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:
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
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?
I needed aspirin. I needed lunch. I needed an objective listener.
Boyd.
After popping two Bayers, I collected the chow, and we set forth. Boyd rode with his head out the passenger window, nose to the air, twisting and turning to suck in every discernible odor. Watching him at the Burger King drive-through, I thought of the squirrel, then the wall at the courtyard house. Just
Suddenly, I had an idea. A place to picnic and check out names.
The Bryson City Cemetery is located on Schoolhouse Hill, overlooking Veterans Boulevard on one side, a mountain valley on the other. The drive took seven minutes. Boyd did not understand the delay and kept prodding and licking the food bag. By the time I pulled into the cemetery, the cardboard tray was so soggy I had to carry it with two hands.
Boyd dragged me from stone to stone, peeing on several, then kicking back divots with his hind feet. Finally, he stopped at a pink granite column, turned, and yipped.
