Cold Path Page 7

Bodhi stood on the lodge’s wide front porch and tracked the sun’s slow rise over the mountains. The early morning stillness broke with the sound of the door opening. Eliza stepped out onto the porch to join him.

  “Good morning.” He turned away from the railing to greet her.

  “Hi. I talked to the front desk, and they’ve offered to have one of the valets drive us over to the museum.” She hesitated. “I know you like to walk, but it’s apparently quite a hike. And the less time we spend getting there …”

  “… The sooner we can get our hands on that coffin,” he finished for her.

  She grinned. “Well, yeah.”

  “Driving is a great idea. Thanks for arranging a ride for us.”

  “Sure, yeah.” She glanced down at her feet.

  He turned his attention back to the band of orange spreading across the sky. After a moment, he said, “Last night was weird, huh?”

  “It was. Unexpected, mainly.”

  They fell silent. After a moment, he said, “It’s a funny coincidence that Bette and Fred are both police chiefs.”

  “Is it?”

  “Funny?”

  “No. A coincidence?”

  He turned around and studied her face. “What else could it be?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s strange . . . I told you about Fred when we were in Quebec City. You didn’t mention Bette. Why?”

  “That’s easy. We weren’t together then. I actually met her right after that trip to Canada. I came back to the States through Chicago and stopped to see Nolan McDermott.”

  “Oh, Nolan. I haven’t seen him in forever. How many kids do he and Katie have—two?”

  “Yep, a boy and a girl. Anyway, after I visited with him, I headed to a meditation center out in Onatah, Illinois, for a silent retreat. I met Bette when she was investigating a murder at the center.”

  “Why a silent retreat?”

  He squared his shoulders and held her gaze. “Seeing you in Canada, it stirred up a lot of memories and emotions. Most of them related to how poorly I treated you when we were about to graduate. I needed some time to think about that.”

  Her eyes softened. “I think you should stop beating yourself up about something that happened—what was it?—fifteen years ago. I forgave you a long time ago. Isn’t it time you forgave yourself?”

  “Right action is one of the practices in the Eightfold Noble Path, Eliza. I fell short.”

  “Isn’t compassion also one of the practices?”

  “Sure, right intention.”

  “It seems you ought to show yourself the same compassion you show other people.”

  He tilted his head and considered her. She was, canonically speaking, exactly right. “Thanks for that.”

  She waved his gratitude away. “Oh, look, there’s Jason now.”

  A chipper man who looked to be in his late sixties stepped out onto the porch. He wore a fisherman’s cap and sported a short, neatly trimmed, white beard. “Good morning, folks.”

  “Good morning,” Bodhi answered.

  “Jason, this is Dr. King.” Eliza smiled broadly.

  “Call me Bodhi,” he urged the man as they shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you. So, Doc Rollins tells me you folks would like a lift over to the Rutherford Museum. I’ll just run around back and get the car. Won’t be but two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” Jason headed off to the parking lot, whistling a tune that Bodhi couldn’t place.

  Jason kept up a steady stream of chatter as they bumped along the gravel road that led to the resort entrance.

  “Have you been in the area long?” Eliza asked when Jason stopped to draw a breath.

  He left the resort and turned onto the ribbon of road winding up and down the mountain before answering.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m originally from Portland, Maine, if you can believe that.”

  “Oh? How did you end up down here?”

  “Well, ma’am, I worked at the U.S. Space and Rocket Center just down the road in Huntsville for years and years. When I retired, I realized Alabama was home—and not just because of the mild winters.” He chuckled.

  “Hmm … driving us to the museum at the crack of dawn doesn’t seem like retirement.”

  The driver met her eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded.

  “You caught me out there. After all those years of working in the lab, I found I couldn’t just sit around and be idle. Some of the fellas and gals took up golf or hunting. Some of them went back to school and got new degrees. But I just like being out and about with folks. I get to meet them, hear their stories. Every day is different. There’s no stress. No ten-million-dollar piece of equipment is gonna fly apart in space if I put a decimal point in the wrong place.”

  Bodhi leaned forward. “You were a rocket scientist?”

  “Yes, sir. And I enjoyed it. It was an intellectual challenge, but there was a lot of pressure.”

  “I can only imagine,” Eliza murmured. “But what fascinating stories you must have to tell.”

  Bodhi settled back against the seat while Jason told Eliza a rollicking story about walking an orbiting astronaut through the process of repairing a piece of equipment in a space lab with duct tape. He’d forgotten how warm Eliza could be. She was reserved—shy, really. If asked, she’d say she was an introvert. And it was true that big groups or large social gatherings had never been her cup of tea.

  But she had a way about her that instantly put people at ease, made them feel seen. He’d always thought it had been a shame she hadn’t gone into general practice or one of the specialties that would have put her in contact with living, breathing patients. Her soothing bedside manner and quiet kindness were wasted on the type of patients he and she saw. But she seemed at peace with her choice, so he let the thought wash over him and then drift away on the wings of Jason’s tale.

  When they reached the museum entrance, Jason interrupted his own story. “Well, here you are, folks.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Eliza protested. “Pull over and finish your story. You’re not gonna leave me hanging like that.”

  Jason obliged. He inched the sedan forward and pulled into a parking pad cutout near the edge of the circular driveway. “The short version is, the duct tape held, and the robotic arm worked until they could send up the part to fix it permanently on the next payload mission.”

  Eliza clapped her hands in glee. “Love it! Imagine working for the space program.”

  “You must have a lot of amazing stories, Jason.”

  “I think most folks have interesting stories if you give them a chance to tell them.”

  “I agree,” Bodhi said.

  Jason pulled a card out of his breast pocket and handed it over the seat to Eliza. “Enjoy the private tour of the museum. What a treat that they agreed to open the exhibits early just for you. Just give me a call if you want me to come back and pick you up when you’re done.”

  Eliza thanked him for the card and slipped it into her bag.

  They exited the car, and Jason tapped a short honk goodbye as he pulled out.

  “What was that about?”

  “Well, I know you don’t lie, but I didn’t think there was any reason to advertise what we’re doing. Especially because we’re not officially part of the investigation. So I may have led Jason to believe that we’re just really interested in the history of the Rutherford Family and Alabama’s agricultural heritage.”

  He swallowed a laugh. She was right on both counts: they should be discreet about their unofficial involvement, and he wouldn’t have been comfortable being dishonest with Jason. They mounted the wide, low stairs and stood before the massive metal door. He pulled on the handle, but it didn’t budge. Pulled again. Nothing.

  “It’s locked.”

  She checked her watch. “It’s six minutes past seven. Do you think Chief Dexter’s message got lost along the way?”

  “Maybe. Let’s check around back. There might be a staff entrance that’s already open.”
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  As they turned to walk around to the rear entrance, he noticed a rusted faceplate with a buzzer recessed into the wall beside the door. “Hang on.”

  He pressed the pad of his finger against the button for a long beat. Then he stepped back and stood beside Eliza, both staring up expectantly at the door. There were no signs of life.

  After a moment, she said, “I guess we better try that rear entrance after all.”

  The started down the stairs, and the wide door creaked open behind them.

  A man’s voice called, “Are you all the pathologists?”

  They turned and jogged back up the stairs.

  “Sorry about that. I was just making my first rounds when I got the radio call to expect you. Come on in. I’m Marvin Washington. I’m the security chief on duty this morning.” The security officer swept his arm toward the museum’s lobby in a gesture of invitation.

  They proceeded inside. The lobby was dimly lit, the computer monitor at the reception desk was dark and silent, and the heavy hush that covered the space was palpable. There was no mistaking that the Rutherford Museum was not yet open for business.

  “I’m Eliza Rollins,” Eliza whispered her name, as if afraid to wake the building.

  “And I’m Bodhi King.”

  They shook hands all around, then Marvin cleared his throat. “My marching orders are to escort you down to Professor Jones’ lab. Her former lab, I mean.” The faintest shadow crossed Marvin Washington’s face as he corrected himself.

  “That’s right,” Eliza confirmed.

  Bodhi feigned a casual tone. “Did you know Professor Jones well?”

  Marvin didn’t bother to feign anything. He thrust out his chest and said hotly, “Well enough to know that what happened to her wasn’t right.”

  Bodhi suppressed a grin. Marvin might prove to be an ally. “I only met her briefly, but I’m inclined to agree with you.”

  Marvin’s eyes slid over Bodhi’s face, weighing his words. Then he bobbed his head, but he said no more about Davina Jones.

  He led them to a wide marble stairwell. They descended in single file and in silence. First, Marvin; then, Eliza; and Bodhi bringing up the rear. The only sound was the echoing slap of their soles hitting the stairs.

  When they reached the basement, Marvin pushed open the metal fire door and held it open for Eliza and Bodhi to pass through.

  “Lab’s down the hall.”

  They continued their silent journey until they reached the second door on the left and came to a synchronized stop. The door was gray metal with a small window set in the top. There was no nameplate or other identifying information on the door. Bodhi wondered if Davina’s name had been removed after her suspension or if it had never been there in the first place.

  He and Eliza stood back while Marvin flipped through his collection of keys to locate the one that would unlock the door. After jiggling the key in the lock, he pushed the door open and ushered them inside.

  “Here we go. It might be chilly down here. Professor Jones always kept it on the cool side. But once they brought that coffin in, she turned the thermostat way, way down,” he warned.

  “Smart,” Eliza mumbled.

  Bodhi agreed. It was smart. Heat and deterioration went hand in hand.

  Marvin bustled around, flicking on lights, and then turned in a semi-circle and gestured toward a wide table that held a large metal box. “Well, there she is. Uh, I’m not sure if I can leave you and continue my rounds or if I need to stay. Nobody said.”

  Eliza cut her eyes toward Bodhi. Part of him wished she’d handle this question, given her willingness to shade the truth. But her gaze never wavered, and now Marvin was looking at him, too, waiting for a response.

  He exhaled loudly. “I’ll be honest, Marvin. I’m not sure whether Chief Dexter or your boss wants you to stay with us or not, but I know your time is better served taking care of your responsibilities than hanging around to watch us take care of ours. We’re both certified forensic pathologists, and we know our way around a corpse. We won’t compromise any evidence. So, you don’t need to babysit us unless you feel it’s necessary.”

  Eliza chimed in, “Plus, we’re here with our significant others. They’re both police chiefs in town for a conference with Chief Dexter. So you don’t have to worry about us breaking any laws or absconding with any valuable artifacts.” She tossed Hank a wink for good measure.

  Name-dropping Dexter and mentioning Fred and Bette’s connection to law enforcement seemed to decide the issue for Marvin. He jutted out his lower lip and nodded. “All right, then. I’ll be upstairs, doing a walk-through of the entire museum before we open to the public at nine. When you’re done, just press this intercom button here on the wall.”

  He pointed out the intercom box and waited until they nodded their understanding before continuing, “When you buzz the guard station, I’ll come down to lock up and show you out. Good luck—or whatever.”

  They thanked him for his assistance. Bodhi waited until he left the room and the jangle of his keys trailed off down the hallway. Then he closed the door behind him and turned to Eliza.

  “Unlikely to break any laws? Where did that come from?”

  She shrugged. “Well, unlikely to steal any artifacts is true. We’ll have to see about the laws.”

  Her smile was sly and edged with mischief, and he grinned back despite himself.

  She rubbed her hands together. “He wasn’t kidding about it being cold in here.”

  Bodhi turned up the collar of his jacket.

  Then, in lockstep, they approached the table that held the coffin.

  13

  They stared down at the coffin in reverent silence, and the air crackled with possibility.

  “Imagine if she really is a hundred and fifty years old.” Eliza’s voice was an awed whisper.

  He tried, but his imagination failed him.

  The torpedo-shaped coffin was dull, dented, and unmistakably iron. Patches of rust-red oxidization covered the surface in uneven splotches. He estimated the receptacle to be about five-and-a-half-feet long. A small window cut into the top of the coffin revealed a woman’s face. The glass in the window was wavy and clouded with age. It made the woman look as if she were underwater, viewed through ripples.

  “I read that these were originally shaped like Egyptian sarcophagi,” Eliza remarked, tracing a finger along the coffin’s side.

  They’d apparently shared the same bedtime reading last night. “Yes, but people found them disturbing and unsettling—the design made them think of their loved ones as mummies. So, eventually, models like this one were introduced—less ornate and less stylized.”

  “And less creepy.”

  “That, too.”

  “I wonder who she is,” Eliza mused. She flushed. “That sounds silly. Of course, we wonder who she is. But this is different. You know, if a John or Jane Doe comes into the morgue, most of the time, with careful work and just a smidge of luck, you’ll make an identification. But if this woman really is the original occupant of the coffin, her story’s been untold for well over a hundred years. Learning her identity would do more than tell us who she is.”

  “Right. It would unlock a part of history that’s been lost.”

  The enormity of it sent a frisson of excitement coursing through him. The flesh on his arms pebbled. He had goosebumps—not from the cold, but from anticipation.

  “Exactly. So, how do you want to do this?” With the question, her tone switched from awestruck to business-like. She reached into her purse, pulled out of package containing a pair of sterile exam gloves, and snapped them on.

  He opened his backpack to retrieve his own gloves before answering. “Best practice would be to have a forensic anthropologist and a forensic archaeologist here. If I were running this investigation, I’d push for contacting the Smithsonian Institute for guidance.”

  “Absolutely. In an ideal world, you balance the preservation of the artifact with the examination of the corpse.�
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  “But it’s clear that the locals aren’t going to go that route, and I think we can agree it’s better for the two of us to do our level best to preserve the integrity of the coffin and the corpse than to turn this over to Chief Dexter and the local coroner.”

  The skin around Eliza’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

  “What’s funny?”

  “You probably don’t know how right you are. Do you know anything about the local coroner?”

  “Not really.” He shrugged.

  “His name is Charles Bean. Take a guess at what his day job is.”

  He’d had enough experience consulting for small jurisdictions to hazard a decent guess. “Butcher?”

  “Close.”

  “Funeral home director.”

  “Ah, you’re getting colder.”

  He thought for a moment, “Taxidermist.”

  “Warmer.”

  “How about a hint?”

  “He does work with animals, like a butcher or a taxidermist. But they’re alive.”

  “He’s a veterinarian.”

  “Bingo.”

  He considered the issue. “That’s not all bad. A veterinary doctor may not know human anatomy so well, but he’ll know pathology. And, assuming he’s ever had to autopsy or perform surgery on a horse or a cow, he’d be able to do a passable autopsy.”

  She was shaking her head. “Dr. Bean has a veterinary specialty, and it’s not large animals.”

  “Oh?”

  “Fish.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He treats exotic fish—exclusively.”

  “In that case, we may not be the Smithsonian, but we’re bound to do at least as well as a fish doctor would. So let’s get to it.”

  “I wonder how you open it?” She eyed the coffin.

  He wondered, too. They rolled the metal table out from the wall, locked its wheels, and walked around it at a deliberate pace, examining the coffin from all angles. The lid appeared to be affixed to the base with a sealant of some kind.

  “Do you see anything on that shelf full of tools that we could use to pry the lid off?”

  “Like a crowbar?” she asked as she turned to examine the collection of archaeological equipment in the corner of the room.