High Country Fall

CHAPTER 23

I was asleep before the twins returned to the condo, nevertheless, they were up before me next morning. I think they deliberately dragged themselves out of bed early so they could rag on me the moment I stuck my head in the kitchen.

“You kissed him!” June said. “I saw you.”

I shrugged. “And?”

May grabbed my left hand. “Doesn’t this ring mean a thing to you?”

I reclaimed my hand and poured a mug of coffee. The diamond flashed in the sunlight streaming through the east window and I looked at it thoughtfully. “I think it’s real pretty, don’t you?”

“Deborah!”

“Be serious,” said June. “How would you like it if you caught Dwight kissing someone else?”

“Dwight didn’t catch me,” I pointed out. “You were the ones spying. If you saw us kiss, then you also saw us get in our own cars and drive off in different directions, so drop it, okay?”

Truth to tell, the whole incident had kept me tossing and turning during the night. What did it mean that I couldn’t respond to a man as smart and handsome as Lucius Burke? Lafayette County’s district attorney was as luscious as his nickname, virile and sexy, with green eyes to die for. I’ve always been a sucker for green eyes. My bigamous first marriage was to a green-eyed man, and the first guy to really break my heart? He’d had green eyes, too. So what was going on here?

(“Is it that promise you made your daddy?” asked the preacher. “How you were going to be true to Dwight?”)

(The pragmatist sniffed. “Get real. It’s not just green-eyed men you’ve played the fool with over the years.”)

For a moment a snatch of my favorite Waylon Jennings CD played in my head: “… been a whole lot of good women shed a tear for a brown-eyed handsome man …”

A knock on the door abruptly interrupted my uneasy thoughts.

When May opened it, the girl who entered looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t peg her till June said, “Hey, Trish. You’re out early.”

“School,” she said, making a face as she looked at her watch. “I can only stay about ten minutes. Carla said you wanted to ask me about Dad and Mr. Norman?”

She registered who I was about the same time I made her.

“Aren’t you the judge from Danny’s hearing Monday?”

“She’s our cousin,” May explained as I nodded.

“And you’re Trish Ledwig, right?” I said.

“It’s okay,” said June. “She’s on our side. Sort of.”

“Pretend I’m not here,” I said. “In fact, I’ll leave if you like.”

“That’s okay.” She sat down at the table across from me, and when the twins offered her coffee, asked if she could have a Coke instead.

Caffeine’s caffeine whether it fizzes or steams.

I studied her over the rim of my mug as she popped the top of the Coke can. Like her sister, she had long dark hair and hazel eyes, and a pretty heart-shaped face. She wore well-cut jeans, boots, and a brown leather jacket over a buttercup yellow jersey. There were tiny gold studs in her ears, and a small gold cross hung from a thin chain. No makeup except for a dash of lipstick.

“Do you know what’s going to happen to Danny?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t.”

“There’s a deputy up at the house right now asking about when some stuff was delivered. He even made me dig out the envelope my CDs came in.”

“You still had it?” I asked, surprised.

She looked equally surprised. “You know about it?”

“Those pictures they showed me in court Monday,” I reminded her. “I noticed some mailers lying on a table by the deck door.”

Enlightenment crossed her young face. “So that’s why they’re just now asking.”

“But those pictures were taken two weeks ago,” I said.

“Longer.” Her voice was sad. “Dad was killed sixteen days ago.”

“And you still had the mailer your CD came in?”

“They’re all still there.” She explained how she’d forgotten about the order she’d placed till last night, when she’d thought to check the tracking number. “Mom just gathered them up that day and stuck them in Dad’s study.”

“Do you remember the time on the tracking page?” I asked.

“I printed it out for the deputy—two thirty-eight.”

“Are packages routinely left on the deck?”

Trish shook her head. “They’re usually leaning against the front door if nobody’s home when they come.”

The twins appreciated the significance of what Trish was saying, but they were more interested in learning why her dad’s friendship with Norman Osborne seemed to have cooled in the month or so before his death.

“I really don’t know,” Trish told them, “but I’ve been thinking about it ever since Carla asked me. I did remember a phone call that Sunday, though. The day before he died.”

“Osborne called him?” May asked.

“No, Dad called Mr. Norman. See, what happened was that Bobby and Joyce Ashe stopped by for drinks. Dad was still freaking about Carla and Danny so I stayed in my room till after they were gone, but when I went downstairs to ask Dad about my car—it was in the shop and I was having to get him or Mom to drive me places—he was on the phone in the living room and I heard him say, ‘I’m sorry, Norman, but I can’t stand by and let you do this to them.’ And then he said, ‘I don’t care if it is legal, it’s not ethical.’ Then he saw me and told Mr. Norman he’d call him later and hung up.”

“Legal but not ethical,” June mused.

“You don’t know what that was about?” asked May.

“No, but whatever it was might not’ve been why they hadn’t seen much of each other before, because Dad sounded like he’d just found out about something he didn’t want Mr. Norman to do, not like it was something he’d known all along.”

“Who was the ‘them’?” I said. “The Ashes?”

“I don’t know. I’ll try asking Mom again, but …” Her voice trailed off and the twins exchanged knowing glances.

Having seen Tina Ledwig’s capacity for vodka last evening, I had a feeling I knew what Trish’s “but” meant.

She checked her watch. “Time’s up. Gotta go. If Mom says anything, I’ll tell you. It sucks that she won’t help Carla hire a real detective. I just hope you can figure it out because it’s eating her and Danny up. Dad could be tight-assed about things, but he would’ve come around and Carla knows that.”

She grabbed her Coke and left.

I followed her example and headed for my morning shower before the twins could get on my case again.

Wednesday seemed to be Lafayette County’s day for assaults on females and domestic violence in general, but at lunchtime I didn’t have to go out because George Underwood appeared at my chamber door with a thermos of hot homemade vegetable beef soup.

“What’s this in aid of?” I asked, breathing in the hearty aroma as he opened the thermos and filled two mugs for both of us.

“A thank-you for noticing those packages,” he said. “We talked to the UPS guy that made the delivery that afternoon. Looks like Mrs. Ledwig’s alibi’s not as tight as we thought it was. She matches the description of the woman he gave the packages to. He says she was walking out to her car when he got there, so he handed her the things and the computerized scanner automatically entered the time—thirty-eight minutes after the bartender says she came into the club.”

“I take it you’ll be speaking to the bartender again?”

Underwood nodded. “I called the club. He comes on duty at one.”

Afternoon court was made interesting by the fact that I had caught on to the flow and rhythm of William Deeck’s methods. Yesterday, for instance, I noticed that he would present me with a string of egregious check-bouncers, habitual shoplifters, or repeat thieves, then slide in someone who seemed basically decent or who had yielded to temptation for the first time. His prosecution would be just as rigorous, but the contrast between defendants was such that most judges would automatically be more inclined to listen sympathetically to whatever justifications a court-appointed attorney might offer.

If Deeck realized that I knew, he didn’t let on by so much as a raised eyebrow.

It was late in the afternoon. We had just finished four trashy cases of domestic violence, men and women hammering on each other. The first, second, and fourth were men who had punched out their women. The third was a woman who’d thrown a kettle of boiling water on her man because he drank up all her bourbon—“And then damned if he didn’t smoke my last cigarette, too!”

Not a marriage license among them and I’ve quit trying to decide whether or not this is a good thing.

Then Deeck presented me with something completely different: the State v. Richard Granger, a tall, lanky man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties. Granger was accused of hunting turkeys out of season up on Laudermilk Ridge, a rather wild and isolated area. Testifying against him with great relish was an equally raw-boned neighbor, Hank Smith, who differed in appearance mainly by the large, slightly soiled bandage over his left ear.

In exchange for Smith’s testimony, the State had agreed not to prosecute him for hunting out of season himself.

I listened in bemusement as Deeck laid out the facts of the case. I’ve been told by one of my colleagues over in Hickory that the real mountain seasons aren’t spring, summer, autumn, or winter, but rather deer, bear, quail, and turkey. Unfortunately for Granger, turkey season ended back in May.

“Nevertheless, we will show the court that Mr. Granger went up to Laudermilk last month to shoot one. Call Mr. Hank Smith to the stand.”

Mr. Smith came forward, laid his hand on the Bible, and soon launched into his account of how he’d been up on the ridge himself that morning when he spied Granger coming up the trail with his shotgun.

“I knowed right away what he was after. If it was squirrels he was wanting, he could’ve bagged hisself one without never leaving his yard. And he’d be carrying his twenty-two, not his twelve-gauge.”

Smith was such a natural-born storyteller that for a moment he seemed to forget that he was sitting in a witness box instead of on somebody’s front porch. Caught up in the telling of the tale, he let his admiration of Granger’s talent almost outweigh his grudge over the personal cost to himself.

“Dick’s a champion turkey caller. You a tom, you’d swear it was the J. Lo of turkey hens a-promising you the best night of your life. Ain’t never seen the day he couldn’t call one up. And sure enough, one come a-walking right out into the clearing up above me, heading on down to where Dick was hiding. ’Bout the time I raised up to shoot, he let fire himself. Winged me right on the ear here.”

In other words, he’d planned to poach from the poacher and lost part of an ear for his sins.

“Mr. Granger’s not being charged with assault?” I asked Deeck.

“No, Your Honor. It was clearly an accident.” He paused, then added dryly, “The State feels that had Mr. Granger been aiming at Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith would probably be missing a head now, not merely an ear.”

“I thought I was up there all by myself,” Granger volunteered, nodding vigorous agreement. “Right when I was pulling the trigger, Hank here popped up like a full-blown rhododendron. I do purely hate it happened like that, ma’am.”

I suppressed a smile and told Granger he’d have a chance to speak his piece later.

As Deeck continued questioning Smith, Granger leaned over and spoke into his court-appointed attorney’s ear. They conferred for a moment, then the attorney rose and said, “Your Honor, at this time, my client would like to change his plea to guilty with mitigating circumstances and throw himself on the mercy of the court.”

“Very well,” I said. “You may step down, Mr. Smith. Mr. Granger?”

The man stood to address me with simple dignity. He wore a denim jacket over a flannel shirt and jeans. Jacket, shirt, and jeans had been washed so often that they were thin and faded, but they were immaculate and had a just-ironed look to them. Seated on the bench behind him was a woman with a worried face. Her hair was almost completely white and her black slacks were as faded as his jeans, but her soft blue cardigan looked brand-new. It had mock pearl buttons and pearl beaded flowers around the yoke. If asked, I’d have to say it was probably a gift from a dutiful relative who didn’t see her very often. It reminded me of the sort of sweater some of my older brothers would give Aunt Zell for her birthday or Christmas.

“Your Honor, ma’am, my wife’s got a bad heart and I ain’t been able to work myself since I hurt my back at the chip mill three years ago. They didn’t have no insurance on anybody there and the government says I ain’t entitled to workman’s compensation, so the onliest way we got to feed ourselves is from our little garden patch and with what I can catch or kill. Now I know it’s against the law to shoot turkeys in September, but, ma’am, it’s got to where it ain’t legal to shoot nothing but crows from May to October and I ain’t never been real partial to eating crow.”

“Me either,” I told him sympathetically.

I thought of the Tuzzolinos from yesterday’s court. A Coral Gables dentist and a Lafayette County mill worker. Both men disabled, but what a difference in the way they tried to provide for their wives. No key-man insurance for the Grangers of the world. No health insurance, precious few safety nets.

Okay, so maybe Deeck was trying to manipulate my emotions, but he didn’t really need to. I’m a softy for self-reliant throwbacks like Granger. Squirrels and rabbits kept my daddy’s family alive when he was a boy, and he still fumes about the foolishness of slapping a season on what he calls “tree rats.”

“The law is the law,” my internal preacher sternly reminded me. “You don’t get to choose which laws to enforce and you can’t let him off scot-free.”

“No, but you can come pretty damn close,” said the pragmatist.

Instead of a fine or jail time such as I’d given the Tuzzolinos, I gave him a PJC—prayer for judgment continued—on condition he not kill turkeys out of season and that he pay the hundred-dollar court costs.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said the attorney.

Deeck didn’t thank me but a small satisfied smile lurked in the corner of his mouth as he called his next case.