ruthless. Golden Oaks isn’t equipped to go against that kind of enemy.”

“There you’re wrong. We notice things here. Hell, not much else to do but observe life.”

“Okay. I understand. Maybe Dorothy shouldn’t have waited fifteen minutes before becoming alarmed.”

Captain fidgeted in his seat and then slapped his hand against the walker beside him. “Not Dorothy. Me. I saw the guy come to the front desk. I heard him ask for Ethel and say he was delivering flowers from you. I thought what a thoughtful person you were to treat her so nicely. I also thought it was odd he wore gloves.”

“Gloves? Well, he was carrying plants.”

“Not work gloves. These looked like kid leather. Driving gloves or maybe shooting gloves. Not the kind you’d expect to see on a flower deliveryman.”

“Umm,” was all I could say.

“Yeah. I knew as I pushed this walker as fast as I could to Ethel’s room what those gloves meant. The guy didn’t want to leave fingerprints. And I was just too stupid to put it together when it counted.”

I stood and stepped beside him, laying a hand on his bony shoulder. “And I should have been more careful what I said, because whoever killed Amanda Whitfield also bugged our office. I did know whom we were up against, Captain, and my carelessness cost Ethel her life. But they’ll pay. You have my word.”

He reached up and patted my arm. “I wish I could watch your back.”

“Between you and me, I’ve got somebody from my unit doing just that. We’ve both got a score to settle.”

I left Captain and returned to my car. I tried Nakayla’s cell again. Still no answer. She might have been at lunch and not heard her phone. I left another urgent message for her to get in touch. Then I pulled the paper from my pocket and read what I’d found in Ethel’s book.

“THE COMMANDER COMES RIDING IN WITH THE DAWN.

AND BEHIND HIM HIS LEGIONS RESPLENDENT IN SILVER!

YES, The Silver Shirts are marching!

Christ Men! Grim men! Men of stamina, men of mettle, old men, young men, Lords of High Courage, Chamberlains of Valor

THE SILVER SHIRTS ARE MARCHING!”

What the hell was this? Some poem of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s? It certainly didn’t sound like anything the celebrated author of the Jazz Age would write.

A shadow passed over the paper, and I set it on the passenger seat as if it were no more important than a laundry list. Efird knocked on my window.

“Nathan Armitage is at headquarters. He spotted someone tailing your partner.”

“Is Nakayla all right?”

“As far as I know. The guy gave him the slip at a restaurant, but not before Armitage managed to retrieve the glass the man had been drinking from.” Efird smiled. “He wasn’t wearing gloves.”

“Are you going there now?”

“Yes. Newland will stay here and coordinate the scene with the Sheriff’s Department and the lab. I thought you might want to talk to Armitage. Hear if his description sounds like one of your Ali Baba thieves.”

I was tempted, and I appreciated being included, but the poem I’d read was unsettling. So was the fact that someone was following Nakayla and I didn’t know where she was. I wanted to get to her as soon as I could. And I had to reach Calvin Stuart. He didn’t know our enemies were aware he’d come to Asheville.

“Thanks,” I said, “but I’ve got an appointment with my partner. I’ll check back later this afternoon.”

“Okay. By the way, we got word that your telephone installer, Vince Freese, has been with the company for over twenty years. He’s their employee of the month. We can’t see him as the guy.”

“He was a long shot.”

“Yeah. Well, stay safe.” Efird headed for his car.

Stay safe. Right. Two murdered women. A killer stalking Nakayla. And now an army of religious zealots called The Silver Shirts. Were they real or poetic imagery? And if they were real, where were they marching? More important, was I in their path?

Chapter Twelve

Instead of taking I-26 back to Asheville, I used Highway 25, which ran through Biltmore Village and passed near my apartment. I kept phoning Nakayla but stopped leaving messages. I didn’t know where to look for her so I decided to set the signal in my window in hopes of reaching Calvin and bringing him up to speed on the day’s developments.

After placing the bedroom blinds midway down, I checked my answering machine and heard one voicemail: “Sam. Hewitt Donaldson. I just got the word about my aunt. Any chance we can meet for that beer this evening? My cell’s 555-0871. I’m heading back to court but leave me a message as to if, when, and where.”

The time identification on the machine said the call came at 1:29. Less than fifteen minutes earlier. If Detective Efird had contacted him after I left Golden Oaks, then Donaldson must have immediately telephoned. I wondered whether Efird had mentioned Ethel Barkley’s missing lockbox.

I sat on the bed and changed out the sleeve for my prosthesis. Although the calendar read September 12th, the thermometer had risen to August levels. I’d perspired to the extent that the damp sleeve against my stump had become an irritation. A dry fit meant I’d be more comfortable as the afternoon progressed and there was no telling when this day would end.

The V.A. doctor had provided me with two artificial limbs: one designed for daily routines such as normal walking and office work, and a second for more strenuous activities like hiking or even running. I thought of it as having two cars: a cushy-riding sedan for interstate travel and a four-wheel-drive with a tighter suspension for off-road adventures. I opted to continue with the Cadillac/Lexus mode of transportation.

My cell rang as I started to lock the apartment. When I saw Nakayla’s ID flash on the screen, I stepped back inside and closed the door. “Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.”

“Outside Pack Library. I just picked up your message.”

“Have you seen Nathan?”

“No. Did he find more bugs?”

I was irked that Nathan hadn’t warned her.

“He left me a voicemail,” she added, “but when I saw how many times you’d called I skipped over him.”

“Someone’s been following you. Nathan spotted him at a restaurant but then lost him. I guess Nathan lost you too.”

“Must have been the Early Girl Eatery. I grabbed a quick lunch and brought a book to read. I’d turned my phone off in the library and forgot to turn it back on. I should have been paying more attention to what was going on around me.”

“We all should have. Someone murdered Ethel Barkley.”

Nakayla gave a sharp gasp. “In her apartment?”

“Yes. Stay in the library. I’ll meet you there.” I flipped my phone shut and clipped it on my belt. Then I popped off the Kimber’s restraining strap and snatched the forty-five from the holster. Nathan had been right. The horizontal ride cut the draw time in half. But a fast draw would be useless without the explosive impact of a bullet. I pulled back the slide action and loaded a cartridge into the chamber.

On a Wednesday afternoon, the library was sparsely populated. A few students came straight from school and huddled in whispering groups, but the majority of the patrons browsed the popular fiction shelves or used the computers.

Nakayla sat engrossed in a book in the reference section. Several other volumes lay stacked on the table near her elbow. She jotted notes on a legal pad, and the number of flipped pages showed she’d accumulated a significant amount of information.

I sat across from her and checked that no one else was within earshot. “Have you given up on the Internet?”

“No. The Internet led me to some very interesting resources.” She tilted the book in front of her so I could read the title:
BLACKWATER—The Rise of the World’s Most Powerful Mercenary Army,
by Jeremy Scahill. “Kind of scary. Erik Prince, who heads it, is either an extremely clever businessman or a right-wing Christian crusader.”

“Maybe both. But I think in Iraq his people are trying to stay alive like everybody else. They just take more liberties in their methods, and that’s like leaving a smoldering ember in a storehouse of gas cans.”

“Their headquarters are in Moyock, North Carolina. Ever been there?”

“No. I’d never heard of the place till I talked to some Blackwater operatives in Baghdad. I think it’s down east.”

“The Great Dismal Swamp on the Virginia line. The name Blackwater comes from the dark brackish bog water.”

“Sounds charming,” I said. “Also fitting. With black water you can’t see what’s beneath the surface.” I tapped the book. “When did this come out?”

“A few months ago.” Nakayla tore a narrow strip of paper from the bottom of her pad and marked her place. She slid the book aside and picked up another. “Here’s more corroboration for Ethel Barkley’s story. The author had a bookstore in Asheville in 1935 and Fitzgerald befriended him.”

The book was entitled
The Lost Summer: A Personal Memoir of F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I’d never heard of the author, Tony Buttitta.

“Does he mention Ethel?”

“I’ve only read the first few chapters.” Nakayla turned to the top page of her legal pad. “He writes that Laura Guthrie Hearne was the dollar woman, and she read palms at the Grove Park Inn. She was Fitzgerald’s part-time secretary that summer. Fitzgerald was having an affair at the inn with a married woman he called Rosemary. Buttitta says that wasn’t her real name. Laura Hearne wrote an article in
Esquire
in 1964 excerpting the diary she kept the summer of 1935. She also refers to the affair. Rosemary was evidently quite wealthy and blindly in love with Fitzgerald.”

“Must be the woman who gave him the gift Ethel kept.”

“And there was a third woman, a prostitute, whom Fitzgerald confided in.”

I studied the black and white photograph of Fitzgerald on the cover. “Sounds like he was living in one of his own books.”

“He was close to a meltdown. Zelda was institutionalized in Baltimore, and his writing career was on the skids. But he could still charm.” Nakayla shook her head. “Like he did poor Ethel. Do the police know anything?”

“Not really. The killer posed as a flower deliveryman. We have a vague description of a white cargo van with a Hispanic driver. Captain’s upset because he saw the guy wearing an expensive pair of gloves and feels that should have tipped him off. We know the police won’t find any fingerprints.”

“The gloves must have unnerved Ethel.”

“Why?”

“She couldn’t see his palms.”

I hadn’t thought about that irony. “I still feel an obligation to her, even though her case has taken a bizarre twist.” I pulled the folded poem from my pocket. “Look at this.”

Nakayla’s forehead creased as she read through the verses. “Where’d you find it?”

“In Ethel’s copy of
The Great Gatsby.
She stuck it where the swastika was mentioned. Maybe she pulled it out before she showed me the quote.”

“The Silver Shirts. Any idea what that means?”

I took back the poem, scanning the lines again. “Hitler had his brown shirts. Maybe he had another level.”

“A premium grade of thug?” Nakayla stood. “Let’s do a quick Internet search.”

We left the books and Nakayla signed in to use a computer. “Silver Shirts” netted 22,500,000 sources.

“Add Nazi to the query,” I suggested.

“But look at this top recommendation—The Silver Legion of America.” Nakayla clicked on it and a page from Wikipedia instantly appeared.

The summary sentence read, “an American fascist organization founded by William Dudley Pelley on January 30, 1933.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” I slid my chair closer to the monitor. “Try the link to Pelley.”

The screen refreshed with a lengthy biography that began with Pelley’s birth in 1890 in Lynn, Massachusetts. A graphic to the side reproduced a WANTED poster with the black and white photograph of a distinguished looking man with a gray mustache and Vandyke.

“Looks like Pelley ran afoul of the law.” Nakayla double-clicked on the poster and enlarged it.

The text beneath the photo was in fine print, but the capital letters “
UN-AMERICAN
” written before the word “activities” caught my eye.

“Oh, my God.” Nakayla moved the mouse’s cursor to the bottom of the poster and stopped it under the issuing official’s name: Laurence E. Brown, Sheriff—Asheville, N.C. “Pelley was here.”

We spent the next ten minutes speed-reading through an article that painted a fascinating portrait of Pelley. He’d grown up in New England, migrated to Hollywood, and become a scriptwriter. In 1928, Pelley had an out-of-body experience and claimed to have spent seven minutes in eternity speaking with the dead. He moved to Asheville, where he founded Galahad Press, Galahad College, and the League for Liberation. His teaching and writing were described as a bizarre mix of mysticism, Christianity, and politics, a dangerous and combustible concoction. When Hitler rose to power, Pelley saw that as a divine omen and founded the Silver League of America, commonly called The Silver Shirts. One year later, the League claimed 15,000 members in twenty-two states.

When Nakayla had scrolled to the bottom of the last webpage, she turned to me. “His life intersects some key points.”

“The poem about a fascist cult certainly suggests a connection to the swastika-sealed lockbox.”

“More than that.” Nakayla wrote the number one on her legal pad followed by the word mysticism. “Pelley had some kind of paranormal vision and then came to Asheville. Mysticism is woven throughout this town’s history.”

“You think some crystal freaks are behind this?” I found the NewAgers’ claims that the mountains around Asheville contained portals to other dimensions to be ludicrous.

Nakayla smiled. “I’m not drawing any conclusions. You told me Ethel Barkley learned to read palms from Laura Guthrie Hearne, who was Fitzgerald’s secretary. The occult is playing a role we can’t ignore.”

“Okay. I’ll concede there could be a link.”

She patted the back of my hand. “That’s what I like about you. You’re so magnanimous.”

“What else?”

She jotted down the number two and added writer. “Pelley wrote Hollywood scripts. Today having an extra-dimensional experience in L.A. might be as common as sneezing, but back then people would have looked at him as a nut. Maybe that’s why he came to the mountains. But I doubt he considered himself any less of an artist. Living in Asheville with F. Scott Fitzgerald must have kindled a curiosity. I wonder if they met?”

Nakayla raised an interesting possibility. Part of my conversation with Ethel Barkley took on new meaning. “Ethel told me her brother wanted to know what Fitzgerald was writing. He said Fitzgerald had defined the Jazz Age and might be persuaded to do the same for a new age. What if it was Pelley’s fascist age?”

“Fitzgerald would have been a voice that attracted attention.” Nakayla wrote a third word on her list. Blackmail. “They might have approached Fitzgerald openly and when that didn’t work, looked for a more underhanded way to get his cooperation.”

“Has Pelley’s name shown up in that guy’s memoir?”

“No. But I’ve just started the Buttitta book. We can ask at the inn.”

“The inn?” Nakayla had lost me.

She rapped her knuckles against her head. “Sorry. When you told me Ethel’d been murdered, I forgot to tell you. I’ve made an appointment to speak with a historian at the Grove Park Inn. I stepped outside to make the call and realized my phone was off. That’s when I realized you’d been trying to reach me.”

“Who is the historian?”

“Derrick Swing. He works with staff training and teaches a class on the inn’s history.”

“What time’s the appointment?”

“Four.”

I glanced at my watch. “It’s three now. I think we should go there together.”

Nakayla logged off the computer. “Nathan’s voicemail warned me I was being followed. He said the man had straight blond hair. Average height and mid-thirties.”

“Well, that’s someone other than the Hispanic flower man. The police are running your stalker’s prints. Maybe you should stay with me until we figure out what’s going on.”

I expected a smart reply, but Nakayla simply nodded. She was worried.

“We’ve got about forty minutes,” she said. “What do you want to do?”

“See if you can find a connection between Pelley and Fitzgerald”

“What about between Pelley and Ethel’s husband or brother?”

“Damn.” I said the word louder than I should and saw the librarian at the research desk raise an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong?” Nakayla asked.

“Hewitt Donaldson left me a message. I forgot to call him.”

Nakayla rolled her chair back and stood. “You’d better see what he wants.”

“He wants a beer. I could use one too. The Sunset Terrace at the Grove Park should meet with his approval.”

“Then tell him five-thirty. We don’t want to rush our conversation with Derrick Swing.”

I left Nakayla at the reading table and headed outside to call Donaldson.

“Sam.” Nakayla’s urgent whisper stopped me. “Look at this.”

I returned to the table and peered over her shoulder. Scrawled on small sheet of white paper were the words, “Chief—Look a head—now!”