“Of course! If the ringer has metal tooth fillings in his mouth, we can be pretty sure he wasn’t a nineteenth-century Indian.” Elizabeth picked up a battered brown skull and peered at the dark stumps on the maxilla. “This one definitely never saw a dentist,” she announced.
Milo tapped the smooth cranium. “It was pretty old. No suture closures.”
They worked for a while in silence, comparing skull coloration, and brushing dirt away from molars to see if a dark filling lay concealed beneath. Occasionally Milo would pick up a measuring tool if Coltsfoot happened to be looking in their direction.
“Why don’t you want the sheriff’s men to know what you suspect?” asked Elizabeth after a while.
“Because if a new body was dumped into the gravesite, it was done by the locals. We’re outsiders. I don’t know who we can trust.”
“Suddenly I don’t feel very safe,” said Elizabeth. She looked at Coltsfoot out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he was as innocuous as he appeared.
“I just wish I knew who we’re looking for,” said Milo fiercely. “That would help. I wonder if there is any way that we could discreetly ask questions about missing persons around the area.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Missing persons! Milo! I think I know who we’re looking for.”
In an urgent undertone she recounted the details of the Moonshine Massacre, ending with the disappearance of the sheriff’s nephew. “And he has not been found to this day,” she finished solemnly.
Milo rocked back on his heels and picked up a skull from the box. “That must be it,” he agreed. “One of these skulls must be him.” After a moment’s scrutiny, he set the skull back in the box. “Not this one, though. Keep looking.”
He watched for a moment as Elizabeth deftly hoisted another specimen. She had a steady hand, without a trace of beginner’s squeamishness. “You’re doing very well, Elizabeth,” he said awkwardly. “I’d just like you to know that-”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, Milo,” she said gently. “Not until this is over.”
Pilot Barnes and Hamp McKenna rode in silence along the Sarvice Valley Road. Pilot was too preoccupied with his newly complicated responsibilities to engage in small talk, but despite his worries, he looked out across the valley with a stir of satisfaction. There were pastures of scrubby black cattle, and mounds of green hills attached like ribs to the spine of a wooded mountain. Weathered barns and laden apple trees became postcard pictures framed by split-rail fences.
At least this hasn’t changed, Pilot thought. He wished he could say the same for the rest of the county. The new four-lane, which had been built to speed tourists on their way to Asheville, and the motels and gift shops designed to slow them down, were sources of jobs and revenue, he supposed, but their ugliness saddened him. A mainstream of American culture had washed over the mountains, drowning most of what had been there before, and leaving flotsam of rusted car bodies and old beer cans. Pilot Barnes wondered how long the Cullowhees could hold out against the tide, or if in fact they wanted to.
“Wonder how Dummyweed passed the night,” Hamp mused, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
Pilot grunted. Assigning Dummyweed to guard duty had started him on this train of thought, he guessed, because Dummyweed was a perfect example of the county’s new settlers. They arrived in minivans, armed with Foxfire books to teach them how to live “country,” and they built forty-thousand-dollar log homes with solar water heaters. He saw them as year-round tourists, who sold their pots and dulcimers to the more seasonal variety. And now, with Duncan Johnson gone ocean-fishing, the county had its first instance of computer crime and complicated homicide. He might have known it would come to this. Pilot Barnes felt a little like an Indian watching the wagon trains roll toward his hunting grounds.
In daylight the clearing seemed less ominous, Pilot thought, threading his way past the trenches. In June, when the mountain laurel bushes were blooming, it was probably beautiful. Pilot thought cemeteries ought to be beautiful; he didn’t hold with making horrors out of people just because they had died.
“Good morning,” said Dummyweed with more than a trace of eagerness in his voice. “Everything’s fine here.”
Pilot edged past him and peered into the tent. “It is, huh?” he barked. “Then suppose you tell me where the contents of that tent went to!”
Daniel Hunter Coltsfoot paled. “Contents?”
“When we took the body out of here last night, there were skulls all over the place in there. Where are they?”
“Over there! They said they needed them to do their research. They said that they weren’t important to the case. They said-”
Pilot cut him off with a nod. “I’ll handle it. You go on home now.” You couldn’t fire someone who wasn’t on the payroll, the deputy reasoned. He motioned for Hamp to begin the routine investigation.
Elizabeth and Milo, having seen the uniformed deputies approach, were busy with their measuring instruments, apparently oblivious to the new arrivals. When Pilot Barnes loomed over them, blocking their light, they looked up in all innocence. “Good morning,” said Elizabeth politely.
Pilot Barnes’ lips tightened. “Tampering with evidence in a homicide constitutes being an accessory after the fact,” he informed them.
Milo sighed. “Look, I’ve worked on cases with our coroner back home. Why don’t you call him? His name is Dr. David-”
“Makes no difference,” said the deputy, shaking his head. “Everybody here is a suspect until I know different from my own investigations. I’m going to impound those skulls as material evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Milo demanded.
Pilot gave him an appraising stare. “I’ll bet you could tell me that.”
“The deputy won’t let us work up there today,” Milo told the assembled diggers. “I’m sorry we couldn’t let you guys know before you drove all the way up here.”
“That’s okay,” said the president of the archaeological society. “We’re sorry to hear about Dr. Lerche. What happens now?”
“We’ve decided to continue. I’m going to town this afternoon and call the chairman of the anthropology department. I’m pretty sure he’ll let me finish the project on my own. It’s only a couple of weeks. Come back tomorrow. We’ll be back in business by then.”
When the local workers had gone back to their cars, Milo turned to Jake. “I need to go to town to make phone calls. You’re in charge while I’m gone. Don’t let the sheriff’s department impound our equipment or anything, but otherwise, cooperate with them.”
Jake nodded. “Anything you want us to do?”
“No. Just stay out of trouble.”
“Do the police have any leads on the killer?” asked Victor, lapsing into television cop talk.
Milo gave him a grim smile. “We seem to be their first choice,” he said.
“Have you told Comfrey Stecoah about this, Milo?” asked Elizabeth.
“I expect he knows. But you’re right. He ought to hear it from me. I’ll stop by this afternoon.”
“Milo, would you like me to come with you?” asked Elizabeth. She tried frantically to think of some grocery item they might need, which could only be chosen by herself. No inspiration was forthcoming.
“No, thanks,” said Milo. “I need the time.”
When he had gone, Elizabeth turned to Jake. “I hope they solve it soon, Jake. Milo looks awful!”
Jake nodded. “He’s going to have to eat one of these days.”
Victor nodded. “It’s dreadful. I have had to force myself to eat. I simply will not give way to nerves! But I really don’t see why this case is dragging on. It is perfectly obvious who the killer is.”
“It isn’t obvious to me,” Elizabeth told him.