Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

While most of the Hall's residents occupy the main house, or one of its recently constructed wings, my condo is a tiny structure on the western edge of the property. Records indicate the building started life as an addition to the coach house, but no document describes its original function. For lack of a better term it is simply called the Annex.

Though cramped, my two stories are bright and sunny, and my small patio is perfect for geraniums, one of the few species able to survive my horticultural ministrations. The Annex has been home since my marital breakup, and it suits me perfectly.

The sky was resolutely blue as I entered the gates and circled the grounds. The petunias and marigolds smelled of autumn, their perfume mingling with the scent of drying leaves. Sunshine warmed the bricks of the Hall's buildings, walks, and perimeter wall.

Rounding the Annex, I was surprised to see Pete's Porsche parked next to my patio, Boyd's head protruding from the passenger side. Spotting me, the dog pricked his ears, pulled in his tongue, then let it dangle again.

Through the back window I could see Birdie in his travel cage. My cat did not look pleased with the transport arrangements.

As I pulled parallel to Pete's car, he rounded the building.

“Jesus, am I glad I caught you.” His face looked anxious.

“What is it?”

“A client's knitting plant just went up in flames. The case is certain to become a matter of litigation, and I've got to get out there with some experts before would-be fire inspectors muck things up.”

“Out where?”

“Indianapolis. I was hoping you'd take Boyd for a couple of days.”

The tongue disappeared, dropped again.

“I'm leaving for Bryson City.”

“Boyd loves the highlands. He'd be great company.”

“Look at him.”

Boyd's chin now rested on the window ledge, and saliva trickled down the car's outside panel.

“He'd be protection.”

“That's a stretch.”

“Really. Harvey didn't like unexpected visitors, so he trained Boyd to sniff out strangers.”

“Especially those in uniform.”

“The good, the bad, the ugly, even the beautiful. Boyd makes no distinctions.”

“Isn't there a kennel where he can board?”

“It's full.” He glanced at his watch, then gave me his most beguiling choirboy look. “And my flight leaves in an hour.”

Pete had never refused when I'd needed help with Birdie.

“Go. I'll figure something out.”

“You're sure?”

“I'll find a kennel.”

Pete squeezed both my arms.

“You're my hero.”

There are twenty-three kennels in the greater Charlotte area. It took an hour to establish that fourteen were fully booked, five did not answer, two could not accommodate a dog over fifty pounds, and two would take no dog without a personal interview.

“Now what?”

Boyd raised and cocked his head, then went back to licking my kitchen floor.

Desperate, I made another call.

Ruby was less fastidious. For three dollars a day the dog was welcome, no personal audience required.

My neighbor took Birdie, and the chow and I hit the road.

Halloween has its roots in the pagan festival of Samhain. Held at the onset of winter and the beginning of the Celtic New Year, Samhain was the time when the veil between living and dead was thinnest, and spirits roamed the land of mortals. Fires were extinguished and rekindled, and people dressed up to frighten away the unfriendly departed.

Though the holiday was still two weeks off, the residents of Bryson City were into the concept in a big way. Ghouls, bats, and spiders were everywhere. Scarecrows and tombstones had been erected in front yards, and skeletons, black cats, witches, and ghosts dangled from trees and porch lights. Jack-o'-lanterns leered from every window in town. A couple of cars had rather realistic replicas of human feet protruding from their trunks. Good time to actually dispose of a body, I thought.

By five I'd settled Boyd into a run behind High Ridge House, and myself into Magnolia. Then I drove to the sheriff 's headquarters.

Lucy Crowe was on the phone when I appeared in her doorway. She waved me into her office, and I took one of two chairs. Her desk filled most of the small space, looking like something at which a Confederate general might have penned military orders. Her chair was also ancient, brown leather and studded, with stuffing oozing from the left arm.

“Nice desk,” I said when she'd hung up.

“I think it's ash.” The sea-foam eyes were just as startling as on our first meeting. “It was made by my predecessor's grandfather.”

She leaned back, and the chair squeaked musically.

“Tell me what I've missed.”

“They say you've damaged the investigation.”

“Sometimes you get bad press.”

Her head did a j-stroke. “What have you got?”

“That foot was walking the earth at least sixty-five years. No one on the plane had that privilege. I need to establish that this was not crash evidence.”

The sheriff opened a folder and spread its contents on her blotter.

“I've got three missing persons. Had four, but one turned up.”

“Shoot.”

“Jeremiah Mitchell, black male, age seventy-two. Disappeared from Waynesville eight months ago. According to patrons at the Mighty High Tap, Mitchell left the bar around midnight to buy hooch. That was February fifteenth. Mitchell's neighbor reported him missing ten days later. He hasn't been seen since.”

“No family?”

“None listed. Mitchell was a loner.”

“Why the neighbor's concern?”

“Mitchell had his ax and the guy wanted it back. Visited the house several times, finally got tired of waiting, went to see if Mitchell was in the drunk tank. He wasn't, so the neighbor filed an MP report, thinking a police search might flush him.”

“And his ax.”

“A man's nothing without his tools.”

“Height?”

She ran a finger down one of the papers.

“Five foot six.”

“That fits. Was he driving?”

“Mitchell was a heavy drinker, traveled by foot. Folks figure he got himself lost and died of exposure.”

“Who else?”

“George Adair.” She read from another form. “White male, age sixty-seven. Lived over to Unahala, disappeared two weeks ago. Wife said he went fishing with a buddy and never came back.”

“What was the buddy's story?”

“Woke one morning and Adair wasn't in the tent. Waited a day, then packed up and went home.”

“Where was this fatal fishing trip?”

“The Little Tennessee.” She swiveled and stabbed at a spot on a wall map behind her. “Up the Nantahala Mountains.”

“Where's Unahala?”

Her finger moved a fraction toward the northeast.

“And where's the crash site?”

Her finger barely moved.

“Who's contestant number three?”

When she turned back, the chair sang another verse.

“Daniel Wahnetah, age sixty-nine, Cherokee from the reservation. Failed to show up for his grandson's birthday on July twenty-seventh. Family reported him missing on August twenty-sixth when he pulled a no-show for his own party.” Her eyes moved down the paper. “No height reported.”

“The family waited a month?”

“Except in winter, Daniel spends most of his time out in the woods. He has a string of camps, works a circuit hunting and fishing.”

She leaned back, and the chair squeaked a tune I didn't know.

“Looks like Jesse Jackson's Rainbow Coalition. If it's one of these guys, nail the race and you've got your man.”

“That's it?”

“Folks pretty much stay put up here. Like the idea of dying in their beds.”

“See if any of these guys had foot problems. Or if they left shoes at home. Sole imprints could be useful. And start thinking about DNA. Head hair. Extracted teeth. Even a toothbrush might be a source if it hasn't been cleaned or reused. If there's nothing left from the victim we could work with a comparison sample from a blood relative.”