Asheville is artists and street musicians and microbreweries. The nineteenth-century Downton-Abbey-eat-your-heart-out Vanderbilt house. The University of North Carolina–Asheville.
But, like Avery to the northeast, Buncombe County is a schizoid mélange of the civilized and the backward. Outside the prize jewel, there are no tourists. No antiques shops, Christmas boutiques, or vegan bistros. Out past the ski slopes and nature outfitters, gun cabinets are kept stocked and the Ten Commandments rule with an iron fist.
This time Ramsey arrived first. He was waiting at one of a half dozen cement tables outside Double D’s, a red double-decker bus turned coffee shop on Biltmore Avenue in Asheville’s small downtown.
“Costa Rican drip.” He slid a mug my way. “Hope it’s still hot.”
“Thanks.” The cream was frothed and configured into a meaningfully artful design whose symbolism was lost on me. The coffee was tepid but tasty.
“Good drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Ladies first?”
“I have little to report. Still waiting on DNA from the bones, trace from the concrete.” A lobotomy on Slidell.
“Good work.” Ramsey pulled the obligatory spiral from his jacket and thumbed a few pages. “Joel Brice is thirty-four, a sculptor, part of Asheville’s large, I don’t know, hippie community I guess you could call it. Crystals. Sandals. Hummus and yogurt.”
“I thought he was a welder.”
“He works in metal. Katalin is thirty-six, bakes organic breads to sell to area restaurants. Neither has an arrest record. Their daughter Saffron is seven.”
“Where does Saffron attend school?” Not sure why I asked.
“She’s homeschooled.”
“Like Mason Gulley.”
“And a lot of kids. The Brices are Unitarian now, but for several years belonged to Jesus Lord Holiness.”
“Until River’s death.”
“Yes.”
“That’s quite a philosophical leap from über-Catholic to Unitarian.”
“Perhaps they’re spiritual seekers.”
As usual, Ramsey’s expression was impenetrable. Was he mocking me? Them?
“The Brices live a few clicks north of here.” Repocketing the spiral. “We can ask them all about it.”
Ramsey knocked back the dregs of his coffee. Came away with a milky mustache. I pointed to his upper lip. He wiped it with his napkin and stood.
We left my car and took the SUV. No Gunner. I kind of missed him.
The neighborhood was one of mature trees, sagging overhead wires, and modest homes, some newer, most probably built in the twenties and thirties. The Brices’ house was one-story, with green siding and a fully roofed porch that kept the front door and windows in perpetual shade. Curtains draping a double dormer window suggested an attic bedroom.
The house, like its neighbors, sat on a small ridge above street level. The porch was accessed by narrow steps rising from the sidewalk through bushes that were probably pretty in summer.
Ramsey and I had a routine by now. As he rang, we stood to either side of a door whose small glass window was divided by scallopy mullions. Reminded me of a Gothic cathedral in miniature.
A dog took great interest in the sound of the bell. A big dog. Or a small one with truly impressive vocals.
In seconds the door swung open, releasing the sweet, doughy smell of baking bread. A girl regarded us, relaxed but curious. Cujo, not so relaxed, but at least he didn’t charge out the door.
“Who is it? A female voice came from somewhere beyond the girl’s back.
“A policeman.” The girl’s dark hair was center-parted and braided. Her eyes, deeply green, looked out from a pale, heart-shaped face.
“Hold Dozer, Saffron baby.” Footsteps hurried toward us.
The girl placed a hand on Dozer’s head. The dog stopped growling, but continued eyeing us with open suspicion. Composed of a big chunk of mastiff, the beast easily outdid me in poundage. And drool.
The woman appeared holding both arms up and away from her body. They were white with flour and her face was red with exertion. Her smile, at first friendly, wavered on seeing the deputy’s uniform.
“Katalin Brice?”
“Yes. And you are?” Eyes moving between Ramsey and me.
“Deputy Zeb Ramsey.” Displaying his badge. “This is Dr. Brennan.” Glossing over my qualifications. “We’d like to speak with you briefly.”
“About?”
“May we come in?” Directed more at Dozer than his mistress.
Katalin Brice looked past us to the street. In the morning sun, her short curly hair sparked like copper, her eyes like the sapphires in a brooch I’d inherited from Gran. Totally sans makeup, she was stunning.
Perhaps reassured by the Avery County logo on the SUV, Katalin stepped back. “Dozer, go to your bed.”
Radiating disapproval, the dog withdrew.
“I’m baking and mustn’t let the dough sit. Do you mind if we talk while I work?”
“Of course,” Ramsey said.
Katalin and Saffron led us to the back of the house, through living and dining rooms that were worn but spotless. The hardwood floors looked original, the paint fresh.
The furnishings, sparse and eclectic—papasan chairs, string beads hanging in a doorway, a framed poster of Gandhi—reminded me of my grad school apartment. A plaque on one wall read: “Someday, after we have mastered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for good the energies of love.”
Every horizontal surface held a metal objet d’art. Most were abstract, all swooping curves and jutting appendages. A few appeared to be animals, though the species were none I’d ever encountered.
The kitchen was surprisingly large. At its center was a heavy pine table flanked by benches. Beside the stove was an enormous oval cushion now occupied by Dozer.
The table held a stainless-steel bowl, a rolling pin, and a lump of dough large enough to sink a beluga. Six bread pans waited in a line on the counter.
“Please.” Winging an elbow outward, using the inside of the other to brush errant curls from her forehead. “I’m sorry about the mess.”
Ramsey and I dragged a bench from under the table and settled, one at each end. Saffron slid a book down the one opposite and sat. Dozer watched, eyes rolling with the action, head never leaving his mat.
“Teilhard de Chardin.” I began my always-engaging warm-up.
At first Katalin looked confused. Then her smile broadened. “You noticed the plaque in the dining room. Do you know him?”
“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” The only quote I could dredge up by the French priest-philosopher.
“Yes. That’s one of my favorites.”
While Katalin kneaded, Ramsey began. At the mention of River, the rolling and punching increased in intensity.
“We are so very sorry for your loss,” I jumped in. “I can’t imagine the pain of losing an infant.”
“It was nature’s will.”
“SIDS.”
“Yes.”
“Can you elaborate?” As gently as I could.
“River died in his sleep. What is there to say?”
Noting movement across the table, I stole a glance at Saffron. Her body was tense, her eyes fixed on her mother’s face.
“Was a physician involved?”
“The baby was dead, so the coroner was called. No need for a doctor.”
“Do you know who that coroner was?”
“No.” Knuckle-punching the dough. To Ramsey, “You’re the one who phoned. You talked to Joel.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Joel is at his studio. He won’t be happy that you’re here.”
“We won’t stay long.” A beat, then, “You and your husband were members of the Jesus Lord Holiness church at the time, is that correct?”
“We attended briefly.”
“Why that church?”
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“Joel and I believe there is more to existence than worldly concerns.”
“Why did you leave?”
She paused. Again used the inside of her elbow to brush hair from her face.
“We thought spiritual fulfillment might best come from ancient ritual, from people seeking personal engagement with forces existing on a higher plane.” Back to the bread. “We tried Jesus Lord Holiness. It wasn’t for us. Now we belong to the Unitarian church. Its principles align more closely with our current worldview.”
“And that would be?”
She answered slowly, prefacing each sentence with a series of jabs to the dough.
“We believe that all humans are welcome at the table of God’s love and fellowship. That the divisions that separate us are artificial, that all souls are one. We don’t focus on an afterlife, strict doctrine, or a written creed. We express our faith through acts of justice and compassion.”
I wasn’t sure if she was summarizing Unitarian beliefs or those of Joel and herself. But it sounded more reasonable than hellfire and speaking in tongues.
“What can you tell me about Granger Hoke?” Ramsey asked.
“Father G.” Katalin lifted, then dropped the dough. “No comment.”
“Did you know Mason Gulley?”
“Only to say hello.”
“Your impression?”
“He was a sad young man.”
“Cora Teague was your nanny?”
Across the table, Saffron’s little shoulders hiked up sharply.
Katalin reached out to her daughter. “It’s okay, baby.”
“Do you remember Cora?” I asked the child gently.
Saffron whipped to face her mother, eyes wide with alarm. “Why are they asking about Cora?”
“She’s missing,” I said gently. “Deputy Ramsey and I are trying to find her.”
“Will she come to our house, Mommy?” So shrill Dozer shot to his feet.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Which one, Mommy?” Saucer eyes probing her mother’s. “Which one?”
“Come here.”
Saffron flew from the bench and fired around the table.
Katalin hugged then released her daughter, leaving two white handprints on the girl’s back. Cupping the small chin, she said, “I want you to take Dozer out into the yard. Can you do that for me?”
A solemn nod, then the child skittered off, the dog on her heels.
“That was a very strong reaction,” I said.
“Saffron feels things deeply.”
“Still.”
“She doesn’t like Cora Teague.”
“Do you know why?” Skimming a glance at Ramsey.
“When Saffron was three she broke her wrist falling from her tricycle. Cora was with her at the time. I suspect she unconsciously associates the pain with the person.”
“Has she talked about the incident?”
“We try to focus on happy things.”
“How did Cora explain the accident?”
“Explanations.” Something flickered in Katalin’s eyes, there in the blue, then gone. “It doesn’t matter if the water is cold or warm if you’re going to have to wade through it anyway.”
“Also Teilhard de Chardin?”
She nodded.
“Was he the reason you tried Catholicism?”
“Perhaps.” She pointed an elbow at the empty bread pans. “I’m sorry. I have deliveries due by noon.”
Ramsey and I followed her to the front door. We were on the porch when her words made us pause.
“There was a pillow in the crib.” I turned. Katalin was looking not at us but at something off in the distance. Perhaps off in time.
“With River,” I guessed.
She nodded.
“I never put a pillow in his crib.” Almost a whisper.
“Did you tell someone?” I asked.
The deep indigo eyes swung to me, so filled with pain the connection felt like a blow. “Father G.”
“What did he say?”
“Beware of sinners bearing false witness.”
Ramsey’s cell buzzed as we were descending the steps. He checked the screen, then tossed me the keys.
I unlocked the SUV and got in. While he stood outside and talked, I scrolled through email on my iPhone. Trying not to appear curious, but covertly watching.
Ramsey’s body language was, for him, animated. Shifted weight. A hip-planted hand. A cocked chin. I wondered if the call was business or personal. Either way, it was not going well.
For the first time I considered the deputy’s private life. Aunt Ruby had said her nephew needed a girlfriend. That he’d come from Georgia and that his marriage had ended badly. He had a dog. Beyond those few details, I knew nothing.
One email was from Larabee. As I opened and read it, Ramsey clipped the cell to his belt and strode toward the car. He wasn’t smiling.
“Sorry.” He started the engine but didn’t shift into drive.
“Just got word from my chief,” I said. “The Avery County coroner who would have handled both the Eli Teague and River Brice deaths was a guy named Fenton Ogilvie. He died in 2012.”
“Right. He’d just passed when I joined the department. A retired ambulance driver.” Ramsey gave a small shake of his head. “They found him at the bottom of an elevator shaft. Apparently Ogilvie was quite a character.”
“Meaning?”
“No point in speaking ill of the dead. But the guy seems to be remembered for two accomplishments. Keeping himself perpetually drunk, and cultivating one colossally cirrhotic liver.”
“And the elevator thing.”
“And that.” A few thumb-taps to the wheel. “Your comment about Cora Teague’s absenteeism got me thinking. I pulled the date from Eli’s death certificate, then called Avery High. Cora was out for six weeks after the kid died.”
“The death of a sibling would be traumatic.”
“Six weeks?”
“That is a lot.”
“I also got the name of Cora’s doctor.”
“The school kept it on file?”
“Terrence O’Tool. His office is in Newland. If you’re up for it, we can swing by there now.”
“Damn right I’m up for it.” Inwardly groaning. Newland meant back to Avery, a good hour and a quarter longer return to Charlotte.
I followed Ramsey. Whose driving shaved at least fifteen minutes off the trip. And my life.
We were almost to Newland when he surprised me by pulling to the shoulder. I followed suit and he walked back to my car. I lowered the window and he leaned down, one arm on the roof. To anyone passing it looked like I was getting a ticket. From a very careless cop.
“Check it out.” Ramsey tipped his head toward a large log cabin on the opposite side of the road. The front porch featured a pair of picnic tables, a life-size carved wooden bear, a plastic trash can, a rectangular tank that probably held bait during fishing season.
The cabin’s single window was covered with flyers curling from the inside of the glass. Above the door was a neon sign saying J.T.’S FILL UP AND FIX UP.
In front were two gas pumps. In back was a low, windowless structure made of corrugated tin. Running along its foundation was a paved area divided into rectangles by chain-link fencing.
I looked a question at Ramsey.
“John Teague’s entrepreneurial genius. Guidebooks, gum, and gas for passing motorists. Plaster, paint, and plywood for do-it-yourself locals.”
“What’s in back?”
“John’s kid trains dogs.”
“Owen Lee.”
“Yeah.”
“People send their pets to live in that dump?”
“I doubt these pooches are pets.”
“Still.”
“As I understand it, Owen Lee operated out of his home until the missus took issue with the barking and poop. Four summers back he built the eyesore you’re looking at and moved the operation here. He must have customers, because he’s st
ill training dogs.”
I was about to ask a follow-up when the man in question rounded the building leading a German shepherd the size of a panzer. He paused on seeing us, face blank.
Ramsey flicked a wave. Ignoring the greeting, Owen Lee unlocked a gate and walked the dog inside an enclosure.
Ramsey slapped the roof of my car, then returned to his SUV. On the road again.
Newland, until its incorporation, was known as the Old Fields of Toe, named not for a digit but for the town’s location at the headwaters of the Toe River.
Today Newland’s main claim to fame is that it’s the highest county seat east of the Mississippi. There’s not much there—the courthouse and library, a few shops, the Shady Lawn Lodge, the Mason Jar Cafe. Out in the boonies, mile upon mile of Christmas tree farms.
Ramsey drove past the Avery County Courthouse and his departmental headquarters. After passing a feed store, a True Value hardware, and a pharmacy, he made a jigsaw pattern of turns, then pulled onto a patch of gravel fronting a two-story duplex that was brick on one side, frame on the other. Below the brick were broad picture windows stenciled with the name of a realtor.
The frame half was painted white and had an angled roof sloping down from left to right. Upstairs were two windows, both hung with closed blinds. Downstairs was another window, also covered on the inside, and two concrete steps leading to an aluminum door. A very small plaque identified the structure as the O’Tool Professional Building.
“Lofty,” I said.
“There are two of them in there. O’Tool, Cora Teague’s doctor, and a dentist.”
Ramsey and I got out and entered. It was like stepping into a time warp.
The waiting area contained several cracked vinyl chairs and laminate tables laden with ancient magazines. A coatrack. A toy box. A dusty plastic plant. The art consisted of posters warning about unwanted medical and dental conditions. Shingles and gingivitis seemed to be big.
A woman occupied one chair. Her sleeping baby looked patient. She did not. An elderly man occupied another, eyes glued to a dated copy of Field &Stream.
A staircase rose steeply on the left. A single door opened off the back wall. Between them was a reception counter staffed by a woman who had to be in her eighties. She had blue-white hair permed into tight little curls, bifocals, and a pink scrub top dotted with little blue bunnies.