Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

I returned to the boxes, jumping the microfilm weeks at a turn. The obituary appeared on May 16, 1952, along with six inches in the arts column. Martha Rose Gist had been a potter of local fame. The article included a picture of a beautifully decorated ceramic bowl, but none of the artist.

Damn!

Checking to be sure the overflow room was empty, I clicked on my cell. Six messages. Ignoring them, I dialed Crowe's number, muffling the beeps with my jacket.

“Sheriff Crowe.”

I didn't bother announcing myself.

“Are you familiar with Sequoyah?” I asked in a loud whisper.

“Are you in church?”

“The Bryson City library.”

“Iris catches you, she'll rip off your lips and feed them to her shredder.”

I assumed Iris was the lilac-haired dragon I'd met at the entrance.

“Sequoyah?”

“Sequoyah invented an alphabet for the Cherokee language. Hang around long enough and someone will buy you an ashtray decorated with the symbols,” she said.

“What was Sequoyah's family name?”

“You want my final answer?”

“I'm serious.”

“Guess.”

“This is important,” I hissed.

“His name was Guess. Or Gist, depending on the transliteration. Why?”

“Jeremiah Mitchell's maternal grandmother was Martha Rose Gist.”

“The potter?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be damned.”

“You know what that means?”

I didn't wait for her answer.

“Mitchell was part Cherokee.”

“This is a library!”

Iris's words scorched the side of my face.

I held up a finger.

“Hang up instantly!” She spoke as loud as a human can without using the vocal cords.

“Is there a newspaper printed on the reservation?”

“The Cherokee One Feather. And I think there's a tribal photo archive at the museum.”

“Gotta go.” I disconnected and shut off the power.

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” Iris stood with hands on hips, the gestapo protectress of the printed word.

“Shall I return the boxes?”

“That will not be necessary.”

It took three stops to find what I needed. A trip to the offices of the Cherokee One Feather, located in the Tribal Council Center, revealed that the paper had only been in print since 1966. While there had been a predecessor publication years before, The Cherokee Phoenix, the current staff had no photos or back issues in their possession.

The Cherokee Historical Association had pictures, but most had been taken as promotional shots for the outdoor theatrical production Unto These Hills.

I hit pay dirt at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, directly across the street. When I repeated my request, I was taken to a second-floor office, issued cotton gloves, and allowed to graze through their photo and newspaper archives.

Within an hour I had confirmation.

Martha Rose Standingdeer was born in 1889 on the Qualla Boundary. She wed John Patrick Gist in 1908 and gave birth to a daughter, Willow Lynette, the following year.

At the age of seventeen, Willow married Jonas Mitchell at the AME Zion Church in Greenville, South Carolina. Their wedding portrait shows a delicate girl in a cloche veil and Empire gown, a bouquet of daisies in her hands. At her side stands a man with skin much darker than that of his bride.

I studied the picture. Though rawboned and homely, Jonas Mitchell was appealing in a strange sort of way. Today, he might have modeled for Benetton ads.

Willow Mitchell gave birth to Jeremiah in 1929, died of tuberculosis the following winter. I found no mention of Jonas or his son after that date.

I sat back, processing what I'd learned.

Jeremiah Mitchell was at least one half Native American. He was seventy-two years old when he disappeared. The foot must surely be his.

My deductive centers logged in immediately. The dates didn't correlate.

Mitchell went missing in February. The VFA profile gives a postmortem interval of six to seven weeks, placing the death in late August or early September.

Maybe Mitchell survived the night of the Mighty High Tap. Maybe he ventured off, then returned and died of exposure six months later.

Ventured off?

On a trip.

A seventy-two-year-old alcoholic with no car or money?

It happens.

Uh-huh. Died of exposure in the summer?

I sat, stumped and frustrated by a million facts I couldn't integrate.

Hoping pictures would be more headache friendly, I switched to the photo archives.

Again, small things caught my attention.

I'd gone through fifty or sixty folders when an eight-by-ten black-and-white aroused my interest. Flower-draped casket. Mourners, some in broad-shouldered baggy suits, others in traditional Cherokee dress. I flipped to the back. A yellowed label identified the event in faded ink: Charlie Wayne Tramper Funeral. May 17, 1959. The old man who had gone missing and been killed by a bear.

My gaze roved over the faces, then froze on one of two young men standing apart from the crowd. I was so surprised I gasped.

Though forty years younger, there was no mistaking that face. He would have been in his late twenties in 1959, newly arrived from England. A professor of archaeology at Duke. An academic superstar about to fade.

Why was Simon Midkiff at Charlie Wayne Tramper's funeral?

My eyes slid right, and this time the gasp was audible. Simon Midkiff was standing shoulder to shoulder with a man who would later rise to the office of lieutenant governor.

Parker Davenport.

Or was it? I stared at the features. Yes. No. This man was much younger, thinner.

I hesitated, looked around. No one had poked through this file for half a century. It wasn't stealing. I would return the print in a few days, no damage done.

I slipped the photo into my purse, returned the folder to its drawer, and bolted.

Outside, I dialed Raleigh Information, requested a number for the Department of Cultural Resources, then waited while the connection was made. When a voice answered I asked for Carol Burke. She came on in less than ten seconds.

“Carol Burke.”

“Carol, this is Tempe Brennan.”

“Good timing. I was just about to close it up for the day. Are you planning to dig up another graveyard?”

Among its many duties, the North Carolina Department of Cultural Resources is responsible for heritage preservation. When development involving state or federal moneys, permits, licenses, or lands is proposed, Carol and her colleagues order surveys and excavations to determine if prehistoric or historic sites will be threatened. Highway projects, airport work, sewer lines—without their clearance, no ground is broken.

Carol and I met in the days when archaeology was my main focus. Twice Charlotte developers had retained me to help relocate historic cemeteries. Carol had overseen both projects.

“Not this time. I'd like information.”

“I'll do my best.”

“I'm curious about the site Simon Midkiff is digging for you.”

“Currently?”

“Yes.”

“He's not doing anything for us at the moment. At least nothing of which I'm aware.”

“Isn't he excavating in Swain County?”

“I don't think so. Hold on.”

By the time she returned, I'd walked to Ryan's car and opened the door.

“Nope. Midkiff hasn't worked for us in over two years and isn't likely to any time soon because he still owes us a site report from his last contract.”

“Thanks.”

“I wish all my requests were this simple.”

I'd barely put down the phone when it rang again. A journalist from the Charlotte Observer. A reminder of my continuing notoriety. I clicked off without comment.

A thousand cranial vessels pulsed in my skull. Nothing made sense. Why had Midkiff lied? Why had he and Davenport attended the Tramper funeral? Did they know each other back then?