Sixty-eight was a rough year for all of us, Sylvia.
Certain she would enjoy the company, I settled at the base of a large oak shading Sylvia's grave and ordered Boyd to sit beside me. He complied, his eyes fixed on the tray in my hands.
When I withdrew a burger, Boyd sprang to his feet.
“Sit.”
He sat. I peeled off the paper and gave him the burger. He rose, separated it into components, then ate the meat, bun, and lettucetomato garnish sequentially. Finished, he focused on my Whopper, muzzle spotted with ketchup.
“Sit.”
He sat. I spread fries on the grass and he began picking them delicately off the surface so they wouldn't sink between the blades. I unwrapped my Whopper and slipped a straw into my drink.
“Now here's the deal.”
Boyd glanced up, went back to the fries.
“Why would Simon Midkiff have gone to the funeral of a seventy-four-year-old Cherokee killed by a bear in 1959?”
We both ate and thought about that.
“Midkiff is an archaeologist. He might have been researching the Eastern Band Cherokee. Maybe Tramper was his guide and historian.”
Boyd's attention shifted to my burger. I replenished his potatoes.
“O.K. I'll buy that.”
I took a bite, chewed, swallowed.
“Why was Parker Davenport there?”
Boyd looked at me without raising his head from the fries.
“Davenport grew up near here. He probably knew Tramper.”
Boyd's ears flicked forward, back again. He finished the last of his fries and stared at mine. I flipped him a few.
“Perhaps Tramper and Davenport had mutual friends on the reservation. Or maybe Davenport was already building a political base in those days.”
I threw out another half dozen fries. Boyd reengaged.
“How about this? Did Davenport and Midkiff know each other back then?”
Boyd's head came up. His eyebrows spun and his tongue dropped.
“If so, how?”
He cocked his head and watched as I finished my burger. I tossed him the rest of my fries, and he ate them as I sipped my Diet Coke.
“Here's the big one, Boyd.”
I gathered wrappers and bunched them with the remains of the tray. Seeing no more food, Boyd flopped onto his side, sighed loudly, and closed his eyes.
“Midkiff lied to me. Davenport wants my head on a spike. Is there a link?”
Boyd had no answer.
I sat with my back to the oak, absorbing warmth and light. The grass smelled freshly mown, the leaves dry and sun-baked. At one point Boyd rose, turned four times, then resettled at my side.
A short time later a man came over the crest of the hill, leading a collie on a length of rope. Boyd sat up and barked at the dog but didn't make an aggressive move. The late-afternoon sunshine was mellowing woman and beast. Reeling him in, I got to my feet.
As dusk gathered, we strolled among the gravestones. Though I spotted no one from the H&F list, and no Dashwoods, I did find markers with familiar names. Thaddeus Bowman. Victor Livingstone and his daughter, Sarah Masham Livingstone. Enoch McCready.
I remembered Luke Bowman's words, and wondered what had caused the death of Ruby's husband in 1986. Instead of answers, I was finding more questions.
But one mystery was solved. One missing person found. Turning to go, I stumbled across an unadorned slab in the cemetery's southernmost corner. Its face was inscribed with a simple message.
LEAVING THE CEMETERY, I DROVE TOHIGH RIDGE HOUSE, SETTLED Boyd for the night, and returned to my room, unaware that it would be my busiest telephone evening since junior high.
I'd hardly hit the power switch when Pete called.
