Sharyn McCrumb - Lovely In Her Bones

“Milo isn’t here,” Elizabeth told the deputy.

“No, I know he isn’t. I left him back in town,” Pilot told her. “Like you to meet Ron Garrett, FBI agent. He’s helping us on the case.” He turned to Jake. “We’d like to talk to you.”

Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. Surely not Jake, she thought. A moment later she found she didn’t believe it. “Would you like me to leave?” she asked Jake. “Shall I call Milo?”

“No, it’s okay. What would you like to know, gentlemen?”

“Is your name Jake Adair?” asked Pilot, consulting a printed card.

“Yep,” said Jake calmly. He didn’t seem surprised at being questioned.

“And your home is in Swain County, North Carolina.”

“Right. Route 1, Box 109, Cherokee.”

Pilot eyed him sternly. “That is the Cherokee Indian reservation, ain’t it?”

“It sure is,” Jake agreed cheerfully.

“That’s neat!” exclaimed Elizabeth, forgetting the interrogation. “How did you come to live there?”

“Because I’m a full-blooded Cherokee,” said Jake, smiling gently.

“But-you-but…” Elizabeth realized that all the things she had been about to say were equally stupid, so she hushed and mulled over this turn of events while the officers resumed their questioning.

“Are you aware of the weapon used to kill Dr. Alex Lerche?” the deputy demanded.

“A tomahawk,” said Jake wearily.

“A souvenir tomahawk from the Cherokee reservation,” Garrett corrected him.

“Those things are shipped over by the carload from Taiwan. Shouldn’t you be questioning Chinese suspects, sir?”

“Have you ever had such a weapon in your possession?” barked Pilot, ignoring this sally.

“Not since I was eight years old.”

“Do you have any objection to having your fingerprints taken?”

“Help yourself.”

“This is silly!” cried Elizabeth. “Why should he kill Alex? The Cherokees have nothing to do with all this!”

Jake smiled. “Well, I’d say this was our land about six hundred years ago, but I’m not here to foreclose on it.”

The officers were not amused. “Is there any way the Cherokees could get this land back?” Pilot murmured to the FBI agent.

“About the same odds as you winning the Irish Sweepstakes,” said Jake cheerfully.

“Have you connected him to the tomahawk?” Elizabeth demanded.

Pilot looked pained. “Ma’am, unless you are his attorney of record, would you please stay out of this?”

Elizabeth scowled. “My brother is in law school.”

“It’s all right,” said Jake soothingly. “These gentlemen just want my fingerprints because they’re being thorough. You aren’t going to haul me away in handcuffs, are you?”

Pilot Barnes and Ron Garrett exchanged exasperated glances. They had expected their surprise questioning to elicit frightened cooperation, but it wasn’t working. Garrett shrugged. “We’ll take your prints, run them through our computer, and see what we get. Don’t plan on going anywhere.”

After a few more minutes’ questioning, the officers took Jake’s fingerprints and left. When the door closed behind them, Elizabeth put the last skull back in the box and smiled up at Jake. “Hey, can I measure your jawline?”

Jake laughed. “You didn’t know, did you? Out at the site when you told me I looked like an Apache, I thought you must have guessed.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You don’t… uh… you’re not what I expected.”

“No long hair and feathers, huh? Sorry to disappoint you. The coroner knew, though, the first time he saw me.”

“How?”

“He asked if I was a Cullowhee, and when I said no, he wanted to know my last name. I told him Adair, and he said: ‘So that’s it!’ Adair is a very famous Cherokee name.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Jake smiled. “Dr. Lerche knew. So did Milo. But I don’t usually broadcast it. I get tired of the dumb questions: ‘Do you live in a tepee?’ And the stale jokes: ‘How! You see, I speak your language.’ I didn’t want to hear any more of it.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Like Victor, saying his great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess.”

“Oh, God,” groaned Jake. “That one is the worst. All of you unakas claim your grandmother was a Cherokee. Why can’t you pick on the Shawnee? And why is it always a great-grandmother?”

Elizabeth frowned. “What was that word you used?”

“Unaka? That’s the Cherokee word for honky. Understand, I’m proud of my heritage. I just get tired of people getting so hung up with it that they can’t see me.”

“What?” murmured Elizabeth. She didn’t seem to be listening.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Elizabeth blinked. “Sorry. I guess it’s the heat. I was wondering what we were going to have for lunch.”

“And I thought you were getting nervous about being here with me,” Jake grumbled.

“No. I know you didn’t do it,” she replied.

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

But it isn’t a matter of faith, she thought, it’s just that I know who did it. Now how am I going to get rid of you so that I can find out why? Elizabeth assumed her most simpering smile, the one usually reserved for flat tires on interstates. “Jake, do you think you could go to Comfrey’s house and get some tomatoes from his garden? He said we could help ourselves, and I want to make tomato sandwiches for lunch.”

“Why don’t we both go?” asked Jake, getting up.

“Okay,” said Elizabeth.

When they reached the door, she stopped, as if something had just occurred to her. “You know, we’re almost out of iced tea. Why don’t I stay here and make some while you’re getting the tomatoes. You won’t be gone long, will you?” She asked anxiously.

“Ten or fifteen minutes,” said Jake. “Don’t let anybody in while I’m gone, okay?”

“I promise,” said Elizabeth solemnly. She stood on the porch and watched him walk out of sight. A moment later she was gone.

PILOT BARNES slowed down to let a groundhog scuttle across the road. Had it appeared in his garden, he would have shot it without a qualm; the incongruity of this never struck him. “What did you think of that interview?” he asked the FBI agent.

“The Adair kid?” Garrett shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Remember at the time of the second murder, he didn’t leave the work site. That gives him a lot of witnesses for an alibi; but there’s still a chance he may know something. Our check on him didn’t turn up anything unusual.”

“He’s an Indian,” grunted Pilot.

“Oh, that’s no big deal. My great-grandmother was a Cherokee. That’s where I got my brown eyes. I still say he’s off the hook. In fact, those two might be in danger. Have you thought about putting a guard out there?”

“I don’t think they need one.”

“Better play it safe,” Garrett advised.

The deputy smiled. “Tell you what: I’ll compromise. I’ll send Dummyweed out to guard them.”

“Symbolic deterrent, huh? Might work. That will free you and McKenna to check up on the other people. Are any of the suspects from the first murder out of the picture now? What about the wife?”

“Nope. You saw her at the inquest, didn’t you? She got in last night.”

“She’s a possibility. Could have killed the husband and been seen by this Bassington fellow. Blackmail?”

Pilot thought it over. “Can we get a record of long-distance calls to her house? Or maybe get the Virginia police to search her place for blackmailing letters?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Garrett. “Anything else?”

“The girlfriend. She was out walking when the first murder took place, and right after that she left to do research at MacDowell.”