Smoky Mountain Mystery 01 - Out on a Limb Read online

  “No,” said Cardwell, “never. The trees there aren’t the kind she’s interested in.”

  “What kind of trees is she interested in?” Henry asked.

  “Big ones,” said Cardwell. “The tallest ones she can find. She climbs for fun, and for research.”

  Cardwell looked at the ripped pack with growing dismay and asked, “Did a bear do this?”

  “Probably,” Henry said, “most of it anyway.”

  “Did the bear hurt Ivy?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry replied. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. We haven’t located her yet. Do you have any contact numbers for her?”

  Cardwell nodded and then gave Henry Ivy’s home and cell numbers. Henry immediately dialed her home, got no answer, and left a brief message asking Ivy to call him as soon as she got his message. He repeated the process with her cell number.

  “Is she participating in any of the DLIA surveys?”

  Cardwell shook his head. “She didn’t even sign up for the Myxo Madness event, and that’s her field of study. I checked and she wasn’t on the list. That doesn’t make any sense. Nothing she does lately makes any sense to me. But even if she wasn’t going to the myxo event, she was probably in the park yesterday, somewhere, climbing.”

  “Any idea where?” Henry asked.

  “No, like I said, I haven’t talked to her in awhile.”

  Henry took down a description of Ivy: 24 years old, 5’ 8”, green eyes, straight blond hair.

  “If you hear from her,” Henry said, “please let me know right away. Okay?”

  Cardwell nodded and took Henry’s card.

  “And you sir?” Henry asked the other man.

  “Alexandre Molyneaux,” he said, then spelled both names for Henry, using the French pronunciation for the letters of the alphabet, which meant he had to repeat himself several times.

  Cardwell took a last look at the mangled backpack, then turned to go, shoving past Molyneaux with unnecessary force.

  Henry looked at Molyneaux with a questioning look.

  “He is young,” Molyneaux said, dismissively. “This bag, it belong to Ivy. This,” he said wiggling a stub of black plastic dangling from a carabiner clipped to the pack, “it is part of a lighted magnifying tool that I give to her. The glass is missing now. It has been broken.”

  “Do you have any idea where she is?

  Molyneaux shook his head.

  “Any idea where she was yesterday?”

  “I, too, believe she may have been climbing in this park. These trees of majesty in the Smokies are the reason she chose this place for her studies instead of her home state of New Mexico. Such trees do not grow in this desert. But I do not know where she was climbing.”

  “Do you study the same thing as Ivy?” asked Henry.

  “No, I study the butterflies,” he said. “I am Professeur au Département de Biologique at Université de Loire. La Société Geographique Francaise pays for my visit in this place.”

  “How do you know Ivy,” Henry asked.

  “She enjoys to look at my butterflies,” he said smiling. “We have friendliness. That is all.”

  Henry took down Molyneaux’s contact information, gave him a card, and thanked him.

  It looked to Henry like Cardwell was a jilted boyfriend who was jealous of whatever was going on between Ivy and the Frenchman, if anything. Henry wasn’t sure he believed in a friendship based on mutual appreciation of butterflies either.

  Before he left, Henry moved to the middle of the room and addressed the group again. “Excuse me,” Henry called out in a loud voice, “I need to ask you all a couple of questions. It’ll just take a minute.”

  The chatter subsided and people turned toward him to see what he wanted.

  “Have any of you seen Ivy Iverson recently?”

  There was a low buzz in the room, but no one spoke up.

  “Please keep your eyes peeled. If anybody sees her or hears from her, please let me or any of the park rangers know immediately. It may be nothing, but we’re just being cautious in case she might be out there somewhere in need of assistance.”

  Henry looked around at the group to get an idea of what kind of people they were. They divided fairly evenly between male and female. Most of them were very fit, tan, many of them were sporting scratches, cuts, and bruises consistent with a struggle. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The terrain in the park was very rough.

  Next Henry made his way to the administrative offices near the center of the building. He explained the problem to Janet Stevens, a ranger and Chief Biologist for the park, and she made him a copy of the roster of participants and maps indicating where the various surveys were taking place.

  Henry scanned the list of activities, and asked. “So yesterday and the day before a lot of these people were out in the park?”

  Janet nodded, “A couple of hundred volunteers and about a dozen leaders.”

  “Anybody come back hurt?”

  “Sure, the usual stuff, sprains, that sort of thing, but nothing serious that I know of.”

  “Anybody missing?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anybody report seeing anything unusual?”

  “No. Just some tourist stuff about seeing coyotes and thinking they’re wolves, and a guy who saw Sasquatch. The Sasquatch guy calls about once a week.”

  Henry smiled at that. A big bear standing on its hind legs could make anyone think they’d seen Sasquatch. “Well, let me know if you hear anything, okay?”

  On his way out Henry walked past an area where Molyneaux had set up a table and was showing something to several young people. Henry glanced at the specimens. They looked like brown bits of dust. Molyneaux looked up and gestured for him to come closer.

  “These don’t look like any butterflies I ever saw,” Henry joked.

  “Oh, but you must let me show you. My work is with these smallest of the butterflies.”

  “Dr. Molyneaux is a nanolepidopterist,” one of the volunteers said. “He’s a world famous expert in tiny butterflies.”

  “Would you like to see them?” Molyneaux asked Henry. “Please, look.”

  Molyneaux gestured toward the stereoscopic microscope. Henry bent and stared through the eyepieces and was astonished. What looked like boring bits of brown lint to the naked eye were absolutely stunning, extremely colorful, under magnification and with illumination from the bright specimen light.

  “They’re like hummingbirds, aren’t they?” Henry asks. “The colors, the way you can see em if the light’s right, but other times they don’t look like much at all.”

  “Exactly,” says Molyneaux. “Nature can be sometimes shy. She does not easily reveal her secrets. We must be patient, then she will show us her true beauty.”

  Henry nodded his agreement.

  In the last room on the right before he reached the door, Henry saw a woman scientist take a giant bug out of a refrigerator. He stopped to watch what she was doing with it. He was startled to see her place it on the glass of what looked like a fancy copy machine and proceed to Xerox the huge insect. He stood in the hall and watched her repeat the process several times with other gigantic bugs. She’d take them out of the fridge, copy them, and then put them back.

  “Excuse me,” Henry said, leaning in through the open door. “I was just wonderin, why you’re copyin bugs? And how come you keep em in the ‘frigerator?”

  “I’m scanning beetles for our inventory,” she said. “We use this special biological scanner with a high depth of field to capture images of each specimen. I have to keep them cold or they crawl off the scanner.”

  “They’re still alive?” Henry said, surprised.

  “Oh yes. See these pincers?” she said, holding the bug so he could see its menacing jaws, “These really hurt, so I keep the beetles refrigerated. The cold puts them into a stupor so they can’t bite me.”

  To be polite, Henry nodded with an understanding he didn’t really feel, and then walked away. H
e understood that people liked to study things, and he didn’t want anyone to get bitten, but he wondered how long insects could survive like that. He shivered at the creepiness of condemning any creature, even a bug, to a limbo of eternal cold.

  Chapter 19

  Sometimes Phoebe saw patients who were not going to get well.

  Her first call of the morning was on Mrs. Willard, a lady in the last stages of pancreatic cancer who didn’t want to die in the hospital. She wanted to live out her last days at home in the same house where she’d been born 93 years before. She was bedridden but was fortunate to have a nice family who were taking good care of her. There wasn’t much Phoebe could do, but she knew it was a comfort to the family if a professional nurse came by every so often to see how things were going.

  Phoebe considered it an honor to attend to people at the end of their lives. She was deeply impressed with the grace and courage people demonstrated when their options were exhausted. Mrs. Willard was an interesting lady. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with a fluffy halo of snow white curls. A kind disposition and good humor radiated from her despite her illness.

  Phoebe bathed her thoroughly and carefully with a washcloth and basin, always keeping an eye out for pressure sores or any rashes, but there were none. She applied lotion to Mrs. Willard’s skin, and added a little bit of rose oil to suffuse the room with a pleasant, peaceful scent. Phoebe gently rolled her first to one side, then to the other, as she put on fresh sheets in the clever way nurses had of changing a bed with someone in it.

  She plumped and adjusted the pillows to get her patient as comfortable as possible, then sat on the edge of the bed to chat. Mrs. Willard wanted to know all the most recent local developments and Phoebe entertained her with cheerful gossip.

  “This is such a nice room,” Phoebe said. “You can lay in bed and see that pretty maple tree out the window.”

  “This was the girls’ room when I was little. Many’s the year my sisters and me’ve laid up in this bed and looked out on that tree. I wasn’t even born whenever Grandaddy planted it. I’m glad it’ll outlast us all.”

  Phoebe smiled.

  “I lived here til I was fifteen. Then, when I got married, I moved out to live with Joe in a little cabin over near Cosby, where the park is now. The cabin’s probably long gone by now. I heard the government lets em fall in cause they don’t want people stayin in em.”

  Phoebe nodded.

  “My children were born in that cabin. Eight of em. I’ve outlived em all and my husband, my friends. I’ve even outlived one of my grandchildren. It’s strange when nobody’s left who remembers the same things I remember. Nobody but me’s alive on this earth to remember Momma and Daddy. They wouldn’t believe the things that’s happened. They saw some changes during their lives, but not like the ones I’ve seen.

  “Everthing seems to be gettin speeded up all the time, don’t it? You think things can’t get any more expensive or go any faster, but they keep on doin it.”

  Phoebe murmured agreement.

  “I’ve had a real good life and I thank God for it all, the good and the bad, but I’m ready. I’m not a bit sad or worried about what’s comin next. I’m lookin forward to it. Almost everbody who’s important to me’s on the other side, a waitin for me. I’ve made em wait a long time, too.”

  “I thank you for comin,” she said and took hold of one of Phoebe’s hands. She held it in both of hers for a few moments, then she bent and kissed it in a gesture so sweet it made tears come to Phoebe’s eyes. Phoebe bent and kissed her on the forehead and said softly, “God bless you.”

  Both women knew they’d never see each other again in this life.

  As she drove away Phoebe thought about the difference in a death that was natural and expected and Sean’s death, which was neither.

  And she wondered about the girl in her dream. Could there be a connection between the girl and Sean? If there was some connection, why hadn’t she dreamed about Sean, too? She hadn’t been able to help her boyfriend, but maybe she was meant to help the girl somehow.

  Chapter 20

  Henry made several calls to the University of Tennessee before he was able to track down the person who was overseeing Ivy Iverson’s doctoral studies. It was Professor Conrad T. Whittington, a botanist who the department secretary said couldn’t take his call because he was away from the office. In fact, she said, he was inside the national park supervising a Fern Foray.

  Henry called DLIA to get the exact location of the foray, then drove out to Big Creek to talk to the professor. He had to hike nearly a mile along a trail that ran through a lush fairyland of curling green fronds. Then he caught up with a group of about a dozen people who were in and slightly off the trail thrashing about in a thicket of briars. They seemed to be searching for something. “Is this it?” one of them called out.

  A large man crashed through the heavy undergrowth, squatted down, and disappeared for a few moments. Then he stood up and said, “No, this has opposing leaflets, a Christmas fern has alternating leaflets.”

  The group stopped what they were doing and clustered around him. The teacher was over six feet tall and heavy, with muscle that was turning to fat in middle age. He was touching the plant gently as he explained something about spores.

  He looked up when Henry approached and smiled in a near-sighted, distracted way. “Let the gentleman pass,” he told the forayers. “Please forgive us,” he said to Henry, “we’re dallying.”

  “Can I watch?” Henry said.

  “Of course,” said Whittington, and he turned back to the plant saying, “as you can see …” He was interrupted by a woman calling out, “Oh yuck, what’s that?”

  The Professor turned to see what she was looking at. “It’s a type of fungus,” he said. “The Latin name is Xylaria polymorpha. The common name is Dead Man’s Fingers.”

  “Good name for it,” the woman said. “It’s disgusting.”

  The Professor went back to his lecture about the fern without seeming to mind the interruption. When he finished, the group, most of whom were scratched and bug-bitten from their efforts, continued along the trail. Henry said, “Professor Whittington, can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Certainly,” Whittington said. “Do you mind walking with me? I dare not take my eyes off the group for fear of what they might get up to.”

  “I hear ye,” Henry said, and fell into step just behind and slightly to the left of the big man because the trail wasn’t wide enough to walk alongside him. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about a student of yours, Ivy Iverson.”

  “Ivy Iverson,” Whittington mumbled to himself, trying to place her, “Ivy Iverson … oh yes … I’m acquainted with the young lady to whom you refer. Has Miss Iverson done something she shouldn’t have?”

  “I’m not sure,” Henry said. “Right now, it looks like she might’ve gone missing. I’m trying to locate her. You don’t happen to have any idea where she is, do you?”

  “Me?” Whittington said, “No. I wish I could be of assistance. I certainly hope she’s alright, but unfortunately I have very little contact with Miss Iverson.”

  “I thought you were her major professor,” Henry said.

  “I am,” Whittington said, “but … are we off the record here?”

  Henry nodded.

  “Miss Iverson is not the most devoted scholar I’ve ever supervised.”

  He called out to the group of adults, saying, “Stay together! Don’t venture too far ahead please!” He turned back to Henry and said, “It’s fairly obvious to anyone who is acquainted with her, that Miss Iverson enrolled at the University of Tennessee in order to have access to the trees in this park. She likes to climb them you see.

  “Many students chose universities with an eye toward proximity to the Smokies, the Rockies, the beach, or winter sports rather than for academic reasons. Miss Iverson seems a decent sort, but unfortunately she’s rather immature, and not a particularly promising scientist.”

&nbs
p; Henry tilted his head, appraising Whittington.

  “Sorry I can’t be of more help, but I simply don’t know the girl well enough. Perhaps it’s a failing in my tutelage that I’ve not insisted she maintain better contact.”

  “Professor! Professor!” someone called out. “What’s this, Dead Man’s Toes?”

  The question drew snickers from the group. The professor looked toward the forayers, torn between his questioners. Henry knew he’d better wrap it up. “Do you know what she was working on?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. She has not stated the direction of her research formally, nor even decided on anything informally, as far as I’m aware.”

  “Any idea what area of the park she favored for her research?”

  He shook his head, then he looked at Henry in a distracted way, saying, “I’m so sorry. You must forgive me, but I need to resume the foray before any of my volunteers wander off to parts unknown.”

  Whittington lumbered away, moving along the trail in a bear-like, side-to-side waddle. Henry remembered that the technical term for that gait was plantigrade and was pleased that he’d remembered some of his college biology lessons. He followed the Professor with his eyes for a few moments, then turned to hike back to his vehicle. He’d walked only a few minutes when he was passed by a vigorous elderly lady wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the slogan Non Impediti Ratione Congitatonis.

  Henry smiled and greeted her as all rangers do when encountering another person on a trail. Then he asked, “What’s the sayin on your shirt mean?”

  “It’s Latin,” she said, “It means Unencumbered by the Thought Process.”

  Then the woman, who had to be in her seventies if not eighties, clambered up the steep hillside next to the trail with the agility of a mountain goat and was out of sight a couple of seconds later.

  The exchange was so other-worldly, Henry wondered if it was real. He’d had a series of strange encounters in the park in the last couple of days. He tried to shake off the feeling of discombobulation by walking back to his truck as fast as possible.