The owner of the foot had been at least sixty-five, probably nearer to seventy.
I leaned back and considered that. No one on the manifest was close to that age range. What were the options?
One. An unlisted traveler was on board. A septuagenarian deadheader? A senior citizen stowaway? Unlikely.
Two. A passenger had carried the foot on board. Ryan said they'd found no one whose profile suggested an interest in body parts.
Three. The foot was unrelated to Air TransSouth 228.
Then where did it come from?
I dug a card from my purse, checked the number, and dialed.
“Swain County Sheriff 's Department.”
“Lucy Crowe, please.”
“Who's calling.”
I gave my name and waited. Moments later I heard the gravelly voice.
“I probably shouldn't be talking to you.”
“You've heard.”
“I've heard.”
“I could try to explain, but I don't think I understand the situation myself.”
“I don't know you well enough to judge.”
“Why are you talking to me?”
“Gut instinct.”
“I'm working to clear this up.”
“That'd be good. You've got 'em buzzing at the top of the heap.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just had a call from Parker Davenport.”
“The lieutenant governor?”
“Himself. Ordered me to keep you off the crash site.”
“Doesn't he have better things to worry about?”
“Apparently you're a hot topic. My deputy took a call this morning. Fellow wanted to know where you live and where you were staying up here.”
“Who was he?”
“Wouldn't give a name, hung up when my deputy insisted.”
“Was he press?”
“We're pretty good at spotting that.”
“There's something you can do for me, Sheriff.”
I heard the sound of long-distance air.
“Sheriff?”
“I'm listening.”
I described the foot, and my reasons for doubting its association with the crash.
“Could you check on missing persons for Swain and the surrounding counties?”
“Got any descriptors besides age?”
“Sixty-three to sixty-six inches in height, with bad feet. When the DNA's in I'll know the gender.”
“Time frame?”
Despite the soft tissue preservation, I decided on broad parameters.
“One year.”
“I know we've got some here in Swain. I'll pull those up. And I suppose there's no harm in sending out a few queries.”
When we'd disconnected, I sealed the slide case and returned it to the technician. As I drove toward home new questions burned in my brain, fanned by feelings of anger and humiliation.
Why wasn't Larke Tyrell defending me? He knew the commitment I felt to my work, knew I'd never compromise an investigation.
Could Parker Davenport be Tyrell's “powerful people”? Larke was an appointed official. Could the lieutenant governor be putting pressure on his chief medical examiner? Why?
Could Lucy Crowe's reaction to Davenport be accurate? Was the lieutenant governor concerned with his image and planning to use me for publicity purposes?
I remembered him at the crash site, hanky to his mouth, eyes down to avoid the carnage.
Or was it me he was avoiding? An unpleasant feeling shifted inside me, and I tried to erase the image. It was no good. My mind was like a computer with no delete button.
I thought of Ryan's advice. Pete's. Both were saying the same thing.
I dialed Information, then placed a call.
Ruby answered after two rings.
I identified myself and asked if Magnolia was available.
“The room's empty, but I offered it to one of the downstairs boarders.”
“I'd like to check back in.”
“They told me you were gone for good. Cleared the bill.”
“I'll pay you for a week in advance.”
“Must be the Lord's will the other 'un hasn't moved up there yet.”
“Yes,” I answered, with an enthusiasm I didn't feel. “The Lord's will.”
CHARLOTTE IS A POSTER CHILD FOR MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORder, the Sybil of cities. It is the New South, proud of its skyscrapers, airport, university, NBA Hornets, NFL Panthers, and NASCAR racing. Headquarters to Bank of America and First Union, it is the nation's second largest financial center. It is home to the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. It yearns to be a world-class city.
Yet Charlotte remains nostalgic for the Old South. In its affluent southeast quadrant, it is stately homes and tidy bungalows garnished by azaleas, dogwoods, rhododendrons, redbuds, and magnolias. It is winding streets, front porch swings, and more trees per square mile than any burg on the planet. In spring, Charlotte is a kaleidoscope of pink, white, violet, and red. In fall it blazes with yellow and orange. It has a church on every corner and people attend them. The erosion of the genteel life is a constant topic of conversation, but the same folks lamenting its passage keep one eye on the stock market.
I live at Sharon Hall, a turn-of-the-century estate in the elegant old neighborhood of Myers Park. Once a graceful Georgian manor, the Hall had fallen into disrepair by the 1950s and was donated to a local college. In the mid-eighties the two-and-a-half-acre property was purchased by developers, upfitted, and reincarnated as a modern condominium complex.
While most of the Hall's residents occupy the main house, or one of its recently constructed wings, my condo is a tiny structure on the western edge of the property. Records indicate the building started life as an addition to the coach house, but no document describes its original function. For lack of a better term it is simply called the Annex.
Though cramped, my two stories are bright and sunny, and my small patio is perfect for geraniums, one of the few species able to survive my horticultural ministrations. The Annex has been home since my marital breakup, and it suits me perfectly.
The sky was resolutely blue as I entered the gates and circled the grounds. The petunias and marigolds smelled of autumn, their perfume mingling with the scent of drying leaves. Sunshine warmed the bricks of the Hall's buildings, walks, and perimeter wall.
Rounding the Annex, I was surprised to see Pete's Porsche parked next to my patio, Boyd's head protruding from the passenger side. Spotting me, the dog pricked his ears, pulled in his tongue, then let it dangle again.
Through the back window I could see Birdie in his travel cage. My cat did not look pleased with the transport arrangements.
As I pulled parallel to Pete's car, he rounded the building.
“Jesus, am I glad I caught you.” His face looked anxious.
“What is it?”
“A client's knitting plant just went up in flames. The case is certain to become a matter of litigation, and I've got to get out there with some experts before would-be fire inspectors muck things up.”
“Out where?”
“Indianapolis. I was hoping you'd take Boyd for a couple of days.”
The tongue disappeared, dropped again.
“I'm leaving for Bryson City.”
“Boyd loves the highlands. He'd be great company.”
“Look at him.”
Boyd's chin now rested on the window ledge, and saliva trickled down the car's outside panel.
“He'd be protection.”
“That's a stretch.”
“Really. Harvey didn't like unexpected visitors, so he trained Boyd to sniff out strangers.”
“Especially those in uniform.”
“The good, the bad, the ugly, even the beautiful. Boyd makes no distinctions.”
“Isn't there a kennel where he can board?”
“It's full.” He glanced at his watch, then gave me his most beguiling choirboy look. “And my flight leaves in an hour.”
Pete had never refused when I'd needed help with Birdie.
“Go. I'll figure something out.”