Blackman's Coffin (20 page)

Nakayla laughed. I found the story amusing, but not nearly as funny as she did.

Harry winked at Nakayla. “He doesn’t get it.”

“Get what?” I asked.

“Fred wasn’t singing about New York,” Nakayla said. “Broadway is a major street in Asheville and ends at Pack Square where Wolfe’s Monuments used to be.”

“That was the last time I saw Fred,” Harry said. “Singing in his cigarette-burned pajamas on his front lawn. What a family.”

I decided to pry some more memories out of Harry. “Do you know if Elijah made jewelry?”

“Jewelry?”

“Yes. Or worked with gold?”

“No. But Elijah was a jack-of-all-trades. I suspect he knew his way around the smithy at the estate. Why?”

“Tikima was asking questions about gold and gems the week before she died. Nakayla says there’s a family bracelet Elijah is supposed to have made.”

Harry scratched the thin hair behind his ear. “Tikima asked me what I thought Elijah was doing at the creek. That’s where he brought me right after the bear attack.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“That I’d never thought about it. But since then I’ve tried to recreate the scene in my mind. Junebug was there. Elijah had to take a shovel and pick-ax off her before I could ride. There may have been some pans—not cooking pans—the round flat ones. He could have been prospecting that stream.”

“And then Junebug’s pack disappeared,” I said.

Nakayla leaned forward on the sofa. “With gold in it?”

“Maybe traces. Enough to spark someone’s interest.”

Harry whistled softly. “For all these years, I never made that connection.”

“No reason you should have,” I said. “You didn’t know about the handmade jewelry. But Tikima did.”

“So Elijah was murdered for gold?” Harry asked.

“As long as people have been mining for gold, they’ve been killing for gold. Maybe Mr. Galloway took the pack. Y’all were gone all that Saturday.”

“But why take it?” Nakayla asked. “It would have warned Elijah.”

“Maybe someone else then,” I said. “Someone who wouldn’t have been able to return it if Mr. Galloway was there.”

“And maybe that’s why Tikima wanted old employee records from the estate,” Nakayla said. “She was looking for a connection to Elijah and Galloway.”

Harry took a longer sip of water and cleared his throat. “And she found one. Only she didn’t know it until too late.”

“We need to research genealogy,” I said. “Nakayla, what kind of resources do you have at work?”

“We subscribe to a lot of services. Sometimes insurance fraud involves relatives so we access databases that hold birth and death records.”

“Tomorrow you need to work it from both ends—Galloway and anyone Harry can think of from the past, and then the people we know Tikima talked with. We’re looking for an intersection.”

I felt energized by having something to do. Even Harry seemed eager. He gave us names of people he remembered as friends of Mr. Galloway and then people he worked with at Biltmore whose descendants were still employed at the estate. Both Luther Rawlings and Jake Matthews fit that category. I knew we needed someone whose family had a positive change of fortune, unless Elijah died without revealing the location of his strike. But if that was true, what was somebody desperately trying to cover up? The case continued to defy a clear course of investigation, but at least we had a starting point—and we had Harrison Young, perhaps the world’s oldest witness.

We left him with a promise to stay in touch. Nakayla started the car.

“Wait,” I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Whoever killed Peters has his files and his notes. I’m worried about Harry.”

“His name’s not in the file.”

“But we managed to find him.”

“Do we ask for police protection?”

“What do you think?”

Nakayla turned off the engine. “I don’t feel too good about giving the police Harry’s name.”

“Me either.” I opened the door. “Come on.”

Without explanation, I led Nakayla back to the lobby. As I’d hoped, Captain was still watching TV with his bevy of beauties. I motioned him over and he used his walker to join us in a corner out of earshot.

“Did you talk to the mayor?” he asked.

“Yes. He was very helpful. Listen, Captain, you know we’re trying to find out who killed Tikima.”

“And we’re praying for your success.” He cocked his head toward the women by the TV.

“We might have put Harry in danger by coming here tonight. We haven’t told anyone about him, but someone could come by asking questions.”

“And they might want to hurt Harry?”

“They could try to force him to tell things he doesn’t want them to know.”

“What about the police?”

I shook my head. “Someone on the force might be involved.”

Captain balled his right hand into a fist and waved it in the air. “Then we won’t let that happen. No one will mention Tikima knew Harry and no one will say you were here.”

“The lady at the front desk?”

Captain smiled. “She’s one of us. I’ll set her straight. And then I’ll draw up a list of patrols. Old folks are always walking the halls. Teams of two should do it.”

The fire in his eyes gave me a glimpse of what Captain must have been like in World War Two. I saluted him and he beamed as he returned the honor.

***

Nakayla dropped me at the Kenilworth and planned to call me the next day as soon as she had something to report.

I went to the Bible on the nightstand and found the stiff old envelope taped inside the back cover. A string on the flap wound around a tab to keep it closed.

The bracelet was about an inch wide and hinged in three places. Tikima kept it unclasped and flat in the envelope, but when I fastened the clasp, the gold circle had four distinct sections separated by the hinges and clasp. Each had a green stone, polished smooth like Herman Duringer had described. On either side of the stones, ridges in the gold formed a design in relief. None of the patterns were alike, but they were similar in style in that they consisted of straight lines, curved lines, x’s and o’s.

The weight of the gold alone had to make the bracelet valuable. If Elijah had created it at the Biltmore smithy, he must have done so during hours when he was alone. I wondered if the Bible had been Elijah’s and passed down from generation to generation with the bracelet.

I flipped to the front where the pages provided space for genealogical information: births, marriages, and deaths. The first name under deaths was Malachi, Elijah’s grandfather and the first Robertson in the Georgia cemetery. The last was Harrison Robertson in 1983. Elijah’s name had been entered for July 1919—not a specific day. Above his was Hannable Robertson, the uncle Elijah had gone to such trouble to bury. I looked at the name a second time and a tingle ran down my spine. The date of death was July 2, 1917. The words East St. Louis were written beside it.

Hannable Robertson had died in one of this country’s most horrible race riots.

Two years later, his coffin arrived in Biltmore Village.

Now I knew one thing for sure. The body of Hannable Robertson didn’t lie in a grave in Georgia.

I marveled at the ingenuity of Elijah’s scheme.

Chapter Eighteen

“We’ve got to dig up Hannable Robertson’s grave.”

“What?” Nakayla sounded bewildered.

I’d called her on her cell phone and caught her as she entered her house. I realized how preposterous the idea must seem.

“The records in the family Bible state he died in 1917 in East St. Louis. I think Elijah used Harrison Young’s father for the safe transportation of his gold.”

“Slow down, Sam. I’m not following you.”

“Then let me back up. Elijah had discovered gold and managed to either mine it or pan it from one of the streams on the estate. The Jim Crow laws were becoming intolerable and he planned to move to the home place in Georgia. For all we know, he might have been working his gold source for twenty or twenty-five years. Back to when he and Olmsted were first diverting streams and creating the landscape for the estate.”

“But what about Bessie and Uncle Hannable?”

“Don’t you see? Elijah gave Bessie enough gold to take her family north. The dinner in the cabin, the peach wagon blocking the view of the hearse—everything was set up for Bessie to get a share. As for Uncle Hannable, who would interfere with a black man’s coffin, especially when they didn’t know that it wasn’t a white person being transported by a white funeral home?”

“What do you hope to prove?” Nakayla asked.

“The motive. If we find an empty coffin, or better yet, gold or traces of gold, then we’ll know our theory is correct.”

“And if we find a body?”

Her question stopped me. I was so sure of my deductions that the possibility of the coffin housing an occupant hadn’t entered my mind. “Then I hope to God it’s Uncle Hannable. Otherwise, we’ve really opened a can of worms.” I regretted the worm analogy as I said it.

“So, we’ll have to file a request for an exhumation with the state of Georgia?”

I’d had my fill of bureaucracies—from the V.A. to the U.S. Congress. “No. That would be a nightmare of red tape.”

“You’re saying we’ll do it ourselves?”

“With Harry’s help. He can guide us to the location.”

“What about the research on the genealogy?”

“That can wait. I want to call Harry now. Can you miss work tomorrow?”

“Yes. I guess so. But digging up a grave…” She let the thought hang on the phone line.

“I know. But everything now points to that 1919 trip to Georgia. I think Tikima knew she’d have to go to extraordinary lengths to solve Elijah’s murder. That might be why she came to me.”

“Okay, Sam. Call me back.”

“I will.” I thought of something else. “Do you have any tools to dig with?” But Nakayla had already hung up.

I let Harry’s phone ring, hoping he was in the apartment but needing time to reach the receiver.

“Hello.” His craggy voice told me he’d been sleeping.

“Harry. It’s Sam. You’re not going to believe this.” I gave him a summary of what I’d found in the Bible and my theory of the trip to Georgia. “So we need to open that coffin, Harry. That way we’ll know for sure.”

“Can’t be done.”

“One night’s all we need. We don’t even have to lift it out of the ground.”

Harry sighed. “I took Harrison there back in 1960 to show him where his grandfather was buried. Amos had lost the land to back taxes, but I thought maybe we could find the spot. People are hesitant to move graves. I’m afraid Elijah and his kin are at the bottom of Lake Lanier.”

“Lake Lanier?”

“Yep. The government built a dam in the Fifties and flooded thousands of acres of farmland. Every road I remembered ended at the water.”

Now I was the one who sighed.

“But I think you’re on to something,” Harry said. “Explains a lot of what happened on that journey. Elijah was a clever enough fellow to have pulled it off.”

“Yeah,” I said half-heartedly. “I guess we’ll have to prove how clever some other way.”

I hung up, deflated by Harry’s news, and then called Nakayla to tell her the grave angle was a dead end.

As I took off my leg, I realized how foolish I’d been. What was I going to do? Hop up and down on a shovel? How would I and a hundred-year-old man with two good legs between us dig up a coffin in the middle of the night? Just as well that the family cemetery lay underwater. My gold fever had crowded out my common sense. Nakayla would have to find the genealogical connection and then we’d plan our attack.

***

I slept till nearly ten—an indication of how much the events of the past few days had exhausted me. After a quick shower to clear my head, I hobbled around the apartment on my crutches, microwaving a bowl of oatmeal and browsing through Tikima’s collection of books.
Exploring the Geology of the Carolinas
caught my eye. One of the authors was a professor of geology at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Tikima had earmarked a section on the western part of the state and I read in greater detail the story of ancient continents crashing into one another. Diagrams depicted the Brevard Fault that at one time made the action of the San Andreas in California look like the gentle rocking of a yard swing.

I was immersed in a section on gold deposits when the phone rang.

“Phil Ledbetter.” Nakayla’s voice crackled with excitement. “I was able to trace him back and guess who I hit?”

No Ledbetters made Harry’s list of Biltmore employees so I was clueless as to the connection. “I have no idea.”

“Galloway. Phil Ledbetter is the grandson of Jamie Galloway, the man who supposedly died in World War One. Ledbetter’s mother was Galloway’s daughter.”

“But that property is the opposite direction from where Elijah prospected.”

“How do we know that? Elijah and Junebug were all over these hills.”

“But his body was found in the French Broad, Junebug was on Biltmore property—and Tikima might have been killed on the estate. The evidence doesn’t support Elijah’s involvement with the Ledbetters’ gem mine.”

“Look how bodies and cars have been moved around, Sam. And we’ve got the bracelet. Maybe an expert could match those emeralds to what Phil Ledbetter mined.”

I didn’t know enough about emeralds and gold to agree or disagree.

“And I’ve found something else,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m going to show you. I’m in the car and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Whatever Nakayla had discovered certainly boosted her spirits.

I put on my leg and quickly straightened up the apartment. Then I had an idea. I called information and got the number for the geology department at UNC. I expected to get voicemail, but the woman who answered transferred me to Dr. Kevin Stewart, the co-author of
Exploring the Geology of the Carolinas
. I hadn’t thought through my approach but I decided to tell enough of the truth to get the information I needed.

“Kevin Stewart.” The voice sounded younger than what I’d expected from a professor who studied old rocks.

“Dr. Stewart. My name is Sam Blackman. I’m calling from Asheville.”

“Then I’m envious. It’s ninety-five degrees down here. How can I help you?”

“Our family has a gold and emerald bracelet made in the early 1900s. We wondered if it’s possible to determine where the gems and gold came from.”

“Hmmm.” He paused. “I assume you’re talking about the geological source.”

“Yes.”

“That would depend upon their distinctive qualities. Ideally, you’d have a few samples for comparison—ones with a known origin. That would be especially true for gold. The geochemical fingerprint depends on what other trace elements are present.”

“And the emeralds?”

“The best way to fingerprint them is with oxygen isotopes. Most natural oxygen is oxygen-16. That is eight protons and eight neutrons. But a small percentage is oxygen-18 with two extra neutrons. Emeralds from different sources will have different ratios of oxygen-16 and oxygen-18. When those ratios are the same, then it’s a good bet you’ve found the common site. Even the rock around the emeralds will have the same ratio because everything crystallized at the same time from the same fluids.” He laughed. “Are you still awake? This is when my students normally nod off.”

“I’m still with you. But I don’t have site samples. We think the gold and emeralds might have come from Gold for the Taking.”

Dr. Stewart laughed again. “You sure they’re not plastic?”

“A jewelry designer tells me they’re high grade emeralds.”

“Could be. The tourist bait at Gold for the Taking isn’t worth much, but there’s a rich emerald deposit somewhere on that property. I’ve seen some of the stones, but to my knowledge no one’s been able to dig other than the owner. Ledbetter’s his name?”

“That’s right. So you might be able to match the emeralds?”

“If I had a sample emerald or even rock from the mine. Otherwise it’s more likely I could tell you if they didn’t come from there, not definitely prove that they did.”

“What about the gold in the bracelet?”

“Highly unlikely that gold and emeralds would be found at the same site. Gold for the Taking’s not known for much gold other than what’s washed downstream. Gold’s trickier because the extraction process and refining purifies the precious metal while obscuring its origins. If you had the ore, then you’d have a better chance.”

I figured I’d gotten what useful help I could from Dr. Stewart and thanked him for his time.

“No problem. And if you get down to Chapel Hill, bring the bracelet. I’d love to see it.”

Nakayla came into the apartment clutching a manila envelope. She went to the dining table, unfastened the clasp, and pulled out several sheets of paper.

“I spoke to a geologist,” I said. “He doesn’t hold much promise that we’ll be able to identify the exact source of the bracelet’s emeralds without a sample from the site.”

Nakayla didn’t seem interested. “Look at this.”

She handed me a picture that had been downloaded from the internet and printed on standard paper. The website was Historical Graves of Georgia. The image quality was poor, but I could make out several large rocks behind a wrought-iron fence.

“What is it?”

Nakayla gave me a second sheet. The close-up showed a weather-worn gray surface with faint depressions that had once been distinct letters. MALACHI ROBERTSON.

“Elijah’s graveyard,” I said.

Nakayla grinned. “Brilliant, Sherlock. Glad you told me.”

“How did you ever find it?”

Nakayla sat at the table and I took the chair beside her.

“I knew graves created problems. Native American burial sites and slave cemeteries usually have no descendants to insure their preservation and so historical societies and heritage foundations have lobbied for governmental protection. State laws have been enacted that make it extremely difficult to develop property containing a cemetery. I thought even in the Fifties, efforts might have been made to relocate graves lying in the proposed bed of Lake Lanier. Turns out these graves weren’t moved at all.”

“Harry was wrong?”

Nakayla slid me a third sheet. “Yes. But it’s easy to see why. The lake changed so much of the landscape and it’d been forty years since he’d last seen the cemetery. The graveyard is at the edge of a county park. When the lake was formed, the stream became a cove and the water level rose nearly even with the graves.”

I looked down at a wider shot of a green lawn with picnic shelters and barbecue grills. In the background, I saw the cemetery’s fence and beyond, a wide stretch of water. Then I remembered the journal mentioned the graves were on a knoll above the stream. Elijah’s people had chosen well. “You know where this is?”

She nodded. “Found it on the Hall County website.” She tapped the papers in front of her. “I printed out Mapquest directions. It’s about a three-hour drive.”

I studied the pictures. “I don’t know. A public park?”

“That’s even better. It closes at ten. You said we only have to dig down to the coffin’s lid.”

But last night the reality of using a spade with only one good leg had come crashing down on me.

“Harry can hold the flashlight while we both dig.” Any reservations Nakayla expressed earlier had been cleared away by her discovery.

“Do you have any tools?” I asked.

“No. But we’ll buy them this afternoon. How soon can we pick Harry up in the morning?”

The idea of the three of us digging in a public place at two in the morning reminded me of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn watching Injun Joe in the graveyard. That had gotten Tom buried in a cave, and I wasn’t the Samuel Clemens who could write our way out.

“We shouldn’t get Harry before nine,” I said. “We’ll say he’s staying overnight with me. I’ll tell the Captain so he can stand down his patrols.” I stood and walked to the kitchen counter. I leaned against it with my back to Nakayla.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I spun around. “Face it, Nakayla. I’m a damn cripple. We don’t know how hard or rocky the ground will be. You’re the only able-bodied man and you’re not even—” I halted, realizing I’d be completing a sentence I’d regret.

“And I’m not even a man?” Nakayla’s brown eyes narrowed. “Is that it?”

“No.”

“The answer to my sister’s murder may be in that grave. I’ll dig with my bare hands if I have to.” Her voice trembled and I knew there’d be no stopping her.

“Police or county rangers could swing by the park,” I said.

“Then drop me off at midnight and pick me up in the morning. I can always hide behind a tombstone. You’re not too crippled to drive, are you?”

Her words stung like a slap across my face.

“No,” I said flatly. “I can drive.” I could also think. The first rule of combat is don’t launch an offensive undermanned. The second rule is that something always goes wrong with every plan. Have backup.

I returned to the table and picked up the map. Lake Lanier was almost halfway between the two cities. “All right. We’ll do it. But I’m getting another digger.”

“Who?”

“My brother Stanley. He can drive over from Birmingham.”

“Why would he help?”

“Because I’ve got something he needs.” I dropped the map and turned toward the phone.

“Sam. Wait.” She stood. Tears glistened in her eyes. “You’re going to let him settle the lawsuit?”