Deeper Than the Grave (7 page)

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning dawned sunny and clear and bitter cold. I kept the engine running and the heater blasting as I parked in front of my brother's house. His lawn wore the dead of winter well, the leafless dogwoods and winter-spare azaleas complementing the lines of his Arts and Crafts bungalow. I knew better than to honk in his part of Virginia Highlands, but of course I didn't have to—Eric was already coming out to meet me, suitcase rolling beside him like a well-behaved dog.

Maybe it was the bright clear light, but he looked thinner, more gray hairs among the dark blond tousles he so carefully cultivated. He'd turn forty this year, I remembered with a start. I had thirty in my headlights and no gray yet, but my brother's hair was a portent of things to come. He popped his luggage in the trunk, then slid into the passenger side, balancing a travel mug as he arranged his messenger bag between his knees.

“I could have gotten a car,” he said, fastening his seatbelt. “The coffee's for you, by the way. Blue Mountain. Sugared and creamed.”

I took the mug from him. “Let me guess. Organically sourced from a single cow in Switzerland.”

“Oh, you are full of funny this morning, aren't you?”

I laughed as I pulled the Camaro into his driveway for a quick turnaround. Despite the sunshine, his street was empty. Usually there were joggers, retired couples walking fancy dogs clipped like topiary, but temps in the thirties had the neighborhood shuttered and silent.

Eric dropped his glasses to his nose and frowned. “Why aren't you taking Virginia?”

“Virginia's blocked at Monroe. They're filming some movie at Piedmont Park this morning.”

“So take Highland to Ponce and then—”

“I know how to get to the airport.”

“But—”

“Trust me.”

Eric shook his head doubtfully. He looked exactly like our father when he did it—eyebrows lowered, jaw set, the barest waggle of chin. He didn't argue, though, just checked his phone for any messages he'd missed between the doorstep and my front seat.

“So how's it been?” he said. “I haven't seen you for weeks.”

“I've been hunkered down in the shop, trying to get it ready for the ATF audit.”

“How's that coming?”

“Good.”

I watched as he typed out a quick text with his thumbs. Apparently the known world would dry up and sift away if he stopped answering his messages for five minutes. I took the next left, crossing my fingers that the Connector wasn't suffering from extended rush hour gridlock.

I tried to sound nonchalant. “I've got a question.”

He didn't look up from the phone. “Shoot.”

“Did Uncle Dexter give you a key ring like this one?”

I reached around the steering column and fingered the black iron curlicue of my Dexter-made key ring. Eric examined it, nodding.

“He did. For Christmas, I think, a couple years ago?”

“Your initials on it?”

“Uh huh. The engraving was a bit wonky, but then, he'd only been blacksmithing for a little while, right after he lost Dotty. Then his hip got too bad to stand at the forge all day.”

I was a little surprised at how much my brother knew, and a little guilty. I'd visited Dexter every time I'd come up to the city, but I'd visited because he was an irascible old coot, good for a story. I'd loved him, sure enough. But I hadn't paid attention. Apparently Eric had.

My brother ran his fingers along the key ring. “He made those pointy things too.”

“Tent stakes?”

He snapped his fingers. “Those. For his reenactment unit, when they went camping. And the things you hang pots with.”

“S-hooks.”

“Right. Simple things, he called them. Good for a beginner.”

“Do you know who else he made key rings for?”

Eric shook his head. “You could ask the rest of his reenactment unit, or the folks at the History Center. They could probably answer most of your questions.” He eyed me then, keenly. “Because you have lots of questions this morning. Why is that?”

I shrugged. Eric gave me the therapist look, which sometimes made stuff fall out of my mouth that I had no intention of telling him. I managed to resist this time, however, setting my jaw, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.

Eric thumbed a number into his phone. “Fine. I'll call Trey.”

I reached over and pushed his fingers away from the screen. “Don't you dare.”

“Then tell me what's going on.”

So I explained. Thing were going well until I got to the word ‘skull.'”

Eric's eyes widened behind his wire-rims. “You found a body?”

“No, I found a skull. Kinda grotty, but—”

“Tai! Why didn't you call me last night?”

“This is why! Because you overreact!”

He yanked his glasses off his face and polished them furiously on his sleeve. “It isn't overreaction, it's concern. You have an unfortunate tendency to throw yourself into dangerous situations. Situations involving skulls, for example.”

“Jeez, Eric, I asked you one question, about a key ring.”

“That's always how it starts. Innocently. But at some point you cross a line, and you cross it deliberately, and then you start doing sneaky things like offering to drive me to the airport just so you can quiz me about a piece of evidence in a murder investigation!”

“Nobody said anything about murder.” I eased off the gas and settled reluctantly into the middle lane. “And that's actually not the reason I wanted to talk to you.”

That caught him off guard. “Then what is?”

So I told him that story too, which took a lot longer. I started with the night in the gun shop, when Trey had thrown me in the safe room, then backed up to the nightmares, the insomnia, his lack of interest and energy in pretty much anything until he'd been handed a search grid.

Eric listened. He'd heard it all before, when he'd helped Trey recover after the accident. He listened with a new perspective now, for Trey was no longer one of his clients—he was the guy dating me—and that complicated the situation. Which explained the seriousness in his voice when he started talking.

“Tai, you know that Trey's particular brand of instability is not only dangerous for him, it can be dangerous for anyone in his immediate vicinity, including you.”

“I know. But the truth is, he probably did hear somebody, probably the same somebody that set off the alarms yesterday. Maybe the other false alarms too. I'm not sure that was provocation enough to pull his weapon, though.”

“It's what he's trained to do. It's his fallback.”

The memory of Savannah flashed again. Deep parts of Trey had come to the surface. And while some of them had been downright mouthwatering, I'd seen the darker aspects too. I sometimes forgot that Trey was capable of killing in various total and professional ways—with his hands, with a knife, with a sniper rifle. I'd been forced to confront that part of myself too, the part that could kill, would have killed, and had wanted to, very badly.

My brother kept his voice level. “How aware is Trey of his behavior?”

“The PTSD part? Quite. There's other stuff going on I'm not sure he sees, though.”

“Like?”

“Like how utterly starved he is for something exciting to do. His entire professional life is now charts and graphs, and he adores them—yes, he does—and he's great at them—yes, he is—but there's something missing, and he thinks he can fill that empty spot with paperwork.”

I pulled up to the Delta terminal, but Eric didn't get out immediately. Instead he opened his messenger bag, pulled out a pen and scribbled something on a notepad. He tore the paper off and handed it to me. It was a book title:
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: A Cognitive Behavioral Approach.

“Trey has a copy. It's an excellent primer, lots of practical advice. I'm sure he'll let you borrow it.”

I folded the paper and stuck it in my pocket. “Thank you.”

“Because we're coming up on the ninth, you know. And anniversaries can trigger—”

“I know. We've talked about it.”

“Good.” Eric shouldered his messenger bag and climbed out, pulling his suitcase from the backseat. “I'll be back Sunday night. We can talk more then.”

“Okay.”

He hesitated, then leaned back in the car. “I don't know why a skeleton had one of Dexter's key rings. I don't think that's something you ought to be trying to figure out. I
do
know it would mean a lot to Dexter that you're still making a go of the shop. Dotty too. And it would mean even more to them—and to me, and to all of us who love you, including Trey—if you can manage to stay alive while you're doing it.”

I felt my throat constrict. “I'll do my dead level best.”

He shut the door. I threw him a wave, pulled back into the stream of traffic. He waved back, but didn't move from his spot in front of the terminal. I watched him as he became a shrinking speck in my rearview mirror. Eventually I couldn't see him anymore. But I knew he was there.

Chapter Fifteen

From Peachtree Street, the Atlanta History Center looks deceptively urban and bland. Behind its beige exterior, however, lie thirty-three acres of greenness, including several vegetable gardens, a 1928 Classical-style mansion, and a Civil War-era farmhouse that somehow survived Sherman's torch. Unfortunately, the outdoor exhibits were deserted this morning, including the blacksmith shop.

“We don't have another blacksmith program scheduled until Saturday,” the docent at the front desk said. She was a slight woman, with jet black hair and red nails and a librarian's hushed voice.

“Perhaps you can help me. My Uncle Dexter used to volunteer here.”

I pulled out the photograph I'd found of Dexter, delivering his presentation amidst the smoke and hot bellowed air, metal glowing in his tongs like a miniature sun, his face red and cheerful in the firelight.

Her eyes lit up. “I remember him! Big guy, walked with a cane?”

“That's him.” I showed her my key ring. “Do you remember him making these?”

The docent examined the key ring. “Sorry, no. I can always ask Dr. Amberdecker about it. She's busy right now, of course, but—”

“Evie Amberdecker? I don't suppose there's any chance I could see her?”

The docent pursed her lips. “Oh no, that wouldn't be possible. Would you like to leave a note?”

“That will do, I guess.”

She sent some paper and a pen my way. I jotted down my contact info with a quick summary of the situation. I handed it back to the docent, who folded it neatly and placed it in a memo box. And then she handed me a map and schedule.

“Enjoy your visit!” she said, beaming.

I walked to the middle of the main atrium, where hallways branched into the separate exhibit areas. Had I been in the mood, I could have explored Atlanta's role in the Masters Tournament, the Centennial Olympic Games, the Southern Folk Art Revival. But of course I was drawn to the hallway concealed behind thick crimson curtains and a CLOSED sign. The Amberdecker exhibit—“Homecoming: The Life and Death of a Confederate Soldier.”

I looked back at the help desk. The nice lady docent chatted up a new visitor, while her assistant worked the phone. I looked back at the exhibit. No guard, no locked door, nothing between me and the shadowed interior but a red velvet rope. Another quick check down the adjacent hallways, and I stepped over the rope and slipped behind the curtain, letting the drapery close behind me with a heavy exhalation, like the doors of a church.

I eased around a partition, grateful for the recessed overheard lights that warmed and softened and, I hoped, concealed. The space was silent except for my sneakers on the golden hardwood and the thunder of distant cannonade, sound effects from hidden speakers. The exhibit was arranged in a walk-through fashion, each display leading further into the labyrinth. It was probably enormous in that hall, yet it felt close, intimate.

And it started with a life-size replica of the gentleman himself. Private Braxton Percival Amberdecker. Rose Amberdecker's great-great-grandfather.

His likeness wore the uniform of the Confederate infantryman—a gray shell-jacket and a pair of gray cloth trousers and a sky-blue kepi with a dark blue band. A replica of his .45-caliber Whitworth rifle, a rare and legendary firearm of the finest workmanship, rested in his arms. The bayonet attached to it was genuine, found with his remains—I could barely make out his name engraved on the blade. The figure's eerily realistic features bore an expression of stoic, blue-eyed acceptance. I could see Rose in those eyes, and in the square chin, but the heartbreaking softness of his freckled cheeks above the mustache was his alone.

I'd looked him up in the second volume of Dexter's dusty
Roster of Confederate Soldiers
. The private had served in the 41st Georgia, Company B, seeing action at Vicksburg before returning to Georgia late in the summer of 1863. A fractured arm earned him a thirty-day furlough back on the Amberdecker plantation, after which he returned to his regiment. The summer of 1864, he went missing during the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, presumed dead. And that was the end of his story until yet another hot summer day two years past, very much like the day he'd disappeared.

A voice startled me. “Excuse me, but this exhibit isn't open to the public yet.”

I turned. Dr. Evie Amberdecker stood there, no longer in field gear. She wore a smart maroon suit with pantyhose and sensible heels, her brown hair subdued in a bun. In the half-light, the resemblance to her ancestor's effigy was stunning, right down to the assertive jaw and the freckles spattering the bridge of her nose.

I stuck out my hand. “Hi again, I'm Tai Randolph. From yesterday?”

Recognition bloomed on her features. She took my hand. Her grip was soft but strong, calloused below the thumb, a scholarly hand that also did hard labor. “Evie, please. Despite my performance yesterday, I don't usually pull the ‘Dr. Amberdecker' routine.” She winced. “I do apologize. I think I yelled.”

“It was a tough morning. No apology necessary.”

“Richard told me afterward that you were Dexter's niece. He said you came out to help, and I didn't appreciate that at the time. But I do now, and so does Mama. Really.”

“You have a sister too, right? Chelsea? Was she there yesterday?”

Evie's nose wrinkled slightly. “No, she was tied up with yet another dress-fitting.”

“That's right. Richard said she's getting married soon.”

Evie's mouth twitched, but she covered it with a tight smile. “In two weeks. Her bridal luncheon is tomorrow, at the High. As if I didn't have enough to do with the opening happening the
same
weekend, and now Braxton's remains in the wind. Literally.”

There was tension between the sisters, that was clear. A simple big-sis-little-sis squabble? Or something deeper, more entrenched? I tried to gauge Evie's expression, but she'd made her face as bland as the mannequin's.

“So they haven't found the bones yet?” I said.

“Not yet. Which makes this whole homecoming theme rather poignant.” She inhaled briskly. “I'm going back this afternoon, once I can get the reporters out of my hair and these clothes back in the closet.”

“I thought it was still a closed crime scene?”

“Not anymore. The cops did an aerial surveillance, gathered what evidence they could, then called it a day. Which makes it my scene again.”

“So they've identified the skull?”

“If they have, they're not telling me about it. I couldn't care less, though. Probably some looter tripped and cracked his head open, which serves him right. I'm tempted to let Mama start shooting them. Or simply shoot them myself. It's been a while since I took the Winchester out, but pulling a trigger is like riding a bike.”

She had her mother's remorseless practicality, that was certain, and probably her overprotective streak too. I thought hard about my next move and decided that straight-up honesty was my best bet.

“I'm sorry to sneak behind the rope like that, but I've got my own family mystery to unravel.” I showed her the key ring. “My Uncle Dexter made this. He worked as a docent here a few years ago, in the blacksmith shop. Do you remember him?”

She smiled, in genuine delight this time. “Of course I remember!”

“Do you remember if he made these for anyone else?”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry, I don't.”

I slipped it back in my pocket. “I saw his demonstration only once before he died. But I think he's connected to your family, and that skull, in some way I haven't figured out yet, so I'm hoping…I don't know what I'm hoping. But I look at this exhibit, at the work you've done, and I think you understand why I have to find some answers.”

The straight-up approach worked. Evie checked her watch. “I have an hour before the news crew arrives. Would you like to join me on my final walk-through, Ms. Randolph?”

“Call me Tai,” I said. “And absolutely.”