Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

“Do you want hard copy?”

“Please.”

She unveiled a Hewlett-Packard bubble-jet printer similar to the first one I'd ever owned. Again we waited while she folded and stored the plastic cover, took one sheet of paper from a drawer, and placed it in the feeder tray.

Finally, she hit a key, the printer whirred, and the paper disappeared then oozed out.

“I hope this helps,” she said, handing it to me.

The printout gave a vague description of the property and its buildings, its assessed value, the owner's name and mailing address, and the address to which the tax bills were being sent.

I passed it to Ryan, feeling deflated.

“‘H&F Investment Group, LLP,’” he read aloud. “The mailing address is a PO box in New York.”

He looked at me.

“Who the hell is the H&F Investment Group?”

I shrugged.

“What's LLP?”

“Limited liability partnership,” I said.

“You could try the deed room.”

We both turned to Dorothy. A touch of pink had sprouted on each cheek.

“You could look up the date that H&F bought the property, and the name of the previous owner.”

“They'd have that?”

She nodded.

We found the register of deeds around the corner from the tax office. The records room was situated behind the obligatory counter, through a set of slatted swinging doors. Shelves lining the walls and filling free-standing cases held deed books spanning hundreds of years. Recent ones were square and red, their numbers stated in plain gold lettering. Older volumes were ornately decorated, like leatherbound volumes of first editions.

It was like a treasure hunt, with each deed sending us backward in time. We learned the following:

The H&F Investment Group was an LLP registered in Delaware. Ownership of tax parcel number four transferred to the partnership in 1949 from one Edward E. Arthur. The description of the property was charming, but a bit loose by modern standards. I read it aloud to Ryan.

“‘The property begins at a Spanish oak on a knob, the corner of state grant 11807, and runs north ninety poles to the Bellingford line, then up the ridge as it meanders with Bellingford's line to a chestnut in the line of the S. Q. Barker tract—’”

“Where did Arthur get it?”

I skipped the rest of the survey and read on.

“Do you want to hear the ‘party of the first part’ bits?”

“No.”

“‘. . . having the same land conveyed by deed from Victor T. Livingstone and wife J. E. Clampett, dated March 26, 1933, and recorded in Deed Book number 52, page 315, Records of Swain County, North Carolina.’”

I went to the shelf and pulled the older volume.

Arthur had obtained the property from one Victor T. Livingstone in 1933. Livingstone must have purchased it from God, since there were no records before that time.

“At least we know how the happy homeowners got in and out.”

The Livingstone and Arthur deeds both described an entrance road.

“Or get in and out.” I was still not convinced the property was abandoned. “While we were there Crowe found a track leading from the house to a logging trail. The turnoff at the trail is obscured by a makeshift gate completely overgrown with kudzu. When she showed me the entrance I couldn't believe it. You could walk or drive past it a million times without ever seeing it.”

Ryan said nothing.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait for Crowe's warrant.”

“And in the meantime?”

Ryan grinned, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“In the meantime we talk to the attorney general of the great state of Delaware, find out what we can about the H&F Investment Group.”

Boyd and I were sharing a club sandwich and fries on the porch at High Ridge House when Lucy Crowe's squad car appeared on the road below. I watched her wind upward toward the driveway. Boyd continued to watch the sandwich.

“Spending quality time?” Crowe asked when she'd reached the stairs.

“He says I've been neglecting him.”

I held out a slice of ham. Boyd tipped his head and took it gently with his front teeth. Then he lowered his snout, dropped the ham on the porch, licked it twice, and wolfed it down. In seconds his chin was back on my knee.

“They're just like kids.”

“Mmm. Did you get the warrant?”

Boyd's eyes moved as my hand moved, alert for lunch meat or fries.

“I had a real heart-to-heart with the magistrate.”

“And?”

She sighed and removed her hat.

“He says it's not enough.”

“Evidence of a body?” I was shocked. “Daniel Wahnetah could be decomposing in that courtyard even as we speak.”

“Are you familiar with the term junk science? I am. It was thrown at me at least a dozen times this morning. I think old Frank is going to start his own support group. Junk Science Victims Anonymous.”

“Is the guy an idiot?”

“He's never going to Sweden to collect a prize, but he's usually reasonable.”

Boyd raised his head and blew air through his nose. I put my hand down and he sniffed, then gave it a lick.

“You're neglecting him, again.”

I offered a slice of egg. Boyd dropped it, licked it, sniffed, licked again, then left it on the porch.

“I don't care for egg in club sandwiches, either,” Crowe said to Boyd. The dog moved his ear slightly, to indicate that he'd heard, but kept his eyes on my plate.

“It gets worse,” Crowe went on.

Why not?

“There have been additional complaints.”

“About me?”

She nodded.

“By whom?”

“The magistrate wouldn't share that information. But if you go anywhere near the site, the morgue, or any crash-related record, item, or family member, I am to arrest you for obstruction of justice. That includes this courtyard property.”

“What the hell is going on?” My stomach tightened in anger.

Crowe shrugged. “I'm not sure. But you're out of that investigation.”

“Am I allowed to go to the public library?” I spat.

The sheriff rubbed the back of her neck and rested a boot on the bottom step. Beneath her jacket I could see the bulge of a gun.

“There's something very wrong here, Sheriff.”

“I'm listening.”

“My room was ransacked yesterday.”

“Theories?”

I told her about the figurines in the bathtub.

“Not exactly a Hallmark greeting.”

“It's probably that Boyd's annoying someone.” I said it hopefully, but didn't really believe my own words.

Boyd's ears shot forward at the sound of his name. I gave him a slice of bacon.

“Is he a barker?”

“Not really. I asked Ruby if he makes noise when I'm away. She said he howls a bit, but nothing extraordinary.”

“What does Ruby say about it?”

“Satan's minions.”

“Maybe you have something that someone wants.”

“Nothing was taken, though all my files were thrown around. The whole room was trashed.”

“Did you keep notes on this foot?”

“I'd taken them with me to Oak Ridge.”

She looked at me a full five seconds, then nodded her nod.

“Makes that Volvo episode a little more suspect. You watch yourself.”

Oh yes.

Crowe leaned over and brushed off the toe of her boot, then looked at her watch.

“I'll see if I can get the DA to push harder.”

At that moment Ryan's rental car appeared in the valley. The driver's-side window was open and his silhouette looked dark against the car's interior. We watched him climb the mountain and turn into the drive. Moments later he strode up the path, his face looking drawn and tense.

“What is it?”

I heard Crowe's hat brush the top of her thigh.

Ryan hesitated a beat, then, “There's still no sign of Jean's body.”