Bloody Kin

by Margaret Maron

  Young men raced up and down with a basketball; crafty coaches worked the referees; and, during time-outs, someone in a turtle suit turned cartwheels across the polished hardwood while a raffish wolf led a group of red-clad cheerleaders at the near end of the court. From the depths of his recliner chair, Lacy snorted every time a call went against N.C. State and sneered, “It’s about time those damn fools caught him,” whenever a Maryland player was charged with a foul.

  Kate could not appreciate the finer nuances of the game, but since State had trailed the whole first half, sometimes by as much as eight points, she rather doubted there was going to be much joy in Mudville tonight.

  “Poor Bessie,” she thought, and settled her head a little more comfortably into the pillow.

  A moment after the halftime buzzer sounded, the telephone rang.

  “Probably for you this time of night,” said Lacy, unmoving.

  Kate struggled to her feet. “Just as well. If I don’t stir, I’m going to fall asleep.”

  The cooler air out in the hall helped clear her muzzy head, but she had to stifle a yawn to answer.

  “Kate?” said Gordon Tyrrell. “Did I wake you?”

  “In about three more minutes, I would have said yes, but you caught me just in time.”

  “Good. Listen, Kate, has Dwight Bryant called?”

  “No. Was he supposed to? Lacy and I were both out until almost dark this afternoon. Why?”

  “It’s the damnedest thing. I went up to the attic today to look for James’s trunk and somebody’s already been through it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, somebody’s wrenched the lock off its hasp, pawed through James’s things and taken all his Vietnam stuff!”

  “That’s weird. When do you think it happened?”

  “Bryant asked me that when I phoned to tell him I wouldn’t be able to help with a sharper picture of Covington. It can’t have been recently because there was a layer of dust all over the trunk. We’ve all used the attic as a storage bin and I think James dropped it off here early last spring. He’d just given up his apartment in Washington and Elaine and I met him here and then we all flew out to Vail for the last of the skiing.”

  “That’s almost a year,” said Kate. “Didn’t the caretaker notice if the house had been broken into?”

  “I’ve tried to call Rob Bryant to ask if he knows anything, but he doesn’t answer his phone. I wondered if perhaps something happened while I was in the hospital—something they told me and I was too groggy to remember? The Whitleys have been here since September though, and neither of them knew of any break-ins, so it must have happened sometime between Easter and Labor Day.”

  “Was anything else taken?”

  “Not that we can tell. The maid says all the silver seems to be intact and so far as I can remember there aren’t any pictures missing; but Rob Bryant has the inventory records and we’ll have to wait until he can bring them out to be sure.”

  “What did Dwight say?”

  “He suggests that we not touch anything,” Gordon said dryly. “I think he’s seen too many old movies. I had to tell him I’d already handled everything and so had the help because I called them up to ask if they’d noticed the broken lock earlier.”

  “Had they?”

  “They say not. The cook and maids say they were never in the attic at all and Tom Whitley said the only time he and Sally were up was when they put their luggage there in September and ours in December. Anyhow, Bryant—Major Bryant—seems to think the picture of Covington’s become important, and he wanted to let you know he’d be out at eight-thirty tomorrow to get yours.”

  Kate thanked him for relaying the message and they talked a few minutes longer, wondering if the theft were a coincidence or somehow connected to the later murder.

  When Kate returned to the warm kitchen, Lacy was sitting at the table in his stocking feet with a big glass of milk and a slice of the cherry cheesecake Kate had picked up for their dessert in Raleigh that afternoon. Lacy had a weakness for sweets, but almost never bought any for himself.

  He wasn’t very interested in Gordon’s discovery. “James probably lost the key and busted it open hisself before they went down to Mexico,” he said, his attention focused on the television.

  It was still halftime and a commercial showed an earnest farm agent extolling the benefits of a certain broadleaf herbicide for higher corn yields. He was followed by singing termites routed by clouds of bug spray.

  Thus reminded, Kate paused by the corner bookshelf and carried an illustrated book of insect pests back to the couch with her.

  There were three pages of different borers and each seemed evolved for a specific tree. Among evergreen pests were listed Douglas fir beetles, spruce beetles, birch borers, western pine beetles and southern pine beetles. The book, printed before Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring, laconically suggested that most pests could be controlled with contact pesticides, beginning with DDT and ending with parathion.

  Kate continued to turn pages past ticks and lice, harlequin beetles and cutworms. Aesthetically, some of the pests were colorful and strikingly marked. She could almost adapt some of the designs for fabrics. But after browsing through lurid descriptions of their destructive force, Kate wound up feeling somewhat paranoid. Every flower, shrub and tree; every domestic animal from cows and sheep to geese and chickens had its own species-specific parasite or bloodsucker.

  There was a reason people sometimes let pesticides get out of hand, she decided.

  Maryland and State had rejoined battle and Kate put the book aside. As those sweaty young players leaped and dribbled and performed incredible feats with the ball, her eyelids grew heavy and soon she slept.

  CHAPTER 11

  The coffee had finished perking and the unmistakable smell of saltcured country ham hung over the kitchen. Kate found her appetite growing as she unfolded her napkin and waited for Lacy to fill her plate with fluffy scrambled eggs and a healthy dollop of grits.

  The milk and butter were supermarket staples, but the eggs were from Lacy’s Rhode Island Reds and Bessie Stewart had sent over a pint jar of cherry preserves.

  “Umm!” Kate sighed as Lacy ladled a spoonful of red-eye gravy over the grits.

  “Thought you didn’t like breakfast,” said Lacy. His tone was crusty as ever, but he looked pleased when Kate helped herself to a large piece of ham from the platter.

  “It’s my favorite meal,” said Kate, forgetful of those mornings she’d diplomatically stayed in bed so that Lacy could talk with Jake more freely. “Especially down here.”

  She cut a bite of the leathery ham and savored its strong salty flavor. “The nice thing about North Carolina ham is the way it doesn’t melt in your mouth. Did you cure this one? The flavor’s wonderful.”

  “Take a biscuit while it’s hot,” said Lacy, embarrassed by her praise. “They ain’t fit to eat once they get cold.”

  The old farmer had a light hand with eggs, but he’d never caught the knack for hot breads. When canned biscuits came on the market, he’d gratefully retired his rolling pin.

  Since last evening, the silences between them had begun to feel more natural and less strained. The breakfast wouldn’t take a prize for scintillating conversation, but at least Lacy was sociable enough this morning to talk about cooking problems as they ate. He reached for a final biscuit even though they were cool by then.

  “My mammy used to make biscuits that held their taste stone cold and twelve hours old. We’d wrap ’em round a piece of sausage and carry ’em down to the fish trap and they’d taste just as good at midnight as they did that morning. But these puny things—” The telephone trilled and Lacy stepped down the hall to answer.

  “Some man for you,” he said. “Says he’s calling from New York.”

  Puzzled, Kate took the phone.

  “Darling Katherine!” exclaimed a deep male voice. “I’m missing you like crazy. When are you coming back to civilization?”

&nbs
p; Richard Cromyn was Gina Melnick’s assistant and Kate’s longtime friend. For years they had carried on the bantering fiction that passion simmered just below the surface of their friendship and that, were it not for her Jake and Richard’s Donald, they would have eloped to Tahiti ages ago.

  “I’m longing for you, too, darling,” Kate said throatily, “but we must remain firm to our resolve.”

  Richard’s tone turned serious. “Are you sure it isn’t too awful down there without Jake?”

  “In some ways,” she admitted, “but I still want to have our baby here.”

  “Brave Katherine! Listen, lovey, Gina’s here. She wants to bully you about the Astin repeats. Donald sends his love and so do I.”

  “I love you, too, Richard.” Kate smiled as he turned the line over to Gina, who thought hard work a good antidote for grief and loneliness. She made Kate promise to complete the Astin project that week.

  As Kate replaced the receiver and reentered the kitchen, the dogs began barking and she looked through the west windows to see Dwight Bryant’s unmarked patrol car pull in from the lane.

  “Looks like that deputy’s brought the sheriff out with him,” Lacy scowled. He pushed back from the table and went out to meet them. Kate felt a rush of chill morning air as the door opened and closed, even though the sun was bright outside. She continued with her breakfast, knowing the men had a certain amount of ritual to get through before anything pertinent could get said. They would probably talk about the weather, the condition of the fields, the prospects of setting out tobacco on time; then basketball ought to be good for another three minutes since few Colleton County citizens would be happy with State’s loss to Maryland last night.

  “Well, at least Wake Forest licked Virginia,” said Lacy, and led the other two men in just as Kate swallowed the last morsel of ham on her plate.

  “Don’t let us stop your breakfast,” said Dwight when Kate rose.

  “I’ve just finished. All except for another cup of coffee. Don’t you want some?”

  She included the third man in her question and the big detective hastened to introduce them. “Kate Honeycutt, this is Sheriff Poole.”

  Bowman Poole, Bo to his friends, appeared to be in his late fifties. His hair was the yellow of sun-bleached broom straw and beginning to thin, his long face was pleasantly creased, and there were laugh lines around his blue eyes. Those penetrating eyes were on the same level as hers Kate noticed as he gave a firm handshake, and he seemed quite fit except for a small paunch that tightened the vest buttons of his three-piece brown suit.

  “No coffee for us, ma’am,” he said, “but you go right ahead with yours.”

  “I know you want to see those pictures,” Kate said, as they sat. “They’re just down the hall.”

  But when she reached the cluttered front parlor, she had to pause and get her bearings. There were the boxes and cartons she’d opened yesterday and there was the one on which she thought she’d left the manila envelope. For a moment, Kate wondered if she’d taken the envelope to her room, but then she remembered that after Gordon Tyrrell and Tom Whitley left yesterday, she’d gone straight out to the clothesline and then to her room to change. She tried to recall if she’d seen it when she was rummaging for pad and drawing pens to sketch the bluets. Nothing came to mind.

  Puzzled, she returned to the kitchen and, without thinking how it would sound, said, “Lacy, did you take that envelope of Jake’s?”

  She saw his jaw tighten and quickly added, “For safekeeping, I mean?”

  It was too late.

  “I ain’t been near your things,” Lacy said stiffly.

  He began to clear the table, spooning all the scraps and leftovers into the egg bowl for the dogs. His bony face had closed down and his manner made it clear to the others that his socializing was over.

  “I’m sorry,” Kate told Poole and Dwight helplessly. “I thought I left the envelope on top of an open carton yesterday afternoon, but it’s not there now.”

  “Mind if we take a look?” asked Sheriff Poole. “Maybe it blew off or slid down behind something.”

  Rob arrived while they searched and he was in time to hear Kate repeat her description of the previous morning and how Tom Whitley had cut open the carton and Gordon Tyrrell had helped spot the right snapshot of the Vietnam foursome.

  “So after you called Dwight here and told him Covington’s name, you put the picture back in the envelope and just left it on this box?” asked Poole.

  Kate nodded.

  “Then, as I understand it, you went to Raleigh?” Again she nodded.

  Poole turned to Lacy. “What about you, Mr. Lacy?”

  “I watched Carolina beat Clemson out yonder in the kitchen and then cut wood till suppertime.”

  “Don’t suppose you locked the house before you left?”

  “Never felt no need to,” said Lacy. “Nothing here worth taking.”

  “I can vouch for the door being unlocked,” said Rob.

  Kate looked at him in surprise.

  “I stopped by on my way to Dobbs late in the afternoon,” he explained. “You dropped your lipstick in my car yesterday and I wanted to return it. Your car was here, but when I knocked and no one answered, I stuck my head in the door and called.”

  He handed Kate a small black enamel tube. Kate twirled it open. Tahiti Twilight, a deep plummy red.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s not mine. From the color, I’d say a very sexy brunette.”

  “Fast company,” said Dwight.

  Rob pocketed the lipstick with a slight flush on his triangular face.

  “I hate to impose on you folks,” said the sheriff, “but if you don’t mind, Mrs. Honeycutt, Mr. Lacy, I’d like to phone Mr. Tyrrell and get him and that caretaker of his over here.”

  Kate agreed and they returned to the kitchen.

  While they waited for Gordon and Tom Whitley, Dwight told them that the Wheeler boy had helped narrow down the time of death. “He works the late shift in Raleigh and was coming home through the lane a little past one-thirty early Thursday morning. He says there was a dark, late-model car—he thinks it was a Chevrolet—pulled in beside the packhouse, out of sight of your house and off the lane. He didn’t recognize the car and he can’t say if anyone was in it, but he didn’t think twice about it. Wednesday night’s still a dating night and it’s not the first time he’s passed a car parked there.”

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t there at midnight when I drove past,” said Kate. “I’m sure I would have noticed.”

  “So sometime between midnight and four o’clock,” Rob mused.

  “With Willy’s dogs barking in that direction until almost twelve thirty, according to Willy,” said his brother.

  “Did you hear from Washington yet?” Kate asked. “Was it really Bernie Covington?”

  “It was,” said Poole. “We got more than just an ID, too. Covington had a dishonorable discharge from the army in 1972, drug trafficking. He was born in California and pulled some time there for assault with a deadly weapon. Last year, he skipped bail in Florida for drugs again. Nothing on his whereabouts since then. Reckon he’s been laying low.”

  There was a light knock at the door and Emily Bryant bounced into the kitchen, fresh from the local beauty parlor, with her newlyretouched auburn curls as bright as the morning sun behind her.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake!” she cried. “Look who-all’s here. I saw Rob’s car, but I didn’t know anybody was with you, Dwight. How are you, Bo? Haven’t seen you since last Mule Day. I can tell Marnie’s cooking still agrees with you, though. Kate, honey, I keep forgetting to give you this pie Bessie baked for you, so I thought I’d run over with it and see if Lacy’d pour me a cup of his good coffee.

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she asked with wide-eyed innocence, and before they could answer, she had pulled a chair up to the table between Rob and Dwight and was beaming at them happily.

  Lacy snorted, Dwight and Rob looked resigned, bu
t Bo Poole smiled back at her affectionately. “You sure you didn’t come over to tell me who killed that man Wednesday night?” he teased. “You must be getting old, Miss Em’ly.”

  “Don’t you get sassy with me,” she warned. “This is an election year and you’ve got a tough row to hoe up here in this end of the county.” Bo Poole possessed a folksy, good-old-boy courtliness, and Kate enjoyed his banter with Miss Emily, a teasing familiarity of place and style that had carried the county every election day since he first chose to run.

  From where she sat, Emily Bryant had a clear view of the yard through the windows behind Poole. “Now who’s this coming? Gordon? Gordon Tyrrell and Tom Whitley. My goodness, Bo, you are having a get-together, aren’t you? Good thing I dropped in, Kate. All these men and just you.”

  The sunny kitchen became a bit crowded as Tyrrell and Whitley joined them. Gordon shook hands easily with the sheriff and Rob Bryant, nodded to Lacy and Dwight, and greeted Kate and Miss Emily; but Tom Whitley hung back shyly and when Kate tried to offer him a chair at the big round table, he ducked his head and allowed as how he’d been sitting all morning and would just as soon lean against the counter for a change.

  Kate gathered that Rob had already spoken to Gordon that morning, for she heard Rob tell him that he’d brought a copy of Gilead’s inventory.

  Sheriff Poole waited until the amenities were over and those who wanted coffee or cigarettes were provided with cups and ashtrays. He was not the tallest man there, yet when he settled back in his chair and cleared his throat, he conveyed considerable authority. The folksy ease did not disappear, but even Miss Emily quit talking and looked at him expectantly.

  “I asked y’all to come over, Mr. Tyrrell, because Mrs. Honeycutt tells me you and Mr. Whitley were here yesterday when she unpacked the pictures of her husband and your brother from their army days.”

  “That’s right,” said Gordon. “Major Bryant had phoned to ask if she’d found the name of the man who served with James and Jake. I didn’t see the dead man Thursday, but Kate thought he looked like this Covington. What do you think?”