Mama’s logic was sound. She was isolated. She was also better at keeping secrets than the CIA. How could she compromise a case in which I knew neither the victim’s identity nor the cause of death?
“Okay, Sherlock.” Sighing theatrically. “Let me wash up.”
Mama arced the fork as a conductor might flourish a baton. “The game is afoot.”
I went to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands and face. Cleaned my nails. Considered my hair. Decided that situation was hopeless and retucked it under the cap. When I returned, a second plate and a chair had appeared at the desk.
Between mouthfuls of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and minted peas, I explained ME229-13 and the day’s exploits with Gunner and Ramsey. I described finding the hand bones and the glob of pine tar. I left Strike out. And the possibility that the victim could be Cora Teague.
Mama listened, rapt. Despite her faults, my mother is a very good listener. When I’d finished, there was a lengthy pause, a prompt to continue. Instead, wanting to stay on safe ground, I shared some of my newfound knowledge about Brown Mountain. Mama flapped a hand, either derisive or disinterested. When I said that was it, she began asking questions. In fact, for the next hour, my mother questioned the bejaysus out of me.
Things went well, and I stayed longer than I’d planned. Outside, the wind had decided to go all out. I scurried to my car, head down and gripping my cap, the hedges lining the flagstones tossing like ocean waves in a storm.
By the time I got home it was eleven-twenty. I removed the Ziplocs from my pack and stashed them in the fridge. After feeding an extremely unhappy cat, I stripped off my clothes and hit the shower.
Smelling of ginger-citrus body wash and lavender shampoo, I finally crawled into bed at ten past twelve. As on the previous night, I considered but decided against phoning Ryan. Too late.
Again my conscience had to have its say. The guy is a night owl. Why the reluctance?
Good question. Avoidance of the elephant in the room wearing borrowed and blue? Or did the reason go deeper than that? An unwillingness to share Cora Teague? A subliminal desire to keep separate that which was mine?
Despite my exhaustion, I lay awake a long time, stroking Birdie’s head and listening for out-of-place noises. Happily, I heard none. Only the hum of feline purring and the rattle of the screen in its frame. Eventually, icy drumming on the glass. Maybe slush, maybe rain. That was my last drifting thought.
Then I was full-throttle awake, heart in my throat. Alicia Keys was singing about a girl on fire.
Good news never comes at two in the morning. My mother had cancer. My daughter was in a war zone.
I fumbled for my mobile. Dropped it. Banged my elbow groping under the bed.
“I hope I didn’t wake you, sweet pea.”
“Are you sick?”
“Not at all.”
“Mama, it’s the middle of the night.”
“I am so sorry.” Whispery, excited. Insincere. “But I’ve discovered something I think you should know.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m just fine.”
“I’ve had a very long day. Can we talk in the morning?”
Mama sighed, a long, disappointed breath meant for me to hear. “I suppose.”
“Are you feeling unwell?”
“Asked and answered.”
There was a time I’d have tried harder to put her off. Not anymore. I’ve learned from experience that Mama determined is an irresistible force.
“Shoot.” I rolled to my back, phone to one ear, fairly certain of her next words.
“After you left I got online.”
Yep. There they were. I pictured her in bed, laptop resting on upraised knees, face mottled with reflected light from the screen.
“Uh-huh.” I stifled a yawn.
“Are you listening?”
“I am.”
I heard the comforter rustle, knew Mama was repositioning herself for a dramatic delivery.
“You will not believe what I’ve found.”
She was right. I didn’t.
A brief comment about Katherine Daessee Lee Brennan.
Throughout my childhood, Mama was as unpredictable as a summer afternoon at the beach. For months she’d be happy, funny, clever—a presence as vibrant as sunshine itself. Then, without warning, she’d retreat to her room. Sometimes to a faraway place. Harry and I would draw pictures at our little table, whisper in our beds at night. Where had she gone? Why? Would she come home?
Doctors with differing degrees provided varying diagnoses. Bipolar. Schizobipolar. Schizoaffective. Disorder of the moment. Take your pick. Pick your meds. Lorazepam. Lithium. Lamotrigine.
No drug ever worked for long. No treatment ever stuck. A cheerful breather, then the darkness would reclaim her. When I was a child, Mama’s mood swings frightened me. As an adult I’ve learned to cope. To accept. My mother is as stable as a skink on a skittle.
When Mama was in her late fifties and emerging from a particularly murky plunge, I bought her a computer. I held little hope she’d find the cyberworld attractive but was desperate for something to occupy her mind. Something other than me.
I walked her through the basics—email, word processing, spreadsheets, the Internet. Explained about browsers and search engines. To my surprise, she was enthralled, took class after class at the Apple Store, then at the local community college. Eventually, as was typical, her proficiency far exceeded mine.
I wouldn’t call my mother a hacker. She has no interest in stealing ATM or credit card numbers. Couldn’t care less about the workings of the Pentagon or NASA. But, when determined, there’s nothing she can’t tease from the World Wide Web.
Mama is also an incurable insomniac.
Given that combo, I wasn’t surprised she’d taken my tale of Gunner and Ramsey and run with it. But I was mildly unsettled by what she’d found.
“What was recovered?”
“The article doesn’t elaborate. Out of delicacy, I suppose. I applaud such discretion. The public is given entirely too much detail—”
“What does it say?”
“It simply reports the discovery of possible human body parts.” The last four words delivered with precision. “That is a direct quote.”
“What paper is this?”
“The Avery Journal-Times. That’s Avery County.”
“I know that.”
“There is no call to be snippy, Temperance.” Very snippy.
“Sorry, Mama. I’m half asleep.” Swinging my feet to the floor, I turned on the light and grabbed a pen and an old envelope from the bedside table. “When did the story appear?”
“April 29, 2012.”
“Does it say where the remains were found?”
“Indeed it does.” A quick breath. “The find was made off the Blue Ridge Parkway, two miles north of the junction with Route 181. That would be mile marker 310. I checked with Google Earth.”
Of course she had.
“Are you aware what is at that location?” she asked.
“I am not.”
“The Lost Cove Cliffs Overlook.”
I hadn’t a clue what she was getting at. Was struggling to unravel it when she spoke again.
“Overlook?” Delivered as though deeply meaningful.
Right. “Mama, do you know the number of overlooks in the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
A cool silence followed. I knew an answer to my rhetorical question would be winging my way before morning.
“And what does one view from this particular overlook?” Curt.
“More mountains?” Again, I wasn’t following.
“Brown Mountain. Just like the Burke County overlook.”
“That is an odd coincidence.”
“I am having trouble seeing it as coincidence.”
“Who found these body parts?”
“Hikers.”
“Has anyone established that the stuff was human?”