A Specter of Justice Read online

  Shirley held up her hand. “A palm print. Not just surface grime but a discoloration of the paint itself.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “No. I totaled the car five years ago.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And every bit of the hood was dented except for that print.”

  “Too bad she didn’t run her hand over the entire car.”

  Shirley stiffened. “Go ahead and laugh. Cory and I are just trying to help two little boys who’ve lost their parents.”

  The rebuke stung. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of what you’re doing. But really, is that the best use of time and resources? A ghost tour? It’s not very dignified, given that Heather Atwood was murdered.”

  “This isn’t about dignity and it’s not about murder. It’s about raising the most money so that these kids have a decent shot at life. What do you think Heather would want? Dignity or her children taken care of?”

  Heather Atwood’s tearful face floated before my eyes. I heard my own voice—Clyde will never hurt you again. She took that as a promise, a promise I hadn’t kept.

  “Okay. I’m in. What do you need me to do?”

  “Speak for Helen. Tell her story at the bridge. I’ll give you the facts.”

  Facts and a ghost story were an odd combination for a detective who makes his living collecting hard evidence. But, how difficult could it be to spin a yarn to a bunch of gullible ghost stalkers?

  “And Nakayla?” I asked.

  “I’m going to ask her to be the guide on one of the buses. If we have any problem, that’s probably where it will occur. Nakayla thinks well on her feet.” Shirley swept her eyes along the length of the sofa. “Whereas you, by your own admission, think better lying down.” She stood. “I’d better let you get back to work.”

  “So, what’s the next step?”

  “An organizational meeting. I was thinking we’d hold it at your place.”

  “My place?”

  “Sam, you live in an ancient, haunted hotel that was once a hospital and a mental institution. Where else would we meet to plan a ghost tour?”

  ***

  The Kenilworth Inn stands on a hilltop overlooking Biltmore Village. The village had been constructed over a hundred years ago on the site of a little crossroads community called Best. I guess Best wasn’t good enough because the man who purchased the property, George Vanderbilt, changed the name to match that of the spectacular estate he was creating.

  The Kenilworth Inn, completed in 1891, predated Vanderbilt’s summer home, Biltmore, by several years. In fact, the story goes that Vanderbilt was an investor and was particularly impressed that the Kenilworth had a bowling alley in the basement. So he had one installed in the basement of the Biltmore House.

  The original inn burned in 1909, but it was rebuilt in the Tudor style in 1913. Its life alternated between stints as a grand hotel and as a military hospital during the two world wars. Later it was converted into a mental institution known as Appalachian Hall. In the late 1990s, a developer saved it from being razed and he converted the former hotel/hospital rooms into apartments. Each had a unique layout because of the challenge of working around the existing infrastructure.

  I rented a one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor. The fourth was the top story, although some apartments on this level had lofts that took advantage of the building’s five-story height.

  I don’t believe in ghosts, but I understood how Shirley would claim that the Kenilworth Inn was haunted. The old structure had more than its share of creaks and groans. Several of my neighbors swore they heard whispers in the night, particularly right after they moved in. I heard no such eerie conversations, but I had taken over the apartment rented by Nakayla’s murdered sister Tikima. No question Tikima’s ghost could keep any other spirits including Beelzebub at bay.

  Two weeks after Shirley sprang her surprise request upon me, the organizational meeting for Cory and Shirley’s fundraiser took place. At seven in the evening, Nakayla and I watched from the Kenilworth Inn’s wide terrace as members of the planning team parked in the lot at the far end of the expansive lawn and began the trek up the circular drive to the main entrance. Nakayla had convinced me to host the gathering, but when I learned ten to fifteen people were expected, she agreed to move the site to a large room off the side of the lobby. I’d set up folding chairs in a circle and slid a table against the wall where we could lay out cheese and crackers, nuts, and oatmeal raisin cookies. Bottled water and assorted soft drinks nestled in the crushed ice in my cooler. The only problem was the room also held the mailboxes for all the tenants. I hoped by now most of them had collected their mail and not walking in on our discussion.

  “Do you know if the contingent from the Asheville Apparitions will come in some special garb?” I asked Nakayla.

  “Yes, black robes and turbans. Don’t worry. I checked your lease. Nothing prohibits a tenant from conducting Satanic rites.”

  “If I’m evicted, I’m moving in with you.”

  Nakayla shuddered. “Now that’s a scary thought.”

  Nakayla and I were not only business partners but also lovers. I’d suggested combining households several times, but she insisted on maintaining her own place. Her space, as she called it. She wasn’t ready for working together and living together. I’d give up my apartment, ghosts and all, if she ever changed her mind.

  “Looks like Shirley drove some of her friends,” Nakayla said. “Four people are getting out of her car. Look at those cult outfits. Jeans and shirts.”

  Shirley started walking across the lawn with a man and two women.

  “Obviously disguises,” I said. “Do you know them?”

  “No. She just gave me a head count. There’s you, me, Cory, Shirley, and Hewitt. I’ve never met any of the others.”

  “I hope they’re workers and not just talkers,” I said. “The problem with volunteers is you can’t fire them.”

  More cars pulled into the parking lot and Nakayla waved to the approaching group. Through a smile of gritted teeth, she whispered, “Remember, this is Cory and Shirley’s event. Don’t turn into a chief warrant officer and try to run things.”

  “That only happens when the moon’s full. Believe me, I have no interest in doing anything other than telling my little story about Helen.”

  Nakayla and I led the volunteers through the lobby to the corner of our meeting room farthest from the mailboxes.

  “Please help yourself to drinks and snacks,” Nakayla said. “We have a few more people coming, but we might as well get started.”

  I watched them form a line in front of the assortment of goodies. Cory and Shirley stood back, letting the others go first. Cory’s right arm was in a sling held tight against her side. I walked over to them.

  “Cory, I’ll get you some food when the line clears.”

  “Thanks, Sam. Go easy on the cookies.”

  I turned to Shirley and gestured to the three people who rode with her. “Who are your guests?” The man had thinning, gray hair and I guessed he was close to fifty. The two slender women looked like they were in their early forties.

  “The blonde’s Molly Staton and the brunette’s Lenore Carpenter. They’re fellow members of Asheville Apparitions. The guy’s Jerry Wofford. He heard about the event and called the office. He owns the new craft brewery in town.”

  “Which one? We’re being overrun with them.”

  Asheville boasted so many craft breweries that it had been designated Beer City, USA, four years in a row. National brewers were now moving in.

  “Crystal Stream Beers.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  Shirley grabbed my arm. “Don’t tell him that. He’s not only making a cash donation, but he’s supplying beer for the event. It’s a good way to get his brand known.”

  “I wouldn’t drink anything but Crystal S
tream. What are some of the labels?”

  “Labels?”

  “Yeah. Does he have an ale or a porter? Most breweries offer a variety.”

  Shirley stepped in front of me and turned her back to her guests. “Damn it, Sam. I didn’t think to ask.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure he won’t keep them a secret.”

  Shirley moved on to welcome other guests. The two women she’d pointed out came toward me, broad smiles on their faces.

  With her bright blue eyes and short fair hair, Molly Staton looked more like a member of a neighborhood book club. The only hint of the hereafter was the slogan on her T-shirt: “I read dead people.”

  “Mr. Blackman, thank you so much for hosting. I’m Molly Staton, a friend of Shirley’s.” Molly turned to her dark-haired companion. “And this is Lenore Carpenter.”

  “Mr. Blackman, we can’t thank you enough. Your participation means so much. I know the whole idea must seem a little odd, but we really do believe the Atwood twins will benefit in so many ways from the fundraiser.”

  Shirley must have told everyone about my hesitation to be involved. I didn’t want to be tagged as Doubting Thomas.

  “Please call me Sam. And it’s a terrific idea. Loved it the minute I heard it.”

  They nodded, fully aware I was spouting a load of crap, but they were too polite to call me out.

  People began to take their seats. Hewitt arrived in a vintage Hawaiian shirt and broad-brimmed straw hat, Asheville’s version of Jimmy Buffett. A few chairs remained empty, either awaiting latecomers or marking the no-shows.

  I set Cory’s plate in the vacant chair to her right and then took a seat beside Nakayla.

  Cory remained standing. “Shirley and I want to thank all of you for being here this evening and for your willingness to help the Atwood twins.”

  Her comment drew enthusiastic nods.

  Jerry Wofford raised his hand. “Will anyone from the Atwood or Wilson families be helping?”

  “No,” Cory said. “We’re taking this on without their involvement.”

  “But the twins are their grandchildren,” Wofford argued.

  Cory and Shirley both looked to Hewitt seated beside Wofford. Hewitt took off his hat and set it under his chair. He straightened up and took a deep breath. I knew we were in for one of Hewitt’s legal lectures.

  “Helen Wilson and the Atwoods are locked in a messy custody battle that won’t be settled till this event is over.”

  Hewitt’s mouth had opened and stayed open, but the words came from behind me. I twisted in my chair to see Tom Peterson coming through the door from the lobby. Cory picked up her plate and indicated for him to sit beside her.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He nodded to Hewitt. “I’m sure Mr. Donaldson and I agree that having the two families involved in this admirable cause would be a disaster.”

  “That’s what I was about to say,” Hewitt remarked stiffly.

  Peterson swept his gaze around the circle like he was measuring the reactions of a jury. “And I hope you all appreciate that as selfless as Mr. Donaldson and his staff are with their time, they do represent Helen Wilson’s interests. Since I represent the Atwoods, I’m happy to also volunteer and bring the necessary balance.”

  Everyone looked at Hewitt. He eyed the young attorney with undisguised suspicion. I knew he was calculating what impact if any the man’s posturing could have on Helen Wilson’s case.

  Hewitt stood, crossed the circle, and offered his hand. “The best way to project neutrality is to leave the legal issues outside the activities of this committee.”

  Peterson gripped Hewitt’s hand. “Counselor, I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  Chapter Three

  Jerry Wofford cleared his throat. “Do you think we could have some introductions? I have no idea who’s who and what’s going on.”

  The dueling attorneys and Cory sat. She retook control of the meeting.

  “I’m Cory DeMille. I’m a paralegal for Hewitt Donaldson and I became involved because I met the twins during the preparation for Heather Atwood’s divorce.” She glanced at her right arm. “I was wounded when the shooting occurred. And, I don’t know, I guess I feel a kinship to those boys. My wounds will heal, but theirs may never.” Cory turned to her left and smiled at Shirley seated beside her. “Shirley came to me with the idea for the ghost tour and I agreed to help.”

  Shirley picked up the cue. “I’m Shirley. I work with Cory and Hewitt and I’m a founding member of Asheville Apparitions.” She smiled at Molly and Lenore who were seated on the other side of Hewitt. “Several of us are here tonight. We not only want to raise money for Jimmy and Johnny Atwood, but also work to bring comfort to the spirit of Heather Atwood who must be grieving for her children.”

  I took a quick glance at the volunteers whom I suspected were not members of the spiritualist organization. In addition to Peterson and Wofford, a woman and man had arrived together and stood by themselves until we were seated. They were casually dressed and appeared to be in their mid-twenties. When Shirley mentioned consoling Heather’s spirit, they looked at each other. The man rolled his eyes, but the woman gave him a sharp scowl. He mouthed, “Sorry.”

  As if sensing the skepticism in the room, Shirley said, “Now we know everyone here doesn’t believe in the spiritual dimension that surrounds us.” Instead of looking at the eye-roller, Shirley zeroed in on me. “But that’s Okay. We’re all working for the same cause and I want to join Cory in offering my thanks.”

  Shirley nodded to Nakayla.

  “I’m Nakayla Robertson. Sam and I work in the same building with Shirley and Cory. When we heard about the fundraiser, we knew we wanted to help. I plan to work on ticket sales and sponsorships, and I’ll be hosting one of the buses the night of the event.”

  Jerry Wofford leaned forward to see around Hewitt. “Are you the detectives?”

  “Yes,” Nakayla said. “The Blackman and Robertson Agency. We were also involved in the Atwood case, and although I’m not sure that the grieving spirit of Heather walks among us, I do want to do right by her. I hope that some semblance of justice will be done for her children.”

  Nakayla spoke with such conviction that everyone sat quietly for a moment.

  “Sam,” Cory prompted.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m Sam Blackman, Nakayla’s partner. I’m all for the fundraiser, but uncertain I’ll make the best host.”

  “Are you on a bus too?” Tom Peterson asked.

  “No. I’m telling Helen’s story up at the bridge on Beaucatcher Mountain.”

  The young couple across from me leaned closer.

  “Helen’s Bridge?” the man asked.

  “Yes. But I won’t be playing Helen.”

  His companion turned in her seat. “What’s Helen’s Bridge?” she asked him.

  “We can discuss that later,” Cory said. “Hewitt?”

  The lawyer stood to speak, an unalterable trait of his professional style. “I’m Hewitt Donaldson. Outside of this fundraiser, I am the lawyer for Heather Atwood’s mother. I’m not gracious enough to be a host, but I’m told I’m persuasive enough to strong-arm some sponsorships and block ticket sales. I plan to stay in the background and let you creative, more energetic people take charge.”

  “Really?” Shirley asked. “Stay in the background? I think the only time that happened was when you thought the people in front of you were part of the press corps.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Hewitt sat and said in a stage whisper, “So much for Asheville’s unemployment numbers declining.”

  Shirley bowed. “And that’s why my boss, Mr. Donaldson, always gets the last word.”

  “Your turn, Mr. Wofford,” Cory said.

  The gray-haired man shrugged. “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell. I moved here from Denver about nine months ago
and traded the Rockies for the Appalachians. I worked for Coors and decided to open my own craft brewery. This is the hottest spot in the country for new beers and I take it as a challenge to compete with the best. When I heard about the tragedy in the courtroom and the fundraiser, I saw an opportunity to do some good and also publicize my brewery. I’m pleased to be a main sponsor.”

  “And we thank you for your generosity,” Cory said.

  Molly Staton spoke next. “I’m Helen,” she said directly to me. “Your ghost of the bridge.” She glanced around the circle and smiled. “Actually I’m Molly Staton. I work at the Pack Library and I’ve always been interested in the paranormal and supernatural. In addition to playing Helen for the event, I’ll be coordinating volunteers with Lenore.”

  “And I’m Lenore Carpenter. I’m also a member of the Asheville Apparitions and in addition to helping Molly, I’ll be lining up logistical support for the night of the ghost tour. I’m a professional event planner and happy to use my experience to help the twins.” She turned to the young man on her right, signaling she had finished.

  He reached behind his chair and held up a small backpack. I hadn’t noticed it before.

  “My name is Collin McPhillips. I’m a freelance photographer and this is my camera to prove it. Actually, I’m a photo-journalist.” He nodded to the young woman beside him. “But, I’m happy to shoot pictures and let someone else write the story. I was covering the courthouse the day Clyde Atwood went crazy. That’s when I met Angela. We stayed in touch and when we heard about the fundraiser, we thought it might make an interesting article.”

  The woman tagged onto his comments. “We’re happy to help with pre-publicity as well. We could write press releases, and I hope our article can bring in donations after the event.”

  “You are?” Cory questioned.

  “Sorry. I’m Angela Douglas. I’m new to Asheville, but as a freelance writer, I can live anywhere. In addition to magazine articles, I’ve written scripts for some of those reality shows like ‘Ghost Hunters’ and ‘Psychic Detective.’”

  Hewitt laughed. “If you ever need to cast ‘Psycho Detective,’ Sam’s your man.”