Death Du Jour (28 page)

“Sounds like Quebec,” said Ryan.

“It is. You just have to know whose turf you’re on.”

“Simonnet phoned her calls to Saint Helena. So that’s Baker.”

“Yes.”

“You say he’s solid.”

“I’ll let you form your own opinion.”

“Tell me about the bodies you dug up.”

I did.

“Jesus, Brennan, how do you get yourself into these things?”

“It is my job, Ryan.” The question irked me. Everything about Ryan irked me lately.

“But you were on holiday.”

Yes. On Murtry. With my daughter.

“It must be my rich fantasy life,” I snapped. “I dream up corpses, then poof, there they are. It’s what I live for.”

I clamped my teeth and watched tiny drops gather on the windshield. If Ryan needed conversation he could talk to himself.

“I may need a little guidance here,” he said as we passed the campus of USC-Beaufort.

“Carteret will take a hard left and turn into Boundary. Go with it.”

We curved west past the condominiums at Pigeon Point, and eventually drove between the redbrick walls that enclose the National Cemetery on both sides of the road. At Ribaut I indicated a left turn.

Ryan signaled, then headed south. On our left we passed a Maryland Fried Chicken, the fire station, and the Second Pilgrim Baptist Church. On our right sprawled the county government center. The vanilla stucco buildings house the county administrative offices, the courthouse, the solicitors’ offices, various law enforcement agencies, and the jail. The faux columns and archways were intended to create a low-country flavor, but instead the complex looks like an enormous Art Deco medical mall.

At Ribaut and Duke I pointed to a sand lot shaded by live oaks and Spanish moss. Ryan pulled in and
parked between a Beaufort City Police cruiser and the county Haz Mat trailer. Sheriff Baker had just arrived and was reaching for something in the back of his cruiser. Recognizing me, he waved, slammed the trunk, and waited for us to join him.

I made introductions and the men shook hands. The rain had dwindled to a fine mist. “Sorry to have to put one through your basket,” said Ryan. “I’m sure you’re busy enough without foreigners dropping in.”

“No problem at all,” Baker replied. “I hope we can do something for you.”

“Nice digs,” said Ryan, nodding toward the building housing the Sheriff’s Department.

As we crossed Duke, the sheriff gave a brief explanation of the complex.

“In the early nineties the county decided it wanted all its agencies under one roof, so it built this place at a cost of about thirty million dollars. We’ve got our own space, so does the city of Beaufort, but we share services such as communications, dispatch, records.”

A pair of deputies passed us on their way to the lot. They waved and Baker nodded in return, then he opened the glass door and held it for us.

The offices of the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Department lay to the right, past a glass case filled with uniforms and plaques. The city police were to the left, through a door marked
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. Next to that door another case displayed pictures of the FBI’s ten most wanted, photos of local missing persons, and a poster from the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Straight ahead a hallway led past an elevator to the building’s interior.

We entered the sheriff’s corridor to see a woman hanging an umbrella on a hall tree. Though well past
fifty, she looked like an escapee from a Madonna video. Her hair was long and jet-black, and she wore a lace slip over a peacock mini-dress with a violet bolero jacket over that. Platform clogs added three inches to her height. She spoke to the sheriff.

“Mr. Colker just phoned. And some detective called ’bout half a dozen times yesterday with his balls on fire ’bout something. It’s on your desk.”

“Thank you, Ivy Lee. This is Detective Ryan.” Baker indicated the two of us. “And Dr. Brennan. The department will be assisting them in a matter.”

Ivy Lee looked us over.

“You want coffee, sir?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Three, then?”

“Yes.”

“Cream?”

Ryan and I nodded.

We entered the sheriff’s office and everyone sat. Baker tossed his hat onto a bank of file cabinets behind his desk.

“Ivy Lee can be colorful,” he said, smiling. “She did twenty with the Marines, then came home and joined us.” He thought a moment. “That’s about nineteen years now. The lady runs this place with the efficiency of a hydrogen fuel cell. Right now she’s doing some . . .” He searched for a phrase. “. . . fashion experimentation.”

Baker leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. His leather chair wheezed like a bagpipe.

“So, Mr. Ryan, tell me what you need.”

Ryan described the deaths in St-Jovite, and explained the calls to Saint Helena. He had just outlined his conversations with the Beaufort-Jasper Clinic obstetrician and with Heidi Schneider’s parents when Ivy Lee
knocked. She placed a mug in front of Baker, set two others on a table between Ryan and me, and left without a word.

I took a sip. Then another.

“Does she make this?” I asked. If not the best coffee I’d ever tasted, it was right near the top of the list.

Baker nodded.

I drank again and tried to identify the flavors. I heard a phone in the outer office, then Ivy Lee’s voice.

“What’s in it?”

“It’s a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy with regard to Ivy Lee’s coffee. I give her an allowance each month, and she buys the ingredients. She claims no one knows the recipe but her sisters and her mama.”

“Can they be bribed?”

Laughing, Baker laid his forearms on the desk and leaned his weight on them. His shoulders were wider than a cement truck.

“I wouldn’t want to offend Ivy Lee,” he said. “And definitely not her mama.”

“Good policy,” agreed Ryan. “Don’t offend the mamas.” He flipped the elastic from a corrugated brown folder, searched the contents, and withdrew a paper.

“The number phoned from St-Jovite traces to four-three-five Adler Lyons Road.”

“You’re right about that being Saint Helena,” said Baker.

He swiveled to the metal cabinets, slid open a drawer, and pulled a file. Laying the folder on his desk, he perused its one document.

“We ran the address, and there’s no police history. Not a single call in the past five years.”

“Is it a private home?” asked Ryan.

“Probably. That part of the island is pretty much trailers
and small homes. I’ve been living here off and on all of my life and I had to use a map to find Adler Lyons. Some of the dirt roads out on the islands are little more than driveways. I might know them to see them, but I don’t always know their names. Or if they even have names.”

“Who owns the property?”

“I don’t have that, but we’ll check it out later. In the meantime, why don’t we just drop in for a friendly visit.”

“Suits me,” said Ryan, replacing his paper and snapping the elastic into place.

“And we can swing by the clinic if you think that would be useful.”

“I don’t want to jam you up with this. I know you’re busy.” Ryan rose. “If you prefer to point us in the right direction, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“No, no. I owe Dr. Brennan for yesterday. And I’m sure Baxter Colker isn’t through with her yet. In fact, would you mind waiting while I check something?”

He disappeared into an adjacent office, returned immediately with a message slip.

“As I suspected, Colker called again. He’s sent the bodies up to Charleston, but he wants to talk to Dr. Brennan.” He smiled at me. His cheekbones and brow ridges were so prominent, his skin so shiny black, his face looked ceramic in the fluorescent light.

I looked at Ryan. He shrugged and sat back down. Baker dialed a number, asked for Colker, then handed me the phone. I had a bad feeling.

Colker said exactly what I anticipated. Axel Hardaway would perform the autopsies on the Murtry bodies, but refused to do any skeletal analysis. Dan Jaffer couldn’t be reached. Hardaway would process the remains at the med school facility following any protocol
I specified, then Colker would transport the bones to my lab in Charlotte if I would do the examinations.

Reluctantly, I agreed, and promised to speak directly with Hardaway. Colker gave me the number and we hung up.

“
Allons-y,
” I said to the others.

“
Allons-y,
” echoed the sheriff, reaching for his hat and placing it on his head.

*   *   *

We took Highway 21 out of Beaufort to Lady’s Island, crossed Cowan’s Creek to Saint Helena, and continued for several miles. At Eddings Point Road we turned left, and drove past miles of weather-beaten frame houses and trailers set on pilings. Plastic stretched across windows and porches sagged under the weight of moth-eaten easy chairs and old appliances. In the yards I could see junked auto frames and parts, makeshift sheds, and rusted septic tanks. Here and there a hand-lettered sign offered collards, butter beans, or goats.

Before long the blacktop made a hard left and sandy roads took off ahead and to the right. Baker turned and we entered a long, shady tunnel. Live oaks lined the road, their bark mossy, their branches arching overhead like the dome on a green cathedral. To either side ran narrow moats of algae-coated water.

Our tires scrunched softly as we passed more mobile homes and run-down houses, some with plastic or wooden whirligigs, others with chickens scratching in the yards. Save for the model years of the beat-up cars and pickups, the area looked much as it must have in the nineteen-thirties. And forties. And fifties.

Within a quarter mile Adler Lyons joined us from the left. Baker turned and drove almost to the end and stopped. Across the way I could see mossy gravestones
shaded by live oaks and magnolias. Here and there a wooden cross gleamed white in the murky shadows.

To our right stood a pair of buildings, the larger a two-story farmhouse with dark green siding, the smaller a bungalow, once white, its paint now gray and peeling. Behind the houses I observed trailers and a swing set.

A low wall separated the compound from the road. It was built of cinder blocks laid sideways and stacked, so the centers formed rows and layers of small tunnels. Each hollow was packed with vines and creepers, and purple wisteria meandered the length of the wall. At the driveway entrance a rusted metal sign said
PRIVATE PROPERTY
in bright orange letters.

The road continued less than a hundred feet past the wall, then ended in a stand of marsh grass. Beyond the weeds lay water the color of dull pewter.

“That should be four-three-five,” said Sheriff Baker, shifting into park and indicating the larger home. “This was a fishing camp years ago.” He tipped his head toward the water. “That’s Eddings Point Creek out there. It empties into the sound not too far up. I’d forgotten about this property. It was abandoned for years.”

The place had definitely seen better times. The siding on the farmhouse was patched and covered with mildew. The trim, once white, was now blistered and flaking to reveal a pale blue underlayer. A screened porch ran the width of the first floor, and dormer windows projected from the third, their upper borders mimicking in miniature the angle of the roof.

We got out, rounded the wall, and headed up the drive. Mist hung in the air like smoke. I could smell mud and decomposing leaves, and from far off, the hint of a bonfire.

The sheriff stepped onto the stoop while Ryan and I waited on the grass. The inner door stood open, but it was too dark to see past the screen. Baker moved to the side and knocked, rattling the door in its frame. Overhead, birdsong mingled with the click of palmetto fronds. From inside, I thought I heard a baby cry.

Baker knocked again.

In a moment we heard footsteps, then a young man appeared at the door. He had freckles and curly red hair, and wore denim overalls with a plaid shirt. I had a feeling we were about to interview Howdy Doody.

“Yeah?” He spoke through the screen, his eyes moving among the three of us.

“How are you doing?” asked Baker, greeting him with the Southern substitute for “hello.”

“Fine.”

“Good. I’m Harley Baker.” His uniform made clear this was not a social call. “May we come in?”

“Why?”

“We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

“Questions?”

“Do you live here?”

Howdy nodded.

“May we come in?” Baker repeated.

“Shouldn’t you have a warrant or something?”

“No.”

I heard a voice, and Howdy turned and spoke over his shoulder. In a moment he was joined by a middle-aged woman with a broad face and perm-frizzed hair. She held an infant to one shoulder, and alternately patted and rubbed its back. The flesh on her upper arm jiggled with each movement.

“It’s a cop,” he said to her, stepping back from the screen.

“Yes?”

While Ryan and I listened, Baker and the woman exchanged the same B-movie dialogue we’d just heard. Then,

“There’s no one here right now. You come back some other time.”

“You’re here, ma’am,” replied Baker.

“We’re busy with the babies.”

“We’re not going away, ma’am,” said the Beaufort County sheriff.

The woman made a face, shifted the baby higher on her shoulder, and pushed open the screen door. Her flip-flops made soft popping sounds as we followed her across the porch and into a small foyer.

The house was dim and smelled slightly sour, like milk left overnight in a glass. Straight ahead, a staircase rose to the second floor, to the right and left archways opened on to large rooms filled with sofas and chairs.

The woman led us to the room on the left and indicated a grouping of rattan couches. As we sat she whispered something to Howdy, and he disappeared up the stairs. Then she joined us.

“Yes?” she asked quietly, looking from Baker to Ryan.

“My name is Harley Baker.” He set his hat on the coffee table and leaned toward her, hands on his thighs, arms bent outward. “And you are?”

She placed an arm across the baby’s back, cradled its head, and raised the other, palm toward him. “I don’t mean to be unpolite, Sheriff, but I got to know what you want.”