Fatal Voyage

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?”