Though forty years younger, there was no mistaking that face. He would have been in his late twenties in 1959, newly arrived from England. A professor of archaeology at Duke. An academic superstar about to fade.
Why was Simon Midkiff at Charlie Wayne Tramper's funeral?
My eyes slid right, and this time the gasp was audible. Simon Midkiff was standing shoulder to shoulder with a man who would later rise to the office of lieutenant governor.
Parker Davenport.
Or was it? I stared at the features. Yes. No. This man was much younger, thinner.
I hesitated, looked around. No one had poked through this file for half a century. It wasn't stealing. I would return the print in a few days, no damage done.
I slipped the photo into my purse, returned the folder to its drawer, and bolted.
Outside, I dialed Raleigh Information, requested a number for the Department of Cultural Resources, then waited while the connection was made. When a voice answered I asked for Carol Burke. She came on in less than ten seconds.
“Carol Burke.”
“Carol, this is Tempe Brennan.”
“Good timing. I was just about to close it up for the day. Are you planning to dig up another graveyard?”
Among its many duties, the North Carolina Department of Cultural Resources is responsible for heritage preservation. When development involving state or federal moneys, permits, licenses, or lands is proposed, Carol and her colleagues order surveys and excavations to determine if prehistoric or historic sites will be threatened. Highway projects, airport work, sewer lines—without their clearance, no ground is broken.
Carol and I met in the days when archaeology was my main focus. Twice Charlotte developers had retained me to help relocate historic cemeteries. Carol had overseen both projects.
“Not this time. I'd like information.”
“I'll do my best.”
“I'm curious about the site Simon Midkiff is digging for you.”
“Currently?”
“Yes.”
“He's not doing anything for us at the moment. At least nothing of which I'm aware.”
“Isn't he excavating in Swain County?”
“I don't think so. Hold on.”
By the time she returned, I'd walked to Ryan's car and opened the door.
“Nope. Midkiff hasn't worked for us in over two years and isn't likely to any time soon because he still owes us a site report from his last contract.”
“Thanks.”
“I wish all my requests were this simple.”
I'd barely put down the phone when it rang again. A journalist from the Charlotte Observer. A reminder of my continuing notoriety. I clicked off without comment.
A thousand cranial vessels pulsed in my skull. Nothing made sense. Why had Midkiff lied? Why had he and Davenport attended the Tramper funeral? Did they know each other back then?
I needed aspirin. I needed lunch. I needed an objective listener.
Boyd.
After popping two Bayers, I collected the chow, and we set forth. Boyd rode with his head out the passenger window, nose to the air, twisting and turning to suck in every discernible odor. Watching him at the Burger King drive-through, I thought of the squirrel, then the wall at the courtyard house. Just what had his former owner trained him to find?
Suddenly, I had an idea. A place to picnic and check out names.
The Bryson City Cemetery is located on Schoolhouse Hill, overlooking Veterans Boulevard on one side, a mountain valley on the other. The drive took seven minutes. Boyd did not understand the delay and kept prodding and licking the food bag. By the time I pulled into the cemetery, the cardboard tray was so soggy I had to carry it with two hands.
Boyd dragged me from stone to stone, peeing on several, then kicking back divots with his hind feet. Finally, he stopped at a pink granite column, turned, and yipped.
Sylvia Hotchkins
Entered this world January 12, 1945. Left this world April 20, 1968.
Taken too early in the spring of her life.
Sixty-eight was a rough year for all of us, Sylvia.
Certain she would enjoy the company, I settled at the base of a large oak shading Sylvia's grave and ordered Boyd to sit beside me. He complied, his eyes fixed on the tray in my hands.
When I withdrew a burger, Boyd sprang to his feet.
“Sit.”
He sat. I peeled off the paper and gave him the burger. He rose, separated it into components, then ate the meat, bun, and lettucetomato garnish sequentially. Finished, he focused on my Whopper, muzzle spotted with ketchup.
“Sit.”
He sat. I spread fries on the grass and he began picking them delicately off the surface so they wouldn't sink between the blades. I unwrapped my Whopper and slipped a straw into my drink.
“Now here's the deal.”
Boyd glanced up, went back to the fries.
“Why would Simon Midkiff have gone to the funeral of a seventy-four-year-old Cherokee killed by a bear in 1959?”
We both ate and thought about that.
“Midkiff is an archaeologist. He might have been researching the Eastern Band Cherokee. Maybe Tramper was his guide and historian.”
Boyd's attention shifted to my burger. I replenished his potatoes.
“O.K. I'll buy that.”
I took a bite, chewed, swallowed.
“Why was Parker Davenport there?”
Boyd looked at me without raising his head from the fries.
“Davenport grew up near here. He probably knew Tramper.”
Boyd's ears flicked forward, back again. He finished the last of his fries and stared at mine. I flipped him a few.
“Perhaps Tramper and Davenport had mutual friends on the reservation. Or maybe Davenport was already building a political base in those days.”
I threw out another half dozen fries. Boyd reengaged.
“How about this? Did Davenport and Midkiff know each other back then?”
Boyd's head came up. His eyebrows spun and his tongue dropped.
“If so, how?”
He cocked his head and watched as I finished my burger. I tossed him the rest of my fries, and he ate them as I sipped my Diet Coke.
“Here's the big one, Boyd.”
I gathered wrappers and bunched them with the remains of the tray. Seeing no more food, Boyd flopped onto his side, sighed loudly, and closed his eyes.
“Midkiff lied to me. Davenport wants my head on a spike. Is there a link?”
Boyd had no answer.
I sat with my back to the oak, absorbing warmth and light. The grass smelled freshly mown, the leaves dry and sun-baked. At one point Boyd rose, turned four times, then resettled at my side.
A short time later a man came over the crest of the hill, leading a collie on a length of rope. Boyd sat up and barked at the dog but didn't make an aggressive move. The late-afternoon sunshine was mellowing woman and beast. Reeling him in, I got to my feet.
As dusk gathered, we strolled among the gravestones. Though I spotted no one from the H&F list, and no Dashwoods, I did find markers with familiar names. Thaddeus Bowman. Victor Livingstone and his daughter, Sarah Masham Livingstone. Enoch McCready.
I remembered Luke Bowman's words, and wondered what had caused the death of Ruby's husband in 1986. Instead of answers, I was finding more questions.
But one mystery was solved. One missing person found. Turning to go, I stumbled across an unadorned slab in the cemetery's southernmost corner. Its face was inscribed with a simple message.
Tucker Adams
1871–1943
R.I.P.
LEAVING THE CEMETERY, I DROVE TOHIGH RIDGE HOUSE, SETTLED Boyd for the night, and returned to my room, unaware that it would be my busiest telephone evening since junior high.