Long Upon the Land

by Margaret Maron

  “A hundred acres?”

  “A hundred and fourteen, actually. Why do you ask? Don’t tell me you and Zell want to start managing it?”

  “If we did, could we make enough to live on?”

  “Lots of men do, honey, but it’s hard dirty work. You’d have to hire someone and buy equipment.” He smiles. “You’d need a mule, too. Better to leave things as they are. I really don’t think Ash would want Zell messing with it, do you?”

  “Probably not,” she agrees and goes upstairs to have a long talk with her sister.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The law is holy, and the commandment holy and just and good.

  — Romans 7:12

  Cal usually rides his bike down our long driveway to the road every morning and brings back the papers so that we can read them over breakfast. Dwight had warned me that the Clarion planned to make snide insinuations, so I was not surprised to read that the body of Victor “Vick” Earp had been discovered by “Kezzie Knott, a prominent local landowner. Mr. Knott is the father of District Court Judge Deborah Knott and father-in-law of Major Dwight Bryant, lead investigator in this case.”

  Melanie Ashworth was quoted as saying that Sheriff Bo Poole had ordered a full investigation, but somehow the Clarion made it sound as if the investigation might have been a little less full had he not specifically ordered it.

  The News and Observer still leans Democrat and Vick Earp’s murder was given only a brief paragraph below the fold on an inside page, the same as any other incident of this sort. No mention of our names.

  “They don’t have a dog in this fight,” Dwight said. “Unless the Clarion can come up with some real dirt or we make an arrest, this is probably the last mention.”

  “No sign of Earp’s truck?” I asked.

  He shook his head, drained the last of his coffee, and stood to leave. “What’s on your docket today?”

  “The usual,” I said. “I’m scheduled for first appearances, whoever got themselves arrested this weekend.”

  “I thought you said you were going to be doing mostly family court.”

  “Soon as our calendars can be reconfigured,” I said. “Maybe by Wednesday.”

  “What about you, buddy?” he asked Cal, who was absorbed in the comics page. “You and your cousins doing anything interesting today?”

  “I think we’re supposed to pick tomatoes for Grandma this morning. She wants to can spaghetti sauce.” He frowned at the comics and then turned the page to me. “I don’t get this one, Mom.”

  It took me a moment to get the esoteric pun myself and we both smiled as I explained it.

  The house phone rang while Dwight was filling his travel mug and he paused to see who it was.

  “Deborah?” I immediately recognized his sister-in-law’s voice. “Oh, good. I was hoping to catch you before you or Dwight headed over with Cal.”

  “Something wrong, Kate?”

  “Not really. Erin’s dad was in a car wreck. He’s going to be okay, but she wants to go be with him and her mom in Greensboro till he’s out of the hospital.”

  Erin Gladstone is Kate’s live-in nanny who aspires to write children’s books. I immediately started running down a checklist of which niece or nephew might be free to watch Cal and his cousins for a few days, but Kate stopped me. “Rob left for Wilmington last night. He has to be in court first thing this morning for a client with a messy custody battle, but friends of ours have a condo at Wrightsville and they’re not using it again till Labor Day, so I thought I’d drive down with the children. Cal, too, if that’s okay?”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths? Right on the beach? I’m sure.”

  Cal’s eyes lit up when I relayed the invitation and I handed Dwight the phone to let him and Kate work out the logistics while I helped Cal pack his duffel bag.

  He had to hunt for his bathing suit, which was drying on a line in the garage, and his flip-flops were so far under his bed that once he found them, he had to get a broom to fish them out.

  “Don’t forget your toothbrush,” I said as I packed shorts, T-shirts, socks, underwear, and other odds and ends he might need for the rest of the week.

  All this time, his little canine shadow danced around our feet and Cal gave me a hopeful look. “You think Aunt Kate’ll let me take Bandit?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said, “and please don’t even ask her. Besides, do you really want to have to scoop his poop off the beach all week?”

  He shook his head. “Forgot about that.” He dropped to his knees to pet the terrier, who doesn’t have to be monitored out here in the country. Not with so many bushes and weedy places. “Sorry, boy.”

  He and Dwight had built a dog run out under some shady bushes so that Bandit wouldn’t have to stay caged up in the house while we were gone during the day.

  “Go ahead and put him outside,” I said. “And make sure there’s fresh water in his bowl.”

  I finished his packing and took the duffel to the kitchen. “Want to let’s ride into Dobbs together?” I asked Dwight.

  “Wish we could,” he said, “but I have to swing over to Cotton Grove. “See if I can catch up with Earp’s Uncle Joby.”

  “Is that who his uncle is? Joby Earp?”

  “Yeah. Why? You know him?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said slowly, “but the name does sound familiar.”

  “Well, Earp’s widow did say they used to live out this way somewhere.”

  “That’s probably it,” I said.

  Still…?

  The sheriff’s department is located in the basement of the courthouse and when my morning session was over, I went down to see if Dwight was free for lunch. He was still out in the county, Mayleen Richards told me. Her baby wasn’t due till Thanksgiving, but we were all beginning to wonder if she was expecting twins. She and her husband didn’t plan to announce the sex before it was born, so her fellow officers had started a pool with fifty percent going to the baby.

  There had been a lot of initial awkwardness between us in the past, but that had long since dissipated.

  “Dwight told me about Vick Earp’s record,” I said, “but I didn’t check to see if I handled any of his earlier cases other than that domestic violence order. Any chance I could look at it again?”

  “Sure thing,” she said and immediately pulled up a copy.

  All were relatively minor offenses stretching back years—assault, driving while impaired, communicating threats, and, in a case that went back to when he was a teenager, felony speeding to elude arrest and, oh yes, possession of untaxed whiskey.

  So that’s what had triggered my unconscious to take another look.

  (“And that’s probably when he used to live out there near the farm,” said the pragmatist, my hard-edged internal voice of reason. “Was he delivering some of your daddy’s whiskey?”)

  (“Now don’t go jumping to conclusions,” warned the preacher who shared headroom with him. “Your daddy’s not the only one who was making whiskey thirty years ago. And you don’t know that he was still at it then either.”)

  (“Right,” the pragmatist said cynically.)

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting in my old office at the law firm of Lee, Stephenson and Brewer with my cousin and senior partner, John Claude Lee. Close as Portland Brewer and her husband Avery are to Dwight and me, I was glad that both of them were at lunch. No sign of my cousin Reid either. He’s the current Stephenson of the firm.

  Their receptionist and legal secretary was on her way out to lunch, too, but she’s still nosy as ever and offered coffee or a soft drink in the hope of satisfying her curiosity as to why I wanted to talk to John Claude, who was having lunch at his desk. Sliced turkey on a china plate. Iced tea in a thin glass goblet—John Claude’s idea of an informal lunch.

  He thanked her with his usual old-fashioned courtesy, “and please pull the door to when you leave.”

  Back when I was
still a partner, I had looked up Daddy’s files. Contrary to what people might think, most moonshining arrests never end in jail time. Stills are destroyed, the whiskey and mash dumped on the ground, then the moonshiner goes to court, pays a fine, and goes on his way unless the feds get involved or some sheriff wants to make a point about law and order on his watch. Destroying a maker’s copper still and dumping his mash was as punishing as jail time.

  The files showed me that Daddy was never arrested again for making it after he married Mother. But more files indicated that he’d gone from maker to distributor—that he bankrolled others and he paid their fines. If one of his suppliers was convicted and did receive a sentence, he made sure the wife and children were taken care of while that man was away.

  I remember being surprised by some of those names when I first read the files, men who are now pillars of the community. What I couldn’t remember was if Joby Earp was one of those names.

  When Sherry left us alone, I popped the top on the tomato juice I had picked up on my way over and inserted a straw.

  John Claude winced. “Let me get you a glass, Deborah.”

  “This is fine, and I won’t tell Miss Manners if you won’t,” I said, not wishing to waste time on formalities. “Are you still representing people for Daddy?”

  “People?” he hedged.

  “People,” I said firmly. We both knew I meant people connected with white lightning, whether or not they were directly connected to Daddy.

  He swears he hasn’t made a drop since Mother died. But he’s admitted to me that he used to lie to her about it and I have no illusions that he wouldn’t lie to me. Besides, I knew for a fact that Robert and some of my brothers used to cut firewood for pocket money and that not all the wood got burned in residential fireplaces.

  John Claude won’t lie, but neither would he break attorney-client privilege.

  “Then tell me about the Earps,” I said. “Vick Earp.”

  “Who?”

  “The man whose body was dumped out at the farm Saturday morning. He used to live near us and when he was fifteen he was convicted of driving without a license and trying to outrun a state trooper. He was transporting moonshine.”

  “I believe your grandfather handled that case,” John Claude said carefully.

  “And Joby Earp? Vick Earp’s uncle?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did my grandfather represent him, too?”

  “Not after—” He broke off abruptly.

  “Not after what?”

  “Really, Deborah. This is something you should be asking your father. Now unless there’s something else, I have work to do.”

  Resigned, I stood to go. He stood, too, and even came around the desk to give me a warm hug. “We miss you here in the office, honey. Wouldn’t be the worst thing if you lost your next election.”

  “Bite your tongue!” I said, hugging him back.

  On my walk back to the courthouse, I couldn’t help thinking back to Saturday morning. Dwight had asked us all if we recognized Vick Earp.

  My brothers and I had said no, but Daddy had said, “He was laying facedown in the dirt when I got here.”

  Was that a denial or an evasion?

  CHAPTER

  9

  The laborer is worthy of his hire.

  — Luke 10:7

  Dwight Bryant—Tuesday morning

  When Dwight got to his brother’s house, Mary Pat and Jake were waiting for their cousin on the wide planked porch, excited about spending a week at the beach. As Dwight set Cal’s duffel bag on the wide wooden steps, Kate came to the door with R.W. in her arms. His nephew had Rob’s red hair and green eyes along with Rob’s penchant for sticking his nose into everything. Drawers were made to be opened and their contents dumped on the floor. Chairs were meant to be pushed over to tables, counters, and shelves so that he could climb up and explore.

  The toddler struggled to get down from Kate’s arms but she handed him, protesting and wriggling, over to Dwight. “He’s into everything this morning. As soon as I put something in a suitcase and turn my back, he pulls it out. Miss Emily said she and Bessie would keep him while I pack the car and the kids pick her tomatoes, so would you?”

  “Sure thing,” Dwight said, slinging R.W. over his shoulder.

  His mother’s house was only a few hundred feet down the road, so he let the older children ride in back while he held R.W. on his lap to drive that short distance.

  Miss Emily met them on her back porch. Her short hair was more white than red now but it still frizzed all over her head as she gave out buckets and pointed the grandchildren, even R.W., toward her tomato patch.

  “Y’all gonna make enough spaghetti sauce to share?” Dwight asked.

  “Don’t we always?” his mother said. “Bessie and I plan to put up enough for us and you and Rob and your sisters, too. Hasn’t it been a perfect summer for tomatoes?”

  He followed his small mother into the kitchen where Bessie Stewart was busy at the food processor, mincing a pile of onions, oregano, and basil. She was as thin and neat in a summer print dress and spotless white apron as his mother was plump and exuberant in bright orange shorts and a stained orange top. When Emily Wallace married Calvin Bryant and moved to the farm, she found her childhood friend married to Cal’s tenant farmer and already the mother of two. Bessie Stewart tried to teach her all that a farm wife needed to know, but after Cal was killed in a tractor accident and hail decimated the tobacco crop two years in a row, it was Bessie who pushed her back into teaching, “’Cause you never going to be no farmer, I don’t care how long you live on one.”

  It was Bessie who delivered Dwight when a hurricane blocked the roads with fallen trees and downed power lines and she’d kept a soft spot in her heart for him ever since. “Come give me a hug,” she said now, “but I can’t hug you back because my hands have onions and garlic all over them.”

  Despite air-conditioning, the kitchen was steamy from pots of boiling water where the two women were sterilizing several dozen Mason jars. It looked like a lot of work to Dwight.

  After half a lifetime as a teacher and then principal at Zachary Taylor High School, his mother had finally retired in June.

  “I thought you were going to take it easy this summer,” Dwight said. “Sit in a swing and catch up on your reading.”

  “I’m doing plenty of that,” she said, gesturing to a stack of books on a chair next to the door. “Those go back on the bookmobile tomorrow and I’ve put a real hurting on that pile beside my bed.”

  “You getting close to finding out who killed the Earp boy?” asked Bessie.

  “Did you know him?”

  “Not to say know him, but we know who he is. Miss Earla raised him. Or tried to raise him. Always had a chip on his shoulder, didn’t he, Em’ly?”

  “Big as a woodpile,” she agreed. “He and his brother both. Can’t blame them, though. Not with Joby Earp as a role model and Earla Earp too scared to say boo to him.”

  “His wife said they used to live out here,” said Dwight. “Where exactly?”

  “Over off Grimes Road. Earps used to have right much land out there. In fact that might have been Earp land where he was found.”

  Bessie nodded. “Part of what Mr. Kezzie owns now. Used to be a hundred acres or more, I think, but Vick Earp’s granddaddy started drinking it up years ago and his uncle finished it off when Vick and Tyler were just boys. They stayed on as tenants for a while, but Mr. Joby didn’t like being told what to do and after Mr. Kezzie cut him loose, they moved over to Cotton Grove.” She opened a cabinet door and gestured toward the top shelf. “Hand me down that box of jar rings, honey.”

  “Cut him loose?” asked Dwight as he turned to reach for the box. “Was there bad blood between them?”

  “Well, you know how it is when men get to butting heads over the best way to do things,” his mother said, cutting her eyes in warning to Bessie, who looked abashed as she realized how Dwight might think her words provide
d Mr. Kezzie with a motive.

  “When was all this? I don’t remember the Earp boys and they’re only a little older than me.”

  “Oh, they were gone by the time you got to high school,” his mother said.

  “Sounds like he missed it, though,” said Dwight. “Vick Earp’s widow said he used to bring her out to Black Gum Branch when they were courting. She said he used to talk about trying to get back into farming but that they’d lost the family land and could never afford to buy more.”

  Bessie rolled her eyes and his mother made a soft scornful sound.

  “What?”

  “Just never saw any Earps really work at farming,” Emily said, a slight emphasis on farming that passed over Dwight’s head. As he opened the back door to let Cal in with the first bucket of tomatoes, she and Bessie exchanged a knowing look.

  Out at Rolling Vista, no car was in the yard and no one answered his knock on the Earp trailer door, so Dwight drove on over to speak to Rosalee Earp again. He was not surprised to see Marisa Young’s minivan parked under the carport. There was a spray of white carnations on the front door and several other cars lined the drive. He knew that Vick Earp’s body had been released but he wasn’t sure what sort of funeral was planned or when.

  “This afternoon at two,” Miss Young told him when she opened the door. Despite the heat, she wore a long-sleeved black silk shirt. Beyond her, Dwight could see that the small living room was crowded with somber-faced people similarly dressed.

  “Where?” Dwight asked.

  “At our church. Mount Sinai.”

  “Then I won’t bother her now,” said Dwight. “Tell her I’ll come by tomorrow.”

  Back in his truck, he called Ray, who was still at the office. “You check out Tyler Earp’s other roommate yet?”