He paused briefly to glare at Dr. Allred but there was a whine in his voice when he turned back to me and said, “So what I’m saying here is yes, I did wrong, but I don’t see why it’s got to cost me four hundred dollars. It was Christmas and the parking lot was jammed. She says there were spaces further out, but by the time I parked out there and walked to the store, I could have already been in and out. Can’t we just let the towing charges take care of everything?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, Mr. Alito. If this were your first citation, I might have been inclined to let you off more lightly. But this is your second offense here in this district. If I were to have my clerk run your license plate, would I find that you’d collected more tickets elsewhere? Say in Raleigh?”
By the way his jaws clamped tight, I was pretty sure I’d hit home.
“Those spaces aren’t there for the convenience of the able-bodied. The State of North Carolina reserves them for its citizens who are not as fortunate as you are, sir. I find you guilty of this infraction and fine you the full two-fifty plus court costs.”
“Court costs!” he yelped. “That’s outrageous! That’s highway robbery! That’s—”
“That’s going to be a night in jail if you make me hold you in contempt,” I warned him. “The bailiff will show you where to pay.”
As he stomped out in one direction and Dr. Allred serenely rolled out the other way, two middle-aged sisters came forward to argue over a pair of diamond earrings valued at about three hundred dollars. According to the younger sister, their mother had given her the earrings before she died. The older sister did not dispute that their mother might have let her borrow them, but that her mother’s will left them to her. When the younger sister refused to give them up, the older one had taken them from the other’s house, whereupon the younger sister called the police and charged her with theft. The earrings were nothing more than two small round diamonds set in simple gold prongs. Identical earrings could be found in any discount jewelry store in any mall in America, so I did the Solomon thing. I threw out the larceny charge and awarded each sister one earring. “Why don’t you two ladies go have lunch together, buy a pair to match these and then think of your mother whenever you wear them. I bet she’d be horrified to think you’d let these two little rocks destroy your relationship.”
I had hoped for sheepish looks and murmurs of reconciliation. What I got were glares and snarls as they both huffed off, still mad at each other and now mad at me as well.
I sighed and adjourned for lunch.
As I went down the hallway to the office I was using that week, I heard hearty laughter coming from within. I pushed the door open and there sat Portland and Dr. Allred munching on bowls of pasta salad. Portland immediately pulled out a third disposable bowl and waved a plastic fork. “She got one for you, too.”
“Thanks,” I said, unzipping my robe. “I meant to bring my lunch today, but Cal couldn’t find his spelling book this morning and I didn’t have time. Good to see you again, Dr. Allred.”
She rolled her eyes at Portland. “When is she going to start calling me Linda?”
“Probably when you stop hauling assholes up before her in court,” Portland said, and speared a cherry tomato on the end of her fork. “Wonder if the baby’s allergic to tomatoes?”
“Yes,” I said, and plucked it from her fork. Like most tomatoes this time of year, it had been picked way too early and was almost tasteless, but the morning’s session had left me hungry and soon I was digging into my own salad.
“So what were y’all laughing about?” I asked.
“Tell her,” Portland urged.
The professor smiled and an impish gleam lit her face. “It was outside the café where I picked up our salads just now. First this dilapidated wreck of a pickup with a crushed front fender and a closed-in topper slides into the curb and parks.”
“In a handicap spot?”
“Yep. And no, they didn’t have a tag.”
“Are we to assume a tow truck’s on the way even as we eat?”
Dr. Allred shook her head. “I didn’t have the heart. See, the driver’s door opens and a grizzled old man gets out. He’s got one foot in a cast and his arm’s in one of those rigid slings where his elbow is on the same level as his shoulder.”
She demonstrated the awkward angle.
“Then the passenger door opens and out comes a pair of crutches, followed by a woman with both legs in casts.”
I laughed. “You’re making that up.”
“Word of honor. They then help each other hobble around to the back, open up the door and a dog jumps out.”
“Don’t tell me the dog’s wearing a cast?”
“No, but it’s only got three legs.”
“No way,” I protested.
Eyes twinkling, she crossed her heart. “True story. Now how could I write those poor folks a ticket?”
“You’re all heart,” I told her.
She laughed and finished off the last of her salad. “Gotta go. If you need any more data, Portland, just give me a call. Good seeing both of you.”
I held the door for her, but more than that she would not allow. Fortunately the courthouse is completely accessible and I knew that her van was equipped with full hydraulics so that she could manage easily.
“What was all that about?” I asked when she was gone.
Portland wiped a small dollop of mayo from her upper lip and handed me a manila folder. “She brought me a rough draft of the statistical analysis she’s doing on domestic violence. Especially as it relates to threats made and threats carried out.”
I leafed through the graphs and charts and row of numbers that were meaningless to me.
“Bottom line?” Portland said grimly. “Once physical violence accelerates, if the violent partner threatens to kill the significant other, there’s damn little the authorities can do to stop it. I plan to show these figures to Bo and Dwight and see if they can’t prove her wrong in the case of Karen Braswell.”
CHAPTER 11
If all farmers were true to principle with respect to the disposal of their products, there would be less perversion of the good and useful.
—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890
Friday night found Dwight and me heading in opposite directions. Uncle Ash had brought home a mess of rainbow trout from the mountains and Aunt Zell had invited us to supper, but the Canes were back in Raleigh for a home game, so Dwight said he’d pick Cal up and head on into town for a supper that was something other than pizza.
“Did Portland talk to you about her client?” I asked.
It was my afternoon break and I had caught him still at his desk, reading through reports.
“And that ex-husband who keeps harassing her? Yeah. Like I told her though, there’s not much we can do if he decides to punch her out, but at least Portland doesn’t have to worry about him shooting her client. Judge Parker sent over an order for us to search Braswell’s place and confiscate any guns we found. We got a shotgun, a .22 rifle and a .9-millimeter automatic. It’s too bad though, that she and her mother can’t move to another state before he gets out next week.”
“Why should she be the one to run?” I asked indignantly. “He’s the problem, not her.”
“Hey, I’m not saying she’s at fault,” he said, holding up his hands to fend off my irritation. “I’m just saying we can’t provide round-the-clock protection and if the woman’s that worried . . . Be fair, Deb’rah. You live on the beach and you know a hurricane’s coming, you know you need to move to high ground till the storm’s over, right?”
“I guess,” I said glumly.
“Well, she needs to get out of his way till he gets over her. Give him time to get interested in another woman or something. And that’s what Bo and I told Portland.”
I could just imagine what her response to that had been.
When I got to Aunt Zell’s that night, I found that she had taken pity on my cousin Reid and invited him to j
oin us. He claims not to know how to boil water and he’s always glad to accept the offer of a home-cooked meal. The grilled trout were hot and crispy and Aunt Zell had made cornbread the way Mother and Maidie often did it: a mush of cornmeal, chopped onions, and milk poured into a black iron skillet after a little oil’s heated to the smoking point, then baked at 400º till the bottom is crusty brown. Turned onto a plate and cut into pie wedges, it doesn’t need butter to melt in your mouth.
Uncle Ash is tall and slim. Like his brother, who is Portland’s dad, he had the Smith family’s tight curly hair, only his was now completely white. He had brought home a copy of the High Country Courier because it carried a story about a murder that had taken place when I was up there last October. One killer had been sentenced to twelve years after pleading guilty. The other was going to walk away free.
No surprises there.
We caught up on family news. Uncle Ash’s whole career had been with the marketing side of tobacco and he was interested to hear that my brothers were going to tread water by growing it on contract for another year.
“But if they’re really interested in doing something different, the first cars ran on alcohol, you know,” he said with a sly grin. “Kezzie say anything about y’all maybe distilling a little motor fuel?”
“Oh, Ash,” said Aunt Zell, who is always embarrassed for me whenever anyone alludes to Daddy’s former profession.
“Now, Uncle Ash, you know well and good that my daddy wouldn’t do anything illegal like that,” I said, unable to control my own grin. “Besides, to run a car, it’d have to be a hundred-and-ninety proof, almost pure alcohol. I don’t think he ever got anything that pure.”
“Would they really legalize the home brewing of something that potent?” asked Reid, helping himself to another wedge of cornbread.
“If gas keeps going up, who knows?” said Uncle Ash. “Soon as you mention alcohol, though, lawmakers get nervous. It’s like when they made farmers quit growing hemp about seventy years ago.”
Industrial hemp was one of Uncle Ash’s favorite hobby horses and he was off and riding.
“We spend millions importing something that we could grow right in our own country, right here in Colleton County. You can make dozens of useful things from it—paper, food, paint, medicine, even fuel. And they say that hemp seed oil is one of the most balanced in the world for the ratio of omega-sixes to omega-threes. It’s friendly to the environment, doesn’t take a lot of water or fertilizer to grow, and it’s easy to harvest. But those spineless jellyfish who call themselves statesmen? Soon as they see the word ‘hemp,’ they’re afraid their voters will see ‘cannabis.’”
“Ash, dear, you’re raising your voice again,” said Aunt Zell.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly and got up to help her make coffee and bring in the pecan pie I had seen cooling in the kitchen earlier.
“So what’s with you and Flame Smith?” I asked Reid as I set out coffee cups.
“You know her?”
“Not me. Portland. She ran into us at lunch yesterday. Just before you got there. Please tell me you’re not putting the moves on your client’s girlfriend.”
His blue eyes widened innocently. “It was strictly business and excuse me, Your Honor, but should we be having this ex parte discussion?”
I hate it when he scores a legal point off my curiosity.
I was home by nine and immediately switched on the hockey game. Amazing how much easier it was to follow now that I’d attended an actual game. During the commercials, I managed to wash and dry two loads of laundry and had piles of folded underwear on the couch beside me by the time Dwight and Cal returned. The game had been a blowout. Unfortunately, it was the Canes that got stomped.
Aunt Zell had sent the rest of the pie home for them and Cal had taken his into the living room to watch WRAL’ s recap of the game when Dwight’s phone rang. He listened intently, then said, “I’m on my way.”
I quit pouring his milk. “What’s happened?”
Dwight reached for his jacket with a grim face. “They just found another damn hand.”
CHAPTER 12
While money making is one of the great desiderata with most men, it is not the chief good in life, neither does it constitute the sum total to earthly happiness as men, by their lives, seem to regard it.
—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890
DWIGHT BRYANT
FRIDAY NIGHT, MARCH 3
Ward Dairy Road again, but this time it was not a dog or a human who found a body part.
It was a buzzard.
“Damnedest thing,” said the man who had called them. “My wife and I were running late this morning and as we headed out to the car, there were some buzzards over there in those weeds at the edge of the field. One of them flew up with something when I started the engine and then I heard a clunk on the top of the car. Sounded almost like a rock, only not as heavy, you know? My wife saw it bounce way under the holly bushes over there but we didn’t have time to stop and see what it was. After work, we went out to supper and a movie, but as soon as we got home, my wife wanted me to take the shovel and find whatever it was before we let the dogs out and they got into something nasty. They’re bad for rolling in roadkill.”
He had left his find on the shovel by the holly bushes and their flashlights showed a large and presumably male left hand, much the worse for wear. It seemed to be frozen solid, yet flesh had been pecked from the bones and several finger joints were missing. If the third finger had ever worn a wedding band, there was no sign of one now. Dwight was surprised the buzzard hadn’t come back for it. Unless there was something else out there beyond their flashlights?
They would have to wait for the ME’s determination, but it looked to him like the mate to the first hand they had found exactly one week ago.
A full week and they were no nearer an identity.
The man indicated the general area where he had first seen the buzzards and they approached gingerly, sweeping the ground before them with their lights. They saw nothing of interest in the weeds and nothing on the shoulder of the road, but when they walked in the opposite direction, shining their flashlights in the ditches, Detective Jack Jamison noticed that water had ponded up and frozen solid behind a clogged culvert. He started to walk on, but something seemed to be embedded in the dirty ice.
“I think it’s the other arm!” he called.
The others quickly joined him on the edge of the road. Three flashlights focused on the ice, and the shape was so similar to what they hoped to find that it took a poke with the shovel to confirm that the object was only part of a tree branch that had broken off and lodged there.
Disappointed, they walked on.
“At least it’s on a line with the other parts,” Deputy Richards said. Despite a red nose and cheeks, her cold seemed to be drying up and she had turned out when Dwight paged her, even though technically not on duty.
There was something different about her tonight, Dwight thought. She wore jeans instead of her usual utilitarian slacks and the turtleneck sweater peeping out of her black suede jacket was a soft pink. And was that perfume drifting on the chill night air?
He gave himself a mental kick in the pants. Of course! Friday night? Young single woman?
“Sorry for messing up your evening,” he said.
She shrugged. “That’s okay. Goes with the job, doesn’t it?”
And that was something else new. Heretofore, whenever he addressed a personal remark to Richards, she usually turned a fiery red. He realized now that it had not happened in the last few weeks. She was a good officer, but he had begun to think she was never going to be able to join in the department’s easy give-and-take, yet she had finally adapted and he had not even noticed.
Just as Dwight was ready to call it a night, Jamison’s light caught something amid a curtain of dead kudzu vines that entangled a clump of young pines growing on the ditchbank. He thought at first that it was an old weatherstained cardboard
box. Nevertheless, he walked over to check it out.
“Oh dear Lord in the morning!” said Richards, who had crossed the road to shine her own light on his find.
There, hidden from casual view was a naked torso that was armless, legless, and headless as well. Because it was lying on its back, it took them a moment to orient themselves, to realize that the three black stumps nearest them were probably the neck and what was left of the upper arms, which meant that the opposite end should have been the sex organs. It was probably male like the earlier parts they had found. There was a mat of hair between the flat breasts, but nothing was left in the genital area except a dark ugly gouge.
Denning drove the crime scene van down to the site and set up his floodlights. As he surveyed what was left of the body before taking pictures, he shook his head and said to Dwight, “You know something, Major? We got ourselves one pissed-off killer.”
Every man in the group felt a painful twinge of sympathetic horror as they gazed down at the mutilated victim. Dwight, too. Once again, he thought of the church sign where they had found the first hand.
With what measure you mete, it shall be measured to you again.
What the hell had the guy done to wind up like this, with his personal parts strewn across the county?
At the other end of the state, Flame Smith turned off the main highway and shifted to low gear. The engine protested against the steep climb ahead and her tires spun against the loose gravel, before they gained traction and began to inch upward.
Tree branches brushed either side of the car. Normally she enjoyed the roller-coaster effect of this drive, but that was in daylight. Tonight, the sky was overcast. No moon. No stars. Only her headlights to illuminate the opening between the trees. Driving up here to Buck Harris’s mountain retreat had been an impulse fueled by bourbon and anger.
That he could be so cavalier as to go off to sulk about the money he was going to have to give up in this divorce settlement! Did he really think that staying away from court would somehow make that fat greedy wife of his settle for less? And even if she did wind up with a full half of their assets, how much money did a person need? As someone who had been forced to scrabble for every dime, Flame was ready to settle down and be taken care of by a man with an ample bank account. It did not have to be billions. A modest five or six million invested at six percent would do just fine. She could live very happily on that.
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