A Murder In Passing (14 page)

Her daughter nodded, but she didn't look certain.

Nakayla shifted her gaze between the two women. “So, you were posed in front of one of the remaining chimneys of the Kingdom. Do you know which one?”

“No,” Lucille said. “I can tell you it wasn't from the king's or the queen's cabin. I remember we walked a piece till the photographer found the light she wanted. I didn't know what she meant. It was the afternoon. There was light all around us.”

I wondered if it was the stone chimney Ed Bell showed me yesterday. In 1932 there were others, and the photograph had been taken before the treasure-hunting vandals struck. “Would you recognize the spot?” I asked.

“Maybe. But woods can change in eighty years. And as a five-year-old girl, I was struck by the people, not the setting.”

“What about the people?” Nakayla asked.

“There were four adults. I remember the photographer wore a long dress and a hat. Like someone out of a magazine. I marveled that she could walk through the woods without tripping. Miss Julia had what you'd call everyday clothes. Nice, but more suitable.” Lucille stopped and collected her thoughts. “I'm wrong. There must have been five adults. Someone drove the second car.”

“Weren't there two men and two women?”

“Yes, but four adults rode in one car. I'd never seen a car so big. A chauffeur, Miss Julia, the photographer, and a man who never left the photographer's side.”

“John Jacob Niles?” Nakayla asked.

“I guess, but only because I have the letter Miss Julia wrote my grandmother. She sure didn't care for Mr. Niles.”

“What do you remember about him?”

Lucille shrugged. “Not much. He was big and carried the camera. He sang a song for us. “Froggy Went a Courtin'” in a high warbly voice. We laughed more at him than the words of the song.”

“And there was a fifth adult?”

“Yes. He drove the smaller car. The one with the children.”

“Can you describe him?”

“A black man. He wore overalls and his hair'd gone completely gray. He stayed with the cars while they took the picture up at the chimney.”

Nakayla glanced at me, her invitation to ask a question. I shook my head. Lucille had given me all I needed confirmed. By the year 1967, John Jacob Niles had to be the only adult of the five who was still alive.

Chapter Fourteen

While Nakayla rode back to Asheville with Hewitt Donaldson, I set out for my encounter with John Lang's son, William. Hewitt instructed me not to ask William about his possible testimony against Lucille, but instead to concentrate on questions regarding the investigation of the missing photograph and anything William could tell me about his Uncle Jimmy. Furthermore, I didn't call ahead for an appointment. I didn't want to give William Lang the opportunity to contact D.A. Chesterson, who might take a dim view of my parallel investigation. From Chesterson's perspective, I could be harassing his star witness.

As a Lang employee, Marsha confirmed that William was scheduled to be at the paper plant all week and that his calendar wasn't busy. In the event William refused to see me, I would use his father's name as the interested party spurring my inquiries. For once, I'd be gaining access by telling the truth.

I took old Highway 64 from Hendersonville to Brevard. The two-lane blacktop wound through a picturesque mountain valley and the clear blue sky and midday sunshine enriched the hills and spring wildflowers with a colorful brilliance that hurt my eyes. Besides, that route ran between two of my favorite spots: the cemetery housing Thomas Wolfe's monument from
Look Homeward, Angel
and Hawg Wild, a barbecue restaurant on the outskirts of Brevard. Lucille Montgomery might be facing a murder charge, but that didn't mean I couldn't take time for a pork sandwich before facing William Lang.

At two o'clock, I pulled into a blue-stone gravel parking lot adjacent to several large metal buildings that bore more resemblance to airplane hangars than factories. A large white sign with black block letters read “Recyclable Deliveries Proceed to Gate House.” An arrow pointed to the right and I saw a tractor-trailer idling by a guardhouse about fifty yards away.

To the left of the operational complex stood a single-story brick office. An apron of grass provided enough space to anchor a polished black granite stone that looked more like a cemetery memorial than corporate signage. Carved into its smooth surface were the words “Lang Paper Manufacturing” with a smaller font beneath proclaiming “Green and Clean.”

John Lang had definitely come a long way from hauling school garbage to the dump.

There was no designated parking for visitors, just two handicapped spaces on either side of a concrete walk leading to a white front door. LPM had been stenciled across its mantel in textured hues replicating brown paper. I figured this logo was the newer image, reduced to initials to show the company was in the big leagues with the likes of IBM and UPS. Easier to paint over a door than re-chisel a tombstone.

A bell chimed as I stepped into a small lobby. A counter split the room in half with a few mismatched chairs on my side and a middle-aged woman at a desk on the other. She was on the phone and held up her index finger signaling she'd be with me in a moment.

The walls were made of the cheap paneling lining the family room of every home built in the seventies. Plaques and framed certificates populated its surface, chronicling everything from environmental awards to company bowling championships. The community impact of small business USA. I was sure more than one little league baseball or football team sported the Lang logo on their uniforms.

I sat in a green vinyl-covered chair and examined the magazines spread on the coffee table in front of me. All were esoteric trade publications.
Pulp & Paper International, Paper360, PaperAge,
and
Corrugated Today
. The last one caught my eye because its cover featured John Lang and another man flanking the granite sign out front. I picked it up and read the caption. “John and William Lang: Two Generations of Paper Manufacturers Setting the Standard for Generations to Come.” The resemblance between father and son was obvious. William was taller, although John might have shrunk a few inches as he journeyed through his eighties. William's hair was still salt and pepper and he wasn't as tanned as the old man. Probably didn't get in as much golf.

The magazine was six months old, hot off the presses for a waiting room. I flipped through the pages till I found the article. There were photographs of stacks of cardboard waste, steaming hot water transforming the crushed boxes into a brown sludge, and ribbons of new paper flowing between pressure rollers onto giant spools. Next to the sludge picture was a photograph of a clear mountain stream right beside the plant. The caption lauded Lang's use of a closed loop water treatment system that insured no stream pollution.

The layout highlighted a quote from William Lang: “Thank God for pizza.” Puzzled, I searched for the explanation until I found the paragraph in which William explained the surge in pizza delivery generated tons of recyclable takeout boxes.

“May I help you?”

I looked up. The woman stood behind the counter. Her smile was uncertain, like maybe I was a salesman she'd have to keep at bay.

I stood and walked to her, resting my empty hands on the counter surface to show I carried no brochures or product samples. “I'm here to see William Lang.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“It's a personal matter.” I leaned closer. “John asked me to see him. He told me Willie was free this afternoon.”

I used Lucille's name for William, hoping Willie was what family and close friends called him.

Her smile broadened. She offered her hand. “I'm Edna Collier. I don't believe we've met.”

“Sam Blackman. But you can call me Sammy.” I spoke the word without grimacing. I hated being called Sammy, but, hey, her boss was Willie.

She returned to her desk. “I'll let him know you're here.”

“Thanks.” I headed toward the interior door at the end of the counter, demonstrating my confidence Willie would welcome me with open arms.

“Hold a second, please.” She picked up the receiver with one hand and punched an intercom button with the other. Then she pivoted away from me. Her voice dropped to a whisper except when she emphasized one sentence: “Yes, your father, but he's still at lunch.”

When she turned back to me, the smile was gone. “I'll escort you to Mr. Lang's office.”

I got the feeling Edna would want to frisk me before I left the building.

I followed her down a hallway lined with more certificates and commendations. I wondered if these environmental organizations ever tallied how many trees died to create their awards.

She stopped outside a door to a proverbial corner office. I figured old man Lang occupied another corner of the building. I was lucky he was at lunch so that William couldn't buzz him in an effort to learn why I was here.

Edna knocked.

“Come in.” The reply was quick and curt.

Edna nodded toward the door and swiftly retreated like we'd disturbed a dragon in his lair.

I smiled. “Thank you, Edna. See you on the way out.”

I stepped into the office. Beneath my feet, the carpet turned from heavy-duty industrial to soft, plush pile. The cheap paneling became genuine oak and the plaques and certificates transformed into fox hunt prints and mountain landscapes. A small conference table was on my right and two red-leather upholstered chairs occupied the space between the table and a massive mahogany desk. Behind it sat the man I'd seen on the magazine cover, only now he sported a neatly trimmed, graying beard.

The desk surface was clear except for a blotter and brass name plate used as a paperweight. “William P. Lang” was etched in 3-D letters. Handy in case your guest forgets your name. A closed laptop sat on the credenza behind him and on the wall above hung the mounted head of an eight-point buck.

William P. Lang's eyebrows gathered in an unmistakable scowl.

I'd gotten what I wanted, a chance to question him. There was no need to start with a hostile tone.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Lang. Things are moving quickly and I appreciate your time.”

He didn't stand or offer his hand. He simply nodded to the chairs on the other side of his desk.

I closed the door behind me. “I assume your father told you I might be dropping by.” I sat and crossed my good leg over my damaged one.

Lang's eyebrows arched. “No, he didn't. I don't know why you're here.”

I paused, as if this was a monumental development. I decided not to say John Lang had come to our office or tried to hire us. Perhaps the son knew nothing about those events. But posting bail was a public action.

“I guess your father's been preoccupied, what with Lucille Montgomery's arrest. I saw him at the courthouse yesterday morning. We talked after he put up her bail.”

“He did what?” William interjected.

“He posted her bond. I understand your family has a long connection with her.”

“Lucille worked for us. Her daughter Marsha heads our customer service department.” He leaned forward and laced his fingers together. “What's your interest in this?”

“I've been hired by her defense attorney. There's a valuable photograph that was stolen from Lucille's home about the time your uncle left the area. If the remains that were found turn out to be his, then the theft might have a bearing on Lucille's defense.”

“You mean whoever stole the photograph could have stolen the rifle?”

I nodded. “I see you're familiar with the case. That information hasn't been made public.”

William Lang reddened. He realized he'd made a mistake. “I don't know about any photograph.”

“It was taken by a world-renowned photographer named Doris Ulmann in 1932. Lucille, her mother, and her grandmother posed for the picture on the site of one of the old cabins left from the Kingdom of the Happy Land. You've heard of it?”

“Yes. I hiked the property when I was a kid.”

“How old were you in 1967?”

“Twenty.”

“And you don't remember the photograph? Six by eight. Lucille kept it in her home.”

“I was never in her house.”

“But your uncle was, wasn't he? He's Marsha's father.”

“That was then, and that was my uncle's business. When he left, I was humping it in the Mekong Delta.”

I pretended that was news. “A vet? Thank you for your service.”

He smiled for the first time. “No. You deserve the thanks. You're the Sam Blackman who solved that death at the Sandburg farm, aren't you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I read you lost your leg in Iraq. My service pales by comparison.”

“No, it doesn't. My injury could have happened to anyone. The fact that you were there, in harm's way, is what matters.”

William Lang's eyes moistened. He seemed to reconsider our conversation. “You're wondering how I knew about the rifle.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“When I read about the discovery of the skeleton, I thought about Uncle Jimmy. Particularly the last conversation we had.”

“I'm listening.”

“I was on compassionate leave. We'd just buried my mother and Jimmy told me the legal obstacles to marrying Lucille had been struck down by the Supreme Court. But he wasn't sure he was going to marry her after all. He was afraid she'd take the news badly. They can have quite a temper.”

“They?”

“Black women.”

My first thought was if Nakayla were here she might have proved him correct by punching him out. Lang must have read the disapproval on my face.

“I'm not prejudiced or anything,” he quickly added. “Look, I'm Irish. I admit they're bad to drink and fight too.”

“You're saying Lucille's a drunk?”

“No,” he snapped. “Forget it. I'm upset that's all. I guess when I read the story in the paper the conversation with my uncle came back to me. I shouldn't make generalizations or draw conclusions.”

“You contacted the Henderson County Sheriff's Department, didn't you? They didn't come to you.”

Lang shrugged. “Like I said, the article upset me. I felt a duty to step forward.”

“In person?”

“I spoke over the phone with a Deputy Overcash. He told me about the rifle and I confirmed my uncle kept it at Lucille Montgomery's house.”

The phone call fit with what Overcash said and must have been the testimony that rushed him to make an arrest.

“So, you haven't met with D.A. Chesterson yet?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“And a DNA sample?”

The door to Lang's office swung open and John Lang entered. “What's going on?” He stared at me. “Edna said you were here.”

“Nothing's going on.” I answered before William could speak. “I was asking your son about the missing photograph.”

“William knows nothing about that.”

“So he told me. We were just chatting about the DNA sample he's giving tomorrow.” I rose from the chair. “Well, I guess I'll see you at your deposition.” I turned around. “And nice to see you, Mr. Lang.”

I walked to the door, stopped and faced them. “Oh, does the name Earl Lee Emory mean anything to you?”

John Lang's jaw tightened.

William stood. “What's he got to do with anything?”

“I don't know. But I heard there was bad blood between him and Jimmy. Is that true, Mr. Lang?”

John Lang's eyes narrowed. “Earl Lee Emory was a son of a bitch to the core. And his spawn is worse.”

Earl Lee's spawn sounded like a bad horror movie. “Are you talking about his children?”

John Lang sneered. “I'm talking about Mick Emory. The son of the son of a bitch.”

“Earl Lee and Mick tried to put my father and uncle out of business,” William Lang explained.

“But they didn't,” I said.

“No. Between them they didn't have the brains.”

“What are they doing now?”

William smiled. “I guess you could say Mick's in the recycling business too. Last I heard he runs a pawnshop in West Asheville. Double G Pawn.”