Long Upon the Land

by Margaret Maron

  “Sorry, Major. I called there a few minutes ago and he said Rocky Capps’d already left for work. I got the name of the tile shop in Fuquay, though. I was just leaving to go over.”

  “Give me the name,” Dwight told him. “I’m in Cotton Grove and I can run on into Fuquay myself. In the meantime ask Mayleen if she’s turned up anything useful from the phone company. Earp’s being buried at Mount Sinai at two this afternoon, and I’d like both of you to be there. Get a feel for anyone else we might need to question.”

  At Portman’s Floors and Tiles, the owner, a wiry little white guy with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail, looked at Dwight’s ID and said, “What’s that goof-up done now?”

  “What’s he done before?” Dwight countered.

  “You name it, Rocky’s probably done it. Backed into somebody’s car in the Food Lion parking lot and left without giving his insurance information. Walked out of Wal-Mart wearing two pairs of sweatpants he didn’t pay for. Ordered takeout at Wendy’s and drove off without paying.”

  Portman reached for his wallet. “What’s it gonna cost me this time?”

  “You? Why you? He kin to you or something?”

  “Naw, just the best worker I ever had. Even hungover, he’s a real Michelangelo with tile. Not just setting it, but selling it, too. Colors and textures you think would clash—it’s amazing. Customers come in here asking about an ordinary shower stall or kitchen backsplash and they tell me what they think they want—the basic meat and potatoes, you know? Then I send Rocky out to take the measurements and he comes back with an order for steak and caviar. He’s got a notebook full of pictures of places he’s done and once he tells them what he can do with their place, they’ll wind up buying the high-end tiles, so hell yes I’m gonna pay his fines to keep him out of jail.”

  “You ever meet his roommate, Tyler Earp?”

  “Yeah, I’ve let Rocky use him a few times when we’re shorthanded or have a big rush job. He can mix the mud and help with the rough layout, but why? Oh, wait a minute. Is this about his brother getting killed? You think he had something to do with that?”

  “We’re just trying to eliminate him,” Dwight said. “Capps is his alibi for part of the weekend.”

  “Well, good luck with that.” That long gray ponytail swung back and forth as Portman shook his head dubiously. “Depends on how many beers Rocky had, don’t it?”

  He gave Dwight directions to where Capps was working that day.

  Fuquay Springs and Varina used to be two sleepy little towns divided by a railroad track out in the middle of rolling tobacco fields. A mineral spring discovered in the 1850s brought in visitors from as far away as Richmond and Atlanta to take the waters, and the railroad helped make it a prosperous tobacco market. The two towns merged years ago and most of the tobacco warehouses are long gone, replaced by antique stores and trendy shops. Now the overflow from Raleigh and the Research Triangle has ringed the town with chain stores and shopping centers, and a profusion of housing developments cover the tobacco fields.

  Despite the recession, new houses continued to be built and Dwight found Rocky Capps in the spa-like bath of a four-bedroom house in an established upscale neighborhood. The original large lots were being divided and infilled. Mature trees around this new house sported orange ribbons that had saved them from the bulldozer’s blade and their branches cast welcome shade from the blazing August sun.

  After Dwight showed his badge and introduced himself, Capps led him out under those trees where they could talk in private.

  Late forties and showing every year of his age, Rocky Capps had the sallow skin of a habitual drinker. He wore a dirty ball cap with the Portman logo across the front and his long-sleeved plaid shirt was unbuttoned. An olive green T-shirt covered a barrel-shaped chest. His jeans were streaked with grout stains. He sat down on a stack of white bricks, took off his cap, and wiped the sweat from his face on the sleeve of his shirt as he listened to Dwight’s questions.

  “Friday night? Yeah. Me and Tyler were at the Lillie Pad till around ten. He’s not supposed to drive anywhere but work for another week or so, so we were in my car and we both got pretty wasted.” He gave a sour laugh. “I might would’ve blown a twelve if anybody’d stopped us. Lucky for me they didn’t, huh?”

  “Can’t stay lucky forever,” Dwight said mildly, “but that’s not what I’m here for. After you and Tyler got home, did he leave again?”

  “Not that I know anything about. He used the bathroom first and he was snoring in front of the TV when I came out and went to bed. Next thing I knew, it was ten o’clock in the morning and he was still asleep.”

  “In front of the TV?”

  “Naw. In his bed.”

  “How’d he get along with his brother?”

  He shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” He fanned himself with the bill of his ball cap, then wiped his face again before putting it back on.

  “We heard that he and Vick had a fight.”

  “Yeah, Vick owed him money but he wouldn’t pay. Said Tyler did a sloppy job.”

  “That make Tyler mad?”

  “Well, duh. Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Mad enough to shoot up Vick’s truck while he was in it?”

  “Hey, I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “You know he’s quick to use his shotgun, though.”

  “I don’t know a thing about that, but he does like to hunt and he’ll go out in the woods and do a little target practice once in a while. Really loves that gun. I’ve been to turkey shoots with him and he’s pretty good. Got us a Butterball for Thanksgiving last year. We deep-fried it. If he gets another one this year, we’re gonna spatchcock that sucker like we saw on YouTube.”

  Dwight laughed and let him get back to his tiles.

  Back in Rolling Vista, the short driveway in front of the Earp mobile home was still empty yet there was something different about the place. Dwight couldn’t quite put his finger on it but it was enough to make him get out of his truck and knock on the metal storm door one more time.

  The old woman who answered was white-haired and stooped. She wore a long housecoat in a faded floral pattern that zipped up the front and a blue towel was draped around her shoulders. She had just washed her long hair and it fanned out over the towel like silvery dandelion fluff. Her face was lined and her eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Mrs. Earp?”

  She nodded mutely.

  He held up his ID. “I’m Major Bryant. Colleton County Sheriff’s Department. May I come in?”

  She stepped back from the open door and gestured to a pair of recliners in front of the television. A brush and several hairpins lay on the coffee table between them.

  “Sit down, Major. You’re here about Vick, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He was your nephew, wasn’t he?”

  Her faded blue eyes filled with tears. “We’re just getting ready to go over to his house. He’s being buried today.”

  “I know,” said Dwight. “And I’m sorry to have to bother you, but I need to ask you and your husband a few questions. Is he here?”

  She shook her head and ran her fingers through her long hair, testing for dryness, and Dwight caught a whiff of rose-scented shampoo as she pushed her hair back from her face with both hands, twisted it into a coil, and secured it atop her head with those hairpins.

  “He should be back soon, though. I told Rosalee we’d be there by dinnertime.”

  “When did you last see Vick?” Dwight asked.

  “Maybe Mother’s Day? Back in May? He sort of thought of me as his mother. Him and Tyler both. We took ’em in when they were real little. He was four, Tyler was two. Their mama and daddy got killed in a car wreck and there was nobody else. I know some people say they turned out wild, but we did the best we could for them. Maybe if we could’ve stayed out in the country…”

  Her voice trailed off in the silence of lost possibilities.

  The silence was broken by the door opening and a truculent ol
d man entered and glared at Dwight. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sheriff’s Department,” Dwight said. “Joby Earp?”

  “I know you,” the man said. “You’re the one married the Knott girl, ain’t you?”

  Before he could answer, the old man held the door open. “I’ll thank you to get out of my house. Knotts ain’t welcome here.”

  “My name’s Bryant,” said Dwight, “and you can either answer a few questions now or I can have you hauled over to Dobbs. What have you got against Knotts anyhow?”

  That got him a string of curses.

  Mrs. Earp said, “Joby, honey—”

  “You shut the hell up,” he snarled. “You want to know who killed Vick? Go ask Kezzie Knott. He got somebody to help steal our land and now he’s had our boy killed just because Vick got some of our own back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go ask him. And while you’re at it, tell him I know who turned me in this last time and I’m not gonna forget it.”

  “Turned you in? Turned you in for what?”

  But the old man just glared at him with his lips clamped tight. His wife was in tears.

  “Please, Major Bryant. We need to go. Rosalee needs us to be there.”

  Dwight nodded. “We’ll talk again later, Mr. Earp.”

  “Go to hell!”

  Back at his office, Dwight pulled up Joby Earp’s record and saw that he’d been arrested several times for possession of non–tax paid whiskey. As a repeat offender, he’d been sentenced to serve a year and a day in custody of the US attorney general, which meant forty-five days in custody, three years’ probation, and a thousand-dollar fine. What surprised Dwight was that Earp had been released from Butner only two weeks ago.

  Three minutes later, he was talking to Ed Gardner, the ATF agent who had signed the original arrest warrant.

  “Oh yeah,” Gardner said when Dwight told him why he’d called. “In fact, I meant to call you about that. Give you a heads-up after the Clarion piece. Seems to be a little range war going on out there.”

  “Range war?”

  “Someone gave us an anonymous tip about Earp back in the spring, then this past month, we’ve gotten tips on a couple of small operations.”

  “And?”

  “Can’t prove it, but it looks like Kezzie Knott’s involved.”

  “Huh?”

  “His name’s nowhere on record, but both those jokers were represented by Lee and Stephenson. We busted up their stills and they got the usual fines but you and I both know who pays Mr. Lee’s fees in these cases.”

  Dwight sighed.

  “Here’s where it gets cute, though,” said Gardner. “Both of those tips came from the same commercial phone number. Dexter Oil and Gas. Name mean anything to you?”

  “That’s where our victim worked. Joby Earp was Vick Earp’s uncle and both of them seem to hold a grudge against Mr. Kezzie.”

  “Soon as I read ol’ Joby’s statement to the Clarion, I had a feeling. He must’ve picked up those two names while he was at Butner and passed them on to his nephew. Sorry, Dwight.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions.

  — Psalms 25:7

  Dwight Bryant—Tuesday evening

  With Cal off to the beach and no need to rush right home after work, Dwight and Deborah had an early supper at a Tex-Mex place about three blocks from the courthouse, taco salad for her, beans and burritos for Dwight.

  “Any progress on the Earp murder?” Deborah asked as she spooned extra guacamole on her salad and dipped her fork into the creamy green deliciousness.

  “If you call eliminating another possible suspect progress,” Dwight said gloomily.

  “Who’s been eliminated besides his wife?”

  “His brother, for one. Tyler Earp. They fought because Earp owed him for a paint job and Tyler’s probably the one who shot up his truck. He’s alibied for the first part of Friday night, though, and one of his roommates says he was drunk and still sleeping it off till midmorning Saturday. But the roommate was just as drunk and probably passed out, too, so it’s not rock solid. And that truck’s still missing. For all we know, Earp’s death might just be a carjacking.”

  “Killed when someone tried to steal it?”

  “Men have been killed for less and it’s only two years old, according to his wife. We can’t stop every red F-150 on the road and ask to see the registration. By now, it’s probably headed for Florida with a different plate.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Dwight sighed. “No, not really. A carjacker would leave him where he fell, not drive his body out to the farm.” He wet a corner of his napkin in his water glass and dabbed at a spot of beans on his shirt. “I sent Mayleen and Ray to the funeral this afternoon, but they came up empty, too. They said it was a small turnout—only twenty-three people, not counting the family. His aunt and his wife were the only two who shed any tears and Mayleen thinks most of the people came for them, not Earp.”

  Deborah broke off a bit of her taco shell and dipped it in the red sauce to gauge its spiciness. She liked a little heat, but what a waiter calls mild would sometimes set off a bonfire on her tongue. This had just the right amount of tang. “Did you know them when they lived out near the farm?”

  Dwight swallowed the bite of burrito he’d just taken and shook his head. “I asked Mama about the Earp boys when I dropped the kids off there and she said they moved over to Cotton Grove while I was still in grade school. They were enough older that we wouldn’t have overlapped anyhow.”

  “What about Robert and Andrew?” Deborah wondered aloud. “They ever mention Joby Earp?”

  He frowned. “Why’re you asking about him?”

  “Something John Claude said when I stopped by there at lunchtime. I wanted to know if my grandfather ever defended the Earps.”

  “Why?” he persisted.

  “Just curious,” she said, not quite meeting his steady gaze.

  “Deborah?”

  All three syllables. Serious.

  “Vick Earp’s arrest record,” she said. “I must have read it when I issued that protection order for his wife, but it didn’t really register because I didn’t know he’d ever lived out there. I read it again this morning. You must have read it, too, Dwight. When Vick Earp was sixteen, he was charged with felony speeding to elude arrest. Also possession of untaxed whiskey. Back then, he was probably running it for Daddy because my grandfather defended him in court and he only got a light slap on the wrist. So I asked about Joby Earp, too.”

  “And?”

  “John Claude wouldn’t tell me but I sort of remembered that name from when I first looked through those files after I joined the firm. Something must have happened between them, though, because Grandfather dropped them before they moved to Cotton Grove.”

  Dwight frowned in hesitation.

  “What?” she said.

  “When I tried to question Joby Earp, he got belligerent. Accused Mr. Kezzie of stealing his land.”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t live near the farm, shug. They lived on it. He just served forty-five days in Butner for possession of white lightning and he seems to think Mr. Kezzie’s the one who turned him in. He also thinks that if Mr. Kezzie didn’t kill Vick himself, he might have had someone to do it for him.”

  Shocked, Deborah stared at Dwight. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Can you?”

  “Look, Deb’rah, I know you think he hung the moon and you know how I feel about him, but there was a time when he did ride roughshod over people. We both know that. He would have had to. You can’t run the kind of operation he ran without some hired muscle to back it up. He dealt with crooks and outlaws—hell, he was a crook himself. Making and distributing untaxed whiskey is a crime and you of all people know that.”

  “But that was back when times were h
ard for him. He hasn’t done that in years!” she protested.

  “You sure about that, honey?”

  They both knew she couldn’t honestly say yes.

  Her mother always said that was the one thing he lied to her about and he had even admitted it himself once. “It was the excitement. Running the risks. Knowing what I could lose if I got caught. That’s something your mama never rightly understood.”

  “Ed Gardner says John Claude defended two moonshiners this month and you know what that means.”

  “Daddy may still bankroll some small mom-and-pop operations to keep his hand in,” Deborah said. “That wouldn’t surprise me. All the same, Dwight, he would never kill anybody. And he certainly didn’t kill Vick Earp.”

  But she couldn’t help remembering that he hadn’t denied knowing him.

  They finished their meal and Dwight signaled for the bill. “I’m going to have to tell him what Joby Earp said and ask him where their land was. That place where Vick Earp was found might well have been part of it.”

  Deborah nodded bleakly. “But just because they used to own it doesn’t mean they didn’t sell it to him. You know how Daddy is about land. He’s spent his whole life pushing the boundaries of the farm further out from the homeplace.”

  “I know.”

  The sun was still high above the treetops when they walked out into the parking lot to her car and humidity wrapped itself around them like a hot damp blanket. As soon as she turned the key in the ignition, cool dry air flowed from the vents and she leaned forward to let the air blow on her face. “Are you going to talk to him now?”

  “No point waiting,” Dwight said.

  “Can I come, too?”

  He frowned.

  “I won’t interfere. I promise.”

  “Okay. Follow me out?”

  Deborah nodded and drove over to where his truck was parked behind the courthouse. She would have preferred to get there first and give Daddy a heads-up, but she had promised not to interfere and like it or not, this was a murder investigation.

  They stopped by the house first to let Bandit out of his pen and run around the yard while they changed into cooler clothes. With the little terrier on the seat between them, they drove through the lanes to the homeplace.