THE SECRET OF CHEROKEE COVE (5 page)

“I’d rather you just say what you’re thinking, straight out. Honesty goes a long way.”

“Okay. Then, honestly, I’m here in Bitterwood for two weeks. I’m not sticking around after that.”

“And you’re not interested in a short-term fling?” The corner of his mouth twitched as he cut to the chase.

“Not that you were offering?”

“No,” he said, the twitch becoming a whisper of a smile. “I wasn’t offering. For pretty much the same reason.”

She let out a long, slow breath. “Well, then.”

He walked slowly across the narrow space between them, reaching past her to put his mug of coffee on the breakfast bar. The move brought him so close she felt his heat pour over her, igniting another blaze of heat in her center. He bent his head, his breath hot against her ear. “Not that it ain’t mighty damn tempting.”

He stepped back, flashed her a smile that she felt right down to the tips of her toes and headed out of the kitchen toward the front door.

“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice embarrassingly hoarse.

He turned in the open doorway. “You may be on vacation, Marshal. But I’m not.” He lifted his hand in a brief, stationary wave, then pulled the door shut behind him.

She forced herself to stay where she was rather than trail him to the door and watch him leave. She might be feeling like a giddy schoolgirl right down to her tingling toes, but she had her pride.

And more important, she reminded herself sternly, she had a mystery to unravel. She just had to figure out where to start.

As she was walking back to the bedroom, the house phone started ringing. She picked up the bedroom extension, bracing herself to explain to the caller that her brother wasn’t available.

But it was Nix. “Sorry—I meant to mention this before I left. I don’t know how much truth there is to that story about your mother, but there’s a way you can find out.”

“Yeah?”

“In the story I’ve always heard, your mother was penniless, a charity case. And the couple whose baby boy she tried to take were well-off and reputable, which made what she did that much more scandalous.”

“If it really happened.”

“If it happened,” he conceded. “But if even a germ of the story is true, then what you’re looking for is a hospital that would treat both indigent and wealthy patients.”

“In other words, not a charity hospital or a low-income care facility.”

“Right. And there’s really only one hospital close that fits that description. Maryville Mercy Hospital.”

“That’s the hospital where Doyle is.”

“That’s right. Good luck.” He hung up the phone.

Good luck,
she repeated silently. She had a feeling she was going to need all the luck she could find to cut through the years of rumor and innuendo to get to the truth about her mother’s secret life in Bitterwood.

But Maryville Mercy Hospital was as good a place to start as any.

Chapter Five

Nix walked slowly across the narrow two-lane street that bisected tiny Purgatory, Tennessee, wondering how long Alexander Quinn planned to keep him waiting. He hadn’t even taken his seat in the detectives’ office at the police station when his phone rang, and a low voice informed him that Merritt Cortland had been spotted in Purgatory.

It had been a few years since Nix had spoken to the old spymaster, but even with the man’s voice disguised, there was a certain tone to it that Nix found unforgettable. Many things had changed since the last time they’d met—Nix now carried a badge, not an M-16, and Quinn had recently left the CIA to start his own investigative agency in Purgatory. But Nix had a feeling Quinn would never fully give up his secret-agent ways.

Case in point—luring Nix to Purgatory with an anonymous tip. Nix doubted anyone had spotted Merritt Cortland anywhere near Purgatory. Which meant Quinn wanted him to come to Purgatory for some other reason but didn’t want to approach him directly.

On the other side of the road, Laurel Park was little more than a scenic overlook, a narrow strip of grass and trees that ended about thirty yards off the road where Little Black Creek meandered through the foothills just west of the Smokies. In the late nineteenth century, Purgatory had been a company town for a nearby Tennessee marble quarry, but by the end of the Second World War, the company had gone bankrupt as the demand for less expensive building materials drove most of the state’s marble quarries out of business.

Fortunately, the Great Smoky Mountains National Park was in business by then, and Purgatory, like other towns near the park’s border, had made a trade out of tourism for a couple of decades before other towns closer to the park and more easily accessible by interstate highway had lured most of the tourists away.

Now Purgatory was limping along on the back of a large auto parts plant that had opened in Barrowville. Corporate bigwigs at the plant had looked east to Purgatory for land on which to build large homes and estates that would provide them with both an easy commute and the pristine beauty of living in the mountains.

The town’s name was unfortunate, but some folks around Ridge County would argue that it was well-enough earned, since the little town had struggled more than thrived for most of its existence.

Nix settled on a wooden bench to wait for Quinn to make himself known. That he was watching from some hiding place was a given. Nix couldn’t imagine Quinn waiting in the open for someone to approach him first.

A man with long sandy-brown hair strolled slowly toward him. His knee-length hiking shorts, round, red-lensed sunglasses, grimy baseball cap and well-worn backpack were the typical uniform of a section hiker, one of hundreds of thousands who hiked the Appalachian Trail section by section over the course of several years.

Of course, even if Nix hadn’t recognized the long-haired man as the former CIA agent he’d come to see, he’d have been suspicious, since the Appalachian Trail was several miles to the east of Purgatory, winding along the Tennessee/North Carolina state line.

The hiker otherwise known as Alexander Quinn sat at the other end of the bench from Nix and pulled a water bottle from his backpack. “Warm weather’s finally here,” he said with just enough of a hipster vibe to make Nix bite back a laugh.

“That’s a new look for you,” Nix murmured.

“Recycled from about twenty years ago,” Quinn said in his normal accent, a neutral tone that had a chameleon-like ability to sound as if it could originally have come from almost any English-speaking country. “Thanks for coming.”

“Was there really a Merritt Cortland sighting?”

“Actually, there was, although I can’t vouch for it personally,” Quinn answered. His gaze moved lazily from side to side, as if he were just a tourist enjoying the view. But Nix knew the old spymaster never did anything casually.

“Are you expecting company?”

“Expecting? No.” He took another swig from his water bottle, then slipped it into the backpack that sat on the bench between them. “But it never hurts to stay alert.”

“Are you planning to get to the point of my summons?”

Quinn’s eyes met his briefly. “My agency has been looking into Cortland’s disappearance. That’s how we got the tip that someone may have seen him just north of here, near the old marble quarry.”

“How valid a tip?”

“Remains to be seen. But we haven’t come across any proof that Cortland is dead, either. So we have to proceed on the assumption that he could still be alive and kicking. And if so, he’s probably working overtime to solidify his control of his father’s criminal enterprise.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Nix asked.

“Seemed like something you’d want to know.”

“It’s something a lot of people would like to know. The FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service—”

“I hear someone tried to kill your chief of police.” Quinn leaned back, crossing his ankle on top of his knee. The soles of his hiking boots were muddy and well-worn, Nix noticed. When the man donned a disguise, he didn’t miss a beat.

“That’s still under investigation,” Nix said carefully.

Quinn laid his head back, as if enjoying the morning sun that angled through the trees overhead to bathe his face with warm light. “Check with your office. I believe you’ll find the mechanic’s assessment is in.”

Nix stared at Quinn. “I thought you were out of the spy business.”

He shrugged. “I don’t spy for the
government
anymore.”

“Just for yourself?”

“Let’s just say I haven’t lost the ability to uncover sensitive information when necessary.”

“Do the people you employ know you’re still playing head games?”

“They know me,” Quinn said simply.

Nix supposed that response answered the question about as well as anything would. “So, you’ve told me there may or may not have been a Cortland sighting in the area. A phone call would have sufficed.”

“Well, there’s also this.” Quinn reached into his pocket and pulled out a smartphone. Punching a couple of buttons, he brought up a photograph of a man in his early thirties with a shaggy beard the color of dark rust, wavy dark hair that fell to his broad shoulders and a lupine smile that didn’t quite reach his crystal blue eyes. The first thought that came to Nix’s mind was “charisma”—the bearded man seemed to have it, even in the flat, lifeless cell phone photo. His second thought was that the man looked very familiar.

“Who is he?”

“He seems to be the face of the Blue Ridge Infantry these days.” Quinn shut off the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. “His name is Blake Culpepper.”

Culpepper.
Nix tried not to react, but Quinn hadn’t been a successful spy for decades without honing his observational skills to a razor’s edge.

“I believe you might know some Culpeppers,” he said lightly.

“A few,” Nix admitted. The Culpeppers of Cherokee Cove were nearly as notorious as the Cumberlands, though their crimes had never included infanticide or baby stealing. Just theft, drunk and disorderly and any number of assaults and batteries arising out of too much liquor and too many women suckered in by Culpepper men genetically blessed with good looks, passable brains and a seemingly endless supply of hillbilly charm.

Blake Culpepper had been a contemporary of his brother, Lavelle, prone to sucking Nix’s younger sibling into all sorts of trouble during their teenage years. He’d been clean-shaven back in those days. More baby-faced. But all the signs of danger had been there.

“So he’s the new boss, then?” he asked.

“Or he’s acting as Cortland’s first lieutenant,” Quinn answered with a shrug. “We’re not sure which.”

“And that’s why you called me here,” Nix guessed. “You want me to find out what Blake Culpepper’s up to.”

“It’s the first time a Tennessee member of the crew has reached this level of prominence,” Quinn said quietly. “The Virginia contingent was firmly in charge before now. We’re of the opinion that Blake’s sudden prominence may be more about what’s going on at the head of the whole criminal enterprise, not just limited to control of the militia group.”

“I’m not exactly privy to the goings-on of the Blue Ridge Infantry, even if I am from Cherokee Cove.”

“You’re more privy than any of us,” Quinn answered, smiling as he repeated Nix’s old-fashioned word choice.

Nix sighed. “So, what are my marching orders, sir?”

“I’m not your boss. I’m just giving you information you can choose to use as you see fit.” Quinn stood up, made a show of stretching his muscles as if preparing for another long hike. “Consider it my contribution to civil society.” He wandered off much as he’d come, unhurriedly and without even a hint of self-consciousness.

Nix remained on the bench a few moments longer, gazing at the burbling creek as he thought about what few nuggets of information Quinn had bothered to share. Clearly the old spymaster thought Blake Culpepper was an important link in the chain of petty criminals who had formed Wayne Cortland’s original band of knaves. Maybe the most important link, if it turned out that Merritt Cortland hadn’t survived his fall from Copperhead Ridge.

But how was Nix supposed to exploit his Cherokee Cove connection? Everybody around Bitterwood knew he was a cop. Especially the folks from his little hometown community. It wasn’t as though he could worm his way into the Culpepper inner circle.

Unless...

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. After several rings, a machine picked up and a low, musical voice with a considerable mountain drawl informed him to leave a message.

He hung up instead, preferring to speak in person to the one person named Culpepper who might just give him the time of day.

* * *

“W
ITHOUT
A
WARRANT
, I can’t release any information to you,” the hospital administrator told Dana with a halfhearted look of apology. “If you can arrange a warrant, or get permission from the people involved—”

“The woman whose baby died was my mother,” Dana said, trying not to let her frustration show. She knew the rules as well as Dr. Sandlin and was grateful that the administrator had taken a moment out of her busy day to hear what Dana had to say. “She died fifteen years ago in Bitterwood. I just need to know if the story is true.”

“I wish I could help you,” Dr. Sandlin said. “I truly do. But my hands are tied. You’re talking about something that happened almost forty years ago. Even if I could look up the records, which I’m not sure I could at this point, warrant or no warrant, the facts would probably be pretty dry and uninformative. Have you tried speaking to your mother’s family?”

“I haven’t been able to track down any of them,” she answered truthfully.

“Well, if I were you, that’s where I’d start looking for information.” Dr. Sandlin stood, her posture dismissive.

Tamping down her irritation at walking into another brick wall, Dana left the administrator’s office and headed down the corridor to the elevator alcove. At least the trip to the hospital wasn’t a complete bust. She could stop in to see her brother for a while, maybe help him coax his doctor into letting him go home.

But Doyle wasn’t in his room when she got there. She flagged down a nurse passing outside his room. “I’m looking for Doyle Massey.”

“I believe he’s down in physical therapy,” the nurse answered.

“Thank you.” Dana started to turn back to the room, then stopped. “Excuse me, Nurse?”

The nurse turned back to look at her, smiling but unable to hide a hint of impatience. “Yes?”

“Do you know of any nurses who would have worked at this hospital maybe thirty-five or forty years ago? In the maternity ward.”

The nurse frowned, as if she found the question strange. Dana supposed it was a pretty odd request, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“I don’t know if she worked the maternity ward back then, but Doris Kingsley has worked here at Mercy her whole career. She only works part-time these days, though. I’m not sure if she’s on duty today.”

“What floor does she work on?”

“Seventh.” The nurse smiled suddenly. “That’s the nursery.”

“Thank you.” Dana went back into Doyle’s room to retrieve her purse and headed for the seventh floor.

It didn’t take long to pick out a likely suspect. Plump and motherly-looking, with short gray hair that fell in curls around her smiling face, the nurse was wheeling a newborn down the hall to one of the maternity rooms when Dana stepped out of the elevator and almost directly into her path.

Dana pulled up quickly before she collided with the bassinet. “Oops!”

The nurse smiled at her. “No harm.”

Before she made it all the way past, Dana took a stab. “Are you Doris?”

The nurse pulled up and looked more closely at her. Her brow furrowed, and a look of puzzlement came over her round face. “Do I know you?”

“No, but if you’re Doris Kingsley, it’s possible you knew my mother. Tallie Cumberland.”

Doris’s expression changed immediately, but not to scorn or dismay. Instead, her eyes seemed to light up with pleasure. “Bless her heart. So she had herself another baby, then.”

“Three of us,” Dana answered with a smile of her own, then looked down at the wriggling baby. Blue cap, blue booties. Must be a boy. “I know you need to get this little fellow to his mother, but when you have a spare moment, could we talk? I need to ask you a few questions about my mother.”

“I go on a break as soon as I deliver little Jordan here to his mama. There’s a break room just down the hall, right before you get to the waiting area. Go on in there, and if anyone asks why you’re there, you tell ’em you’re waiting for me.”

Dana did as she asked, settling at the small break-room table. Nobody else entered until Doris showed up about five minutes later.

“I’ve wondered about your mama for over thirty years,” Doris said without preamble, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe warming on a nearby burner. “She was so sad, so troubled after her baby died. I really worried she wasn’t ever going to be able to get over it. How’s she doing?”

“I’m afraid my mother died in a car accident fifteen years ago.”