Cullowhees themselves. The sheriff had called off the investigation due to lack of volunteers for further search parties, when a member of the Harkness family showed up in Laurel Cove and volunteered to bring the moonshiner to justice in exchange for the job of deputy. Harkness later claimed that his reason for doing so was the fact that the next grave to be filled was that of a small child, and he was afraid that the moonshiner might be a stickler for accuracy. Some of the Cullowhees claim that the Harkness’ tendency to bully people was also a factor in their desire to become the law in Sarvice Valley.
After that the deputy job stayed in the Harkness family until 1972, when an obstinate sheriff insisted on appointing his nephew as the deputy of Sarvice Valley. Two weeks later the nephew disappeared and was never found. The Harkness family resumed the job and has kept it to the present day.
“Here’s another skull for you, Elizabeth,” said Jake, adding a carefully tagged specimen to the wooden crate in front of her. The rest of the remains were placed in separate cardboard boxes to be reburied later when the study had been completed. The tag ensured that the skull would be reunited with the correct set of bones.
“I don’t suppose it could be Victor’s,” grumbled Elizabeth, setting down the one she had been measuring.
Jake laughed. “What’s he done now?”
“The usual. We were talking about folk medicine, and he said that his great-grandfather invented penicillin in the 1880s but never bothered to market it.”
“Well… it
“Oh, sure, it could. And Princess Diana might have babysat for his little brother; and he might have had a dream about a body walled up in a church tower and told the authorities about it, and they investigated and found one-”
“He said that?”
“He did. He says he has the pictures at home to prove it. They’re in the same album with the snapshots of his white pony with the horn in its forehead.”
“Old Victor has had an interesting life, hasn’t he?” smiled Jake.
“Probably not. I expect he’s had exactly the sort of life he looks like he’s had. He’s an overweight nerd with no particular talent who wants to be the center of attention, so he’s trying to be as interesting as possible. Instead of getting mad at him, I should feel sorry for him. But he is so exasperating!”
“I know. You can’t catch him in a lie. He once told me that Geronimo was Chief of the Seminoles, and I told him he was crazy. Finally I went to the library and photocopied the encyclopedia entry that said Geronimo was an Apache.”
“How could he argue with that?”
“I made the mistake of letting him read the article. It said that after the U.S. Cavalry captured Geronimo, he was imprisoned in Florida. Victor swore that the Seminoles made him an honorary chieftain then. He claimed to have a book that said so.”
“At home, of course.”
“Of course. Naturally, he couldn’t come up with the title or author. I know what you mean about him. I wanted to strangle him that time. But you’ll get used to him. Pretty soon you won’t believe a word he says, and it won’t bother you at all.”
“Shh! Here he comes.”
Victor Bassington, blissfully unaware that he had been the topic of discussion, waddled up to Jake and Elizabeth for no apparent reason other than the possibility of hijacking a conversation. His round face had the look of damp cheese, and his squinting in the sunlight made him look even more piggy than usual. “Jake, is it your turn to cook tonight? I wanted to remind you that I’m allergic to onions.”
“I’m not likely to forget,” sighed Jake.
“I may also be coming down with sun poisoning,” Victor announced with mournful satisfaction. “Since Dr. Lerche has pitched a tent up here to store the finds in, and since he isn’t around to use it himself, maybe he’d let me work in it.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I were you,” Jake advised him. “Mary Clare’s the site manager, and you know how she feels about delicate fieldworkers.”
“She really is most unsympathetic. In England, when I worked with Heinrich Schliemann-”
“Ah-ha!” yelled Jake, pointing his finger disconcertingly close to Victor’s nose. “Heinrich Schliemann died in 1890. I’ve
Victor blinked innocently at the finger. “Of course he did, Jake. I was going to say Heinrich Schliemann III, who is with the Royal Archaeological Society. Very nice fellow. But you may be right about Miss Gitlin. I suppose I’ll have to brave it out until I drop.” Mopping his forehead with a rumpled white handkerchief, he ambled off in the direction of the water jug.
Jake was grinding his teeth. “Now, I
“I thought it didn’t bother you any more,” said Elizabeth in a carefully neutral tone.
“I was plainly mistaken,” snapped Jake. “Someday, somehow, Victor Bassington is going to play Mr. Know-It-All to the wrong person, and he’s going to get nailed to the wall with the facts. I just hope I’m there to lead the cheers.”
“Good luck,” smiled Elizabeth. “By the way, I may be late for supper tonight. I’m going to see Amelanchier after work. What are you cooking anyway?”
“I don’t know, but there’ll be onions in it; I promise you that.” Jake picked up his trowel and headed back to the trenches.
Despite the painstaking precautions taken to filter the soil and check for unexpected finds, the work at the gravesite had gone unusually well. The four daytime volunteers were diligent workers who made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience. By the beginning of the third day, the site tent contained several boxes to be analyzed by Dr. Lerche, and Elizabeth had been able to practice her measuring techniques on eight new skulls. She was not convinced that her results were accurate, but her skill in using the instruments increased as she became accustomed to working with the grisly objects.
Elizabeth examined the latest acquisition-missing quite a few teeth for one as young as the cranial lines indicated-and decided that it was too late in the day to begin another measurement. This one could wait until morning. Perhaps by then Dr. Lerche would have finished his computer work and could double-check her original findings. If she hurried, she would have time to find Amelanchier and get acquainted before supper, leaving the rest of the evening free to spend with Milo.
Elizabeth stowed the crate in a corner of the site tent. “I just put my folks to bed,” she told Mary Clare. “Do you need me for anything else?”
Mary Clare shook her head. “I’m about ready to pack it in myself. Maybe the guys will be back from town by now.”
“Well, if they are, tell Milo I’ll see him later. I’m going to find the Wise Woman of the Woods.”
“More power to you,” laughed Mary Clare. “I’ve got all the wise guys I can stand right here.”
Although she had acquired a certain regional reputation, Amelanchier Stecoah was by no means easy to find. Outlanders seeking her advice had to park their cars at the church and follow a footpath through the woods, which, after a twenty-minute walk, mostly uphill, stopped in a clearing sheltered by a wooded ridge. At the end of the path, a crudely hand-lettered sign, the twin of the one on the highway, proclaimed: WISE WOMAN OF THE WOODS LIVES HERE. Smaller printing below advised: “If Door Locked, Ring Yard Bell or Rad a Note.” A large brass bell was mounted on a post in front of an unpainted wooden shack. Elizabeth decided to try the porch door before ringing the bell.
“Hello?” she called out. “Anybody home?”
“Just got back!” answered a cheerful voice from within. “Come on in.”
Elizabeth edged her way past an old wooden icebox and a cardboard box full of letters. The room was small and crowded, but the sprightly old lady in jeans and a denim workshirt was no martyr to poverty. Her eyes sparkled behind gold-rimmed glasses, and she jumped up to greet Elizabeth.
“And who might you be?” she asked in a tone suggesting that she’d be pleased to meet you whatever the answer.
