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While waiting, I’d been tempted to search the body for an ID, but I knew from my experience as a chief warrant officer that until we determined the cause of death, the scene had to be treated as a potential homicide.

  The man appeared to have been in his late fifties. The boot was complemented by waders and a vest that looked top-of-the-line. I didn’t think he’d been in the water too long, although the river’s chilly temperature would make establishing the time of death difficult.

  “Who spoke with his wife?” I asked.

  “Tuck did. We got the address off his driver’s license.”

  Tuck Efird was Newly’s partner. He was a good investigator, but we didn’t have the close relationship I enjoyed with Newly.

  “Four-thirty seems early,” I said. “It would have been dark.”

  “Territory,” Nakayla said. “Stake your claim to a favorite spot and keep the other anglers away.”

  “Did Culpepper have a favorite spot?” I asked Newly.

  The detective shrugged. “We’ll find out. Culpepper’s Range Rover was discovered along the road a hundred yards upstream from his body.”

  ”You think the current was strong enough to sweep him that far?” Nakayla asked.

  “He might have walked downstream. He could have had a heart attack or slipped on a rock and hit his head only a few yards from where you found him.”

  “Car keys on his body?” I asked.

  “Yes. Expensive waterproof watch on his wrist and a couple hundred dollars in his wallet. Maybe he’s the poster child for never fish alone.”

  “I don’t remember seeing his rod,” Nakayla said.

  Newly looked at me. “We didn’t remove it from the river.”

  “Maybe it floated away,” I said. “Or the reel weighed it down enough that it’s below the surface.”

  Newly stepped away from my Honda. “Damn, we didn’t bring water-retrieval gear.”

  I looked at the kayaks yet to be loaded on the roof rack. “We can make a pass for you. Can you run us up to Bent Creek and then bring my CR-V back here?”

  “Is the Blackman and Robertson Detective Agency on the clock?”

  “For you, a six-pack and updates will be the going rate. We found the guy. We’d like to know anything you’re willing to share.”

  “I believe Nakayla found him, but I won’t quibble. I will bet you dinner that if either of you finds the rod, it’ll be Nakayla.”

  ***

  We split the river down the middle, paddling in a serpentine pattern back and forth across the current. The process was like looking for a needle in a haystack, a floating haystack. The rod could be submerged and look like any waterlogged stick, with one exception, and that exception snagged my paddle as I approached the spot where Culpepper’s body had been discovered.

  “I’ve found his line.” I reached out and grabbed the leader just above the fly. Holding the paddle in my right hand, I tugged on the line, trying to free the rod. It wouldn’t budge, and the resistance spun me broadside to the current. The force of the water pushed against the kayak with an impact that meant something had to give. The bottom of my boat rolled and I toppled headfirst into the French Broad.

  Nakayla paddled to my rescue. Her first words of comfort: “The only thing that would have been funnier was if a fish had been flapping on the line.”

  ***

  The next morning Nakayla and I arrived at our office shortly after nine. We got off the elevator to find a young woman leaning against our door. She was well-dressed in a gray pantsuit, and I estimated her age to be mid-twenties. She gave Nakayla a cursory glance and then stepped toward me. Nakayla was often dismissed as my assistant—probably because she was a woman, a black woman. I always made the effort to establish that we were equals, and if a potential client didn’t accept that fact, then we didn’t take the case.

  “Can we help you?” Nakayla asked.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Blackman or Mr. Robertson.”

  “I’m Nakayla Robertson. This is my partner, Sam Blackman.”

  The woman blushed. “My mistake. My name’s Ellen Culpepper. I want you to investigate my father’s death.”

  We invited her in. Our suite consists of three rooms. Nakayla and I have offices on either side of the center room which was not only the entry space but also where we held client consultations. The conversation area was a cozy arrangement of a leather sofa and two matching chairs set in front of a large window facing Asheville’s historic Pack Square. We didn’t choose the office for the view, but rather for the proximity to the lawyers clustered around the Buncombe County Courthouse at the opposite end of the square. Lawyers were the bread-and-butter of our business.

  “I’ll put on a pot of coffee,” I said, and headed into Nakayla’s office and the Mr. Coffee machine. After starting the automatic brewing, I returned to find Nakayla and Ellen Culpepper sitting side by side on the sofa. I took a chair opposite them.

  “What do you think we can do that the police can’t?” Nakayla asked.

  “Find out what really happened. My father was in excellent health and has been an avid fisherman since he was a kid.”

  “But accidents occur,” I said. “I think you should at least wait on the medical examiner’s report.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t care what that report says. Something’s not right. Where he parked meant he had to trespass on the Biltmore Estate. You can wade in the river or fish from a boat, but that shore was off limits. And my dad never would have gone fishing on a Sunday morning. He and my stepmother always go to church.”

  “What time?” I asked.

  “Eleven. All Souls Episcopal in Biltmore Village.”

  “And how far to his house from where he was fishing?”

  “About five miles. He lives in the Buena Vista neighborhood off 191.”

  Lived, I thought, but didn’t correct her. Buena Vista isn’t a typical Asheville neighborhood. It’s an elite gated community with a golf course, clubhouse, and homes running a million plus.

  “Legal or not, it was convenient,” Nakayla said. “He could have crossed the property undetected and fished for a few hours before church. That would explain the early start.”

  Ellen Culpepper frowned. “Why won’t you take my case?”

  “Because an investigation’s expensive,” Nakayla said. “We’re not taking your money if there isn’t a case.”

  “I appreciate your ethics, but it’s my money. I want to know the truth and I don’t want to depend on a police department interested in closing an investigation the fastest and easiest way they can.”

  I knew Newly wouldn’t take shortcuts, but it was clear to me the daughter was distraught. I looked at Nakayla and shrugged.

  “All right.” Nakayla stood. “I’ll pull the paperwork for our standard contract. We’ll start today.”

  ***

  We learned that Ellen Culpepper was an only child and worked for her father in his real estate company. She lived in a two-bedroom luxury apartment in Grove Arcade, a historic pricey address in the heart of Asheville. Furthermore, Buena Vista had been her father’s project, just one of several successful ventures. In short, Culpepper was a wealthy man, and the daughter and widow stood to split approximately ten million dollars.

  The widow was the second Mrs. Culpepper. Ellen’s mother had died five years earlier when her car tumbled into a ravine during an ice storm. Aaron Culpepper had been devastated, but not so devastated that he hadn’t married a ballroom dance instructor a year later.

  Nakayla and I did all this due diligence the rest of Monday, and I notified Newly we were now more than interested bystanders.

  Tuesday morning, Nakayla and I drove to meet the waltzing widow, Alexia Culpepper. She agreed to see us at ten, although she said she could only spare a few minutes because of funeral arrangements.

  We pulled beside th
e window of the guardhouse at the security gate. The man on duty asked for our names and whom we were seeing. When we said we were visiting Mrs. Culpepper, he dropped his officious tone.

  “Is this about Mr. Culpepper?” he asked.

  “Family business.”

  I studied him more closely. His nosey question told me the events of the past Sunday had been a high point in what must otherwise be a boring job. The nametag on his uniform read “Josh Noonan,” and I estimated his age between thirty and thirty-five.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just I might be the last person to have seen him alive.”

  “Really? What time was that?”

  “A little before four-thirty Sunday morning. I was on graveyard shift. I had yesterday off and rotated to eight-to-four dayside this morning.”

  “Did you speak to Mr. Culpepper?”

  “Nah. I gave a wave and he gave a wave.” Noonan chuckled. “I was just thankful I was awake. I mean, he’s the boss man for this whole place.”

  “Yeah, I know. I assume you talked to the police.”

  “Sure thing. A Detective Efird. He gave me his card in case I remember anything. But what’s to remember? He waved, I waved. I’m sure it’s on the video.”

  “Video?”

  “See that camera back there?” He pointed to the flagpole just before the entrance. The guard’s vehicle was parked at its base. “It records both lanes by this guardhouse, coming and going. The police should be able to see Mr. Culpepper just like I said.” He paused. “I guess I was the last person he saw while he was alive. Sure makes you think, don’t it?”

  “Yes, it does. Are we good to go?”

  “Yes, sir.” He punched a button and the crossbar lifted.

  “Chatty guy,” Nakayla said, as we drove through the gate.

  “If I had to sit in a box for eight hours, I’d be chatty too.”

  We climbed a ridgeline. I kept my eyes on the road; Nakayla watched the mailboxes for the Culpepper address. The houses we passed had two things in common: they were large and they had magnificent views.

  “Here’s their driveway,” Nakayla said. “I don’t see the house.”

  I turned in and drove a couple hundred yards before catching sight of what looked like a French chateau centered on a level plot of vibrant green lawn. The driveway looped around a fountain spouting water ten feet in the air. A spur on the right ended in front of a detached garage that was more of a carriage house for six carriages.

  “Mr. Culpepper didn’t have to depend on his fishing skills for food,” Nakayla said.

  “No, he didn’t. Which reminds me, Newly owes me dinner. I’ll push him to make good on his bet as soon as the medical examiner’s report is released.”

  I parked near the front door. “I’m surprised there aren’t more cars. Usually when there’s been a death, neighbors descend with casseroles.”

  Nakayla unbuckled her seat belt. “Maybe these neighbors only know how to order takeout.”

  Alexia Culpepper opened the large front door as we approached. She’d either been watching from a front window or the guard had notified her we were on the way.

  She wore a sleeveless black dress. Her green eyes were moist and red. I wasn’t struck by how young she was, but by how much she looked like Ellen Culpepper. If little girls grow up to marry someone like their fathers, do older men marry their daughters? Alexia Culpepper must have been a good twenty years younger than her husband.

  “Please come in,” Alexia said. “I hate to rush but the minister from All Souls is coming shortly to plan Aaron’s service.”

  “Have you set a date for his funeral?” Nakayla asked.

  “Potential dates. We can’t know for sure until the police release his body.” A sob caught in her throat. “Sorry. It’s all so surreal. Why don’t we sit in the sunroom?”

  She led us across a marble foyer and through a living room so formally furnished that I felt it should be stanchioned off like the rooms in the Biltmore House. The sunroom was at the rear of the house and caught the morning light. The cool slate floor and white wicker furniture were much less formal. The wall of windows overlooked a patio and large swimming pool. Water to the brim showed it was being used, even though we were two weeks past Labor Day. A heated pool, no doubt.

  Alexia took a love seat with red cushions. Nakayla and I sat in matching rockers.

  “You told me Ellen hired you,” Alexia said. “Why?”

  “She just wants to make sure the police don’t miss anything,” Nakayla said. “We work closely with them and are confident they’ll give the investigation their full attention. But, you can consider us a second opinion. I think Ellen wants to know she did everything she could to get to the truth.”

  “Is there any reason to think this wasn’t an accident or a heart attack?”

  “We’re just starting,” I said. “There’s no evidence to think one way or the other. Tell me, was it unusual for your husband to go fishing so early?”

  “Not really. Going on Sunday was unusual. He told me the night before if he was restless, he might get in a few hours before church. I was getting ready when the police came.”

  “Did he often fish alone?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Sometimes. Usually he went with some buddies or he’d meet Ellen.”

  “Ellen’s a fly fisher?” Nakayla asked.

  “Oh, yes. She’s gone with her father ever since she was big enough to hold a rod. Now me, the closest I like to get to a river is a picnic table on the bank.”

  “You said your husband was restless,” I said. “Was he having any health problems?”

  “No. He was stressed. Property sales have slowed again, and…” she paused.

  “And what?” I prompted.

  “Well, he was worried about Ellen. She’s dating some painter in the River Arts District. Aaron thought he was after her money. And her work suffered. He didn’t think she was doing a good job, but how do you fire your child?”

  “Had he spoken to her?” Nakayla asked.

  “He said he was going to. Maybe he was planning to this week. It would explain his restlessness Saturday night.”

  And his desire for the solitude of the river, I thought. And the stress could have led to a heart attack.

  “Did your husband wake you when he got up?”

  “No. I’m a sound sleeper. Besides, he would have changed in the garage. It’s where he keeps all his equipment.”

  “Can we take a look?”

  “Sure.”

  We followed her onto the patio and along the pool. One of those automatic skimmers floated on the surface, picking up small debris. We entered the garage from the side. A black BMW sedan was parked at the far end. The Range Rover must have still been in police custody. The near section had a long workbench complete with vises, packets of feathers, spools of thread, all the materials necessary for making your own flies. Two lockers stood at the end of the workbench.

  Alexia opened them. “He kept clothes here. He could change and hang up the damp gear when he returned.”

  One held street clothes and the other had empty hangers where the fishing wardrobe must have been.

  I walked along the workbench. Everything was well organized. Several small zippered leather cases were stacked at one end. I opened one. It contained flies neatly hooked in a mesh lining.

  “Have you touched anything here?” I asked.

  “No. Ellen will have to go through all this. I don’t know what to save and what to throw out.”

  “Have the police been here?” I asked.

  “Yes. That Detective Efird and his partner came back yesterday.” She gestured to the workbench. “They saw what you saw.”

  ***

  Nakayla and I met Newly that night at Lexington Avenue Brewery, a great place for craft beer and good food. Newly
ordered us an appetizer plate of beef sliders to start off dinner; I asked a question to start the conversation.

  “Do you know where Ellen Culpepper was Saturday night and Sunday morning?”

  Newly arched an eyebrow. “Why? You suspect your own client?”

  “She and her father used to meet to fish. Just ruling out all possibilities.”

  Newly nodded. “I guess hiring detectives would be a good move to deflect suspicion. Well, she said she had a date.”

  “You check it?”

  “Yeah. A painter. Lives above his studio in River Arts. She stayed overnight. She’s either in the clear, or the boyfriend’s in it with her.”

  “Five million dollars is at stake,” I reminded him.

  “You think she and the boyfriend are good for it?”

  “No. I want to make sure you’ve ruled them out before I share further information with her.”

  Newly looked at Nakayla and then at me. “What am I missing here?”

  “You’ve put your finger on it,” I said. “It’s what’s missing. I’d like to see the security footage from the guardhouse and what you found on Culpepper’s body.”

  Newly’s curiosity surged. “Consider this a dinner in progress. You eat these. I’ll get the check and we’ll go to the station.”

  “Don’t you want one?” I asked.

  “Hell, yes, but my wife’s put me on a diet.”

  ***

  The footage was cued to the point where Culpepper’s Range Rover drove through the gate. Like the guard, Josh Noonan, had said, Culpepper waved his hand out the open window as he passed. The angle of the shot couldn’t show facial features through the tinted glass and it looked like the sun visor might have been down. The front of the guardhouse was constructed of stone with windows on either side where vehicles would stop. The guard was out of camera frame.

  “Back it up and freeze it where Culpepper waves,” I said.

  Newly reversed the footage until the hand was out the window.

  “Can you zoom in closer?” I asked.

  “Tuck and I did this. You can see the sleeve matches what Culpepper was wearing.”

  “It’s what he’s not wearing that interests me.”