I found no reference to Prentice Dashwood, to the Arthur property, or to the officers of the H&F Investment Group. The closest I came was a May 1959 spread on a fiery crash on Highway 19. Six hurt, four killed. Pictures showed tangled wreckage. Dr. Anthony Allen Birkby, sixty-eight, from Cullowhee, died three days later of multiple injuries. I took note. Though the name was not uncommon, one C. A. Birkby was listed on McMahon's fax.
By noon, my head pulsed and my blood sugar had dropped to a level incapable of sustaining life. I slipped a granola bar from my purse, did a stealthy peel, and munched quietly as I cranked my zillionth spool through the viewer.
Issues from recent years were not yet on microfilm, and by midafternoon I was able to switch to hard copy. But the headache had already escalated from a minor disturbance to major pain that swirled across my frontal, temporal, and occipital lobes and pulsed at an epicenter behind my right eye.
Final stretch. The tough get going. Bring it home. Remember the Gipper.
Shit.
I was flipping through papers from the current year, scanning headlines and photographs, when a name caught my eye. George Adair. The missing fisherman.
The coverage of Adair's disappearance was detailed, giving the exact time and place of the fatal fishing trip, a description of the victim, and an itemized account of what he was wearing, right down to his high school ring and St. Blaise medal.
Another childhood flashback. The parish priest. The blessing of throats on St. Blaise Day. What was the story? Blaise was reputed to have saved a child from choking on a fish bone. The medal made sense. Crowe said Adair complained of throat problems.
Adair's companion was interviewed, as were his wife, friends, former employer, and priest. A grainy picture was printed beside the story, the pendant clearly visible around his neck.
Who was Crowe's other missing person? I searched my pounding brain. Jeremiah Mitchell. February. I moved back almost eight months and began a more careful perusal. Small things began to connect.
Jeremiah Mitchell's disappearance was reported in one short paragraph. On February 15 a seventy-two-year-old black male left the Mighty High Tap and walked into oblivion. Anyone having information blah, blah, blah.
Old ways die hard, I thought, feeling a prickle of anger. White man goes missing: feature story. Black man goes missing: blurb on page seventeen. Or maybe it was station in life. George Adair had a job, friends, family. Jeremiah Mitchell was an unemployed alcoholic who lived alone.
But Mitchell had once had kin. A follow-up appeared in early March, again a single paragraph, seeking information and citing the name of his maternal grandmother, Martha Rose Gist. I stared. How far back had I seen that name?
I returned to the boxes, jumping the microfilm weeks at a turn. The obituary appeared on May 16, 1952, along with six inches in the arts column. Martha Rose Gist had been a potter of local fame. The article included a picture of a beautifully decorated ceramic bowl, but none of the artist.
Damn!
Checking to be sure the overflow room was empty, I clicked on my cell. Six messages. Ignoring them, I dialed Crowe's number, muffling the beeps with my jacket.
“Sheriff Crowe.”
I didn't bother announcing myself.
“Are you familiar with Sequoyah?” I asked in a loud whisper.
“Are you in church?”
“The Bryson City library.”
“Iris catches you, she'll rip off your lips and feed them to her shredder.”
I assumed Iris was the lilac-haired dragon I'd met at the entrance.
“Sequoyah?”
“Sequoyah invented an alphabet for the Cherokee language. Hang around long enough and someone will buy you an ashtray decorated with the symbols,” she said.
“What was Sequoyah's family name?”
“You want my final answer?”
“I'm serious.”
“Guess.”
“This is important,” I hissed.
“His name was Guess. Or Gist, depending on the transliteration. Why?”
“Jeremiah Mitchell's maternal grandmother was Martha Rose Gist.”
“The potter?”
“Yes.”
“I'll be damned.”
“You know what that means?”
I didn't wait for her answer.
“Mitchell was part Cherokee.”
“This is a library!”
Iris's words scorched the side of my face.
I held up a finger.
“Hang up instantly!” She spoke as loud as a human can without using the vocal cords.
“Is there a newspaper printed on the reservation?”
“The Cherokee One Feather. And I think there's a tribal photo archive at the museum.”
“Gotta go.” I disconnected and shut off the power.
“I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” Iris stood with hands on hips, the gestapo protectress of the printed word.
“Shall I return the boxes?”
“That will not be necessary.”
It took three stops to find what I needed. A trip to the offices of the Cherokee One Feather, located in the Tribal Council Center, revealed that the paper had only been in print since 1966. While there had been a predecessor publication years before, The Cherokee Phoenix, the current staff had no photos or back issues in their possession.
The Cherokee Historical Association had pictures, but most had been taken as promotional shots for the outdoor theatrical production Unto These Hills.
I hit pay dirt at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, directly across the street. When I repeated my request, I was taken to a second-floor office, issued cotton gloves, and allowed to graze through their photo and newspaper archives.
Within an hour I had confirmation.
Martha Rose Standingdeer was born in 1889 on the Qualla Boundary. She wed John Patrick Gist in 1908 and gave birth to a daughter, Willow Lynette, the following year.
At the age of seventeen, Willow married Jonas Mitchell at the AME Zion Church in Greenville, South Carolina. Their wedding portrait shows a delicate girl in a cloche veil and Empire gown, a bouquet of daisies in her hands. At her side stands a man with skin much darker than that of his bride.
I studied the picture. Though rawboned and homely, Jonas Mitchell was appealing in a strange sort of way. Today, he might have modeled for Benetton ads.
Willow Mitchell gave birth to Jeremiah in 1929, died of tuberculosis the following winter. I found no mention of Jonas or his son after that date.
I sat back, processing what I'd learned.
Jeremiah Mitchell was at least one half Native American. He was seventy-two years old when he disappeared. The foot must surely be his.
My deductive centers logged in immediately. The dates didn't correlate.
Mitchell went missing in February. The VFA profile gives a postmortem interval of six to seven weeks, placing the death in late August or early September.
Maybe Mitchell survived the night of the Mighty High Tap. Maybe he ventured off, then returned and died of exposure six months later.
Ventured off?
On a trip.
A seventy-two-year-old alcoholic with no car or money?
It happens.
Uh-huh. Died of exposure in the summer?
I sat, stumped and frustrated by a million facts I couldn't integrate.
Hoping pictures would be more headache friendly, I switched to the photo archives.
Again, small things caught my attention.
I'd gone through fifty or sixty folders when an eight-by-ten black-and-white aroused my interest. Flower-draped casket. Mourners, some in broad-shouldered baggy suits, others in traditional Cherokee dress. I flipped to the back. A yellowed label identified the event in faded ink: Charlie Wayne Tramper Funeral. May 17, 1959. The old man who had gone missing and been killed by a bear.
My gaze roved over the faces, then froze on one of two young men standing apart from the crowd. I was so surprised I gasped.