Deep Down (I) (14 page)

“These flowers are to honor the memory of your mother,” Peter said, extending the large bouquet to her with a stiff, quick nod. “In my culture, white is not the color for brides, but for the dead.”

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful. I hope they last so I can use them at the funeral.”

“I believe you will find them quite hardy. When will the funeral be, if I may ask?”

“When the coroner releases the body—soon. My mother had a sitting up—a kind of wake—for my father. I’ll have one for her, the night before the funeral at the Baptist church.”

“If I am welcome at the funeral, I would be honored to attend.”

Peter Sung was the most serious she had ever seen
him, though she’d only talked to him once in the four years he’d been representing the Kulong family, which bought so much Deep Down ginseng. She noted again his slight accent, British, like those she’d heard in Hong Kong, she thought. He was tall for an Asian, with sleekly arched eyebrows, sharply slanted cheeks and thin lips, which were often smiling. But he looked genuinely grieved, almost pained. As usual, he was dressed impeccably, today in dove-gray slacks and a matching long-sleeved knit pullover sweater. He was thin and moved gracefully. His good humor—her mother had said he joked about buying “Sung’s Sang”—and generosity always surprised people who expected him to be quiet and even shy.

She knew she should ask him in, but she hesitated to. She wasn’t sure whom to trust anymore, and the man was on Drew’s “hit list.” But now, she wondered how to get something useful out of him.

“I was just taking a little stroll,” she said, gesturing toward the creek with one hand. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

“Of course not. I can always use the exercise. It’s been a while since I’ve been out running with my hounds. Dr. Lockwood, I deeply admired your mother, and she provided an invaluable service in this area and for my clients. Will you be taking her place with the ginseng counts?”

She was going to deny that possibility, but perhaps being noncommittal would get her some admission from him. “I’m not sure,” she told him.

“I realize this is too early for you to make such decisions, but please be assured that I and the concerned clients I represent will do all we can to help you in any way, whether you remain in Deep Down or not.”

“When did you last see my mother? I understand you are only here from time to time.”

“Ah, I think it was last June, mid-June. I’d actually have to consult my daybook. I stayed with Vern Tarver, and I sometimes saw Mariah with him, so he might recall, if you must know specifics. Yes, I believe it was when Mariah was in and out of the Fur and Sang Trader in mid-June.”

So Vern and her mother had probably been more than friends for at least most of the summer, Jessie thought. Why hadn’t she known? Surely, her mother didn’t think that, after being true to Jessie’s father for all these years, she would resent a romance? Or had it only been a friendship to Mariah and that had caused the friction with Vern—and perhaps more?

“So you weren’t around since June,” she said, hoping that sounded like a comment and not a challenge. “If you’d only been here when she went missing—and if you’d had some of your tracker dogs with you.”

“Yes, that would have been of help. I’ve run them in this area before, so that might have given them a head start over the usual breed of hounds around here,” he said, with a hint of scorn creeping into his voice. “But I regret I was called away from Lexington. I also represent the Kulong family interests in Wisconsin, where we buy cultivated ginseng—hardly of the quality of the wild roots here, of course.”

So did that mean he had been in Wisconsin, or he merely wanted her to make that connection? He was lying, wasn’t he? He’d been in Highboro at least during the time he claimed to have been “called away.” Or could his timeline fit with his claim? She had to talk to Drew and let him pursue it.

“I do understand and sympathize with the grief you must
feel,” he was saying, perhaps a ploy to shift the subject. “Losing a parent—an elder—that is serious indeed.”

“You sound as if you have been through this,” she said as they walked slowly along the creek. Like a bride walking down the aisle, she held the flowers before her; he walked with his hands clasped behind his back.

“My father, just last year,” he told her. “Though I am sure our funeral customs would seem, well, foreign to you. Now, for example,” he said, “this little stream. Should a Chinese funeral procession cross water, the procession must be halted, for the soul of the dead cannot cross water unless the deceased is informed.”

Strange, but what came to her mind was that the recovery team last night had carried her mother’s body across Bear Creek. So to the Chinese, would that mean her soul remained on the other side, near where she had been killed?

“What else is different?” she asked. “What about the burial? After the funeral, my mother will be buried next to my father up on Cemetery Hill.”

“Ah, a hill is good,” he told her with a nod. “The higher up, the better feng shui. People today think that means arranging their furniture for best effect, but it is so much more. Then,” he went on, stopping and turning back to look at the clapboard house, “the deceased elders will be worshipped by the family at their home, once the spirit of the deceased returns.”

“Returns to the home?” she asked, turning also and clasping the fragrant flowers to her.

“Our custom and belief,” he said with a slight shrug as if to dismiss his words. She sensed he was sharing the belief of others, not himself. Or were these subtle words of warning for her? She would definitely have Drew
question this man. Had he really come to comfort and console, or was he trying to frustrate and frighten her?

“Seven days after the death,” he continued, gesturing toward her house, “the departed returns to the home. The family remain in their rooms that day so as not to interfere, but they often sprinkle flour or talcum powder at the front door, so they know.”

“Know what?”

“The footsteps of the souls of the dead blur the flour or powder on their way inside to the altar where they will reside.”

“To be worshipped?”

“Yes. A far cry from Baptist beliefs, of course, but my condolences are sincere. If you need anything I might be able to provide, do not hesitate to call me, Dr. Lockwood.”

He did that stiff little nod again, extended a calling card to her, backed a few steps away, and left her standing by the creek. She glanced at it: his address, cell phone number, fax, e-mail and the Kulong Imports Company Web site. So he certainly wasn’t avoiding being contacted by her or by Drew. He had offered unlimited help and support, so why had he unsettled her so much? Just because he was sharing the Chinese customs of death?

When she went inside and put the flowers in a vase on top of Seth’s carved tree trunk, she realized she’d made a sort of ancestors’ shrine. This might be the heart of Appalachia, but the monument to her mother was now part Cherokee and part Chinese.

14

D rew swore under his breath. Not only was Tyler standing outside his vehicle on the old logging road, but another man with a truck was there, hauling out some kind of gear. If Tyler had brought someone else, that was it—he wasn’t going with them. On the seat next to him, Seth squinted through the truck windshield and grunted.

“I can tell which one is your photographer,” he muttered. “The other one is Ryan Buford, a surveyor of roads. I said good riddance when he left a couple years ago, but I see he’s back. Now, there’s a killer—of trees.”

“Don’t make waves just because he’s with the government, okay? Besides, my office manager Emmy Enloe’s evidently sweet on him.”

“Buford is not to be trusted near virgin forests or virgins.”

Drew almost choked at that. “So, when was he around these parts before?”

“I’ve said enough.”

Drew didn’t press Seth since he seemed to be cooperating. Could he be implying that when Buford was through here before, he was womanizing? His thoughts circled back to Cassie, but that was the least of his worries right
now. He bit his lower lip and forced himself to deal with the here and now.

It looked like Tyler Finch already had his gear in a big backpack, except for a camera he held in one hand; he had a manila folder in the other, which Drew assumed held the photo he’d asked to see. He hoped he didn’t flash it in front of Buford. Rumors of some strange creature loose in the woods, near a cut or clawed corpse, would turn the area into chaos, even around here where most folks were content to mind their own business.

Drew got out and walked over toward the two men while the stubborn Seth stayed in the Cherokee. If the old man went back on his word to help in the forest, he would arrest him. If he stayed put right now, so much the better, so he didn’t have a shouting match or worse on his hands. Still, it would be just like Seth to disappear into the trees—or thin air.

“Tyler,” Drew said and shook his hand. He took the folder and without looking at it, put it under his left arm, tight against his ribs, though he was anxious to see the picture. Buford ambled over. Strapped on his back was a tripod and a distance measuring wheel, like police officers used to calibrate tire skid marks at the scene of accidents. Other surveying tools were laid out near his truck with a pack he was evidently filling.

“Ryan Buford, surveyor for the Department of Transportation,” the man introduced himself, extending his free hand.

Drew shook his hand, trying to size up both the man and his surveying equipment. “A lot of things to carry with you,” Drew observed, taking a few steps closer. Laid out on the mossy track of what had once been a road lay a can of red spray paint, a level, a couple of plumb bobs, a bright
orange safety vest that resembled a life preserver, a compass and a gas-powered, steel-bladed chain saw with a red handle.

“That’s a brush ax, for clearing bushes and small trees, government issue,” Buford said when he saw Drew staring at it. Gesturing at the other things, he added, “All tricks of the trade.”

“Which is surveying roads for what reason?”

“Although this timber was never heavily cut, some of these roads from the old logging days may need to be widened or, eventually, paved.”

“For modern logging equipment? Decades ago, selective, minor logging was done around here. If this area’s going to be logged again, the locals will be up in arms.”

“Like most of us, I just follow orders,” Buford said with a shrug. “I’d guess the roads might be paved for retirement homes, bring a lot of business besides the ginseng into Deep Down. I know that would please Vern Tarver for his general store and museum and make Audrey Doyle pretty happy about new customers at the Soup to Pie and her B and B. I’m staying at her place.”

“Is that right?” Drew said, knowing full well that man-eating Audrey would consider this guy a tasty piece of raw meat. No wonder she hadn’t put herself in his path the past couple of days. “I heard you were into the sheriff’s office, but not to see me,” Drew told him.

“I’ve been hoping to meet you, but I know you’ve been busy,” Buford countered. They were like wrestlers, Drew thought, circling each other without managing a hold yet. He could see why Emmy had fallen for Ryan Buford. Unlike guys around here, he was smooth and self-confident without being cocky. He wasn’t quite six
feet, but was compactly built and just plain looked like Prince Charming.

“Emmy said you’ve got quite an investigation on your hands,” Buford went on when Drew just studied him. “Real sorry to hear about the reason for that. I hear Mrs. Lockwood was a lovely lady.”

“She was. Emmy is, too, though maybe a bit young and naive. But then, that’s what you get with a backwoods girl who has a protective family of a father and four older brothers. Gun-happy, every last one of them.”

Buford cleared his throat. He glanced at Tyler, but he was fooling around with his light meter. Buford looked toward Drew’s truck; whether he could see Seth in there, Drew wasn’t sure. “Emmy’s a great girl,” Buford finally said. “Well, I’d better get going. Just because I’m out here on my own doesn’t mean I don’t punch a clock.”

The manila folder was burning right through Drew’s jacket to be opened, but he couldn’t let Buford go yet. “So when did you get here?” he asked as the man started away.

He turned back. “Just two days ago, on the sixth, right when everyone was out searching for Mrs. Lockwood—that’s when I met Emmy.”

So Emmy could vouch for his arrival, Drew thought. He’d assigned her to man the office and coordinate the search teams out in the forest, which is where he should be right now.

“Ever been through here before?” he asked Buford, knowing full well he had.

“Yeah, couple of years ago. Been down in Florida since then, laying out roads in the Everglades. It’s so different from here, but both beautiful places. See you around town, then,” he said and bent over his supplies.

At least the guy had not lied about having been here before, but he probably knew he’d get caught on that. With Tyler hovering, this was no place to ask Buford if he knew Cassie Keenan. Besides, she had always given Drew the impression that Pearl’s father was someone local. She’d probably kill him if he asked her outright about Buford.

“If we don’t get back by the time the retirement homes go up for sale,” Drew called to Buford, “send someone after us. You’re sticking around here, I take it?”

“For now, until I hear different,” Buford told him as he quickly bent back over his equipment.

Drew went over to the truck where Seth sat as if carved from wood. Turning his back on Tyler and Buford, Drew opened the folder. Tyler had blown the photo up to an eight-by-ten, but it was grainy. Still, he immediately saw what had set everyone off: a broad-shouldered, big-headed form back in the dim, mottled forest. It reminded him of the silhouette of King Kong more than anything else. He passed the photo thruough the window to Seth.

“Sure not a badger,” Seth muttered. “Not a bear, either.”

“A play of light—a freak alignment of tree limbs?”

“No. It’s something. Maybe we can find the spot. Let’s go.”

Jessie was actually relieved Cassie hadn’t come with her to choose a casket, because she intended to question Clayton Merriman about his coroner’s report. Her friend had enough to worry about with a sick daughter. Probably something Pearl had eaten, Cassie’d said, but she was taking her into the new walk-in clinic between Deep Down and Highboro today.

Merriman’s Funeral Home, the wooden, hand-painted sign in front of the old mansion on the east side of
Highboro read. Why did they call them “homes,” Jessie wondered as she got out of her car and started up the walk. And Merriman seemed the wrong name for what most Appalachians still called an undertaker; this funeral director was also the coroner and seemed to be such a serious, solemn man. But in this case, it all suited Jessie just fine. At least she didn’t have to go pounding on the door of the county morgue for answers.

With fluttering expressions of sympathy, Etta Merriman let her in and led her into a carpeted office where Clayton Merriman rose from behind his oak desk.

“A very brave young woman,” he complimented Jessie, or perhaps he was addressing his wife. Jessie had noticed the other night that he seemed to talk in broken sentences. “Led all of us to where her mother was found.”

He came around to sit in a maroon leather chair facing Jessie’s, while Mrs. Merriman perched on the edge of the matching settee in the conference area of the office. Jessie didn’t mean to pounce on the man, but she had to know.

“I’d like to hear the official cause of death. I realize you’ll need to discuss all that with Sheriff Webb, but I want to know.”

“Yes. Understandable. Blunt force trauma to the head. The death certificate—a copy of it, your property, of course.”

“She was indeed murdered?” she asked with a shiver she tried to hide.

“At first, I thought she might have fallen backward onto a rock, but body lividity—the settling of blood—indicates she lay for a while where she fell facedown. Didn’t crawl into that hollow, old tree and cover herself up with the plants.”

“So—just to be completely clear, you haven’t ruled an accidental death? It is a homicide?”

“Regret to say, but true.”

Etta Merriman leaned over to place her hand on Jessie’s. She let her, though her first instinct was to brush her off. “Blunt force trauma to the head,” Jessie repeated his earlier words. “Would she have died right away or blacked out? I’m hoping that fiend didn’t cut her face while she was alive.”

“No, no, or the lacerations would have bled instead of just showed a hairline of dried blood.”

“That’s what I told Drew,” she blurted, before she realized she’d said too much.

But he only nodded. “The initial, crushing blow means she didn’t suffer, wasn’t conscious,” he said as Etta patted Jessie’s hand again. “Worded in my notes this way, if I remember—‘Deceased received nonsurvivable injuries and died very shortly after the injury, if not immediately.’” Jessie withdrew her hand from Etta’s and gripped her other hand in her lap. She must have made a face, because he went on, “So, no suffering, after the impact of the weapon.”

“Which might have been what?”

“Not sure. Something with some length or a handle to provide velocity when it was swung.”

“May I see your notes or even your photos or sketches?”

“Only the death certificate until Sheriff Webb gives permission,” he said. “In his jurisdiction, you see.” He rose stiffly from his chair, took a piece of paper from his desk and extended it to her. She skimmed it, then reread it more slowly.

CAUSE OF DEATH:…depression fracture of the occipital region of the skull with epidural hemorrhaging and ruptured artery from a blow of blunt force…Estimated time of death uncertain because the body was not found for several days—unable to
employ readings of rigor mortis or temperature. Legal time of death, 8:17 a.m., September 7, 2007.

“You put the time of death as last night,” she protested, looking up.

“The legal time—when the deceased is pronounced by the medical examiner,” he said, somewhat defensively. “First time I saw her body in the woods.”

She looked down at the paper again. Her gaze snagged on the words, a blow of blunt force. Someone had forcibly taken her mother from her. Elinor had died of a heart attack last year and now this. A blow of blunt force…

A woman’s voice pierced Jessie’s silent agonizing as a hand extended a glass of water to her. “The best we can do for those we have lost is to honor them by seeing they are properly buried,” Etta said.

“If they died naturally,” Jessie replied as she took the glass. “If not, there’s much more to do.”

“It’s a good thing you took evidence photos of the sang berry art,” Drew told Tyler when they reached the sang cove site. He stated the obvious: the berries were moved or missing.

“I dropped the photos off with your secretary just before I met you,” Tyler told Drew. “I figured you didn’t want to drag them around in the woods—except that one,” he said, gesturing toward Drew’s backpack where he’d put the photo of what he was coming to think of as The Thing.

“Seth,” Drew said, “I’ll have to show you the other photos when we get back to town. Let’s take a look at the tree where we found her.”

As they approached it, Seth stopped dead in his tracks. Looking up at it, he almost fell backward.

“What?” Drew demanded. “You know this place?”

“A grandfather tree,” he whispered, his eyes narrowed, his head down now as if he could not even gaze on it again. “Old. Sacred.”

“She was huddled up inside it, covered with sang,” Drew told him.

“Atalikuli,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Ginseng—atalikuli, it climbs the hills. To be buried with it is—good. It helps to take you—upward, into the sky above the hills.”

Behind Seth’s back, Tyler looked entranced; he leaned closer to hear, as Drew asked the old man, “So, do you know this place?”

Seth finally looked at him. “Yes. By tradition of my people. It was also the place where some hid under leaves—not ginseng, but dried leaves—to escape the soldiers who had come to take their homes, force them away.”