Chapter 17
Then I clomped upstairs, peeled off my sweat-soaked clothing, and took a quick shower. I was planning to treat Ruthie to dinner at a restaurant of her choice. Maybe it was the sight of all that refrigerated produce, but I was in the mood for lettuce roll ups and hoped she’d choose Baoding.
Point of information. My brain is an impulse buyer when it comes to cravings.
Before that outing happened, unbeknownst to me, it would be an AT&T evening.
My mother was the first to call. She had no news to share, just wanted to chat.
Then it was Harry, offering a heads-up that Mama thought I sounded tense.
After disconnecting with my sister, I returned to the kitchen to feed Birdie. Still no sign of my niece.
To kill time, I booted my laptop, created a file, and uploaded the pics of the Honda that I’d taken with my phone. Belly full, the cat curled beside me and watched with disinterest.
Ansel Adams need never feel threatened by my photographic skills.
Quickly snapped without benefit of a viewfinder, most of my shots were dark and blurry.
I chose the four clearest and copied them into a photo editing app.
Enlarged each until it verged on pixelation, then centered the license on the screen.
No matter how much I increased contrast or sharpened edges, the plate remained shadowy and largely unreadable.
Seven came and went.
Seven-thirty.
Still no Ruthie.
I tried her number but was rolled to voice mail.
Ryan was the night’s third caller. He rang at seven-fifty.
“Bonsoir, ma chérie. How goeth your day?”
“I doubt that’s a word.”
“It’s Old Saxon.”
“Since when are you familiar with Old Saxon?
“I had to play one in junior high. I wanted slide trombone, but the kid with the pimples grabbed the last one.”
“Did therapy help in overcoming your grief?”
“Mostly it was soccer. And dropping out of band. What’s new?”
I briefed Ryan on developments since we’d last spoken.
The identification of the stolen cemetery corpse as that of Eleanor Godric.
Slidell’s and my visit with Godric’s grandnephew, Harvard Boynton.
The interviews with Jeremy Dahmer, Jordan Bright, and Hugh Norwitz.
The man and dog incised with the letters PE discovered in Cordelia Park.
Sister Adelbert’s description of the person she’d seen there.
“Bright and Norwitz are registered sex offenders,” I added in closing.
“Slidell’s still convinced the displays are erotic in nature?”
“Yes. I have to admit, Norwitz was one weird dude. The guy specializes in provocative taxidermy.”
I described some of the items in Norwitz’s collection.
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Ryan said. “I’ll bet if you google sexy taxidermy, a zillion links will come up.”
“I’ll pass. Are you still planning to arrive on Sunday?” I asked.
“If the good lord’s willing and the creeks don’t flood.”
“Rise,” I corrected.
“What?”
“The saying goes, if the creeks don’t rise.”
“Like, unite to start a revolution?”
“Never mind,” I said. “By the way, my niece may still be bunking in at the Annex.”
“Awesome sauce.”
“Your teen-ageese is worse than your Old Saxon.”
“I’ll work on it.”
I debated mentioning the black Honda Accord. Decided against it. I had no proof that the driver had actually followed me.
“A word of warning, Tempe,” Ryan said in closing.
“Yes?”
“Don’t be offended if these taxidermists tell you to get stuffed.”
We’d just disconnected when Ruthie arrived, clutching a flat, white box two-handed.
“Hey, girl,” I said, probably sounding dorkier than Ryan ever would.
“Hey.”
“You look like you’re in a good mood.”
“I’ve just had the most super-mega evening.” Sliding the box onto the counter, she added, “I hope you like donuts. I didn’t buy them. They were left over.”
“You were with your UNCC pals?”
“Yeah. One of them—that guy I mentioned, Lester Meloy—gave me a hitch. Anyway, we went to this coffee shop near campus. It was fire.”
“Mmm.” Not sure if fire was good or bad.
“There are five of them. They’re kind of a group.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah, we totally gel. Except for this one chick I could do without.”
“Why?”
“She’s kinda salty.”
My brows floated in question.
Ruthie gave a quick shrug of one shoulder. “I think she’s an engineer or something. She’s just, you know, extra.”
I didn’t know. But I let it go.
“You remember my friend Ryan,” I asked, changing the subject.
“The tall dude with the Cumberbatch eyes.”
“If that means blue, yes.”
“Duh.”
“Anyway, Ryan’s coming for a visit.”
“When?”
“Probably Sunday. But don’t worry about him. I want you to stay as long as you like.”
Ruthie said nothing.
“You know I love having you here, sweetie.”
“Right,” she said, her smile holding but her tone a few degrees cooler. “Until you don’t.”
With that somewhat cryptic remark, she turned and left the room.
The next caller was Slidell.
“I looked into this meeting Norwitz was talking about.”
“What meeting?”
Paper rustled. I pictured Skinny running a finger through hand-scrawled notes.
“The NCTA.”
A male voice sounded in the background.
“Hold on.”
The line muffled as Skinny pressed the phone to his chest.
While waiting for him to reengage, I played a head game with the letters NCTA. The Northern Cypress Tinkers Association. The New Caledonia Turnpike Authority. The National Coalition of Turds and Assholes.
“The North Carolina Taxidermist’s Association.” Slidell picked up as though there’d been no interruption. They got a website.”
“Don’t tell me you went online.”
“You want to hear this or not?”
“Go on.”
“Norwitz was on the level. These toads got a society, and they hold an annual convention. I guess they compare notes on shoving sawdust up the butts—”
“There’s one taking place soon?”
“As we speak. And right down the road in Clemmons. I’m thinking I’ll drop by. Check these freaks—”
“I’m in.”
Ruthie asked if we could eat at a restaurant called Red Rocks Cafe. A bit curious how she’d heard of the place, I happily agreed. The food is good, and the drive would take only fifteen minutes.
She also asked if this new friend of hers, Lester Meloy, could join us. I agreed to that request also, eager to see what Mr. Meloy was all about.
When we arrived at eight-thirty, the terrace was packed. It always is in good weather. Meloy was waiting behind a mug of beer at one of the outdoor tables, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, studying his phone.
Ruthie called out as we approached.
Meloy’s head popped up. He smiled and rose, shirt glowing white in the dim lighting. With his neatly cropped hair and clean-shaven face, I couldn’t help thinking the guy looked like a plebe at a military school. A tall one. I guessed his height at six feet plus.
Ruthie made introductions.
Meloy and I shook hands, then we all sat.
“It’s such an honor to meet you, Dr. Brennan. Ruthie has told me so much about you. Please forgive me if I fanboy a bit.”
“And it’s nice to meet you,” I said, surprised by Meloy’s gushing enthusiasm. “I’m sure Ruthie has exaggerated—”
“Not at all. The work you do is so very important. You provide people with answers. With comfort in their time of grief. I truly admire you.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I get you something? A beer? A glass of wine? Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
In the past every item at Red Rocks was named for a local celebrity, some A-listers, the majority less alphabetically lofty. I missed that. Ordered the lemon herb chicken.
We made small talk while awaiting, then consuming our meals. As we were finishing, and the conversation began to lag, I asked Meloy about his graduate studies.
“I’m working on my master’s thesis.”
“In psych?” Thinking that’s what Ruthie had said.
“Actually, my topic is interdisciplinary. Kind of a crossover between English Lit and psych, with a soupcon of philosophy tossed in for spice.”
“Ah. The underappreciated ‘soft sciences.’ ” I hooked air quotes.
“What do you mean?” Meloy’s brows dipped.
“Don’t get me wrong, much of anthropology falls into that category. But at least biological anthro allows one to measure and weigh and photograph one’s subjects. The scientific method. Hard data. That’s why the subfield attracted me.”
“One can formulate and test hypotheses with psychology.”
“You’re right. Maybe what I mean is one can’t structure experiments and manipulate variables with humans the way one can with animals.”
“I’m not sure I agree.”
Not wanting the conversation to grow contentious, I shifted subjects. “Want to give me your two-minute elevator pitch?” I asked.
“Seriously?” The whole boyish face lit up. “You’re really interested?”
“Of course.” I wasn’t. But the guy was so enthused I couldn’t say no.
“I’m a Dante nut.”
“Dante Alighieri, as in, The Divine Comedy?”
“Exactly. I’m fascinated by Dante’s ranking of a society’s view of evil. What’s absolutely evil, what’s fairly evil, what’s maybe not so bad. And specifically, how those views change over time.”
Seeing my expression, undoubtedly one of confusion, Meloy continued.
“The Inferno, the first book of the Divine Comedy was written in 1310. In it, Dante lays out his vision of hell. His Inferno. That vision was inspired by biblical references to the seven deadly sins.”
“From the book of Proverbs,” I said.
“Man, your aunt knows her stuff.” The comment was directed to Ruthie, but Meloy’s eyes held on me.
“Pride, envy, greed, sloth, lust, anger, and gluttony,” Ruthie reeled off.
“You two are amazing,” Meloy said flopping back in his chair.
“Credit all those Bible courses I was forced to endure as a kid,” said Ruthie. She sounded a little miffed at the turn the conversation had taken.
“Have you begun writing?” I asked Meloy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fun times,” I said.
“Oh, yeah.” Rolling his eyes. Which were an odd dusky-gray flecked with olive.
We both laughed.
Meloy’s mention of evil had taken me back to my recent conversation with Adina Kumar.
“I have a friend who studies evil,” I said.
“Is he a psychologist?”
“She is.”
“My research probably skews in a different direction than hers. I’m not concerned with defining evil.
Or explaining its causes. Or preventing it.
My focus is on the public perception of evil and how that perception changes over time.
How does a society classify an act as evil?
Based on what criteria? Does beating a helpless dog qualify?
Sexually assaulting a nun? Imprisoning a child in some creepy underground chamber? ”
“It’s sooo hard to find creepy underground chambers these days.” Ruthie’s comment was delivered with a joking waggle of both hands.
“Au contraire,” Meloy said. “Did you know there’s a network of passageways under this city?”
“Really?”
“Yep. They’re old mining tunnels.”
“Can someone just, like, explore them?” Ruthie’s tone suggested a mix of horror and excitement.
“Theoretically, yeah. Why? You thinking of taking a peek?”
“No way.” With a head shake so vehement it bounced the braids sprouting from high on her scalp. “You know how psychologists say every person is afraid of something? My phobia is closed dark spaces. A subterranean tunnel would freak me out.”
“It’s a reasonable fear,” Meloy said. “Bad things happen to people underground. That’s why the city tries to keep the access locations hush-hush. But serious urban spelunkers know where they are.”
“Urban spelunkers?”
“Some prefer the term building hackers. Or urbex. They’re people who find and explore deserted sites.”
“Sounds illegal.” I was playing the naggy old granny again. “And dangerous.”
“Right on both counts,” Meloy agreed.
Ruthie continued her grilling as though I hadn’t interrupted. “What kind of sites?”
“Could be anything. An abandoned amusement park, hospital, school, insane asylum.”
“How do urbexers find these places?”
“Mostly online. Websites like Forbidden Places, for example.”
“Definitely not for me, but this is too totally rad.” Ruthie’s eyes were Frisbees. “Have you explored any sites here in Charlotte?”
“Several.”
“What was your fave?”
“An abandoned boys’ prison out in Cabarrus County.”
“No way.”
Meloy nodded. “The Stonewall Jackson Manual Training and Industrial School. The facility opened in 1909 and was in use until not that long ago. The place is one grim mother.”
As Ruthie started to ask another question, the waiter appeared with our check. Before I could dig out my wallet, Meloy produced a credit card and handed it to him.
“I’m happy to—” I said, trying to rush in.
“My treat, Dr. Brennan. It’s a privilege to dine with you and your niece.”
The three of us left the restaurant together. Wishing us a good evening, Meloy veered off toward the parking lot.
I offered Ruthie a ride home to Katy’s house. Again. She refused, again, saying she was a big girl and could find her own way.
I waited until Ruthie’s Uber arrived and she was safely inside. The driver made a U-turn, a right onto the street, then a left one block south.
Crossing to my Mazda, I noticed a vehicle leave the curb a few yards down from where we’d been standing. The silhouette behind the wheel wore a ball cap, so I couldn’t tell if the driver was male or female. The car’s head and taillights were off.
I followed Ball Cap’s progress, hoping he or she would realize the vehicle was dark. When the car passed under a streetlamp, I could make out its color and model.
A black Honda Accord.
The Accord made a U-turn, a right onto the street, then a left one block south.
Was Ball Cap following Ruthie?
As a wave of uneasiness washed over me, I tried but failed to make out the plate.
Yanking my cell phone from my purse, I dialed my niece’s number.