Under a Gilded Moon(17)

“Yet another newspaper man”—Grant smiled at her evenly—“who is a Jew. Or was, in this case. Extraordinary. Wouldn’t you say?”

Extraordinary? What exactly did he mean to imply? How could the fact that Berkowitz was Jewish have any possible bearing on . . . She gave her head a frustrated shake.

“My point,” she said, turning back to the victim, “is that it seems a reporter, by profession, might well know things about people, secrets they’d like to keep hidden, that could motivate someone to kill him.”

Silence. Only the suck and squish of mud as several villagers nervously shifted their feet.

John Cabot bent his head to say something to the doctor. Despite the cold mountain air, his face glowed with perspiration, and his hair, no longer covered by the top hat, flopped thick and damp on his forehead.

Randall held a fluted wooden tube to Berkowitz’s chest, his ear to the other end of the tube. With a flourish, the doctor held up his free hand for silence.

Rema cleared her throat. “Charlie, you can stuff a tube up your durn ear if it makes you feel better. But Kerry here’s already pronounced the poor blighter—”

“Dead.” Randall employed a bass note to deliver the verdict.

“Murdered,” Rema countered. “Have to side with my niece on that. Unless you’d rather be calling a spade just a club without the ruffling to it.”

“Reckon we can wait a piece until we get the law here to be saying what’s what. What might be called an accident and what might be called . . . something else. No point in rushing to judgment.”

“Unless folks need to get judged.” Rema planted her feet. “In which case putting some rush into it might just be a good thing.”

Ignoring this, Randall stood to face Kerry. “You seem to have all the answers today, Miss MacGregor.”

There was no admiration in the statement, and more than a hint of a warning. She’d overstepped—and into his territory.

But Kerry was in no mood to cede ground. “A hit to his head. And the rail dog was missing, then turned up just over there.” She pointed toward the woods. “As for his having passed, my family, our neighbors, we’ve seen our share of death.” She might have added that folks like her family, far back into the hollows, had no money to call for a doctor. And doctors, with their insistence on bleeding a patient who was already hanging to life by a thread, often seemed to snap the final fibers.

She did add, “And I’ve seen my share of head wounds.”

John Cabot turned like she’d just admitted to being part of a marauding band of outlaws. She met his eye.

But Doc Randall probably knew enough about her father to guess what she meant. She owed this Cabot no explanation.

Struggling to her feet, the sodden drag of her skirts pulling at her, she stood beside Randall. “Even before the law arrives, I wonder if we shouldn’t be thinking of who might have done this.”

Now hoofbeats approached at a gallop.

“The law’s here!” somebody called from the back of the crowd.

The rider, hatless and thick as an old stump through the middle, reined in a gray gelding.

Even before he’d begun to dismount, he was shooting questions into the crowd. More, Kerry suspected, to establish himself as in charge than because he knew what to ask.

Various spectators from the crowd began talking at once, volleys of information that sent his head whipping one direction, then the other. Spotting Kerry, the sheriff nodded in recognition.

Dr. Randall took him by the arm. “All right, Wolfe, let’s get you caught up.”

Listening as Randall summarized, the sheriff knelt to confirm the death.

Tilting his head toward Kerry, he added, “With all due respect to your past noticings . . .”

Rema patted Wolfe on the shoulder. “You say that like you was referring to cow turds, there, Donny. I know after all these years you’d want to be more respectful of my niece’s gift.”

“Even still, I know she’ll want to let the menfolk handle this here thing.”

Kerry continued studying the edge of the woods as Wolfe hauled the heft of himself back up to his feet. “So. Any of you folks see suspicious types lurking around?”

Kerry stroked her sister’s hair.

Eyes welling, Tully shook her head. “It was me that got to him first. But he’d already been knocked out flat.”

“You telling me you didn’t see nothing at all?” He looked from Tully to the rail dog and back, as if judging whether a girl of her build could’ve swung such a weapon. “Not much more than a rag doll of a thing, are you?” he said, which seemed to be his conclusion.

Now Wolfe strutted through the crowd. “Before y’all leave to go on home to your hearth fires, let’s hear did anyone know the victim personal-like.”

Silence. Kerry watched John Cabot open his mouth. Take a step forward, even. For an instant, he met Kerry’s eye. Then turned away.

Her gaze still on Cabot, Kerry raised her voice. “I spoke to him on the train, if that counts. About why he was coming to Asheville.”

“Might be a piece of helpful.” Wolfe looked doubtful, though. “Come see me after. Now, let’s hear from you folks. Who else could’ve been acting a mite suspicious?”

The woman in mauve gave a small chirp of distress. “Do you mean, sir, including the passengers who disembarked? Because there was that man on the train. In my car. The man in the peculiar tweed cap.” Suddenly spotting the offending item, she pointed. “That cap right there!”