Blackman's Coffin (15 page)

“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 Nakayla, 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 2
^nd
?”

“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 we 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.”

We turned onto a narrower road and left the commercial sprawl behind. The forest closed around us and we drove a couple miles until we saw signs for the Rangers Welcome Center. We found a space at the end of the parking lot and walked past minivans and SUVs loaded with mountain bikes, kayaks, and camping gear.

The building looked well maintained and the grounds were landscaped with flowers and shrubs. Stone and wood construction created a rustic atmosphere. Inside, displays and interactive maps provided orientation to the trails, streams, and recreational activities the park offered.

Visitors of all ages wandered through the large space, collecting brochures and plotting their adventures. Surprisingly, the ranger at the information desk was free.

“May I help you?” The woman smiled at us. Her brown hair was braided in a long pigtail that drooped over her shoulder and touched the edge of her nameplate. Rita Carson.

“We were hoping to speak with Ranger Taylor,” I said. “Is he here?”

“Not unless a fight broke out in the parking lot.” Her eyes twinkled. “Just kidding.” She pointed to the ranger insignia on her sleeve. “James has Enforcement written on his. He gets to carry a gun.”

“So he doesn’t have a particular station?” I asked.

“No, he has an office in administration. James is head of enforcement for this section of the park. Any crimes committed here come under his jurisdiction. But right now he’s up at the Cradle of Forestry. They’re having a chainsaw sculpture demonstration, part of the Lumberjack Festival this weekend.”

“Can we talk to him?”

“That depends upon how loud the chainsaws are. And whether you want to pay the admission charge this late in the day.”

Nakayla reached in her purse. “Admission’s no problem.”

“Good. But you pay up there.” Ranger Rita took a notepad from the desk. “Give me your names and I’ll have the base dispatcher radio that you’re coming.”

The Cradle of Forestry was almost ten miles farther into the park. Although we averaged only forty miles an hour, the time passed swiftly. For most of the journey, we traveled beside a cascading stream, often broken by waterfalls. At one point, we passed a line of cars parked along the road’s shoulder.

“That’s Looking Glass Falls,” Nakayla said. “One of the most photographed sites in the mountains.”

I caught a glimpse of mist boiling up from unseen turbulence and then a quick flash of whitewater tumbling over a slick rock face. “I’ll have to come back sometime and explore. Good place to test my sports leg.”

“You’d better do your testing away from this stream. If you fall in, it won’t matter which leg you’re wearing.”

“I’ll ask Hinnant if they make one that converts into a raft. Maybe collect a bunch of specialty legs—like golf clubs.”

Nakayla didn’t laugh and I decided to keep my morbid sense of humor to myself.

We paid six dollars each at the Cradle of Forestry entrance and obeyed multiple attendants as they waved us to a parking space.

“Vanderbilt established the Biltmore School of Forestry in the 1890s.” Nakayla locked the car and we started walking. “He had brought in a guy named Pinchot to manage his forest.”

“How do you manage a forest?”

“Avoid clear cutting, re-plant seedlings, and remove trees that hinder the growth of stronger ones. Remember Henderson Youngblood mentioned Vanderbilt’s forestry in the journal.”

One of the other things in addition to Elijah’s murder we knew to be true, I thought.

“The Cradle of Forestry has reconstructed some of the original buildings,” Nakayla said. “A German, Carl Schenck, followed Pinchot and developed the school to its full potential.”

“Why’d it close?”

“I think Schenck went back to Germany just before the outbreak of World War One. Either he didn’t want to return to America or he couldn’t. And then Vanderbilt died in 1914.” Nakayla nodded to the large building now visible at the end of the parking lot. “You can find everything you want to know in there.”

Off to our left, a chainsaw roared to life.

“Right now everything I want to know is down there.” I pointed to a trail that branched off toward the whine of the saw’s engine. “Let’s see if Ranger James Taylor has more than Carolina on his mind.”

The even surface of the trail made walking easy for me. A late afternoon breeze cooled the air and for a second I thought snowflakes swirled around me. Several stuck to my lips. Sawdust.

We emerged in a small clearing where a blizzard raged. An enthusiastic crowd stood upwind of a chainsaw-wielding man who attacked an upright section of a tree trunk at least three feet in diameter. A cluster of Brownie scouts held their hands over their ears and watched in amazement as chips and dust spewed like the eruption of a geyser. Scattered on the sawdust-covered ground were a menagerie of freshly carved wildlife: a bear cub, squirrel, coiled rattlesnake, and doe with a fawn. Each sculpture stood at least a yard high and the detail exacted by the lethal blade created uncanny likenesses.

We started to circle around the clearing when I saw a hand wave behind the Brownie troop. Partially hidden by the spray of sawdust, the figure moved away from the crowd till I recognized a uniformed ranger. Shouting a greeting was useless so we waited for him to get closer. He had the energetic strut of a bantam rooster and the build of a pipe cleaner man, the figure Stanley and I made as kids out of the fuzzy wires our father kept with his tobacco humidor.

“James Taylor,” he shouted above the noise. He took Nakayla’s hand first and then shook mine.

A gust of wind suddenly whipped across the clearing engulfing us in a shower of sawdust. We jumped like we’d been drenched with a tsunami of cold water.

“Let’s get closer to the exhibit hall,” Taylor said, “where we can hear ourselves talk.” He set off at a quick pace while Nakayla lingered with me.

I moved as fast as I could, but in addition to the artificial leg, I was plagued with woodchips sliding under my shirt and rubbing against my back. I looked at Nakayla. Her face was coated in dust. I must have appeared the same because she started laughing, laughing so hard she had to stop and catch her breath. For the first time, I noticed the dimples deep in her cheeks. Maybe the sawdust exaggerated them or maybe the sawdust for a brief moment covered the layer of sadness Tikima’s murder had cast over her.

Ranger Taylor waited by a bench outside the exhibit center. He hadn’t fared much better. Underneath his wood particle veneer, he looked to be in his mid-fifties, thin faced with crooked yellow teeth. These showed in a broad grin as he watched us approach.

“Well, you can imagine what kind of day I’ve had. Chainsaw sculpture is good for the tourists but I’ll be digging woodchips out of my ears for a week.” He pointed to the bench. “Take a load off. I’m used to standing.”

I didn’t know if he was being chivalrous to Nakayla or considerate of my obvious physical challenge, but I didn’t argue. Nakayla sat beside me and Taylor stepped back a pace so that he didn’t tower over us.

“Sam Blackman and Nakayla Robertson,” he said. His expression turned serious. “You related to Tikima?”

“She was my sister.”

“I was so sorry to hear what happened. Tikima had helped us with the security system here. I’d hoped to get her as a ranger someday.”

“I think she’d have liked that,” Nakayla said.

Taylor wiped sawdust away from his eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Nakayla put her hand on my knee. “Sam’s a veteran. A friend of Tikima’s. He worked in criminal investigations for the military. We’re unofficially checking with some of Tikima’s favorite clients.”

Taylor studied me. “About what?”

“About anything that might give the police a lead,” I said. “You know how it is. When somebody close to you dies, you want to do something.”

He nodded. “Sure. And I’ll help any way I can.”

“When did you see Tikima last?” I asked.

He thought for a second. “Must have been the end of May. Before Memorial Day Weekend because that kicks off our heavy tourist season. I try to get administrative things out of the way before then.”

“You contacted Tikima?”

“No. She called me. Tikima knew our schedule and wanted to meet before the summer crunch. We lease equipment from Armitage and she pitched some upgrades.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No. I prodded her about becoming a ranger and she just laughed and said she was done with uniforms.”

I decided to pursue another angle. “Does the national park stretch to the French Broad?”

“Close. Especially at the North Carolina Arboretum.”

That was the second time today the arboretum had been mentioned. Jake Matthews had linked it to the Bent Creek section of the river.

“At Bent Creek?” I asked.

“Yes.” Taylor’s eyes widened. “You think Tikima was killed at Bent Creek? I thought her body was found farther downstream.”

“You tell me if that’s possible. I saw the high water marks the river left from recent flooding and wondered if the police estimate took the current surge into account. Luther Rawlings says Tikima wouldn’t have been on the Biltmore Estate property.”

Taylor spit to his side. “Rawlings. Pardon my French, but he wouldn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.” He took a step forward. “Did Rawlings say Tikima was killed on park land?”

“No. I’m just looking at all upstream possibilities. If it was park land, then it’s your case.”

Taylor mulled that over for a moment. “Was Tikima in her car?”

“At first the police thought no, but new evidence suggests otherwise.”

“What new evidence?”

“Soil samples on the tires and a man’s footprint on the driver’s carpet.”

“Who’s working the case from Asheville?”

“Peters.”

Taylor nodded. “He’s competent.”

“But Sam’s the one who found the clues in Tikima’s car,” Nakayla said.

“That so?” He examined me closely like I might be withholding other information.

I shrugged. “Sometimes you get lucky.”

“Give me a description of the car. I know it was some kind of Japanese make. They all look the same to me.” He pulled a notepad and pen from his chest pocket and blew sawdust off both of them. “I’ll cross-reference it with any vehicular reports my staff made around the time she disappeared.”

Nakayla gave him the information including the Avalon’s plate number.

Taylor flipped the pad closed and stuffed it and the pen back in his pocket. “If I turn up anything, I’ll send it straight to Peters rather than have you take it to him.”

“I understand. Nakayla and I are strictly low profile. Might be easier if you didn’t mention we contacted you.”

Taylor grinned. “Gotcha. Everybody’s got their turf to protect.”

I stood. “But I’d appreciate your telling us whatever you learn after you talk to Peters.”

Nakayla handed him her card. “Here’s how you can reach me.”

Taylor read it. “Investigative Alliance for Underwriters. You two are quite the detective team. Tell me, did Luther Rawlings ask for a description of Tikima’s car?”

“No,” I said.

“There you go.” He spit again and our interview was over.

***

Instead of turning back the way we came, Nakayla drove us farther into Pisgah Forest.

“I want to take the Blue Ridge Parkway back to Asheville,” she said.

“Won’t that be longer?”

“Not from where we are. The view is spectacular at sunset, and we’ll exit at Bent Creek.”

“Then you’ve got my vote.”

The ridges blocked the late afternoon sun and plunged the winding road into deep shadow. We climbed steadily until I saw a sign for the Parkway. Nakayla took the ramp and we came to the top of the mountain. Suddenly light streamed through the windows and off to the left the enlarged golden sun hung poised above the distant peaks. As we drove along the spine of the Appalachians, the mountain ranges looked like waves on the ocean. Gold-tipped and frozen, they rolled away from us on either side.

The Parkway made a slow descent with the panoramic vistas changing from right to left as we crossed from one side of the ridge summit to the other. Several times the road went through unlit tunnels where sudden crests were easier to bore through than build the road over.

Dusk had darkened the sky by the time Nakayla left the Parkway at the exit for Highway 191. As we traveled down the curving ramp, I saw a sign for the North Carolina Arboretum.