Hard Row

instantaneously.

“Getting too high tech for me,” he said. “Any day

now I expect to hear they’ve put a chip in somebody’s

brain so they can tap right into the Internet without

having to mess with a keyboard or screen.”

A few hundred feet or so in from the road, they

reached the scene, a popular local fishing spot, ac-

cording to Richards. A ring of stones encircled an old

campfire and a few drink cans and scraps of paper were

scattered around.

“There’s actually a way to drive here closer, but it

means going around through someone’s fields. That’s

how the girls got here,” she said.

Detective Denning was already there taking pictures

and documenting the find. The hand lay at the edge of

the water among some ice-glazed leaves.

“My niece said it had ice on it, too, when they first

found it,” said Richards. “But when they poked it, the

ice broke off.”

74

HARD ROW

It had been in the open so long that the skin was dark

and desiccated around the white finger bones.

“Not gonna be easy getting fingerprints,” said

Denning as they joined them. “I haven’t moved it yet,

but just eyeballing it?” He gave a pessimistic shrug in-

side his thick jacket. “Doesn’t look hopeful.”

“Were the bones hacked or sawed?” Dwight asked.

“The cartilage is pretty much gone, so it’s hard to say.

Should I go ahead and bag it?”

Bo Poole deferred to Dwight, who nodded.

Abruptly, the sheriff said, “Tell you what, Dwight.

Let’s you and me take a little drive. I need to see

something.”

“Call me if they find anything else,” Dwight said,

then followed Bo back out to the road and his truck.

“Which way, Bo?” he asked, putting the truck in

gear.

“Let’s head over to Black Creek.”

They drove north along Jernigan Road until they

neared a crossroads, at which point, Bo told him to

turn left toward the setting sun. As they approached

the backside of the unincorporated little town of Black

Creek, population around 600 give or take a handful,

the empty land gave way to houses.

“Slow down a hair,” said Bo and his porkpie hat

swung back and forth as he studied both sides.

Dwight knew Bo was enjoying himself so he did not

spoil that enjoyment by asking questions.

“There!” Bo said suddenly, pointing to a narrow dirt

road that led south. “Let’s see how far down you can

get your truck.”

The houses here were not much more than shacks and

75

MARGARET MARON

the dark-skinned children who played outside stopped

to stare as the two white men passed.

The dirt road ended in a cable stretched between up-

rights that looked like sawed-off light poles. Beyond the

cable, the land dropped off sharply in a tangle of black-

berry bushes and trash trees strangled in kudzu and

honeysuckle vines. A well-worn footpath began beside

the left upright and disappeared in the undergrowth.

Bo looked back down the dirt road to the low build-

ings clustered in the distance, then nodded to himself

and struck off down the path.

Dwight followed.

In a few minutes, they reached the creek that gave

the little town its name and the path split to run in both

directions along the bank. Without hesitation, Bo fol-

lowed the flow of water that ran deep and swift after so

much rain.

They came upon the charred remains of a campfire

built in a scooped-out hollow edged with creek stones

next to a fallen tree that had probably toppled during

the last big hurricane and that now probably served as

a bench for the kids who had cleared the site. A dirt

bike with a twisted frame lay on the far side of the log.

Scattered around were several beer cans, an empty wine

bottle, cigarette butts and some fast-food wrappers.

There were also a couple of roach clips and an empty

plastic prescription bottle that had held a relatively mild

painkiller, which Dwight picked up. The owner’s name

was no longer legible, but the name of the pharmacy

was there and so was most of the prescription number.

If this was all the kids were into though, things weren’t

too bad in this neighborhood.

76

HARD ROW

He pocketed the bottle for later attention and hur-

ried after Bo, who had not paused at the campfire, but

kept walking as if he were late for his own wedding,

ducking beneath the tree branches, his small trim body

barely disturbing the bushes on either side of the path

that pulled at Dwight’s bulk as he tried to pass.

The creek deepened and narrowed and the path made

by casual fishermen and adventurous kids petered out in

even rougher underbrush, yet Bo pushed on.

When Dwight finally caught up, his boss was stand-

ing by the water’s edge. At his feet was what at first ap-

peared to be a half-submerged log.

“Over yonder’s where Apple Creek wanders off,” he

told Dwight, pointing downstream to the other side of

the creek just as one of their people broke through the

underbrush and stopped in surprise in seeing them on

that side of the fork. Then he looked down at the re-

mains that lay in the shallows. “And here’s where poor

ol’ Fred Mitchiner wandered off to.”

77

C H A P T E R

9

The world seeks no stronger evidence of a man’s goodness of

heart than kindness.

—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

Deborah Knott

Thursday Evening, March 2

% I did not repeat what Dwight had told me, but at

adjournment, I asked my clerk if she’d heard any-

thing more about that first set of body parts, figuring

that if fresh rumors were circulating through the court-

house about another hand, she would mention it.

Instead, she shook her head.

“And Faye’s off today, so I wouldn’t anyhow. Lavon’s

on duty and he never talks.”

As I left the parking lot behind the courthouse, I

didn’t spot Dwight’s truck, but there seemed to be no

more activity than the usual coming and going of patrol

cars. A second hand though? Where were the bodies?

I thought of that crematorium down in Georgia that

stashed bodies all over its grounds rather than commit-

ting them to the fire, and a gruesome image filled my

head of a pickup truck bumping around the county,

78

HARD ROW

strewing body parts as it went. Careless drivers are for-

ever hauling unsecured loads of trash that blow off and

litter our roadsides. Was this another example?

I switched my car radio to a local news station, but

heard nothing on this latest development.

After picking up Bandit’s heartworm pills at the vet’s,

I swung by Kate and Rob’s to collect Cal. The new baby

was fussing and Kate had dark circles under her eyes.

“He got me up four times last night,” she said, jig-

gling little R.W. on her shoulder with soothing pats as

Cal went upstairs with Mary Pat to retrieve his back-

pack. Through the archway to the den, I saw young

Jake watch them go, then he settled back on the couch

and turned his eyes to the video playing on the TV.

“I thought he was sleeping six hours at a stretch

now.”

“So did I,” she said wearily. “I was wrong.”

A middle-aged Hispanic woman came down the hall.

Kate’s cleaning woman, María, whose last name I can

never remember. She wore a heavy winter coat and drew

on a pair of thick knitted gloves. She gave me a shy smile

of greeting and said to Kate, “I go now, señora.”

“Thanks, María. See you on Monday?”

“Monday, sí.”

She let herself out the kitchen door and Kate said, “I

don’t know how I’d manage without her.”

She transferred the fretful baby to her other shoulder.

“Before this one, I only needed her every other week

and still put in a twenty-five-hour week in my studio.”

Kate was a freelance fabric designer and had remodeled

the farm’s old packhouse into a modern studio. “Now

79

MARGARET MARON

she’s here twice a week and I still haven’t done a lick of

drawing since R.W. was born.”

“Slacker,” I said.

She gave me a wan smile.

“Kate, he’s not even two months old. Give yourself a

break. Are you sure it’s not too much to have Cal here

every afternoon?”

“He’s no real extra trouble.”

“But?” I asked, hearing something in her voice.

“It’s only the usual bickering,” she sighed. “The

four-year age difference. And it’s probably Mary Pat’s

fault more than Cal’s. She’s just not as patient with Jake

now that she has Cal to play with. He’s so happy when

they get home from school and it really hurts his feel-

ings when they exclude him. I had to give her a time-

out this afternoon and we’re going to have a serious

sit-down tonight after Jake goes to bed, so maybe you

could speak to Cal?”

“I’ll tell Dwight,” I said.

Kate shook her head in disapproval. “Come on,

Deborah. I’m not asking you to beat him with a stick or

send him to bed without supper. I’m just asking you to

reinforce the scolding I gave him and Mary Pat.”

“But Dwight’s the one to speak to him. He’s his fa-

ther,” I protested weakly.

“And you’re his stepmother. In loco maternis or what-

ever the Latin phrase would be. Sooner or later, you’re

going to have to help with discipline and you might as

well get started now. Besides, if you think Cal’s going to

resent your talking to him about something this minor,

imagine how he’s going to feel if you tattle to Dwight

and it gets blown out of proportion.”

80

HARD ROW

I knew she was right. Nevertheless, I was so appre-

hensive about this aspect of parenting, that we were al-

most to the turn-in at the long drive that leads from the

road to the house before I got up enough nerve to say,

“Aunt Kate tells me that you and Mary Pat are having a

problem with Jake.”

Cal gave me a wary glance. “Not really.”

“That’s not what she says.”

“I’ll get the mail,” he said, reaching for the door han-

dle as I slowed to a stop by the mailbox. I waited till he

was back in the car with our magazines and first of the

month bills, then drove on down the lane, easing over

the low dikes that keep the lane from washing away.

“She says that you and Mary Pat aren’t treating

him very nicely. That you don’t want him to play with

you.”

“He can play, but he doesn’t know how. He’s a baby.”

“He’s four years old,” I said gently. “If he doesn’t

know how, then you should take the time to teach

him.”

“But he can’t even read yet.”

“I know it’s hard to be patient when he can’t keep

up, Cal, but think how you’d feel if you went over there

and he and Mary Pat wouldn’t play with you. Think

how it makes Aunt Kate feel. This is a stressful time for

her with a fussy new baby. If you won’t do it for Jake,

do it for Aunt Kate.”

He was quiet as he flicked the remote to open the

garage door for us.

“Are you going to tell Dad?”

“Not if you and Mary Pat start cutting Jake some

slack, okay?”

81

MARGARET MARON

“Okay,” he said, visibly relieved.

Inside the house, he hurried down to the utility room

to let Bandit out for a short run in the early evening

twilight and I let out the breath I’d been metaphorically

holding.

“See? That wasn’t bad,” said my internal preacher.

“Piece of cake,” crowed the pragmatist.

By the time Dwight got home, smothered pork chops

and sweet potatoes were baking in the oven, string beans

awaited a quick steaming in a saucepan, the rolls were

ready to brown and I was checking over Cal’s math

homework while he finished studying for tomorrow’s

spelling test.

I was dying to hear about the latest developments,

but I kept my curiosity in hand until after supper when

Cal went to take his shower and get into his pajamas

before the Hurricanes game came on. Tonight was an

away game and Cal didn’t want to miss a single minute

before his nine o’clock bedtime.

“The thing is,” Dwight said as he got up to pour us a

second cup of coffee, “are you likely to be the judge for

a half-million civil lawsuit?”

“Probably not,” I said, my curiosity really piqued

now. “Something that big usually goes to superior

court. Unless both parties agree to it, most of our judg-

ments are capped at ten thousand.”

“Okay then,” he said and settled back to tell me how

Bo Poole started thinking about his teenage years when

he used to run a trapline along the creeks in the south-

ern part of the county, especially Black Creek.

82

HARD ROW

“He wasn’t the only one and it dawned on him that

Fred Mitchiner used to trap animals and sell the pelts,

too.”

“Who’s Fred Mitchiner?”

“That eighty-year-old with Alzheimer’s who wan-

dered away from the nursing home right before

Christmas, remember?”

I shook my head. “That whole week was a haze.

Except for our wedding and Christmas itself, about

all I remember is that you took two weeks off and Bo

wouldn’t let you come into work.”

Dwight cut his eyes at me. “That’s all you remember?”

I couldn’t repress my own smile as his big hand cov-

ered mine and his thumb gently stroked the inside of

my wrist.

“Don’t change the subject,” I said, with a glance

into the living room where Cal seemed absorbed by the

game. “Fred Mitchiner.”

“Once Mitchiner slipped away from the nursing

home, it would have been a long walk for him, but they

do say Alzheimer’s patients often try to find their way

back to where they were happy. Bo figures the old guy

probably thought he’d go check his traps, fell in the

water, and either drowned or died of exposure. High

water and animals did the rest. It wasn’t murder.”

“But it does sound like negligence,” I said. “Is that

what his family feel?”

He shrugged. “We haven’t told them yet. Bo wants

to wait till we get an official ID; but yeah, that’s the

talk.”

83

C H A P T E R

10

There is something always preying on something, and noth-

ing is free from disaster in this sublunary world.

—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

% Friday’s criminal court is usually a catchall day for

me—the minor felonies and misdemeanors that

don’t fit in elsewhere. Sometimes I think Doug Woodall,

our current DA, goes out of his way to see that the

weird ones wind up on my Friday docket. On the other

hand, sometimes his sense of humor matches mine and

when I entered the courtroom that morning and saw

Dr. Linda Allred seated in the center aisle, it was hard

not to smile.

“All rise,” said Cleve Overby, the most punctilious

of the bailiffs, and before she’d finished giving him a

rueful hands-up motion from her motorized wheel-

chair, he grinned and added, “all except Dr. Allred.

Oyez, oyez, oyez. This honorable court for the County

of Colleton is now open and sitting for the dispatch

of its business. God save the State and this honorable

court, the Honorable Judge Deborah Knott presiding.

Be seated.”

I ran my finger down the calendar and found the case

84

HARD ROW

she was probably there for, then sat back and listened

as ADA Kevin Foster pulled the first shuck on Anthony

Barkley, a nineteen-year-old black kid who had ridden

through a parking lot on his bicycle and tried to snatch

a woman’s purse. Before the shoulder strap fully left her

arm, she gave it a sharp yank, which sent him sprawling

into the path of a slow-moving car. The car immediately

flattened his bike and the man who jumped out to see

what was going on had proceeded to flatten the youth-

ful thief.

“Fifteen days suspended, forty hours of community

service,” I said.

Next came a Latino migrant, one Ernesto Palmeiro,

age thirty, who had gotten drunk, “borrowed” a trac-

tor, and headed east, plowing a half-mile-long furrow

across several semi-rural lawns before the highway pa-

trol could head him off.

“He deeply regrets his actions,” said the translator,

“but he went a little loco when his wife left him and

went home to Mexico. He’s already repaired most of

the damage and throws himself on the mercy of the

court.”

I rather doubted if that was what he’d said, but what

the hell? “Fifteen days suspended on condition that he

finishes putting all the yards back the way they were,

including any plantings that he might have destroyed.”

I looked at his boss, a Latino landscaper, who’d spo-

ken on his behalf. “And I’d suggest, sir, that you teach

him how to lift the plows before you let him near an-

other tractor.”

I sent the exhibitionist for a mental health evaluation

85

MARGARET MARON

and gave the guy who’d tried to steal an antique lamp-

post from the town commons ten days of jail time.

The woman who bopped her boyfriend over the head

with the Christmas turkey while it was still on the serv-

ing platter? Ten days suspended if she completed an

anger management course.

Finally, Kevin called, “Raymond Alito, illegally parked

in a handicap space in violation of G.S. 20–37.6(e).”

A heavyset white man of early middle age rose and

came forward. He was neatly dressed in black slacks and

a gray nylon windbreaker worn over a red plaid shirt.

His black hair was thinning over the crown and there

were flecks of gray in his short black beard. He did not

look familiar to me, but if Linda Allred was here, then

he’d probably been cited for at least one earlier infrac-

tion of the code.

“I see you have chosen not to use an attorney, Mr.

Alito. How do you plead?”

“Your Honor, could I just tell you what happened?”

“Certainly, sir, as soon as you tell me whether you’re

pleading guilty or not guilty.”

“Not guilty then, ma’am.”

“Mr. Foster?”

“Your Honor, we will show that on December twenty-

third of last year, Mr. Alito illegally parked in a space

reserved for the handicapped at the outlet mall here in

Dobbs. Mr. Alito is not physically disabled and he does

not possess a handicap permit. The ticketing officer

called for a tow truck, which impounded his car. This is

Mr. Alito’s second ticket for this infraction.”

With appropriate gravity, I asked, “And is the ticket-

ing officer in court?”

86

HARD ROW

“She is, Your Honor. I call Dr. Linda Allred to the

stand.”

“Huh?” said Alito as Allred steered her motorized

chair over to a position in front of the witness seat,

which was one step above floor level. “She’s the one

who gave me a ticket? She’s no police officer.”

“You’ll have your chance to speak, Mr. Alito,” I told

him. “The witness may swear from her own seat.”

The bailiff handed her the Bible and my clerk swore

her in.

Dr. Allred is a dumpling of a woman with short

straight gray hair parted high on the left and piercing

eyes that usually cast jaundiced looks over the top of her

glasses. Although her doctorate is in psychology and she

teaches statistical analysis on the college level, she lives

in Dobbs and in her heart of hearts, she’s Dirty Harry.

Or maybe I should say Betty Friedan because a lot of

her work is rooted in women’s issues.

Her particular pet peeve, however, is able-bodied

drivers who park in spaces reserved for those with im-

paired mobility. Any time she spots one, she writes up a

ticket, something that she’s officially allowed to do, as

Kevin’s next question made clear.

“Dr. Allred, are you a sworn law officer?”

“No, Mr. Foster, but I was made a special deputy and

given ticket-writing authority by Sheriff Bowman Poole

and I try not to abuse it.”

“Would you describe what happened on the twenty-

third of December?”

“Certainly.” She took a small laptop computer from a

pocket on the side of her chair and opened it to a screen

full of photographs. “On the afternoon of December

87

MARGARET MARON

twenty-third, a friend and I were finishing up our

Christmas shopping at the outlet mall. I was just get-

ting out of my van when Mr. Alito pulled into the only

empty slot. It was directly in front of ours. I immedi-

ately noticed that his car did not display a handicap tag

on the rearview mirror, so I took out my camera and

snapped the first picture.”

The bailiff handed me her laptop. There, in glorious

color was a view of Alito in his late-model black Honda

with the edge of the blue warning sign just visible. His

rearview mirror was dead center. Nothing dangled from

it except a set of rosary beads.

“Mr. Alito then got out of his car and had no trouble

walking into the Gifts and Glass Warehouse. That’s the

second picture on the screen, Your Honor. Now if you’ll

click to the third picture?”

I clicked as directed.

“My friend helped me with my wheelchair and I

went around to the rear of his car and took a third

picture of his license plate. As you see, it is a standard

North Carolina plate, not one issued to the disabled.

At that point, I called for a tow truck and wrote out

the citation.”

I signaled for the bailiff to show the laptop to Mr.

Alito, who looked at the pictures with a distinctly sour

expression.

“What did you do next, Dr. Allred?” Kevin asked.

“The parking lot was quite crowded. There were reg-

ular spaces way off to the side, but all the other nearby

handicap spaces were legally taken. An elderly couple

with a tag asked us if we were coming or going so they

could have my spot, but I told them just to wait a few

88

HARD ROW

minutes and that the one in front of me would be open-

ing up as soon as the tow truck got there. Then my

friend and I went inside and finished our Christmas

shopping. When we came out, Mr. Alito’s car was gone

and the other car was parked there.”

“No further questions,” Kevin said.

“Your turn, Mr. Alito,” I said. “Do you wish to ques-

tion the witness?”

He blustered a moment, then said, “I’d just like to

ask her if she followed me in the store and saw what I

bought?”

“No, sir,” Dr. Allred responded promptly.

“Well, if you had, you’d’ve seen me buy a Christmas

present for my eighty-nine-year-old mother and she does

have a handicap tag. Her heart’s so bad she couldn’t

walk across this room without her oxygen tank.”

Dr. Allred looked at him over the top of her glasses.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but she wasn’t in the car

with you, was she?”

Alito turned to me. “Ma’am, can I just explain what

happened in my own words?”

“Certainly,” I said. “But first, I have a question for

Dr. Allred.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“Dr. Allred, you say you try not to abuse the author-

ity Sheriff Poole gave you. It’s my understanding that

you usually just write a ticket. Could you tell me why

you called a tow truck for Mr. Alito’s car?”

“Because this is the second time I’ve caught him in a

handicap space.” Her fingers played over the keyboard.

“According to my records, I ticketed him on the fourth

of September in front of a grocery store.”

89

MARGARET MARON

Alito’s mouth dropped open when he heard that.

“Thank you, Dr. Allred. No further questions. You

may come up and take the witness stand, Mr. Alito.”

They passed in the space before my bench and I heard

Alito mutter, “Bitch!”

“Did you say something, sir?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. Just clearing my throat.” He took the

Bible and promised to tell the truth, the whole truth

and nothing but the truth.

“Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have parked there, but I

really was just going in to buy a present for my poor

old mother. I bet I wasn’t in there ten minutes. Well,

twenty if you count the time I had to wait in line to

check out.”

“One present?” I said. “That was all?”

“Well, maybe I did pick up a couple of little things on

my way back to the front, but my mother’s present was

really all I went in for. I got back outside, I almost had a

heart attack myself. I thought my car’d been stolen, but

when I called the police and they saw where I’d been

parked, they told me to call the county’s towing service.

Cost me a hundred-fifty to get it back, and what I don’t

understand is how come this ticket’s for two-fifty, when

the first one was only fifty.”

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 dol-

lars. 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

90

HARD ROW

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 sis-

ters came forward to argue over a pair of diamond ear-

rings 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 dis-

pute 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

91

MARGARET MARON

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 rec-

onciliation. 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 im-

mediately 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 to-

mato on the end of her fork. “Wonder if the baby’s al-

lergic to tomatoes?”

“Yes,” I said, and plucked it from her fork. Like most

tomatoes this time of year, it had been picked way too

92

HARD ROW

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?”

93

MARGARET MARON

“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 ac-

cessible 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 do-

mestic 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 authori-

ties 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.”

94

C H A P T E R

11

If all farmers were true to principle with respect to the dis-

posal 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 op-

posite 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 shot-

gun, a .22 rifle and a .9-millimeter automatic. It’s too

95

MARGARET MARON

bad though, that she and her mother can’t move to an-

other state before he gets out next week.”

“Why should she be the one to run?” I asked indig-

nantly. “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 say-

ing 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 join 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

96

HARD ROW

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 be-

cause 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 ca-

reer 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 embar-

rassed for me whenever anyone alludes to Daddy’s for-

mer 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.”

97

MARGARET MARON

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 states-

men? 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 cool-

ing 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 yester-

day. 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 fol-

98

HARD ROW

low 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.”

99

C H A P T E R

12

While money making is one of the great desiderata with

most men, it is not the chief good in life, neither does it con-

stitute 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 buz-

zards 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

100

HARD ROW

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, sweep-

ing 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 op-

posite 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.

101

MARGARET MARON

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, when-

ever 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 of-

ficer, 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

102

HARD ROW

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 ori-

ent 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 sym-

pathetic horror as they gazed down at the mutilated vic-

tim. 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 trac-

tion and began to inch upward.

103

MARGARET MARON

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 di-

vorce 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 per-

son 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.

But land and money were how men like Buck kept

score. The sale of Harris Farms, if it came to that, would

leave him cash rich. He could keep his yacht, buy two

more houses to replace the two he would have to give

up, and still have enough spare change to fly first class to

Europe or Hawaii whenever he wanted. Nevertheless, it

galled him to know that Suzu Harris could, if she chose,

force the sale of the land they had so painstakingly ac-

quired in their early years. Could even hold his feet to

the fire over their first tomato field, the thirty acres that

had been in his family since before the Civil War.

By the time she reached Wilkesboro, Flame was stone

cold sober and beginning to think that running Buck

104

HARD ROW

into the shallows was probably a mistake. She had played

him like a fish these last two years, giving him enough

line to let him think it was his idea to come to her. Start

reeling in too hard and she was liable to have him break

the line or spit out the hook. As long as she had come

this far, though, it was easier to go on than turn back.

“Thank God it’s not icy,” she muttered as she steered

to avoid a hole where the gravel had washed out and

almost scraped the car on an outcropping of solid rock.

Another quarter-mile and the drive ended in a circle in

front of a large rustic lodge built of undressed logs. She

did not see his car, but the garage was on the far side

of the house. Nor were there any lights. Not that she

expected any. Not at—she pressed a button on the side

of her watch and the little dial lit up. Not at one-thirty

in the morning.

The front door was locked and she rang the bell long

and hard until she could hear it echo from within.

To her surprise, the interior remained dark.

She rang again, leaning on the bell so long that no

one inside could possibly sleep through it.

Nothing.

A long low porch ran the full length of the house

and she retrieved a door key that was kept beneath the

second ceramic pot. Within minutes, she was inside the

lodge, fumbling for the light switches.

“Buck, honey? You here?” she called.

No answer.

With growing apprehension, she mounted the mas-

sive staircase that led to the bedrooms above.

105

MARGARET MARON

In the small hours of Saturday morning, Detective

Mayleen Richards drove through the deserted streets

of Dobbs. The only other person out at that time was a

town police officer, who gave her a friendly wave from

his cruiser that indicated he’d be glad to share a cup

of coffee from his Thermos and kill some boring time.

Another night and she might have. Tonight though, she

merely waved back and continued on to her apartment,

a one-bedroom over a garage on the outskirts of Dobbs

where town and suburbs merged.

The elderly couple who lived in the main house spent

their winters in Florida and were glad to have a sheriff ’s

deputy there to keep an eye on things. Richards was

glad for the privacy their absence gave her. Even when

the owners were in residence, they went to bed early

and seemed singularly uninterested in their tenant’s ir-

regular comings and goings.

Not that there had been anything very irregular about

her personal life before this. She pulled her shifts. She

attended a Spanish language course two nights a week

out at Colleton Community College. She visited her

family down in Black Creek almost every weekend. She

harbored no regrets for ditching either that dull com-

puter programming job out at the Research Triangle

nor the equally dull marriage to her highschool sweet-

heart who had achieved his life’s goal when he traded

farm life for a desk job. Except for fancying herself in

love with Major Bryant, law enforcement had absorbed

and satisfied her.

Richards could smile to herself now and see that re-

cent adolescent crush for what it was—attraction to an

alpha male, generated by proximity and nothing more

106

HARD ROW

than the needs of a healthy body that had slept alone for

way too long.

She coasted to a stop beside a shiny gray pickup with

an extended crew cab and cut the ignition, then hurried

up the wooden steps that led to a deck and to the man

who waited inside.

“I thought you’d be gone,” she said, absurdly happy

that her prickly reaction to his first overtures had not

sent him away.

“No.” He carefully unzipped her jacket and eased the

soft pink sweater over her head, then buried his face in

the waves of her dark red hair as his hands unhooked

her bra.

“Muy hermosa,” he murmured.

Later, lying beside him in her bed, brown legs next

to white, she was almost on the brink of sleep when she

remembered. “McLamb said he saw you at the court-

house today?”

Miguel Diaz nodded, one hand lazily moving across

her body. “One of the men from the village next to my

village back home. He took a tractor and I was there to

speak for him.”

“Tractor? Was he the guy who plowed up a stretch of

yards out toward Cotton Grove?”

“Ummm,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder.

“He works for you?”

“For now. The other place, they fired him when he

took the tractor.”

Mayleen Richards laughed, remembering the jokes

107

MARGARET MARON

the uniformed deputies had made. “What was he think-

ing? Where was he trying to go?”

She felt him shrug. “Who knows? It was the te-

quila driving. Maybe he thought he could get to his

woman.”

“She’s in Dobbs?”

“No. Their baby died and she went back to

Mexico.”

“Oh, Mike, that’s so sad.”

“Yes. But our babies will be strong and healthy.”

“Our babies?” This was only their third time together

and he was already talking babies?

“Our red-haired, brown-skinned babies,” he said as

he gently stroked her stomach.

The image delighted her, but then she thought of her

parents, of her family’s attitude toward Latinos, and she

sighed.

Intuitively, he seemed to understand. “Don’t worry,

querida. Once the babies come, your family will grow

to like me.”

108

C H A P T E R

13

A man can’t throw off his habits as he does his coat; if con-

tracted in youth they will stick in manhood and old age,

whether they be good or bad.

—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

Deborah Knott

Saturday Morning, March 4

% Dwight got home so late Friday night that I

slipped out of bed next morning without waking

him, and Cal and I tiptoed around until it was nine

o’clock and time for me to go pick up Mary Pat and

Jake.

“Are the children ready to go?” I asked when Kate

answered the phone.

“No, I’m keeping them home today,” she said and

her voice was cool.

I was immediately apprehensive. “Is something

wrong?”

“Did you speak to Cal like I asked you?”

“Absolutely. Don’t tell me—?”

“I’m sorry, Deborah, but I am not going to have Jake

treated the way Dwight used to treat Rob.”

109

MARGARET MARON

“What?”

“You must know that when they were kids and Dwight

went over to play with your brothers, half the time he

wouldn’t let Rob come.”

I heard Rob’s voice protesting in the background and

heard Kate say, “Well, that’s what you told me he did.

Isn’t that why he’s not taking this seriously?”

Rob’s reply came faintly, “Kate, honey, that’s what

kids do.”

“Not in this house,” Kate said firmly, and I knew she

was laying down the law to both of us, and probably to

Mary Pat, too, if the child was within hearing distance.

“Kate, I’m so sorry,” I said, “but unless you spoke to

Dwight yesterday when he came by for Cal, he doesn’t

know anything about this.”

Cal had only been half listening, but when he heard

me say that, he froze and guilt spread across his face.

At her end of the phone, I heard the baby begin to

cry.

“Look, I promise that Mary Pat and Cal will include

him today,” I said, fixing Cal with a stern look. “Let me

come and get them. You need the break, okay?”

There was a long silence, then a weary, “Okay, but if

I hear—”

“You’re not going to hear,” I promised.

As soon as I hung up, I called Dwight’s mother and

when Miss Emily finished exclaiming over those body

parts she kept hearing about on the local newscast—

“And now a whole body?”—I asked if she could pos-

sibly drop by Kate and Rob’s and offer to sit with little

R.W. during his morning nap so that Rob could take

Kate out for an early lunch. “I’ll keep the children over-

110

HARD ROW

night, but she sounds as if she could stand to get out of

the house.”

“What a good idea,” said Miss Emily. “I’ll walk over

there right now. Isn’t it nice that we’re finally getting a

taste of spring after all that cold?”

“Are we? I haven’t been outside yet.” I glanced out

the window. Sunshine. And the wind was blowing so

gently that the leaves on the azalea bushes Dwight and

I had set out in the fall barely stirred. “Maybe we’ll see

you in a few minutes.”

Cal headed for the garage door.

“Sit,” I said quietly.

He sat down at the kitchen table and I took the chair

across from him. “You want to tell me what happened

yesterday?”

He shrugged, twined his feet around the legs of the

chair, and tried to look innocent. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

His brown eyes darted away from mine. “Nothing

really.”

I waited silently.

“We were just playing.”

“And?”

“He kept bugging us. Aunt Kate wouldn’t let us

use the PlayStation because she said we weren’t letting

Jake have enough of a turn and when we let him play

Monopoly with us, he couldn’t count his money, so—”

He hesitated.

“So?”

“So we said we’d play hide-and-seek and then . . .”

His voice dropped even lower than his head. “I guess

we sorta hid where he couldn’t find us and we didn’t

111

MARGARET MARON

come out even when he said he gave up and then he

started crying and Aunt Kate got mad and made Mary

Pat go to her room.” He looked up with a calculated

glint in his eyes that more than one defendant had tried

on me. “But then I did read Jake a story.”

I wasn’t any more impressed with that than I gen-

erally was in the courtroom when the defendant says,

“But I only hit him twice with that tire iron and then I

did take him to the hospital.”

“You think that makes up for getting Aunt Kate upset

again?”

He shrugged, but his jaw set in a mulish fix that was

so reminiscent of Dwight that I might have laughed

under different circumstances.

“You promised me on Thursday that you were going

to be nicer to Jake and cut him some slack.”

“Sorry.” It was a one-size-fits-all, pro forma apology.

“But Mary Pat—”

“No, Cal, this isn’t about Mary Pat. This is about

you. You gave me your word and you broke it.”

“I don’t care!” His head came up angrily. “You’re not

my mother and you’re not the boss of me!”

It was the first time he’d snapped at me and we were

both taken aback. Defiance was all over his face, but I

think he had shocked himself as well.

I took a deep breath. “You’re absolutely right, Cal. I’m

not your mother, but now that you’re living here—”

“I didn’t ask to come here and I don’t have to stay.”

His eyes filled with involuntary tears and he wiped them

away with an impatient fist. “I can go back to Virginia

and live with Nana.”

“No, you can’t,” I said with more firmness than I felt.

112

HARD ROW

“That’s not an option and you know it. I may not be

your mother, but I am married to your father and that

gives me the right to haul you up short when you step

over the line.”

He glared at me.

“Unless you want me to let him handle it?”

That got his attention.

“No! Don’t tell him. Please?”

Uncomfortable as this was for both of us, I knew

that something had to be done, but this was going to

take more than a simple time out or an early bedtime.

Besides, there was no way I could send him to bed early

without Dwight’s knowing and for now I was willing to

respect Cal’s plea that he not be involved.

“You know that what you did was wrong?”

He gave a sulky half nod.

“When your mother punished you for something se-

rious, what did she do?”

His eyes widened and he turned so white that the

freckles popped out across his nose. “You’re going to

spank me?”

Even though my parents had occasionally smacked our

bottoms or switched our legs when it was well deserved,

I was almost as horrified as he. “No, I’m not going to

spank you. But you know we can’t let this go.”

He thought a moment. “I could not watch television

for a whole month.”

“And what’ll you tell your dad when the Hurricanes

play an away game and you don’t watch it with him?”

As soon as I’d said that, I knew what would be

appropriate.

“Here’s the deal,” I told him. “You hurt Aunt Kate’s

113

MARGARET MARON

feelings when you left Jake out and made him cry, so

now it’s your turn to miss the fun. You’ll stay home

from the next Canes game and I’ll go with your dad.

You can say it was your idea and you have to make him

believe it or else he’ll ask you for the whole story. If that

happens, you’ll have to tell him yourself and you’ll still

stay home. Is it a deal?”

He nodded and by his chastened look, I knew I’d

gotten through to him.

“If I hear from Aunt Kate that you’re not trying to

turn this situation around with Jake, you’re going to

miss the next game after that as well. Three strikes and

you’re out of all the others the rest of the season. Is that

clear?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” I said sternly, unwilling to let him get away

with that deliberate show of disrespect.

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

“Just because Mary Pat is six months older than you

doesn’t mean you have to let her lead you around by

the nose.”

“But then she may not want to play with me,” he

protested.

“I seriously doubt that, Cal. You’re smart and funny

and you can think up lots of games that take three peo-

ple. You don’t have to play what she wants every time.

Isn’t there anything besides television that you like that

Jake can do, too?”

Again that shrug, but then he grudgingly admitted

that Jake was getting pretty good at Chinese checkers.

“He almost beat me last week. And when we played with

the blocks, his tower was higher than Mary Pat’s.”

114

HARD ROW

“There you go then. See? You guys are going to know

each other the rest of your lives and the older you get,

the less it’s going to matter that he’s four years younger.

By the time you get grown, four years won’t make a

smidgin of difference. Your dad’s six years older than

me and that doesn’t matter to either of us, does it?”

“What doesn’t matter?” asked Dwight, who came

into the kitchen yawning widely.

“That you’re an old man and I’m your child bride,”

I said as I got up to pour him a cup of coffee. “Rough

night?”

“Tell you about it later,” he answered. “You two look

awfully serious. What’s up?”

“Guess what?” I said brightly. “Your son’s giving me

his ticket for the next Canes game.”

“Really?” He looked at Cal and I could tell that he

was half pleased, yet half puzzled. “You sure, son?”

Cal nodded. “She likes them, too, and I heard

Grandma talking with Aunt Kate ’bout how y’all haven’t

been out together since . . . since” —his eyes suddenly

misted—“since I came to live here.”

I was stricken, knowing that he was thinking of Jonna

again and that he probably felt a stab of heartsick long-

ing for his mother, for the way things had been all his

life. Another moment and I might have weakened.

Fortunately for the cause, Dwight beamed and tousled

Cal’s hair. “Thanks, buddy. We really appreciate that,

don’t we, Deb’rah?”

“We do,” I agreed. “Right now, though, Cal and I are

on our way to pick up the others. We can swing past a

grocery store if you want something special for supper?”

“Don’t bother. By the time you get back, I’ll be

115

MARGARET MARON

dressed and they can ride with me to see if the nursery’s

got in those trees I ordered. I’ll pick up some barbecue

or something.”

Cal was quiet on the drive over to Kate’s, but shortly

before we got there, he said in a small voice, “I really am

sorry we were mean to Jake and got Aunt Kate mad.”

“You might want to tell that to Aunt Kate next time

you catch her alone,” I said, not being real big on pub-

lic apologies. As a child, I much preferred a few quick

swats on my bottom to the galling humiliation of having

to apologize to someone in front of everybody. There

were no cars behind us, so when we came to the stop

sign, I paused and turned to face him. “And just for the

record, Cal, as long as you try to do right by Jake, this

is over and done with so far as I’m concerned.”

“You’re not still mad at me?”

I smiled at him. “Nope, and I don’t hold grudges

either.”

His look of relief almost broke my heart.

“Look, honey. Stuff happens. I know you wish things

could be the way they used to be, but they aren’t and

there’s no way anybody can change it back. Your dad

and I know this isn’t easy for you. There’re going to

be times when you think you hate everybody and that

everybody hates you. When you make bad choices and

do things you know you shouldn’t, then yeah, I may get

mad for the moment. But you need to know right now

that I do love you and I love your dad and I don’t care

how mad we all get at each other, I’m not going to stop

loving either one of you. Okay?”

116

HARD ROW

It could have been a Hallmark moment.

In a perfect world, he would have leaned over and

given me a warm spontaneous hug while someone

cued the violins, and bluebirds and butterflies fluttered

around the car.

Instead, he stared straight ahead through the wind-

shield for a long moment, then sighed and said,

“Okay.”

Hey, you take what you can get.

117

C H A P T E R

14

In the country, we can wear out our old clothes and go dirty

sometimes, without fear of company. A little clean dirt

is healthy; city folks wash their children too much and too

often.

—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

% When he first suggested marriage, back when we

agreed it would be a marriage of convenience and

for pragmatic reasons only, Dwight said he was tired of

living in a bachelor apartment, that he wanted to put

down roots, plant trees.

I thought that was just a figure of speech.

Wrong.

No sooner was his diamond on my finger than he

borrowed the farm’s backhoe and started moving half-

grown trees into the yard from the surrounding woods.

I had built my house out in an open field. The only

trees on the site were a couple of willows at the edge

of the long pond that sits on the dividing line between

my land and two of my brothers’. Now head-high dog-

woods line the path down to the water. Taller oaks and

maples would be casting shade over both porches this

summer. Pear trees, apples, two fig bushes and a row

118

HARD ROW

of blueberry bushes marked the beginning of a serious

orchard. He had built a long curved stone wall to act

as extra seating for family cookouts and we had planted

azaleas and hydrangeas behind the wall. The azalea buds

were already swelling despite Tuesday night’s freezing

rain.

Saturday’s warm sunshine and soft western breezes

had brought everything along, and in a protected cor-

ner on the south side of the house, buttercups were

up and blooming. Flowering quince and forsythia were

showing their first flush of pink and yellow and if the

weather held, they would explode into full bloom by

the middle of the week.

It was a jeans and muddy workshoes weekend. Dwight

and the children and I spent most of it out in the yard,

and some of my brothers and a couple of sisters-in-law

stopped by to help set out a row of crepe myrtles on

either side of the long drive out to the hardtop. Their

twigs were bare now but Dwight promised that by late

July we would be driving in and out through clouds of

watermelon red.

It wasn’t all work. The year before, my nephews and

nieces had installed a regulation height basketball hoop

at the peak of the garage roof so that they could use the

concrete apron in front for a half-court. Dwight low-

ered the hoop from ten feet to eight, inflated four of

the collapsed balls stashed in a bushel basket beneath

the work bench, and showed the kids the hook shot that

could have let him play for Carolina had he not joined

the army instead.

Cal and a chastened Mary Pat were on their best be-

havior with Jake. Being outdoors in the milder weather

119

MARGARET MARON

helped, of course. Running, jumping, digging in the

dirt, riding their bikes, or using the hose to water in

the new plants doesn’t take fine motor skills and there’s

no squabbling over balls when every kid has one. It

also helped that Robert had brought his grandson Bert

along and that Bert was the same age as Jake. It took a

lot of pressure off the two older children.

Some of the farm dogs showed up and there was a

flurry of snarls and growls and bared teeth before they

backed down and acknowledged that Bandit did indeed

own the territory around the house, territory he’d spent

the last few weeks assiduously marking.

Will and his wife Amy came out from town and Will

got sucked into work while I stomped the dirt off my

shoes and went inside with Amy. Will’s three brothers

up from me; Amy is his third wife. She’s also the head of

Human Resources at Dobbs Memorial Hospital and she

was in the process of writing a grant proposal to fund

a pilot program for servicing their Hispanic patients. I

had told her that I would vet the proposal and that we

could use my Lexis Nexis account to look up pertinent

case law as it pertains to undocumented aliens.

“Documented or not, we’re getting so many people

in our emergency room and at the well-baby clinic that

we need more translators to work every shift,” she said.

“It scares the bejeebers out of some of the doctors and

nurses when they’re trying to explain a complicated

drug regimen and the only translator may be the pa-

tient’s first-grade child. How can they be sure that a six-

year-old understands enough to tell her mother that she

needs to take the pills in increasing and decreasing dos-

ages? And don’t get me started on ID cards. We almost

120

HARD ROW

killed a man the other day. The record attached to that

particular ID card said that he wasn’t allergic to penicil-

lin, but guess what? The man who presented the card

that day was deathly allergic. We almost lost him.”

I showed her how to get into the site and suggested

key words that might pull up the info she was after.

I like Amy. She’s small and dark and claims to have

Latin blood somewhere in her background despite not

speaking a word of anything except English. She has a

firecracker fuse and gets passionate about causes, but she

also has a raucous sense of humor, all necessary traits to

stay married to Will.

He’s the oldest of my mother’s four children and a

bit of a rounder. Will’s good-looking and has a silver

tongue that could charm birds out of the trees or dol-

lars out of your pocket, which is why he’s such a good

auctioneer and just the person you want if you’re selling

off the furnishings of your grandmother’s house. He

doesn’t exactly lie, but damned if he can’t make your

granny’s circa 1980 pressed glass pitcher sound almost

as desirable as a piece of Waterford crystal.

While Amy roamed the Internet looking for factoids

to bolster her proposal, I read over what she had so far,

put some of her layman’s language into more precise le-

galese, and marked a few places where specific examples

would help illuminate the point she was making.

As she printed out the pieces she wanted to save, we

talked about the migrant problem. Floods of undocu-

mented aliens have poured into North Carolina in such a

very short time and not all are “Messicans” as Haywood

calls any Latino.

121

MARGARET MARON

“I heard Seth telling Will about y’all’s meeting last

Sunday.” She grinned. “Ostriches?”

We giggled about Isabel’s thinking hogs would be

more natural and about Robert’s reaction to the idea of

shiitake mushrooms.

“Seth said something about giving the kids some land

to grow some chemical-free crops?”

“They won’t be able to market their crops as organic

for a few years,” I said, “but it’s a start.”

“And bless them for it.” Amy gathered up the print-

outs, blocked their edges, and pushed back from the

computer. “It absolutely infuriates me to see how cava-

lier some of the growers are with pesticides.”

“Well, Haywood and Robert can remember when

they had to worm and sucker tobacco by hand,” I said

as we moved into the living room. I added another log

to the fire and we sat down on the couch in front of the

crackling flames. “No wonder they love being able to

run a tractor through the fields pulling a sprayer that’ll

take care of everything chemically.”

“Better living through chemistry?” Amy slipped off

her boots and tucked her short legs under her. “Except

that it isn’t. I wish they had to see some of the mi-

grants who come into the emergency room, covered

with pesticides, their clothes green with it. The rashes

on their skin. The coughs. The headaches and memory

loss and God alone knows how many strokes, cancers,

and heart attacks have been triggered by careless han-

dling. They’re not supposed to go back in the fields

for forty-eight hours after some of those chemicals are

used, yet we’ve had women tell us that they’ve actually

been sprayed while they were out there working. Most

122

HARD ROW

times they don’t even know what they’ve been doused

with. Birth defects are up. It’s criminal. We’ve called

EPA and the US Department of Agriculture on some of

the employers, but there’s not enough teeth in the laws

to make the growers back off.”

Her tirade broke off as the children came in, hungry

and needing to use the bathroom. I had set out a tray

of raw vegetables and sliced apples with a yogurt-based

dip, but Mary Pat spotted the bowl of oranges and im-

mediately asked if I’d cut a hole in the top so she could

suck out the juice. The three boys thought that was a

great idea and they all headed back outside, oranges in

hand, noisily sucking.

“She’s a pistol, that one.” Amy laughed. “Kate’s

going to have her hands full.”

“She already does,” I said ruefully.

We took the children back to Kate and Rob’s on

Sunday evening, tired and dirty and ready for bath and

bed. Kate, on the other hand, looked the most relaxed

I’d seen her since R.W. was born. There was color in her

pretty face and her honey brown hair had been cut and

styled since yesterday morning. The haircut echoed her

old glamour and reminded me that she had been a New

York fashion model before she married Jake’s dad and

switched from modeling clothes to designing the fabric

for those clothes.

“You could still be a model,” I said when we were

alone together in the kitchen, putting together coffee

and dessert while Dwight and Rob discussed the virtues

of planting more than two varieties of blueberries.

123

MARGARET MARON

She made a face. “For what? Plus sizes? Thanks, but

no thanks.”

“You’re not fat,” I protested. “And you were way too

skinny before. In fact, the first time Bessie Stewart saw

you she told Maidie they could just stick two grains of

corn on a hoe handle and use that as your dress form.”

Bessie Stewart is our mother-in-law’s housekeeper

and a plainspoken country woman.

Kate laughed. “I know. She’s still trying to fatten me

up. You certainly don’t think I made this custard pie,

do you? Skinny or fat, I’m comfortable where I am,

though, and I appreciate you and Miss Emily giving me

this weekend to put it all in perspective. I’m not super-

woman and I’ve been hovering over the kids too much

instead of letting them work it out. I’m sorry I snapped

at you yesterday.”

“No, you were right to. It doesn’t hurt to teach older

children to be patient with younger ones. All the same,

Kate, you need to understand—”

“You don’t have to say it. Rob admits that he was a

pain in the butt to Dwight and Beth, and that Nancy

Faye used to irritate the hell out of all of them in turn.

I never had brothers or sisters, so I never saw that give

and take. Anyhow, things are going to get better. Rob’s

finally convinced me that the children won’t grow up to

be axe-murderers if I get back in my studio and work on

some designs I’ve been mulling around in my head.”

She filled the cream pitcher with half-and-half and

added it to the tray.

“We haven’t touched Lacy’s room since he died last

year.” A shadow flitted across her face for that cantan-

kerous old man, her first husband’s uncle.

124

HARD ROW

Lacy Honeycutt had initially resented Kate as an in-

terloper who bewitched Jake and kept him in New York

almost against his will. It had been hard for Lacy to

realize that it was Jake’s competitive zest for the New

York Stock Exchange and not Kate alone that kept him

away from the farm. When Kate inherited the place

after his death and came down to await little Jake’s

birth, she had needed all her persuasive charm to bring

Lacy around. He had approved of Rob, though, and

so adored his infant great-nephew that he continued

to live in the room he’d been born in, even after Kate

and Rob were married.

“We’re going to fix up Lacy’s room and hire a live-

in nanny,” Kate said. “Mary Pat’s trustees have already

agreed to kick in with part of the cost.”

“Great!” I said. “But does this mean that we have to

find another place for Cal after school?”

She shook her head and gave me a mischievous smile.

“Nope. It does mean that I’m going to bill you and

Dwight for a prorated share of her salary, though.”

“Deal,” I said.

We solemnly shook hands on it, then carried the pie

and coffee out to the living room.

Cal went to bed soon after we got home, but before

Dwight and I called it a night, we let Bandit out for a

run and walked outside ourselves to admire what we’d

accomplished that weekend.

The night breeze lacked the bone chilling edge it had

carried only two days ago, yet the cool air still required

jackets and gloves. A quarter moon gave enough light

125

MARGARET MARON

to see where we were putting our feet and I could al-

most smell spring in the air.

In one of our few quiet moments the day before,

Dwight had explained why he was so late getting back

Friday night.

“I can’t believe we’ve had this whole weekend with-

out somebody finding another body part,” I said. “I

was sure you were going to get called out for the miss-

ing head.”

“I just hope the ME’s preliminary report’s on my

desk tomorrow morning and that it says they’ve found

a tattoo or a prominent scar or anything that’ll help us

make a positive ID. The only thing halfway unique to

this guy is that an X-ray of his right arm shows that he

broke the ulna about ten years ago. I bet at least twenty

percent of the guys in this country have broken a right

arm sometime in their lives.”

He told me that the Alzheimer patient’s family had

been notified and yeah, he’d heard that they’d re-

tained Zack Young to file a civil suit against the nursing

home.

I told him that Kate and Rob were going to hire a

live-in nanny and that we’d need to share the cost. “It’ll

still be cheaper than putting Cal in formal after-school

care. Better for him, too.”

“You ever gonna say what yesterday morning was all

about?”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Deb’rah. I may not have been a full-time

dad after Jonna and I divorced, but I got up there at

least twice a month and I know my son well enough to

know he wouldn’t pass up a Canes game on his own.”

126

HARD ROW

I was silent.

“He’s not giving you a hard time, is he? Talking back

when I’m not around? Disobeying?”

“Nothing like that. Honest. It was just a little bump

in the road and we agreed that this is the way to smooth

it out. If it was something serious, I’d certainly tell you,

but I gave him my word and I don’t want to go back

on it, okay?”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He looked down at me with a rueful smile. “Got more

than you bargained for, didn’t you, shug?”

“I’m sorry Jonna’s dead,” I said honestly. “And I’m

sorry for the way this happened, but Portland and I had

already planned on getting the custody arrangement

amended so that you could have Cal here for holidays

and summers.”

He shook his head. “Poor Jonna. She wouldn’t have

stood a chance with you two.” Then his smile faded.

“I’m just glad we didn’t have to put Cal through a court

battle, glad he didn’t have to choose between us.”

I squeezed his hand and we walked down the drive

to where the young crepe myrtles began. In this silvery

light, they were a double row of pale slender sticks and

leafless twigs.

“I’ll probably be sore tomorrow from all the work we

did today, but they’re going to be beautiful,” I said.

Dwight turned and looked back toward the house.

“I was thinking we could put more pecans on the south

side. They’ll shade both bedrooms in the summer, but

they won’t interfere with the solar panels or the power

lines.”

127

MARGARET MARON

I smiled.

“What?” he said with an answering smile.

“I was just thinking how old we’d be before any trees

get tall enough to interfere with the wires.”

“Less than fifteen years if we keep them watered and

fertilized.” He gave a contented sigh. “We really are

married, aren’t we?”

I laughed out loud. “It takes trees to convince you?”

He stopped and I turned to look up into his face.

What I saw there made my heart turn over.

“Dwight? Sweetheart?”

He put his arms around me and his voice had a sud-

den rough huskiness. “I used to try and imagine what

it would be like if hell froze solid and I actually got you

to marry me.”

“And?”

“And this is better than I ever imagined.”

Our lips met in the moonlight.

“Much better,” he said and kissed me again.

Despite the cool night air, I began to feel warm all

over.

Dwight never needed to have a diagram drawn for

him. “Why don’t we take this inside?” he murmured

and whistled for the dog.

128

C H A P T E R

15

We must take things as we find them, making a choice of

such as seem to us, by the use of our best judgment, to con-

tain the most good and the fewest evils.

—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

Flame Smith

Monday Morning, March 6

% Flame Smith was tired, angry, and fighting a dull

headache, the direct result of driving east with the

morning sun in her eyes for three hours. All weekend

she had waited at Buck Harris’s mountain lodge, willing

him to pull up in the drive and honk the horn exuber-

antly upon seeing her car there.

It never happened and she was now so furious with

Buck that had she met him as she drove down the wind-

ing private road, she would have rammed her Jeep into his

BMW hard enough that the hood would be smashed all

the way back to the steering wheel in such neat little even

pleats that he would be playing it like an accordion.

The image gave her a sour pleasure. So did the image

of chasing him back down the mountain with the .357

Magnum she kept in the console beside her.

129

MARGARET MARON

In her forty-odd years, she had been chased by many

men. Had even let a few catch her. Usually on her terms.

Wasn’t that why God had given her a mane of fiery red

curls, flawless skin with a light dusting of freckles across

an upturned nose in the middle of a lovely face, a nicely

proportioned body with a twenty-inch waist, and a low

sexy laugh that men wanted to hear again and again?

She had passed forty with every asset still intact, so

why was she chasing around the state of North Carolina

looking for this particular man? Yes, he had money

and yes, she was tired of worrying about how she was

going to pay the mortgage on Jackson House, her B&B

down in Wilmington; but he was not the first man with

money to want to put a ring on her finger and another

one through her nose. He was not classically handsome,

he needed to lose at least twenty pounds, he could be

crude and rough, and like many self-made men she had

known, he seemed to have the ethics of a polecat. But

he was hung like a prize bull, he was surprisingly unself-

ish in bed, and he made her laugh.

The older she got, the more important that was

becoming.

All the same, if he thought she was going to sit around

cooling her heels while he took his sweet time to let her

know why he’d broken both their date and his word, he

had another thought coming, she told herself. It could

have been fun for both of them, but c’est la damn vie.

Enough was enough.

She stopped for gas on the east side of Raleigh and

bought a Coke for caffeine and a BC powder for her

headache. To hell with Buck Harris. She would go back

to Wilmington, make sure things continued to run

130

HARD ROW

smoothly at Jackson House, and then maybe she would

give ol’ what’s-his-name a call. The guy who had de-

veloped one of the first planned communities along the

river. The one who kept sending her orchids and roses.

What the devil was his name? He wasn’t as rowdy as

Buck, but what the hell? Maybe solid and dependable

would wear better in the long run.

As I-40 veered southeast through Colleton County,

her headache eased off and she flipped on the radio,

turning the dial to an amusing local country station.

Solemn organ music played softly beneath a somber

voice that enunciated proper names, followed by the

name of a funeral home.

Flame had to laugh. Just what she needed—the local

obituaries. “Add Mr. Effin’ Buck Harris to your list,”

she told the announcer. “From now on that SOB is

dead to me.”

Obituaries were followed by the latest county news:

the weekend had produced four car wrecks and a motor-

cycle accident for a total of three deaths. Several com-

puters had been stolen from a Dobbs middle school. An

employee with the county’s planning board had been

charged with embezzling almost four thousand dollars.

Stupid cow, thought Flame. Wreck your life for a pal-

try four thousand?

Still no identification for the dismembered body

of a muscular Caucasian male. The Colleton County

Sheriff ’s Department again urged the public to report

any missing man between the age of thirty and sixty.

Eighteen dogs had been confiscated in Black Creek and

their owner charged with felony dog fighting and ani-

mal cruelty, while—

131

MARGARET MARON

“Wait a damn minute here!” Flame exclaimed. She

was almost past the Dobbs exit, but she flashed her turn

signal, yanked on her steering wheel and slid in front of

a van that was trying to make its own sedate exit. The

van honked angrily and veered to avoid rear-ending the

Jeep, but Flame barely heard.

It was crazy, but what if that bitch was even less will-

ing than Buck to share what they had built?

“Major Bryant?”

Dwight looked up to see one of the departmental

clerks standing in his doorway.

“Mr. Stephenson’s here with a client and they’d like

to speak to you if you have a minute?”

“Sure,” he said, laying aside the ME’s report on the

torso, a report which confirmed that it really was part

and parcel of the other appendages they’d collected. If

there had been scars, tattoos, or anything else unique

to this body, they were obliterated by animal depreda-

tions or by the heavy blade that had dismembered it.

Said blade, incidentally, appeared to be approximately

six inches wide with a slight curvature of the cutting

edge, all consistent with an ordinary axe.

Nevertheless, in addition to the broken right ulna ear-

lier X-rays had discovered, the torso did carry two mark-

ers that might help distinguish this body from another.

First, there was a small mole just below the navel.

Second was what the ME described as “a protrusive

umbilicus.”

“Thanks for seeing us, Major Bryant,” Reid Stephenson

said formally as he held the door open for a very attrac-

132

HARD ROW

tive redhead. A handsome six-footer himself, Reid was

well-known for his penchant for knockout redheads,

but this one was even more gorgeous than usual.

Where the hell did he keep finding them? Dwight

wondered as he stood and shook hands with Deborah’s

cousin and former law partner.

“This is Ms. Smith,” Reid said. “Flame Smith, from

Wilmington.”

“Major Bryant,” she said, offering a firm handshake.

Up close, she was still gorgeous, if not quite as young

as her flowing hair, slender figure and tight jeans implied

at first glance. There were laugh lines around her wide

mouth and small crinkles radiated from eyes as green

as the snug sweater she wore beneath a beige leather

jacket.

“What can I do for y’all?” he asked when they were

seated.

Reid leaned forward. “That man, the one with his

legs in one place and his body in another—has he been

identified yet?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because my client has been missing for over a week

now and he fits the general description that’s been re-

leased to the media.”

Dwight frowned. “I thought you said Ms. Smith here

is your client.”

“Actually, I’m his client’s girlfriend,” said the redhead

in a smoky voice that seemed to have Reid enthralled.

“We were supposed to meet here in Dobbs this week

for his divorce settlement, but he never showed up and

I can’t find anyone who’s seen him lately. It’s weird to

think it might be Buck you’ve found, but if it is—”

133

MARGARET MARON

“I see,” said Dwight. “Does he have any identifying

marks that you know of?”

“Identifying marks?”

“Like a tattoo or scars or something?” Reid said help-

fully.

Flame Smith shook her head.

“Wait a minute!” said Reid. “Isn’t he missing the tip

of one of his fingers?”

“That’s right!” She held up a beautifully manicured

finger. Her long nails were painted a soft coral. “His

right index finger. It got caught in a piece of farm equip-

ment when he was a teenager.”

They looked at Dwight expectantly. The big deputy

frowned as he leafed through the file on the body. “The

right hand we found is missing the tip of the index fin-

ger, but it’s also missing some other joints.”

Flame Smith winced, but she did not go dramatic on

them. Dwight had the impression that this was a woman

who could, when necessary keep her emotions in check,

but he was willing to bet she could also take advantage

of a redhead’s reputation for a blazing tongue and tem-

per if it suited her.

“You say no one’s seen him,” he said. “Who have you

actually asked?”

“Well, first I tried everybody around here I could

think of. I even drove over to the main office in New

Bern thinking something might have come up, but no

one’s seen him there since week before last. His wife’s

been living at their New Bern place since they split and

he’s been staying here.”

“Here?”

134

HARD ROW

“At the old farmhouse he got from his granddaddy. It

was their first tomato farm.”

“Oh yes,” said Dwight. “I remember now. It be-

longed to his mother’s people, didn’t it? The old Buckley

place?”

“I guess. That’s his middle name. Judson Buckley

Harris, but everybody calls him Buck.” She pushed a

tress of hair away from her eyes. “I tried there first thing

on Wednesday and again on Friday. No sign of him and

the housekeeper says she hasn’t heard anything in over

a week either. But in court Wednesday, I heard his wife

say he might be holed up in the mountains.”

“Deborah’s doing the Harris ED,” Reid murmured

in an aside.

“Deborah?” asked Flame. “Judge Knott? You know

her?”

With a repressive glance at Reid, Dwight nodded.

“So then you—?”

“—drove up to his lodge in the mountains?” she

asked, finishing his question. “Yes. But he wasn’t there

and when I finally caught up with the caretaker Sunday

afternoon, he said he hadn’t heard from Buck in at least

three weeks.”

“You try calling him?”

“Of course I did,” she said impatiently. “That’s why I

drove up to Wilkesboro. The lodge is in an area where

reception is spotty and he never answers a land line. I

thought sure that’s where he’d be.”

“When did you last speak to him, Ms. Smith?”

“Sunday before last. He was all riled up about the set-

tlement and said he was going to be too busy to come

down to Wilmington, but we set it up for me to come

135

MARGARET MARON

here. He said the divorce would be final by then and we

could name our wedding date.”

“You didn’t worry when he didn’t call?”

“I give my men a long leash,” she said with a rueful

smile. “Buck hates to talk on the phone and I don’t

push it.”

“What about you?” Dwight asked Reid.

Reid shrugged. “As she said, Mr. Harris doesn’t like

to talk on the phone. I left messages on all his answer-

ing machines and at his office. When Ms. Smith came

in today, I checked with my secretary. According to our

records, the last time he actually spoke to me was Friday

the seventeenth. I told him that the judge was running

out of patience and he promised to be in court this past

Wednesday.”

Dwight turned back to Flame Smith. “Do you know

if Mr. Harris ever broke his arm?”

“No, but I just remembered. He has a tiny little mole,

right about here.” One coral-tipped finger touched an

area of her jeans halfway below her waist. “Oh, and he’s

an ‘outie,’ too,” she added with an electric smile.

Dwight reached for a notepad. “Tell me the name of

his housekeeper out at the Buckley place.” He glanced

at Reid. “And maybe you’d better give me his wife’s

contact numbers, as well.”

“Oh God!” Flame Smith moaned. Her peaches-and-

cream complexion had turned to ivory. “It is Buck,

isn’t it?”

136

C H A P T E R

16

City folks eat their meals more from habit than hunger, but

country folks love to hear the horn blow.

—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

Deborah Knott

Monday Morning, March 6

% Monday morning and my turn to handle felony

first appearances. The State of North Carolina is

obligated to bring an accused person before a judge

within ninety-six hours of arrest and incarceration in the

county jail or at the next session of district court, which-

ever occurs first. First appearance is where the judge in-

forms the accused of the charges, sets the bond if bail is

deemed appropriate, appoints an attorney if so re-

quested, and calendars a trial date. Innocence or guilt is

irrelevant. Neither plea can be accepted. This is just to

get the case into the system and onto a calendar so that

it can be moved along in a judicious manner.

When I first came on the bench, Monday mornings

might bring me twenty or thirty people—forty after a

real hot August weekend if it followed a week of unre-

mitting heat. (Heat and humidity cause tempers to flare

137

MARGARET MARON

and differences are too often settled with baseball bats,

knives, handguns, and the occasional frying pan.)

Between the building boom, and Colleton County’s

exploding population growth, fifty’s no longer an un-

usual number, even on a Monday morning after some

beautiful early spring weather. Here were the hungover

drunks, the druggies coming down from their various

highs, the incompetent burglars, the belligerent citizens

and aliens alike, with attitudes that hadn’t softened after

a night or two on a jail cot.

Coping with all this is one judge and one clerk. If

we’re lucky, we may have a fairly skillful translator on

hand for the whole session, but that’s about it.

North Carolina is forty-eighth in the country in its

funding of the whole court system, so take a guess

where that leaves its district court? Last year 239 dis-

trict court judges like me disposed of 2,770,951 cases.

While upper court judges are plowing through their

lighter load in air-conditioned tractors equipped with

cell phones, iPods, and hydraulic lifts, district court

judges are out in the hot sun, barefooted, following the

back end of a mule.

I worked straight through the morning without even

a bathroom break. Around 10:30, a clerk handed me a

note from Dwight. “Lunch here in my office?”

I sent word back that I’d be down at noon and man-

aged to gear it so that I actually recessed at 12:07.

Lunch in Dwight’s office when he’s buying tends not

to be soup or a healthy salad, so it was no surprise to

smell chopped onions and Texas Pete chili sauce as I

turned into his hallway.

Detectives Mayleen Richards and Jack Jamison were

138

HARD ROW

on their way out and we paused to speak to each other.

Like Kate, Richards had a new haircut, too. Her cinnamon-

colored hair still brushed her shoulders, but there was a

softer, more feminine look to the cut.

“Looks great,” I told her. “You didn’t get something

that uptown here in Dobbs, did you?”

“As a matter of fact I did,” she said. “There’s a new

stylist at the Cut ’n’ Curl.”

I made a face. “Too bad. That’s where I go when I

need a quick fix. Ethelene would kill me if I went to

someone else in the same shop.”

“How long since you were last there?” Richards said.

“I think the new girl might be her replacement.”

“Really? Thanks.”

New hairdo? New air of confidence? Heretofore she

could barely look me in the eye without turning brick

red.

“You give Richards a promotion or has she got a new

boyfriend?” I asked Dwight as soon as the door was

closed behind me.

He popped the tops on a couple of drink cans. “No

promotion.”

“Boyfriend, then,” I said. “Somebody here in the

courthouse?”

“Don’t ask me, shug. That’s Faye Myers’s depart-

ment. Dispatchers seem to keep up with that stuff.”

He handed over the sack from our local sandwich

shop. “I got extra napkins.”

“Thanks.” I took the chair beside his desk and un-

wrapped a hot dog, being careful not to let it drip on

my white wool skirt.

I know it’s full of nitrates and artificial coloring and

139

MARGARET MARON

probably a dozen other coronary-inducing additives,

but a frankfurter tucked into a soft roll with onions,

chili, and coleslaw is difficult to resist and I didn’t try.

“Cheers,” Dwight said, touching his can to mine.

“So how come you didn’t tell me that Buck Harris is

missing?”

“Huh?”

“Or did the sight of Dent Lee in your courtroom run

it right out of your head?” he asked sardonically.

I groaned. “Do you remember every comment I ever

made about every guy I ever lusted after?”

The corner of his lips twitched.

“If I’d realized I was going to wind up married to

you, I’d’ve kept my mouth shut when we used to hang

out together. You’ve never heard me say a single word

about Belle Byrd, have you? Or Claudia Ward or Mary

Nell Lee? Or Loretta Sawyer or—”

His grin was so wide at that point that I had to laugh,

too. He’d suckered me again. “You must have been

talking to Reid.”

“Yep.”

“Guess he’s in no hurry to have his client show up.

Have you seen the client’s girlfriend? Anyhow, why

should I have told you how some self-important mil-

lionaire keeps ditching his court dates? I will tell you

this, though. If he doesn’t come to court next week,

I’m going to hear the case without him and he can

whistle down the wind if he thinks I’ve acted unfairly.

Until then—”

I looked at him in sudden dismay as the last dime

finally dropped.

“Those body parts. Buck Harris?”

140

HARD ROW

He gave a grim nod. “It’s not a hundred percent pos-

itive, but it’s on up there in the nineties.” He finished

his first hot dog and started on the second. “Nobody

seems to have seen your missing Buck Harris since those

legs were found last week. He had a mole just below

his navel; so does the torso we found Friday night. His

navel was an outie and so is this.”

“His girlfriend—Flame Smith—does she know?”

“She’s the one told me about the mole and the ‘pro-

trusive umbilicus,’ as the ME put it. She contacted Reid

and they were both in this morning. We’re getting a

search warrant for the old Buckley place. That seems to

be the last place he was seen.”

“The old Buckley place,” I said slowly. “It’s on Ward

Dairy Road.”

“Yeah,” said Dwight.

That big bull of a man reduced to chunks of hacked-

off arms and legs? My hot dog suddenly turned to ashes.

I set it back on the paper plate and took a long swallow

from the drink can.

“You know this Smith woman?” he asked.

“Not really. Portland’s the one who introduced us

the other day. They used to work together down at the

beach. She was surprised to see Por here and I think

they were going to get in touch with each other, have

dinner or something.”

“How far along was Harris’s divorce?”

“It was final last month, but we’re still working on

the ED. There’s a lot of money, property, and real estate

to divide. That’s why Dent was there to testify.”

“Was it going amicably?”

“Not particularly. Mediation didn’t work for them.

141

MARGARET MARON

That’s why their case came to me. I can’t quote you

chapter and verse but the one time they were in court

together, you’d’ve needed a chainsaw to cut the hostil-

ity. They split hairs and argued every point. But what do

Pete and Reid care? If their clients want to waste time

sniping at each other and not cooperating, that’s just

more billable hours. Wednesday, though, Mrs. Harris

was furious that Flame was even there at all. Whether or

not she’s the primary reason they split, I get the impres-

sion that Mrs. Harris blames her for the divorce. You’ve

seen her.”

“Oh yes indeed,” said Dwight with just a little more

enthusiasm than I might have preferred.

“Mrs. Harris is fifty-two and wears every year on her

face. Flame Smith doesn’t look much over forty, does

she? Buck Harris wouldn’t be the first man to trade in

an old wife for a new model and try to give the back of

his hand to the old one.”

“Was she mad enough to do something about it?”

“You mean kill him and then butcher him like a

hog?”

“More people are killed by their loved ones than by

total strangers,” he reminded me.

“I only saw him the one time he came to court, but

yeah, her anger was pretty obvious. He was big, but she

is too. They say that in the early years, she was out on

the tractors, plowing and spraying and hoisting boxes

of vegetables right alongside him till they were making

enough to hire migrant labor for all the physical stuff,

so I imagine there’s a lot of muscle underneath those

extra pounds of fat.”

142

HARD ROW

“Kill him and she would get the whole company,”

Dwight said.

“Kill him before the divorce is final and then take

a dismissal of her ED claim, she would,” I corrected.

“Assuming rights of survival. At this point, though, the

ED will proceed as if he were still alive.”

“Really?”

“I’ll have to look it up. There’s a similar case on ap-

peal to the state supreme court but I’m pretty sure that’s

how it would work. But since they’re divorced—”

“When was it final?” he interrupted.

“Sometime within the last two weeks or so. I’d have

to check the files. I’m pretty sure it was a summary

judgment, so neither of them came to court. Reid just

handed me the judgment and I signed it, so it’s a done

deal.”

“Today’s March sixth. What with the cold weather

and no insect damage, the best guesstimate we have

for time of death is sometime between the morning of

Sunday, February nineteenth, when Ms. Smith said she

last spoke to him, and Wednesday the twenty-second,

two days before we found the legs. You gonna eat the

rest of that?”

I shook my head and the last third of my hot dog fol-

lowed his first two.

“Tonight we stop somewhere for something healthy,”

I warned.

He gave me a blank look.

“You haven’t forgotten have you? The Hurricanes?

You and me?”

“Is that tonight?”

“It is. Jessie and Emma are going to pick Cal up after

143

MARGARET MARON

school and keep him till we get home, so no getting

sidetracked, okay? You’ve got good people, darling.

Trust them. What’s the point of being a boss if you’re

going to roll out for every call?”

I finished my drink and stood to go. He stood, too.

“Wait, there’s a spot of chili on your tie.”

I tipped the carafe on his desk to wet a napkin and

sponged it off before it had a chance to stain.

“I’ll be finished by five or five-thirty,” I said. “That

gives you an extra ninety minutes. My car or your

truck?”

“You’ll come in early with me tomorrow?”

“Sure.” I laced my hands behind his neck and pulled

him down to my level. He smelled of mustard and chili

and Old Spice. “I’d come to Madagascar with you.”

“What’s in Madagascar?”

“Who cares? You want to go, I’ll go with you. As long

as you come with me to tonight’s game.”

He laughed and kissed me. “My truck. Five-thirty.

And don’t forget to find me that divorce date.”

144

C H A P T E R

17

Horace argued both sides, and wound up by saying “the city

is the best place for a rich man to live in; the country is the

best place for a poor man to die in.”

—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

Mayleen Richards

Monday Afternoon, March 6

% On the drive out to the farmhouse that Buck Harris

had inherited from his maternal grandfather, Jack

Jamison was unusually silent. Normally, the chubby-faced

detective would be throwing out a dozen theories, cheer-

fully speculating as to what they would find at the house,

formulating possible motives. For the last few days

though, he had seemed a million miles away and worry

lines had begun to settle between his eyebrows.

“Everything okay at home?” Mayleen Richards asked

him.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Baby okay?”

As a rule, the mere mention of Jack Junior, now called

Jay, was enough to get her colleague talking non-stop.

Today, all it got was an “Um.”

145

MARGARET MARON

“Guess Cindy’s got her hands full now that he’s start-

ing to crawl.”

“Yeah.”

It was a sour response and Mayleen backed off. If

Jack and Cindy were having marital problems, best she

stay out of it. She turned the heater down a notch and

concentrated on keeping up with Percy Denning, who

was in the car ahead of them.

“Her sister’s husband got a big raise back around

Christmas,” Jamison burst out suddenly. “They bought

a new house. New car. And now she’s told Cindy that

they’re going to have an in-ground swimming pool put

in this summer.”

He did not have to say more. Cindy and Jack lived

in a doublewide next door to his widowed mother.

Although Jack had never specifically said so, Mayleen

was fairly sure that he gave Mrs. Jamison some financial

help with her utility bills and car repairs in return for

using her well and septic tank.

“She knew what the county pays when she married

me.”

Knowing it’s one thing, Mayleen thought. Living on

it’s something else.

“She ever think about going back to work?”

“While Jay’s still nursing?” He sounded shocked at

the idea.

“I was just thinking that if she wants a bigger place

or—?”

“Not if it means leaving our son.”

Mayleen glanced over at him. “Well, then?”

“I could maybe get on with the Wake County sheriff ’s

department, but it wouldn’t pay that much more.”

146

HARD ROW

“Plus you’d lose any seniority,” she said. “Anyhow,

you’re happy here, aren’t you? Money’s not every-

thing.”

“Right,” he said with more sarcasm than she had ever

heard from him. “It’s just new houses, new cars, and

fancy swimming pools.” He sighed. “Police work’s all

I ever wanted to do. But if it won’t pay enough here,

then maybe I should—”

He broke off as they saw Denning flip on his turn

signal upon approaching two dignified stone columns

that marked a long driveway up to a much-remodeled

farmhouse.

The housekeeper was expecting them and opened

the door before they rang. Short and sturdy with dark

brown skin, wiry salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in

a bun, and intelligent brown eyes, Jincy Samuelson

wore a spotless white bib apron over a long-sleeved

blue denim dress. She brushed aside the search war-

rant they tried to give her and led them immediately to

her employer’s home office. Paneled in dark wood, the

room looked more like a decorator’s idea of a gentle-

man farmer’s office than a place where real work was

done by a roughneck, up-from-the-soil, self-made mil-

lionaire. The only authentic signs that he actually used

the room were a rump-sprung leather executive chair

behind the polished walnut desk, a couple of mounted

deer heads, a desktop littered with papers, and a framed

snapshot of a child who sat on a man’s lap as he drove

a huge tractor.

“That him?” Richards asked.

The housekeeper nodded. “And his daughter when

she was a little girl.”

147

MARGARET MARON

It was their first look at the victim’s face and the two

deputies stared long and hard at it. He was dressed in

sweaty work clothes, and only one hand was on the

steering wheel. The other arm was curved protectively

around the child who smiled up at him.

“He doesn’t want anybody to do anything in here

except run a dust cloth over the surfaces, vacuum the

rug, and wash the windows twice a year,” said Mrs.

Samuelson. “Once in a while his secretary from over in

New Bern might come by, but for the most part, he’s

the only one who uses this room. If you want to be sure

it’s just his fingerprints . . .”

“Not his bedroom or his bathroom?” Mayleen won-

dered aloud.

“Those rooms the maid or I clean regularly. Besides,”

she added with a small tight frown, “he occasionally

takes— took—company up there.”

Percy Denning had brought a small field kit and was

soon lifting prints from the desk items.

Dwight Bryant arrived while they were questioning

Mrs. Samuelson about Buck Harris’s usual routine. He

found them in the kitchen, a kitchen so immaculate that

it might never have cooked a meal or had grease pop

from a pan even though he could smell vanilla and the

rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Heavy-duty stain-

less steel appliances and cherry cabinets lined the walls

and the floor was paved with terra cotta tiles. Only the

long walnut table that sat in the middle of the room

looked old, so old that its edges had been rounded

smooth over the years and there were deep scratches in

the polished top. He would later learn that it was, as he

suspected, the same kitchen table that had belonged to

148

HARD ROW

Buck Harris’s great-grandparents and that it had stood

in this same spot for over a hundred years.

While Denning labored in Harris’s office, Richards

and Jamison were enjoying coffee and homemade cin-

namon rolls at that table.

Dwight joined them in time to hear Mrs. Samuelson

tell how Mrs. Harris had originally hired her some six

or eight years earlier to live in an apartment over the ga-

rage out back and act as both housekeeper and general

caretaker.

“Sid Lomax manages this farm and the migrant camp.

Whenever I need someone to do the grounds or help

with the heavy work here in the house, he’ll lend me a

couple of Mexicans.”

She told them that the Harrises lived together in New

Bern before the separation and divorce. “But this house

is the one he loves best—it was his grandfather’s—and

he wanted it kept so that he could walk right in out of

the fields if he felt like staying over. She always called

if they were both coming, but a lot of times he’d just

show up by himself and expect fresh sheets on the bed,

the rooms aired, and for me to have a meal ready to

eat pretty quick, just like his grandmother did for him.

I always keep something in the freezer that I can stick

in the microwave. I don’t look anything like his old

granny, but he loved my stuffed peppers and they freeze

up good. Meatloaf, too.”

“So he was a demanding employer?” Mayleen asked.

Mrs. Samuelson smoothed the bib of her crisp white

apron. “That’s what he was paying me for. I’ve worked

for worse.”

149

MARGARET MARON

“And you went on working for him after he and Mrs.

Harris separated?”

“She asked me to come with her to New Bern, but

we both knew that was because she wanted to mess it

up here for him.” A bit of gold gleamed in her smile.

“Both my sons are just down the road and so are my

grandbabies. Nothing in New Bern worth moving there

for. Besides, when I told him she wanted me to go, he

raised me a hundred a month if I’d stay.”

Dwight’s phone buzzed and as soon as he’d checked

the small screen, he excused himself to take Deborah’s

call. “I checked the records, Dwight. The Harris divorce

became final on the twentieth of February.”

Twentieth of February. The day after Flame Smith

said she last spoke to him.

He turned back to Mrs. Samuelson and said, “When

did you see him last?”

“Saturday morning, three weeks ago,” she answered

promptly as she set a mug of coffee in front of him. It

was so robust that he had to reach for the milk pitcher.

“Saturday the eighteenth. Reason I remember is that’s

my sister’s birthday. On weekends, I only work a half

day on Saturday. I gave him his breakfast as usual and I

left vegetable soup and a turkey sandwich for his lunch.

When I came in on Monday morning, I saw by the mess

he’d left in the kitchen that he’d fixed himself breakfast

on Sunday morning, but that was the last meal he ate

here.”

“Did he sleep here Sunday night?”

She thought a moment, then frowned. “I don’t know.

I made the bed while he was eating breakfast and it had