Designated Daughters

by Margaret Maron

  Cal was in a ferment of excitement because he’d talked me out of waiting till Father’s Day for the unveiling. Annie Sue and Reese managed to walk the pig sign in to that back wall with the rest of the neon without Dwight noticing, because he was busy basting the chickens. My sisters-in-law kept him distracted while the signs were tested to make sure they worked, then Reese covered them with a tarp till sundown.

  Someone must have called over to Dobbs, because Will and Amy showed up with Herman and Nadine in their backseat, along with ice cream and some cheap champagne.

  “Hey, I’m not breaking a bottle of Dom Pérignon on a shack,” he said when I called him on it.

  Herman can walk a few steps if assisted and he transferred from the car to Isabel’s golf cart. He had brought his guitar and I saw Daddy’s fiddle case on the seat of his truck, so there would be music later. Several of us had been in for swims and the deck railing held an assortment of damp towels drying in the late afternoon sun.

  By the time the chickens and sausages came off the grill a little after five, everyone had heard how Jacob died and that Dwight and his people were no closer to learning why Aunt Rachel had been smothered. Doris, Bel, and Nadine had persuaded themselves that we might never know what innocuous remark had triggered her murder, but that reminded them of an article in the day’s News & Observer.

  Dr. Richard Howell had delivered the commencement address at one of the local universities, which had also awarded him an honorary doctorate for his generous donations to pediatric units in the area.

  “I reckon he’ll go to his grave mourning them two little baby girls burning up like that,” said Doris.

  “Such a good man,” said Bel.

  For some reason, Amy, who was standing nearby, rolled her eyes at that, but said nothing, and no one else seemed to have noticed.

  Nadine insisted on saying grace, then lines formed on either side of the serving table. I had made a huge bowl of potato salad with potatoes scratched out of our garden. The bowl is about seventeen inches in diameter, a wedding gift from Pam and Vernon Owens over at Jugtown, who know what a big family I have. I saw Barbara eyeing it with interest.

  “Thou shalt not covet,” I told her.

  “Not for me,” she said. “For Karen.”

  I laughed. “Karen saw it at the wedding and it almost went home in her suitcase.”

  With so many teenage appetites, not to mention Haywood’s, the food evaporated like dew on a July morning. Dwight had saved me a drumstick and there were lots of salads and vegetables left, so I filled my plate and took it over to one of the quilted moving pads we spread on the grass whenever we run out of lawn chairs.

  As the late afternoon wound down toward sunset, Daddy rosined his bow and began to play a bluegrass classic.

  “Rachel always liked that one,” he said and played it through again while the rest of us remembered how she used to enjoy our monthly get-togethers at the barbecue house.

  As one old favorite melted into another and the mood began to lighten, I was not surprised when Haywood and Isabel joined in on fiddle and banjo, nor that Will had brought his guitar, but it delighted me to see Reese pull out his harmonica and tell Cal to run get his. As long as he was going up to the house, I asked him to bring my guitar down for Stevie, who’s better with it than I am. Cal’s a little shy about playing in front of others because he misses the right chord three tries out of five, but Reese is teaching him and the others tolerate it because he blows very softly. Emma and Ruth both play piano and both were once again swearing they were going to learn to play something more portable.

  “How ’bout a piccolo?” Lee teased.

  “Or a recorder?” said Annie Sue, who doesn’t play an instrument but sings like an angel.

  A.K. hadn’t brought his drums, of course, but he and Jane Ann were beating time with wood blocks from the scrap pile, and Annie Sue shared out small plastic boxes of screws and wire nuts from the bowels of her truck. They almost sounded like castanets or tambourines when the others shook them. Daddy looked pleased when they all finished “Gingham Dresses” on the same beat. “Y’all get any better and we might have to go to Nashville. Try out for the Grand Ole Opry.”

  “The Knott Family Players,” said Haywood. “We ought to make us a YouTube video.”

  For some reason, the idea that Haywood could use a computer or even knew about YouTube tickled Will and Zach, which offended Haywood so much he put down his fiddle and declared it was time for cake and ice cream.

  While the Knott Family Players took a break, I wound up beside Amy, and not by chance. Curiosity’s an itch I always have to scratch.

  “What’ve you got against Richard Howell?” I asked her quietly.

  She looked surprised. “Me? Nothing. Why?”

  I shrugged. “You rolled your eyes when Bel said he was such a good man.”

  “I did?”

  “You did.”

  “Well—” She hesitated. “No, Bel’s right, Deborah. Dr. Howell is a good man.”

  “But?”

  Again that hesitation. “I don’t know. It’s just that he likes for everyone to know what a good man he is. God knows I’m not religious but you remember how in the Bible Jesus said to do your good deeds and your praying in secret?”

  (Religious or not, anyone who’s spent the first twelve years of life in a Southern Baptist Sunday school never ever quite forgets the lessons learned.)

  “But didn’t he also say not to hide your light under a bushel?” I murmured. “Let it shine?”

  “Jesus didn’t have to tell Richard Howell that,” she said. “He likes his name in the paper and he likes his name shining on any bronze plaque. The Anne Peterson Howell Pediatrics Wing at the hospital. The Janice Howell Mayer Memorial Burn Unit. I walk past those plaques every day. Then there’s the Emily Celeste and Mary Beth Mayer Memorial Scholarships out at the community college, and let us not forget the Anne Peterson Howell fountain in front of the hospital.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “Petty of me, isn’t it? But he just strikes me as someone who’s always working on his obituary, making sure the world’s going to remember who he was and what he did.”

  “Anne Peterson Howell,” I said. “Was that his grandmother?”

  Amy nodded.

  Before I could ask if she’d been kin to that Peterson from the Makely area who ran for lieutenant governor last time, Cal came running up, his eyes shining with mischief.

  “Annie Sue wants to know if we’re ready to show Dad the signs.”

  “Sure,” I said. For once, I had my cell phone in my pocket and I turned it on as Cal and I took Dwight by the hand and led him over to the pond shed. When Reese threw the switch and that neon pig started trotting, I was ready.

  The look on Dwight’s face is preserved for the ages.

  CHAPTER

  29

  Nothing which comes in the course of nature can seem evil.

  — Cicero

  Monday morning was Memorial Day, a holiday for the courts as well, so I changed the sheets on our beds, did two loads of laundry, and made a chocolate cake while Cal cleaned the bathrooms and Dwight finished cutting the grass. After lunch we collected Mary Pat and Jake and drove over to Dobbs for the Memorial Day parade. Everyone who’s ever worn a service uniform is expected to march.

  Dwight feels a little self-conscious about it since he was never in active combat, but it’s easier to march than argue with Bo Poole, who considers participation in all such events good public relations. I myself look upon the day as a chance to get out and shake hands with the voting public, and I did plenty of that while finding an open spot along the sidewalk where the children could sit on the curb to watch.

  With several sharp blasts from his brass whistle, a high-strutting drum major started things off, followed by a flag-spinning color guard. The county’s last World War I vet died years ago and our last World War II vet is now in a wheelchair, but he led the veterans in a white golf cart that was decorated w
ith red, white, and blue bunting and driven by two grandsons who had served in Iraq. Next came troops of Scouts from around the county, then more marching high-school bands with cheerleaders who twirled and tossed (and didn’t always catch) their batons. Shriners cavorted in their little red cars and the town’s two fire engines preceded a float lavishly adorned with azalea blossoms and beauty queens. The current Miss Colleton County sat on a gilt throne borrowed from the Possum Creek Players Theatre. Seated slightly lower amid the flowers were Miss Cotton Grove, Miss Dobbs, Miss Pleasants Crossroads, and Little Miss Black Creek. All had perfected the Queen Elizabeth wave that looks like someone screwing in an overhead lightbulb.

  Bringing up the rear were a dozen horses and riders, including two of my nieces, and a lone mule whose banner reminded us that Benson’s sixty-third annual Mule Day celebration would be held in September. Lest anyone think that mules don’t belong in a Memorial Day parade, there are plenty of mule enthusiasts to remind us that mules have pulled cannons and carried supplies and ammunition in most of our wars. And they’re still doing it in Afghanistan.

  At the end, we spectators fell in behind and followed the parade to the war memorials on the courthouse lawn for a solemn service of remembrance that ended with a lone bugler blowing taps. I wasn’t the only one with tears in my eyes by the time he finished.

  After that, though, it became a street festival with food vendors and craft booths and various catch-me-eye amusements. Cal and his cousins darted off with some school friends while Dwight and I went around to the crowded steps on the shady side of the courthouse and found space at the far end. After standing for so long, I was ready to sit.

  Minnie came by a few minutes later. She had helped Seth and the girls with the horses and looked tired. “Any room for one more?” she asked plaintively.

  “Absolutely.” I scooted over so that she could sit between Dwight and me, accidentally bumping the leg of someone behind me in the process. “Sorry,” I said.

  “No problem, Judge,” said a genial male voice.

  I turned and looked up into the homely face of Jim Collins, whom I hadn’t noticed before. His big nose and bald head were both red from too much sun.

  After congratulating Minnie again on my successful campaign last fall, he immediately began to banter with her. “She won by such a wide margin, why don’t you run her for the state legislature?”

  “Good luck on that,” said Minnie. “I can’t even get her to think about the superior court.”

  I let them enjoy themselves for a few minutes, then said, “Y’all just go ahead and pretend I’m not here, ’cause I’m perfectly happy where I am. Besides, if I moved up to superior court, Dwight and I might never have another normal conversation.”

  “Who?”

  “My husband.”

  Dwight put out his hand. “Dwight Bryant, Mr. Collins.”

  “Yes, of course. I forgot that you two were married, Major. How goes the investigation?”

  “Slowly,” he admitted. “Lots of people may have had the opportunity, but we just can’t settle on a motive. And that reminds me, Minnie, Jessie seems to have left a few minutes after the aide came down to the family room. Did she leave alone?”

  “Are you thinking for one minute that one of our children—?”

  Before she could get too huffy, I reminded her that he had to account for everyone and she lowered her maternal hackles. “You’re right. Sorry, Dwight. Jess went home with Emma and Barbara.”

  “What about you, Mr. Collins?” Dwight asked easily. “You left around that time, too.”

  “Did I? Let me think. Oh yes, I walked out to the parking lot with Buzz Crenshaw and he stopped to speak to my daughter, who was waiting for me in the car. You know kids these days. She’d been without her cell phone for at least a half hour up in Miss Rachel’s room and she really didn’t know anyone except Sally and Jay-Jay.”

  “Did either of you see Mr. Snaveley or Dr. Howell after you left the hospice room?”

  Both of them shook their heads.

  “What about some of the things that Miss Rachel kept going back to? We know what happened at the creek with Jacob, but what about that debt someone didn’t pay? Or the wife-beater?”

  Minnie immediately reminded Dwight that she’d already told him no on both counts. Collins looked thoughtful as he again shook his head.

  The conversation strayed into other paths as children and their parents passed by. Some high-school band members who had taken off their jackets this warm day converged on the other end of the steps with ice cream cones and raucous laughter. The boys pushed and shoved, showing off for the girls, who giggled and flirted.

  Eventually, Minnie said it was time for her to go meet Seth, and Dwight wanted to check up on the kids. I was too lazy to move and Collins didn’t seem to be in a hurry either.

  I had tucked several small bottles of water in my straw tote and I offered one to him.

  He uncapped the bottle and moved down to sit beside me. With no one else nearby, he said, “He knows, doesn’t he? You both know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Don’t play games, Judge. Rachel Morton mentioned cowbirds and goldfinches more than once, yet your husband didn’t ask me about that.”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, he knows. But only because he pushed the person who told him. And told him reluctantly. I don’t think you have to worry about it going any further.”

  He sighed. “Thanks for that. Amanda would be appalled to learn she was a cowbird egg. She adored her mother and I think it’s safe to say she loves me, so it would hurt like hell for her to know Mavis had an affair. We always told her she was our bonus baby, a gift from God after we’d given up hope of having another child. She may not be mine biologically, but she’s got my brains and she’s got my drive. She’s going to summer school so she can graduate in three years and she’ll be running Mediway in another ten.”

  He took a swallow of water, then carefully screwed the cap back on. “I probably should have told her long ago, but Mavis was so ashamed and before she died, she made me promise I wouldn’t. Anyhow, it was my fault more than hers. Mediway was just taking off and I was working sixteen-hour days. On and off planes to Boston, Chicago, or San Diego at least twice a week. Our son was fifteen and already in a band.”

  He turned the plastic bottle in his hands between his knees and did not look at me. “It was my assistant. My right-hand man. Holding down the fort for me.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Or so I thought.”

  The silence built between us except for the crackling of the thin empty bottle as he drained it, crushed it flat, and continued turning it over and over.

  “I’ll take that,” I said, reaching out for it.

  He looked at the crushed bottle blankly, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

  “Thanks.” He stood up to leave, a short homely man with a bald head and a big nose, but he met my eyes squarely and there was dignity in his face. “Thanks,” he said again and walked away in the crowd.

  I was glad that he’d had no opportunity to sneak back to Aunt Rachel’s room, but keeping his daughter’s conception a secret from her sure would have made a strong motive.

  When Dwight and the children came back, Cal’s face was painted like Spider-Man and he had bought me a stretchy elastic bracelet with blue beads that he slipped onto my wrist with a proud smile.

  Maybe not the child of my body, but damned if he’s not the child of my heart.

  CHAPTER

  30

  The third [question of duty] is the conflict between the honorable and that which appears to be expedient.

  — Cicero

  Next morning, Dwight rode into Dobbs with me after leaving his truck at Jimmy White’s to get a leaky water hose and frayed fan belt looked after.

  Whites have been keeping our family’s vehicles going ever since Jimmy’s daddy quit running whiskey for my daddy and went to running his own garage, which Jimmy expanded to a two-bay operation when he took over the busi
ness. The all-white county commissioners wanted to zone the garage out of existence when the first housing development went up in the neighborhood, but John Claude and I managed to get him grandfathered in. Before that, though, when we realized how gentrified things might become, we advised Jimmy to buy a couple of adjoining acres so that there would be room to add another bay and a salvage yard if his son James decided to carry on the work, which he has.

  Between berms and evergreen shrubbery, most newcomers don’t even realize there’s a garage and junkyard back there in the trees behind his house until they start asking around for a good mechanic. The only indication is a small sign at the entrance drive, because word of mouth gives them as much business as they can comfortably handle.

  Dwight’s official workday begins a full hour before mine, so I had time to talk my way into Ellis Glover’s office early and go hunting through the will books. Twenty minutes later, I found the one I was looking for. It was straightforward and exactly as I’d heard last week, and it even named the attorney who had drawn it up, a name I could run past John Claude, who’s been practicing law long enough to know every firm in the district.

  “Louis Royster?” he said. “I think he died at least twenty years ago.”

  “Who would have taken over his practice?”

  “His daughter, of course. Patricia Hawkins.”

  “Pat Hawkins is his daughter? But Royster practiced in Makely and Pat’s here in Dobbs.”

  “So is her ex-husband,” John Claude said dryly.

  Sometimes you just get lucky. Gray haired and nearing retirement, Pat considers herself one of my mentors. She recommended me to the then-DA when I first passed the bar and needed to get my feet wet before joining Lee & Stephenson. She had been an active supporter when I decided to run for judge and we have stayed good friends. Indeed, we had hugged each other warmly when we met at the bar association dinner only last week, so I didn’t hesitate to call her office.