Cold Path Page 4

  “Yes, there is. As it happens, I can determine the time and manner of death.”

  “Get the heck out of here.” She waved the ax in annoyance.

  “It’s true. I’m a forensic pathologist. My name is Bodhi King. I used to work as a medical examiner in Pittsburgh, but now I’m a consultant.”

  She gaped at him. After a long moment she found her voice. “You’re a forensic pathology consultant?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I consult on unusual or puzzling cases.”

  She shook her head, disbelief warring with hope in her eyes. “Oh, this is an unusual case, all right. But why … I mean … how do you happen to be wandering around the Alabama woods just when I need your expertise?”

  He studied her face while he formed his response. “I could say it’s because my romantic partner is the police chief of a town in Illinois and she’s here this weekend for a conference of small-town police chiefs, so I tagged along as her guest. That would be the truth. But it’s also true that, in my experience, the universe often provides what we need when we need it. So it’s equally valid to say I’m here because you need me to be.”

  “What, like God will provide?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  “So, you believe in miracles?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I think we can bring about our own miracles if we’re attentive and enlightened.”

  “Enlightened,” she echoed wonderingly. “You a Buddhist or something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm, well, I don’t know about enlightenment, but if you really can help me then I say you’re an angel in disguise. Can you help me?” Her voice faltered, and she lowered her hand so that the ax rested near her thigh.

  “I can certainly try.”

  “I’d appreciate that—very much.” She switched the ax to her left hand and stuck out her right. “I’m Davina Truth Jones. I’m a professor in the archaeology department at the university down in Huntsville.”

  Bodhi shook her proffered hand. Her skin was cool and rough. Calluses covered her fingers and a bandage covered what he suspected was a blister on her palm. She had working hands. Hands that dug into the unyielding earth to pry out its secrets.

  “I’m glad to meet you, Professor Jones.”

  “Please, Davina’s fine, Doctor King.”

  “Then you should call me Bodhi.”

  She smiled faintly. “Okay, Bodhi. So, now what?”

  “Tell me about the body.” His practice was not to call people bodies, corpses, or the deceased when he knew their names. Death strips us of our dignity in both small and large ways. There was no reason to let it strip us of our humanity. But, in this case, he didn’t have a name . . . yet.

  “For the past several months, I’ve been running an excavation at the Rutherford Open-Air Museum and Preserve. The dig site is the farm and cabin of a black sharecropper named Jonah Bell. Mr. Bell died in 1885, his wife, also black, followed in 1888. Yesterday, we uncovered an iron coffin buried under a black cherry tree not far from where their house sat. There was a body inside.”

  “Not Mr. or Mrs. Bell, I take it?”

  “Right. It’s a well-preserved female, white. Also, records show the Bells and their children were all buried in the Free Baptist churchyard.”

  “And the woman in the coffin, you have no idea who she is?”

  “None. Apparently, our police chief, Chief Dexter, has this wild-eyed theory that I somehow found an empty iron coffin lying around somewhere and stuffed a body into it so I could find it. It’s sheer idiocy. But it’s gotten me suspended from the dig, and it’s put the dig itself on hold.”

  “You’re a person of interest in a police investigation?”

  Her eyes narrowed at the question, but, after a moment, she answered, “I guess so. I don’t know for sure. An officer took my statement after we found the body. We had to call, you know, as a formality. But nobody interrogated me or anything. The guy who came out seemed bored by it all.”

  “So why would they suspend you?”

  A bitter laugh. “Optics. Appearances. And I did call a press conference without permission. But, c’mon. This coffin is a huge discovery. I just hope they don’t give the university any ideas.”

  “About the unidentified dead woman—have there been any recent disappearances? I mean, is someone missing who fits her description?”

  “No, not that I know of.” She paused and drew a deep breath, “Look, I know it sounds wild, but like I told you, that iron coffin was made for her . . . in the mid-1800s.”

  “You may well be right. It’s certainly possible. But to confirm it, we probably really need a forensic anthropologist.”

  “So, you can’t help me?” Her lower lip wobbled, and she bit down on it, hard.

  “Well, I’ve read about iron coffins in some journals. To date, only a handful have been excavated and examined. Some of them were breached over time, water or air got in and … you can imagine the condition of the body. But, in a handful of cases, when the coffins were airtight and the bodies had been embalmed, they were mistaken for contemporary corpses. I could make a preliminary assessment, and I could certainly hazard a guess as to cause of death. But to accurately date a corpse that old, a forensic anthropologist would come in handy.”

  She shifted her ax from one hand to the other as she processed the new information. “Embalming wasn’t that common back then. At least, not in the U.S.”

  “That’s true. But it wasn’t unheard of, and it was becoming more commonplace—especially among the well-off.”

  “Anyone whose family could afford an iron coffin was affluent enough to afford embalming,” she agreed.

  “So, our working theory is that a rich, white woman from the post-Civil War era was embalmed, entombed, and buried on the property of a black sharecropper.”

  “Yes. I think. Maybe?”

  He nodded. “Step one in proving or disproving your hypothesis is for me to see the coffin and examine the body.”

  A frown creased her lips. “Access is going to be a problem. First off, the dig site is an active crime scene.”

  “Wait. Please tell me the police haven’t left the coffin out in the field?” Exposure to the elements wasn’t going to do the coffin or its occupant any favors.

  “No. Before I called the police, we moved the coffin to my makeshift lab in the basement of the Rutherford Museum. But seeing as how they confiscated my museum credentials a little over an hour ago, I don’t think they’re gonna let me waltz in and show her off to anybody—not even a forensic pathology consultant.”

  “Definitely a problem. But not an insurmountable one. Where is this museum, and where is the dig site?”

  To his surprise, she gestured over her shoulder. “Next door.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, it’s just back there through the woods. There’s a nature preserve between the Sullivan property and the resort. I just cut through the preserve to come over here and work out some aggression.” She waved the ax.

  “Then the investigation is here, in this jurisdiction?”

  Pennsylvania’s municipalities, townships, and counties prided themselves on amorphous, amoeba-shaped boundaries. For all he knew, Alabama was the same, and the land next door was in a different jurisdiction.

  She shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”

  “That means your Chief Dexter is hosting the conference I’m here to attend.”

  “Okay. That makes sense, he loves hobnobbing. So what?”

  “So, I’ll make it a point to hobnob with him at the opening reception and mention my interest in the body a local archaeology professor discovered. I’ll ask if I can take a peek.”

  “I wish I could be there,” she mused more to herself than to him.

  “I could ask him, but —"

  “There’s no point. I’m a black woman, accused of . . . whatever I’m accused of. And Margot Rutherford Sullivan has barred me from the museum. I don’t know how you all do things in Pittsburgh, but
you’re in Alabama now.”

  She said it matter-of-factly as if it didn’t sting. But her eyes said otherwise.

  He almost pointed out that it was the twenty-first century. He caught himself. It wasn’t for him to tell her what her experience was.

  “Let’s exchange cell phone numbers. I’ll talk him into letting me examine the body, and then I’ll call you and let you know what I think.”

  He held out his cell phone. She rested the ax on the ground, propped up against her shinbone, and keyed her phone number into the device. After a moment, a faint ringtone sounded from within her pocket.

  She ended the call and handed his phone back to him. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  Just as there were two answers to how he came to be in the woods, there were two answers to this question as well. “In part, it’s professional curiosity. I’ve never examined a well-preserved 150-year-old corpse, and I’m unlikely to get another chance.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “There’s a Buddhist text called the Sutta Nipāta. It’s a collection of stories that explain the Buddha’s teachings. Anyway, there’s one story about a group of monks who are being harassed by spirits in the woods. The Buddha tells the monks to show the ghosts lovingkindness and compassion, and then the spirits will stop tormenting them.”

  It took her a moment. “Wait. I’m the evil ghost in this story?”

  He grinned. “I’d say an ax-wielding woman is close enough.”

  A real laugh bubbled up from her throat and escaped her lips. “Fair enough. You show me this kindness, and I won’t chop you up with my ax.”

  7

  Sully hesitated outside Grandmother’s closed office door. She’d been in a mood all afternoon, ever since their meeting with Davina Jones.

  He’d really rather not disturb her. But he didn’t dare return Chief Dexter’s call without first seeking her input. Truth was, he didn’t dare do much without her prior approval.

  His stomach dropped and his shoulders slumped, but he forced his hand to form a fist. He tapped lightly.

  “Come in, Eugene.”

  He opened the door and shuffled inside. Then he straightened up and pasted on his game face.

  She looked up, expectant. “Well?”

  “Marvin escorted Professor Jones directly to the laboratory room, where she fetched a large duffel bag and a briefcase from her locker. She then asked to stop in the ladies’ room. She changed into casual clothes, and then she proceeded to the employee door and left through that. Marvin thinks she didn’t want to run into any of her students, so that’s why she didn’t use the main entrance.”

  “Then why is her car still in the parking lot?” Her tone left no doubt that she expected an answer.

  The back of his neck prickled, and he had to fight the urge to turn and race out of the room. He tamped down his dread.

  “I don’t know. Marvin said she sometimes takes a walk through the preserve during the lunch hour or at the end of the day. Maybe she’s getting some fresh air, clearing her head.”

  It was a guess, not an answer, and he knew Grandmother’s views on guessing. He braced for her reaction, but it didn’t come.

  “She’ll have to return for her car eventually.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, unsure where this was going.

  “And when she does, Eugene, you need to be waiting beside it.”

  “I … I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You want me to mill about in the parking lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  She clenched her teeth. “Eugene, did you notice the necklace she was wearing?”

  He pursed his lips and pictured it. “It was a pendant . . . gold filigree with a red stone.”

  She blinked at him. “Are you being deliberately obtuse, or do you truly not grasp the significance—especially to you?”

  “If it’s real,” he blurted.

  A nod. “Yes. If it’s real. So to answer your question, you need to wait for her to return so you can speak to her. Find out where she got it. Find out if she knows what it is.”

  “Me?” He squeaked. It seemed impossible that she would trust him with such a sensitive task.

  “Yes, Eugene. You. After all, it inures to your detriment if it’s what it seems.”

  He turned and glanced out the window at the lot below. “It’s a moot point now. Her car is gone.”

  Grandmother frowned. “You can’t put it off forever. The trust documents hold that—”

  “We have a more pressing concern.”

  He couldn’t believe what he’d done. He didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t bear to hear it. So he did the unthinkable. He interrupted Margot Rutherford Sullivan while she was speaking.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry, Grandmother. But this is time-sensitive. Chief Dexter left a message for me while we were meeting with Davina. He wants to know if we’ll underwrite the cost of a forensic archaeologist to examine the body. He’s fairly sure Dr. Bean doesn’t have the requisite expertise.”

  “I shall endeavor to act surprised.”

  What did that mean? Yes? No? Maybe?

  “What should I tell him?”

  “You should tell him nothing at the moment. I understand that his pressing concern is an examination. But ours is that necklace. And also the brooch.”

  “I don’t know how you could make out any details under all the decades of dirt and grime on the coffin window. Wouldn’t an expert help in that regard, too?”

  She exhaled through her nose. “Yes, of course. But if Lewis Dexter can’t afford to hire an expert, there’s no harm in making him wait. Don’t return his call yet. We’ll see how things stand tomorrow.”

  He could think of some harms. But these, too, inured to his detriment, not hers.

  So, he nodded curtly and turned to leave.

  “Eugene—”

  He paused, his hand on the door. “Yes?”

  “Are you clear as to your priority?”

  His chest weighed a hundred pounds. He sighed with great effort. “Yes, Grandmother.”

  8

  Bette turned away from the mirror and wrinkled her forehead.

  “I want to make sure I have the facts straight. You ran into a murder suspect in the woods. Said suspect was armed with an ax. And you offered to examine the body of her potential victim?” She stuck a gold hoop earring through her right ear lobe and fastened it while she waited for his answer.

  “In point of fact, I think she’s more a person of interest than an official suspect. But, yes, when you put it that way, it seems foolhardy.”

  A small smile played across her lips. “How would you put it?”

  “I met a university-affiliated archaeology professor who has some concerns about an artifact that was unearthed during a dig. My expertise in forensic pathology could help answer some questions about the age of the corpse and the manner of death, so I offered to lend a hand.”

  After a moment, she stuck out her lower lip and nodded appreciatively. “You must be a prosecutor’s dream witness. That does sound less reckless.”

  “So you’ll help me help her?”

  “Help you how?”

  “Can you introduce me to Chief Dexter at this reception so I can ask him for access to the corpse?”

  She pretended to think about it. “Why not? It’ll give you something to do while I’m sitting in sessions. I know you don’t like being idle.”

  Bodhi lowered his head and brushed her lips with a soft kiss. “I appreciate it.”

  She leaned into him. “I hope you plan to show your appreciation more energetically at some point this weekend.”

  “I plan to energetically and enthusiastically show my appreciation as often as I’m able, taking into consideration your obligations.”

  “And I plan to hold you to that,” she purred.

  Seeing Bette when he returned to the room had been a revelation. Her quick, impish expressions. The way she shook her
cap of soft silvery hair out of her eyes. Her distinctive scent of rosemary, coconut, and lemon balm—a hand lotion the monks at the retreat center in her town mixed especially for her. Her husky voice. It all felt like home.

  He’d missed her more than he’d realized.

  He looked down at her. “It’s good to see you.”

  She smiled up at him and caressed his cheek. “It’s good to be seen.”

  Then she glanced at her watch, picked up her small beaded handbag from the bathroom vanity, and nestled her handgun in the velvet-lined interior.

  After she snapped the bag shut, she took one last look in the mirror and combed her long bangs to the side with her fingers. “Looks like we’re going to have to continue our reunion after the reception. We’re late.”

  He held the door open for her, and they walked hand-in-hand along the hallway to the wide, wrought iron and oak center staircase that led from the guest rooms down to the reception area below. As they descended the stairs, mingled laughter and conversation rose over the sound of soft jazz music.

  The lodge’s large circular dining room teemed with small-town police chiefs and their guests. While Bette checked in at a table near the open double doors and received her name tag, he stood off to the side and scanned the room. Most of the blazers, jackets, and sweaters sported a discrete but unmistakable bulge, and many of the women’s handbags seemed unusually weighty for their size. He estimated there were upwards of a hundred and fifty firearms in the room. He was considering whether the considerable firepower made him feel more safe or less safe when a booming laugh caught his attention.

  A ruddy-complected man with jowly cheeks that hung down over a clipped auburn beard stood in front of the massive stacked stone fireplace that anchored the room. His head was thrown back as he roared with laughter. A small crowd gathered around him. Bodhi couldn’t see the man’s name tag from this distance, but then he didn’t need to.

  Bette finished up at the check-in table, joined him near the wall, and handed him a name tag of his own. He looped the lanyard around his neck and jerked his head toward the fireplace. “Is that man with the beard Chief Dexter?”