Authors: Mark de Castrique
“A pretty simple one. How long did you know Eddie?”
“All my life.”
“So, you were friends all your life, even though he was older?”
“We got closer over the last year. Before then, I knew who he was. You know, to speak to.”
“And over the last year, is that when you started dating his sister?”
He sat up and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, so what?”
“So, nothing.” I looked around the room. “I mean nothing at all shows you have anything in common with Jimmy other than his sister.”
For a few seconds, no one said anything. The absence of any item with Cherokee cultural connections in Eddie's home made my point loud and clear.
Eddie spun on the stool to face Romero. “You've seen me at the rallies. I've been right by Jimmy's side. Just because I haven't turned my place into a museum doesn't mean I'm not committed to the cause.”
“What cause is that?” I asked.
“Returning to the core of our heritage. The energy of the sacred fire. The struggle to be in harmony with nature.”
“I see. Like your fire-engine red Camaro and the struggle to win the battle of the Xbox.”
“You wouldn't understand,” he snapped. “The truth is I have to live in both worlds. I've got a job and responsibilities.”
I remembered what Romero told me. “Does one of your worlds include the per capita?”
His face darkened. “I use that money to fund our activities.”
“How did Jimmy use his per capita?”
Eddie looked at the floor. “He wouldn't take it.”
I decided to ease off a notch before I turned him into a hostile witness. “You weren't just a yes-man then? You had your own opinions?”
Eddie squared his shoulders. “I did. Jimmy knew where I stood.”
“Like the protest at the funeral?”
“I warned Jimmy that was a mistake. We'd done enough to put you on notice with our first visit, and you were handling the remains by the book. But Jimmy wanted the publicity, especially since the dead woman was the wife of one of the owners.”
“But you went along,” I said.
“I went for Skye. I was worried about her if things got out of hand. And they did.”
“When was the last time you saw Jimmy?”
“Sunday afternoon at the Boys Club. He was preparing for the ball-play game. I ran by on my way to work. It was about three.”
“How did he seem?”
“Fine. He was focused on getting the boys organized.”
“He didn't say anything about going to the cemetery that night?”
Eddie hopped from the stool. “Ain't no way he went to the cemetery. Those bastards caught him, took him there, and killed him.”
“Who are those bastards?”
Eddie started pacing the small space along the kitchen counter. “Isn't it obvious? The Cransford family. Maybe they had help from their friends.”
“The whole family? Son and daughter too?”
Eddie stopped in mid-stride. “I don't know the family. They could all be murdering lunatics.”
“Skye and her grandmother said Jimmy walked home after Sunday supper,” I said. “Skye said his truck was still there when she left at ten. Do you find it believable that the Cransfords would have abducted Jimmy from his home? And that his grandmother wouldn't have heard anything?”
Eddie slid back on the stool and glanced at Romero. “I don't see how that would be possible. The old woman has ears like a deer.”
Romero smiled. “True enough. So I'm assuming Jimmy went out later. Where?”
Eddie slapped his hand on his thigh. “I tell you I don't know. He never said anything to me. We staged the protest and that was the end of it.”
“You know his collection of Cherokee artifacts is missing,” I said.
“Yes. Skye told me.”
“And he didn't say anything about that Sunday afternoon?”
“No. But like I said, we only talked a few minutes.”
I looked down at my notepad as if reviewing a list of questions. “Aside from the incident at the cemetery, has Jimmy led other protests?”
“Yes. We've demonstrated at tribal council meetings.”
“Against anything in particular?”
“Mostly casino issues. There was a strong debate over whether to build the second. As far as Jimmy was concerned, one was one too many. At least the first casino brought visitors to the museum, Oconaluftee Village, and the outdoor drama. Jimmy said the second will bring nothing but gamblers from Atlanta and undercut support for our cultural attractions. It's on the outskirts of the reservation near Murphy and no one will bother driving into the village.”
“Do you agree with him?”
“Yes. A second casino is all about making money, pure and simple.”
“And it means more per capita.”
“I suppose so.”
I scribbled “per capita increase for everyone” on my pad. “Did Jimmy's stance draw a lot of opposition in the tribe?”
“Tribal politics is a full-body contact sport. Everyone knows it's the way it's played. We lost the vote on the second casino and we're moving on. I can't see anyone in the tribe killing him.”
“Moving on to what?”
Eddie Wolfe shrugged. “We hadn't decided.”
“Or Jimmy hadn't told you his decision.”
The young Indian glared at me. “Then he didn't tell anyone else. Face it, Deputy Clayton, your only suspect is the crazy man who attacked Jimmy at the cemetery. Don't try to throw this killing back on the Cherokee.”
I smiled and softly said, “I'm just asking questions, Eddie. One final one. What did Jimmy think about the Catawba tribe's efforts to build a casino across the state line in North Carolina?”
The question seemed to take Eddie by surprise. “What's that have to do with anything?”
“You tell me. Was he for it or against it?”
“Jimmy was for it. He thought the competition would make our expansion a risky undertaking, and the banks might reconsider the construction loans to the tribe.”
“And if a Cherokee and a vocal band of his followers demonstrated in Raleigh for the Catawba to be allowed the same gaming rights in our state?”
Eddie Wolfe and Detective Romero both looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“It would certainly muddy the legislative waters,” Romero said.
“I don't know about legislative waters,” Eddie said, “but it would piss off a lot of people.” Then he added, “Just the kind of thing Jimmy loved to do.”
I asked Eddie Wolfe for his cell number in case I had follow-up questions. As we left, Romero said, “I'm going to see the Swifts. Did you know Swifty is missing?”
Eddie leaned against the metal door jamb. “Yes. Dot came by earlier asking if I'd seen him. I hope the boy just wandered too far and got caught out after dark. He's a smart kid. He knows how to live in the wild.”
“When did you see him last?” Romero asked.
“At Sunday's ball-play. Not to speak to. He was warming up for the game.”
“Any place in particular he might hike?” Romero asked.
“You'll have to ask his friends.”
“Were Swifty and Jimmy close?” I asked.
“I reckon,” Eddie said. “Jimmy was his coach and his bus driver.”
“What are you thinking?” Romero asked me.
“Danny Swift disappeared yesterday, the day everyone learned of Panther's death.”
Romero nodded. “The kid's run off to grieve.”
“I bet you're right,” Eddie agreed. “If you need a search party, call me. I'll clock out and help.” He stepped back inside and closed the door.
I turned to Romero. “I'll wait in the car while you talk with the parents.”
“What are you going to do? Just sit and twiddle your thumbs? There's no cell coverage.” He jerked his head toward Eddie's trailer. “And that was a good question about Swifty's relationship with Jimmy.”
“All right. If you want an extra set of ears.”
I followed Romero up the gravel road past three mobile homes to the last one in the row. It was also the one with the neatest landscaping. A flagstone walk outlined with white pebbles arced from the driveway through beds of blue pansies. Gray latticework around the base of the mobile home provided the backdrop for a row of wild azalea bushes. The steps and landing to the front door had been stained a dark oak color in contrast to Eddie Wolfe's unpainted lumber.
“They own their place?” I asked Romero.
“Yes. And the home next door that they rent out. David works as a surveyor's assistant. In the summer, Dot works at Oconaluftee Village. She demonstrates how Cherokees make pottery. During the school year, she teaches elementary reading. Swifty's their only child.”
“I guess you'd be worried sick regardless of how many children you had.”
“True.” Romero sighed. “But Swifty was a difficult delivery. Dot can't have any more children.”
At some point in the near future, Susan and I would like to have kids. The prospect that we couldn't would be a shock and a disappointment. “That's too bad. Let's hope Swifty's already home.”
“Yeah.” Romero pointed to the yellow Toyota Corolla in the driveway. “That's Dot's car. David has an old van. Maybe he's gone to pick the boy up.”
I stayed in the yard while Romero climbed the steps and rapped on the glass storm door. Within a few minutes, Romero stepped aside to reveal a slender woman in wheat jeans and a purple tunic. Her jet black hair was pulled back in a single braid that fell over the front of her right shoulder to below her breasts. I estimated her age to be close to my own. Thirty-five at the most.
“Any word?” Romero asked.
She didn't speak. Just shook her head spilling fresh tears down her cheeks.
Romero gestured to me. “This is Deputy Barry Clayton. He and I are investigating Jimmy Panther's death. We talked to Eddie Wolfe. Is it OK if he comes in with me?”
She shrugged and pushed open the storm door. I crossed the threshold and gave her my warmest smile.
“Would you like some coffee?” She spoke so softly I had trouble hearing her.
“None for me,” Romero said.
“No, thank you,” I said.
The layout of the room was similar to Eddie Wolfe's trailer, but where he had stark walls and a wide-screen TV, the Swifts' home seemed to contain only things made by craftsmen. The furniture was constructed of wood and cane, and the upholstery looked like the cushions were covered in handwoven tapestry. Shelves along the walls held pottery of all shapes and sizes. Plates, vases, cups, urns. I remembered Romero said Dot worked summers at Oconaluftee Village demonstrating Cherokee crafts.
“Your home is lovely, Mrs. Swift,” I said. “Did you make all these pieces?”
“Most of them. David and Danny worked on the furniture.” She swept her right hand in an arc. “Please. Have a seat.”
Romero sat on the sofa and the wood creaked under his weight. He smiled. “Sturdy stuff.”
I took a cane-back rocker and Dot sat on the edge of a hard-back chair.
“David's not here,” she said. “He's gone to the Oconaluftee Village to see Robbie Ledford.”
“What's Robbie doing there?” Romero asked.
“He works after school burning canoes.”
I sat quietly, not understanding the conversation.
“Swifty working there too?”
“Yes. Danny demonstrates the blowgun for the tourists.”
I noted how Dot didn't refer to her son by his nickname. Most mothers never accepted a nickname conferred upon their children by those outside the family.
“Barry, Robbie's a boy Swifty's age,” Romero explained. “Since the village stays open in October through leaf season, some of the kids have part-time jobs after school. They play roles in the portrayal of a 1760 Cherokee settlement.” He turned to Dot. “Did Robbie say he knew where Swifty went?”
“No. They all heard about Jimmy at school and Danny left at lunch. No one's seen him since.”
“Why did your husband go to the village if you already learned this from Robbie?”
“David wanted to see Robbie face-to-face. He thinks Robbie must know more than he's telling, and he wants to look him in the eye.”
“Kids will protect each other,” Romero agreed. He looked at me, inviting a comment.
“Mrs. Swift, did your son have a bicycle at school?”
“No. The bus picked him up at the end of the road.”
“So, he left school on foot.”
“I suppose so.”
“Are any of his friends old enough to drive?”
“Not that I know of. Danny mainly hangs out with boys his own age. Mostly members of his ball-play team.”
“Is there any place at the Cherokee Boys Club he might be hiding?”
Dot Swift leaned forward in her chair. “We drove by after Danny didn't come to the village to work. No one had seen him.”
“I'll swing by again,” Romero promised. “Maybe he's holed up in a storeroom or something.”
I didn't know what relevance the boy's disappearance had to my case other than Jimmy Panther's murder could have triggered it. Still, I wanted to help if I could.
“Do you have a photograph of your son?” I asked.
She rose from the chair and went to a bookshelf at the end of the room. She took down a rectangular piece of pottery that was a picture frame. The eight-by-ten featured a grinning Cherokee boy standing in front of a roughly cut open field. He held a wooden stick with a circular webbed pocket at one end. A beaded headband pulled his black hair off his high forehead. He stood shirtless, the ball-play stick angled across his chest.
In the field behind him, other boys were frozen in mid stride as they ranâsome with shirts, some without.
“Nice looking kid,” I said. “How old's the photo?”
“About a month. He was playing a team from one of the other towns. Danny had a great game.”
“Did your son ever take part in any of Jimmy's protests?”
“No,” she said emphatically. “While David and I agree with some of what Jimmy is fighting for, we didn't go along with his confrontational tactics. Jimmy never let the kids get involved.”
“How did your son feel about Jimmy?”
“Danny idolized him,” Dot said. “Second only to his father. Sometimes I think David was a little jealous.”
It sounded like Swifty didn't need a father figure, but as an only child, he might take to Jimmy as a big brother. “Is it fair to say he would be very upset by Jimmy's murder?”
“Devastated.” Again, the tears flowed. “But not as devastated as I will be if something's happened to him.”
Romero looked pained by the woman's distress. “We'll find him, Dot. Don't you worry. And I'll talk to Robbie myself.” He stood. “Anything else?” he asked me. His tone told me my answer should be no.
“One other thing if it's not a bother. Could I see your son's room?”
Tommy Lee had told me always check the bedroom of a runaway. Sometimes there could be clues through magazine clippings or saved pictures as to the child's destination.
“Yes,” Dot said. “But he didn't leave a note or take any of his things. He didn't know Jimmy had died when he left for school yesterday.”
“It's a good idea, Dot,” Romero said. “We might learn something.”
She led us down a short hall to a bedroom at one end of the mobile home. A single bed with a plain brown blanket was underneath a window overlooking the front yard. Over a dresser on the opposite wall hung twin ball-play sticks crossed like blunt spears. A desk with a goose-necked lamp sat under a smaller window in the trailer's end wall. Three books were stacked on the desk. I picked up the top one.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
. Not unusual reading for Swifty's age. Below it was
The Hunger Games
, also popular with teenagers and shot in the western North Carolina mountains. The third book wasn't in the bedroom of many readers of any age.
Ultimate Guide to Wilderness Living.
“Is your son reading this for a group activity?”
“No. It's his own interest. Danny likes nothing better than being in the forest.”
I flipped through the pages but no notes or bookmarks fell out. “So, he's read it?”
“That and at least ten others,” Dot said.
The boy could probably outlast a Special Forces patrol, I thought. Unless he's been injured, he'll come in when he wants. I looked around the room again. No toys, no video games. I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed.
“He doesn't keep anything under there,” Dot said.
I pulled out a ball-play stick.
“I don't know where that came from,” Dot said. “Maybe he was making it.”
To my uneducated eye, the wood looked older than the sticks above the dresser. The webbing or whatever they called it at the end was worn and broken.
“Let me see that,” Romero said.
I sat on the floor and raised the stick to the giant towering over me. He moved the shaft laterally in front of his eyes.
“I've seen this before. It belongs to Jimmy Panther.”
I scrambled to my feet. “Would Jimmy have given it to him?”
“Maybe.” Romero gave a slight shake of his head, cuing me to let it go. He turned to Dot. “Mind if I keep this? I'll ask Emma for a positive identification.”
“OK. But I know my boy didn't steal it.”
“I'm sure he didn't,” Romero said. “And I'll show it to Robbie. Maybe he'll know why your son has it.”
“It wasn't there Saturday,” Dot said. “I dusted under the bed.”
“Probably has nothing to do with anything else. But we'll go straight to the village. You have a landline, don't you?”
“Yes.” Dot went to her son's desk and wrote the number on a sheet of paper. “Please call if you learn anything.”
“You'll be the first to know,” Romero assured her.
We said good-bye and walked down the gravel road to the patrol car. Eddie Wolfe was heading to his Camaro when he turned at the sound of our footsteps. He eyed the ball-play stick.
“Is that Swifty's?”
“No.” Romero stopped in front of Eddie. “It's definitely not Swifty's.”
Eddie's eyes widened as he studied the stick. “That's Jimmy's. Is Swifty back? Did he bring it with him?”
Romero walked over to the patrol car and tossed the ball-play stick across the backseat. “Swifty's still missing. We found the stick under his bed. Any idea why he'd have it?”
Eddie stared at the patrol car. “No,” he finally said.
Romero slammed the back door and signaled me to get in the car.
“You don't think Swifty's the one who stole Jimmy's collection?” Eddie asked.
“Not for a second.” Romero got in and started the engine.
As we pulled away, I looked back. Eddie stood frozen by the Camaro, watching our departure.
“Is that the ball-play stick Skye mentioned?” I asked. “The one that's been in the family so long?”
“Yes. I don't know how many greats in front of grandfather, but one of them fashioned it before the Trail of Tears. That's pre-1838.”
I knew the Trail of Tears had been the forced relocation of the Cherokee to Oklahoma so that Georgia could claim part of their land, the land on which gold had been discovered. President Andrew Jackson defied the U.S. Supreme Court and let the ethnic cleansing occur. Over thirteen thousand Cherokee were driven from their ancestral homeland in the winter of 1838 without proper clothing, food, or shelter. Between four and six thousand died along the forced march. It was a shameful blot on our history and national character.
“Why are you so sure Swifty didn't take Jimmy's artifact collection?” I asked.
“Because he would have had to have stolen it after Sunday night. Jimmy would have sent out a hue and cry if he'd found it missing. If Swifty didn't learn of Jimmy's death till noon yesterday, he couldn't have made it to Jimmy's on foot before we got there. By then the collection was already gone.”
“So, what are you thinking?”
“That the ball-play stick might pry loose Robbie Ledford's tongue if he knows anything. How's your time?”
I checked my watch. Three thirty. “I'm OK. I need to meet my wife no later than five.”
“Then let's see where this ancient stick leads us.”