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by Margaret Maron

gone into Dobbs to do laundry and buy groceries. And

  when Lomax could not seem to make them understand

  what the deputies wanted, she was able to explain with

  the generous use of hand gestures.

  They knew, of course, that el patrón had been mur-

  dered in the shed over by the big house?

  “Sí, sí.”

  Whoever did such an awful thing had left fingerprints

  on the axe handle, she explained, so they were there to

  take everyone’s prints.

  At this, the men exchanged furtive looks and started

  to protest, but Richards tried to reassure them by prom-

  ising that they were not there to check for green cards

  or work visas and the fingerprints would be destroyed as

  soon as they were compared with the killer’s prints.

  They were uneasy and highly suspicious, but Lomax

  went first and that helped convince them that they were

  not being singled out. As he wiped the ink from his

  fingers, the others came forward one by one and let

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  Denning ink their fingertips and roll each one across

  the proper square on the white cards. Someone woke up

  the man in the cot. Reeking of alcohol, he, too, shuffled

  over to give his prints.

  When Denning started to pack up their cards, Richards

  said, “No. I told them they’d be destroyed as soon as

  you did the comparison, so why don’t you go ahead and

  do it now while we’re questioning them, okay?”

  Grumbling, Denning went out for a powerful magni-

  fying glass and his field microscope and set to work. He

  had blown up the prints of the killer and marked the most

  prominent identifiers on each print—the forks, eyes,

  bridges, spurs, deltas, and island ridges that are easiest

  to spot. From the position of the killer’s fingerprints on

  the bloody axe handle, he was able to say which were

  the three middle ones, which meant he could look for

  conspicuous markers on one of the workers’ three right

  fingers and see if they matched one on the killer’s.

  While he squinted at the lines and ridges, Lomax un-

  locked a nearby door that opened onto quarters for a

  couple with children. It was marginally better than the

  bunkhouse: a good-sized eat-in kitchen that also func-

  tioned as a den with thrift store couch and chairs, two

  tiny bedrooms, a half-bath with sink and toilet.

  “Mrs. Harris comes out a couple of times a season to

  check on things,” Lomax told Jamison and Richards.

  “Makes sure the stoves and toilets and refrigerators

  work. Has the Goodwill store deliver a load of furniture

  every year or so. She’s good about that.”

  “Even after their separation?” asked Jamison.

  “Oh yeah. The big house isn’t part of Harris Farms,

  but the camp and the sheds are. She was over here the

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  day we moved the others to Farm Number Three to see

  what was going to need replacing or fixing.”

  “Was Harris around?”

  “Like I told Major Bryant, ma’am. I didn’t see him

  after Sunday dinner at the Cracker Barrel. I figured he

  knew she was going to be here, so he just stayed out of

  her way. She’s got a right sharp tongue on her, if you

  know what I mean.”

  Despite their earlier friction, Jamison raised an eye-

  brow to Richards and she gave a half nod to indicate

  that Mrs. Harris’s presence had registered. Someone

  else to check on.

  In the meantime, she set her legal pad on the table

  before her, looked at the list, and asked Lomax to send

  in Jésus Vazquez.

  An hour later, the two deputies had finished question-

  ing all four men, who each swore that he knew noth-

  ing about the murder. They were all vague about that

  Sunday, although they remembered Monday very clearly

  since that was when their friends left on the trucks, the

  same day that la señora swept through the camp. No,

  they had not seen el patrón either day.

  Who hated him?

  Shrugs. Why would anybody hate him? He was the

  big boss— el gran jefe. He gave orders to Lomax, Lomax

  implemented them. Only one man admitted ever speak-

  ing to Harris and that had been months ago. The work

  was hard, but that’s what they were there for. Their

  quarters were okay. They got paid on time. Lomax and

  Juan between them kept the camp pretty stable because

  Juan had children. So no open drug use. No drunken

  displays of violence or excessive profanity.

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  The sheds? Why would anyone go over there on

  Sunday? Sunday was a day off in the wintertime. Those

  who were leaving had spent most of the day packing up.

  Those who were staying had either played cards or gone

  into town or visited a club—El Toro Negro in Dobbs or

  La Cantina Rosa in Cotton Grove.

  By midday, the deputies had finished with their ques-

  tions and Denning had cleared all four men. Their relief

  was evident when Denning tore the fingerprint cards

  to shreds. Nevertheless one man held out his hand for

  the scraps and stuffed them into the half-empty mug of

  coffee on the table.

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  C H A P T E R

  24

  A farmer’s wife adds comfort which only a certain quality

  of feminine ingenuity can devise and execute.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

  Dwight Bryant

  Late Tuesday Morning, March 7

  % Although Dwight would always prefer fieldwork

  to clearing his desk, paper had piled up that needed

  his attention and a rainy March day was as good a time

  as any to tackle it. After deploying his detectives, he

  spent the morning reading reports, filling out forms,

  updating the duty rosters, and earmarking things that

  Bo needed to see.

  Time to get a little more aggressive about filling the

  empty slots in the department, too, he thought. Even

  if Dalton’s provisional promotion were made perma-

  nent, they were still going to be short two detectives if

  Jamison really did leave. Three officers were needed in

  the patrol division and they could really stand to beef

  up Narcotics. Maybe he and Bo ought to go talk to

  the criminal justice classes out at Colleton Community.

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  Hell, maybe they should even start trolling in the high

  schools.

  By midday, the most pressing chores were behind him

  and when Deborah called around 12:30, he agreed to

  splash over and join her at a nearby soup and sandwich

  place where she was already having lunch.

  This close to the courthouse, the café was always

  busy. The sky had begun to lighten, but there was still

  enough rain to make courthouse personnel reluctant to

  walk very far. The place was jammed today with every

  seat taken and a long line waiting at the counter. As

  soon as he reached the table where Deborah and an-<
br />
  other judge were seated, he sensed her barely concealed

  excitement.

  “Here, Dwight,” said Judge Parker, setting his dishes

  and utensils back on his tray. “Take my seat. I’m fin-

  ished.”

  “You sure?”

  “Just holding it for you, son.”

  “Thanks, Luther,” said Deborah, as the older man

  rose. “And I really appreciate it.”

  He laughed and white teeth flashed in his chocolate

  brown face. “Just remember that you owe me one.”

  “Owe him one for what?” Dwight asked, sliding into

  the chair on the other side of the narrow table. She was

  wearing the cropped blue wool jacket that echoed her

  clear blue eyes. Around her neck, gleaming against her

  white sweater, was the thin gold chain with the outline

  of a small heart encrusted with diamond chips that she

  had worn almost every day since the night he gave it

  to her.

  “He’s going to ask Ellis Glover to assign Ally Mycroft

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  to him for the rest of the week. Get her out of my court-

  room.”

  Dwight grinned, knowing how that particular clerk

  irritated Deborah. “So what’s up?”

  “It’s—” She paused, then gave an exasperated, “Look,

  something odd happened yesterday. I didn’t give it a

  second thought at the time, but it must have registered

  on my subconscious and talking about the murder with

  Luther just now made me remember, which is why I

  called you. And I know we said I wouldn’t stick my

  nose in your work and you wouldn’t complicate mine,

  but— Oh God! Sorry. I’m babbling, aren’t I? Here,

  have the rest of my soup.”

  “Why don’t I just get my own?” he said, amused that

  she was taking their agreement so seriously.

  “Because you might not want to wait on the line.

  Because maybe I’m seeing mountains where there’s not

  even an anthill, but I had a migrant in court yesterday

  for a first appearance. Simple possession. He lives at the

  camp out there at the old Buckley place. One of the

  Harris Farms workers.”

  “And?”

  “And I asked him through the interpreter if he knew

  Buck Harris. He said he did, but only by sight. Then

  he said, ‘Es muerto, no?’ or something like that, but I

  didn’t think twice about it because you’d just told me

  that the torso belonged to his boss, and besides, I got

  distracted by a screaming woman and a crying baby.”

  “Well, damn!” said Dwight, immediately recognizing

  the significance of what she was saying.

  “Right. How did he know Harris was dead? He’d

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  been in jail since Saturday night. Even you didn’t know

  it was Harris till yesterday.”

  “Where’s this guy now?”

  “Still over there in your jail so far as I know. I set his

  bond, appointed him an attorney, but unless he made

  bail, he’s still there. His name is Rafael Sanaugustin,”

  she said and scribbled it on a napkin. “And for what

  it’s worth, I got the impression that he wasn’t really in-

  volved, that it was more like something he’d heard and

  wanted confirmed.”

  After reading the name, Dwight tucked the napkin in

  his shirt pocket. “Who’d you appoint?”

  “Millard King.”

  He finished the rest of her vegetable soup in three

  spoonfuls and pushed back in the chair. “Thanks, shug.

  And I’m probably going to regret saying it, but any

  time your subconscious throws up something like this,

  nose away, okay?”

  She cut her eyes at him as he stood. “Really?”

  “Just don’t abuse it,” he warned, looking as stern as

  he could in the face of her sudden smile.

  The rain was now a thin drizzle as Dwight took the

  courthouse steps two at a time and cut through the

  atrium to ring for the elevator that connected the third-

  floor courtrooms with the Sheriff ’s Department and the

  county jail down in the basement. To his bemusement,

  when the doors slid open, there was the same attorney

  Deborah had appointed to defend that migrant.

  Millard King had the blond and beefy good looks

  of a second-string college football player. Courthouse

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  MARGARET MARON

  gossip had him engaged to a Hillsborough debutante,

  the daughter of a well-connected appellate judge. King

  was said to be politically ambitious, but no one yet had

  a handle on whether that meant he wanted to run for

  governor, the North Carolina Assembly, or the US

  Senate. As he was only twenty-eight, it was thought

  that he was waiting for a case that would give him big-

  fish name recognition in Colleton County’s small pond.

  Besides, said the cattier speculators, his sharp-tongued

  wife-to-be would probably have a thought or two on

  the subject.

  He nodded to Dwight as the chief deputy stepped in

  beside him. “Bryant. How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Talk to you a minute?”

  “Sure. I was just on my way down to the jail.”

  “To see”— Dwight pulled out the napkin Deborah

  had given him —“Rafael Sanaugustin?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “That’s where I was headed myself. I need to have a

  talk with your client.”

  “About those two little rocks? That’s hardly worth

  messing with, is it? Unless you think he’s part of some-

  thing bigger?”

  “That’s what I want to ask him. I’ll call around and

  see if we can find someone to translate.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” King said with an air

  of smug complacency. “I’m pretty fluent.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve studied Spanish since high school. My room-

  mate in college was Cuban and we spent our junior year

  in Spain. The way things were going even back then, I

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  figured it wouldn’t hurt to be able to speak to voters

  directly if I ever got in the game.”

  Heretofore, Dwight had paid scant attention to ru-

  mors that the debutante had cut King out of the pack to

  further her own aspirations. Having been there himself

  in his first marriage, he had felt a stab of sympathy for

  King, a sympathy that was now plummeting to the base-

  ment faster than the elevator.

  If King had fixed his eyes on the prize as early as high

  school, maybe it was a match made in heaven after all,

  Dwight decided, and a spurt of happiness shot through

  him as he thought of his life with Deborah. He could

  almost feel sorry for the younger man. Would the sat-

  isfaction of reaching even the highest office in the land

  equal the pleasure of planting trees with a woman you

  loved?

  They were almost too late. Three Latinos were there

  to bail Rafael Sanaugustin out—two women and a

  man—and they were just finishing up the paperwork

>   when Dwight called over their shoulders that he was

  here with Sanaugustin’s attorney to see the prisoner.

  “Five minutes and y’all would’ve missed him,” the

  officer said and explained why.

  King stepped forward and introduced himself in

  Spanish that sounded to Dwight every bit as fluent as

  he had earlier bragged.

  Wearing jeans and wool jackets, the three looked

  back at him impassively. The women were bareheaded

  and appeared to be in their early thirties; the man wore

  a brown Stetson and was at least ten years older. When

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  he spoke, it was to Dwight. “Juan Santos, crew chief at

  Harris Farms.”

  “Sanaugustin is a member of your crew?” Dwight

  asked.

  The man nodded.

  “You were at the farm yesterday? On the tractor?”

  Again he nodded.

  “One of these women related to him?”

  Santos nodded to the shorter woman. “His wife.”

  “Please tell her that I’m sorry, but she’s going to have

  to wait a little longer. I need to question him first.”

  Both women immediately tugged on Santos’s arms

  anxiously, speaking so rapidly that the only words

  Dwight caught were los niños.

  He shook off their hands and before Millard King

  could translate, said, “They say we cannot wait long.

  The children come home at three-thirty.”

  Dwight glanced at his watch: 12:56. “We’ll try to be

  brief.”

  “How long?” said Santos. “We’ll go to the grocery

  store and come back.”

  “Fifteen or twenty minutes for me, if he cooperates,”

  Dwight said. “What about you, King?”

  “Fifteen minutes, tops.”

  “Bueno,” Santos said.

  Sanaugustin’s wife protested sharply, but the crew

  chief herded them both out of the office and the jailer

  brought Sanaugustin down to the interview room.

  When the migrant worker came strolling in, he was

  obviously surprised to see two Anglos instead of his

  friends. According to his booking sheet, Sanaugustin

  was five-eight and thirty-three years old. He had straight

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  black hair, wary dark eyes, a prominent nose, and a small

  scar on his left cheek. His jeans, black sweatshirt, and

  the unbuttoned plaid wool lumberjack shirt that topped

  them were all a little worse for the wear after three nights

  in jail. He hesitated in the doorway, but the jailer nudged

  him inside and closed the door behind him.

 

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