rimming a tanned bald scalp showed a little more gray, but otherwise he was unchanged. “I'd allowed some time for getting lost and I got here early. But could we just make it Phillip?”
“Sure,” she answered after a small hesitation, “and I'm Elizabeth.”
After lunch was finished, Ben excused himself to go back to his computer and Elizabeth and Phillip took their coffee out to the front porch. “You and Ben have answered a lot of my questions already,” he said, settling comfortably into one of the rocking chairs. “From what you've told me, I think I'll start by looking for a place in Weaverville; that's plenty close to Asheville.” A lean red hound with luminous black-rimmed yellow eyes nudged at his knee and he leaned down to scratch behind her ears. “Aren't you a beautiful girl!” He looked up at Elizabeth. “What's her name?”
“That's Molly, and the shaggy black one asleep over there is Ursa, and the small brown one is James.” James, clearly the result of an ill-advised union between a dachshund and a Chihuahua, rolled on his back and bared his teeth ingratiatingly.
Phillip scratched James's stomach gently, then, as Ursa roused and pushed her way forward, began to massage the big black dog's ears. She pressed even closer and buried her shaggy head in his lap. Hawkins chuckled. “I've wished I could have a dog, but living alone and with the weird hours I used to have to keep, it just wouldn't have been fair to the dog. Maybe when I finally do retire . . .” His voice trailed off.
Without even realizing she'd done so, Elizabeth made up her mind. “Mr. Hawkins—Phillip—you're a police detective, aren't you?”
“For the past, ah, twenty-two years.” He raised his thick black eyebrows quizzically.
“Well, I'd like to ask your advice about something. You see, I have this neighbor . . .”
It took refills on the coffee to get all the way through the story of Miss Birdie, her dead son, and the prophetess of the Holiness church. “The thing is, the sheriff says it was an accident, but Miss Birdie is convinced Cletus was killed somewhere else and then dumped in the river,” Elizabeth explained. “She's asked me to help her—”
“What did the autopsy show?” Hawkins broke in. “Was this Cletus drowned or not?”
Elizabeth put her coffee mug on the porch railing before replying. “I have to admit I didn't think to ask. But that would clear it up nicely, wouldn't it? If Cletus was drowned, then Birdie would have to accept the fact that he died in the river, not back on the mountain.”
She paused, thinking rapidly, then went on, “Of course, he could have been killed by the fall onto the rocks. The river's pretty shallow a lot of the time. I'll call the sheriff tomorrow; I'll tell him Miss Birdie's not satisfied they've got it right and find out what the autopsy showed.” She paused again, feeling a sudden pang of guilt. “I should have done it earlier; I'm afraid the sheriff doesn't take Miss Birdie very seriously.”
“You say they found him last week?” Hawkins asked. “If the sheriff thinks it was just an accident, it could be several weeks before the autopsy gets done—at least, back in Beaufort that's how it would be. Medical examiners' offices are usually overloaded. Maybe it's different up here.” He shrugged and, standing, leaned on the railing to watch a pair of red-tailed hawks circling in the distance. He stood in silence, eyes fixed on the wheeling birds, then said slowly, “You know, I thought that since I've lived on the coast most of my life I'd miss the water when I moved here.” His eyes followed the hawks as they disappeared behind a ridge. “But in a place like this you still get that same feeling, that feeling of . . . I guess you'd call it spaciousness.”
He looked down at the open deck below the porch and at the little goldfish pool nestled in the green and gold and silver evergreens. The filmy-tailed fish swam in lazy circles and a
“Sure,” she answered after a small hesitation, “and I'm Elizabeth.”
After lunch was finished, Ben excused himself to go back to his computer and Elizabeth and Phillip took their coffee out to the front porch. “You and Ben have answered a lot of my questions already,” he said, settling comfortably into one of the rocking chairs. “From what you've told me, I think I'll start by looking for a place in Weaverville; that's plenty close to Asheville.” A lean red hound with luminous black-rimmed yellow eyes nudged at his knee and he leaned down to scratch behind her ears. “Aren't you a beautiful girl!” He looked up at Elizabeth. “What's her name?”
“That's Molly, and the shaggy black one asleep over there is Ursa, and the small brown one is James.” James, clearly the result of an ill-advised union between a dachshund and a Chihuahua, rolled on his back and bared his teeth ingratiatingly.
Phillip scratched James's stomach gently, then, as Ursa roused and pushed her way forward, began to massage the big black dog's ears. She pressed even closer and buried her shaggy head in his lap. Hawkins chuckled. “I've wished I could have a dog, but living alone and with the weird hours I used to have to keep, it just wouldn't have been fair to the dog. Maybe when I finally do retire . . .” His voice trailed off.
Without even realizing she'd done so, Elizabeth made up her mind. “Mr. Hawkins—Phillip—you're a police detective, aren't you?”
“For the past, ah, twenty-two years.” He raised his thick black eyebrows quizzically.
“Well, I'd like to ask your advice about something. You see, I have this neighbor . . .”
It took refills on the coffee to get all the way through the story of Miss Birdie, her dead son, and the prophetess of the Holiness church. “The thing is, the sheriff says it was an accident, but Miss Birdie is convinced Cletus was killed somewhere else and then dumped in the river,” Elizabeth explained. “She's asked me to help her—”
“What did the autopsy show?” Hawkins broke in. “Was this Cletus drowned or not?”
Elizabeth put her coffee mug on the porch railing before replying. “I have to admit I didn't think to ask. But that would clear it up nicely, wouldn't it? If Cletus was drowned, then Birdie would have to accept the fact that he died in the river, not back on the mountain.”
She paused, thinking rapidly, then went on, “Of course, he could have been killed by the fall onto the rocks. The river's pretty shallow a lot of the time. I'll call the sheriff tomorrow; I'll tell him Miss Birdie's not satisfied they've got it right and find out what the autopsy showed.” She paused again, feeling a sudden pang of guilt. “I should have done it earlier; I'm afraid the sheriff doesn't take Miss Birdie very seriously.”
“You say they found him last week?” Hawkins asked. “If the sheriff thinks it was just an accident, it could be several weeks before the autopsy gets done—at least, back in Beaufort that's how it would be. Medical examiners' offices are usually overloaded. Maybe it's different up here.” He shrugged and, standing, leaned on the railing to watch a pair of red-tailed hawks circling in the distance. He stood in silence, eyes fixed on the wheeling birds, then said slowly, “You know, I thought that since I've lived on the coast most of my life I'd miss the water when I moved here.” His eyes followed the hawks as they disappeared behind a ridge. “But in a place like this you still get that same feeling, that feeling of . . . I guess you'd call it spaciousness.”
He looked down at the open deck below the porch and at the little goldfish pool nestled in the green and gold and silver evergreens. The filmy-tailed fish swam in lazy circles and a
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