Home Fires dk-6

by Margaret Maron

  Sheriff Bo Poole was out there, too, with both black deputies, and he promised his department’s full cooperation, “But, Greg, I’d like to caution everybody about jumping to conclusions. We should remember that the preliminary findings of the president’s task force on church arsons indicate that most of these fires are set by individuals acting alone and not by members of hate groups.”

  “Hate is hate, whether expressed by a group or an individual acting alone,” said Wallace Adderly, “and whatever the motive, it’s a black congregation hurting out here this morning.”

  Channel 5 had obtained a copy of the amateur videotape I saw being filmed last night. It was fuzzy and the bright flames washed out a lot of details. You could make out a swastika and two K’s, but the letters looked black against the fire, not the green I knew them to be.

  This morning, there was only the stump of the utility pole, smoldering ashes and twisted tin. Up above in the background, you could see the cars on I-40 slow down to rubberneck at the two news vans parked down by the dead end. Channel 11’s cameras panned around the grounds, lingering on some of the black faces fixed in pain and anger, then stopped on the Reverend Ralph Freeman.

  When asked to speculate about the mindset of the arsonist, he shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m too new to this community to know who the haters are. What lifts my spirits are the offers of help that are already pouring in, the support of the good people in this area.”

  The camera caught Cyl DeGraffenried off guard with one eyebrow skeptically raised.

  “Oh, look,” said Aunt Zell. “Isn’t that Frances Turner’s boy Donny?”

  I know the Turners only by name, but as the camera panned across the official faces, I caught a glimpse of a stocky young white man and recognized him from last night.

  “He’s the one who carried out the pulpit on his shoulder,” I said, pouring myself another cup of coffee as the station went to a commercial for orange juice.

  “Oh, he’s strong all right.” Aunt Zell held out her own cup and I topped it for her. “They used to call him Tank when he was a little boy.”

  “He’s still a tank,” I said. “He hoisted that pulpit as if it was a chair.”

  “Frances says he works out with weights down at the fire station. It’s really good of so many young men to give up their free time like that, don’t you think? It just goes to show you, doesn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t what?” I asked, not following her.

  “The Turner boy. When you think of how prejudiced he is.”

  “Is he?”

  “Frances says ever since high school when he lost a wrestling championship because the black boy he was wrestling with cheated. Or so he told Frances. Of course, Frances—she’s a little prejudiced, too, though she claims not to be. But prejudiced or not, Donny did do what he could last night to save a black church, didn’t he?”

  I nodded.

  “Just goes to prove how bigotry can fly out the window when people need help. Shows real dedication to a higher ideal, don’t you think? But Frances, she worries he’s so dedicated he doesn’t have time for girlfriends.”

  This from my aunt who’s active in at least a half-dozen volunteer organizations and still manages to find lots of time to keep Uncle Ash happy.

  ✡ ✡ ✡

  As the news moved on to other stories around the area, Aunt Zell clicked her tongue. “You don’t suppose those Shop-Mark people had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “ShopMark?” I was clueless as to why she’d link the South’s biggest chain of upscale discount stores to a poor country church on the backside of nowhere.

  “But it’s not nowhere anymore,” said Aunt Zell. “Haven’t you heard? They’re going to build a new exit ramp off I-40 to accommodate all the growth over there. Ash’s sister Agnes? Her son’s on the Highway Commission. That whole corridor between I-40 and New Forty-eight’s going to be developed. And Shop-Mark’s buying up land there at Starling’s Crossroads. Agnes says it’s going to be the biggest Shop-Mark between Washington and Atlanta.”

  “So that’s what Maidie meant,” I said.

  Aunt Zell gave me an inquiring look.

  “Last night when we were washing dishes, she said that Balm of Gilead had called Mr. Freeman to their pulpit because he’d seen his last church through a big building program. Even if the land jumps in price though, how much can they get for that little bit of ground?”

  “But it’s not just the churchyard,” Aunt Zell said. “I heard it was more like eight or nine acres.”

  Eight or nine acres in the middle of an area slated for heavy development? That would certainly be enough for a hefty down payment on a new church building.

  I wondered if the old building was insured.

  9

  Are you helping men to heaven or hell?

  —Highland Baptist Church

  The edginess that hung over the courthouse that morning had less to do with June’s smothering heat and humidity than with Channel 5’s news van parked out front. News and Observer and Ledger reporters roamed the halls and sidewalks, too, looking for man-in-the-street reactions to the destruction of a black church. Although it’s glossed over now and goes pretty much unmentioned when people talk about the good old days, Dobbs is still the town that used to greet its visitors with a huge billboard that pictured nightriders, a burning cross and big letters that said, “Welcome to Klan Kuntry!”

  As a child standing behind the driver’s seat when Mother and I drove over to Dobbs to visit Aunt Zell, I’d been offended by the sign. Not because of what it stood for—to a seven-year-old raised up Baptist, one cross looks pretty much like another and I had no idea what the Klan was. But I did know that “Kuntry” was bad spelling.

  “How come they don’t fix it right?” I’d ask Mother.

  “ ’Cause they’re dumber than dirt,” Mother would always answer.

  I’m not saying these reporters were necessarily looking to find a white hood sticking out from under the bill of a man-in-the-street’s John Deere cap, but a couple of snarling, dumber-than-dirt rednecks would have goosed up the ain’t-no-racists-here protestations, which was all they were getting on tape.

  Dwight Bryant, the deputy sheriff I’ve known since I was in diapers, had a sour look on his face when he stopped past the broom closet that serves as my bare-basics office when I’m sitting court in Dobbs. “Ed Gardner’s looking for you.”

  I didn’t play innocent. Ed used to be part of the Friday night crowd at Miss Molly’s on South Wilmington Street when Terry Wilson and I were hanging together three or four years ago. Terry’s State Bureau of Investigation; Ed’s federal: Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. These days, “Firearms” includes any incendiary device that results in an explosion or a fire. Colleton County’s old rundown tobacco warehouses have a bad habit of catching fire in the middle of the night around here, so we get to see a little more of Ed than other folks might.

  “I’m always happy to talk to him,” I said, “but don’t you and Bo want to know what I saw, too?”

  He shrugged unhappily and I almost got up to pat his shoulder like one of my brothers when they were down. In age, Dwight’s somewhere between Will and the little twins and might as well have been another brother, since he hung out with them so much. Kidd Chapin may be a hair taller, but Dwight’s more muscular and solid, like my brothers by Daddy’s first wife. At times I feel as protective of him as if he really was one of my brothers.

  “A little territorial infighting going on here?” I asked sympathetically.

  “Aw, you know how it is. The Feds are polite, but they don’t think we know squat. And I’m stuck hanging around, waiting for Buster Cavanaugh to get here and ride out there with me,” He gave a rueful grin. “ ’Course, old Buster now, he don’t know squat.”

  Fire Marshall in Colleton County’s always been more of an honorary term than a working title and Buster probably knows less about an arson investigation than I do. But he was connected to a couple of the coun
ty commissioners and he’d have his nose out of joint if he didn’t get included in the day’s festivities. He never misses a chance to slap that magnetic Fire Marshall sign onto the side of his car and turn on his flashing red light.

  Absently, I touched the little blisters scattered on my forearm.

  “Hurt much?” Dwight asked.

  I shook my head and pulled the sleeve of my robe. “Looks worse than it is. At least my hair doesn’t still smell like singed chicken feathers.”

  I hear Mr. Kezzie wasn’t real happy about you running into that church last night for a handful of cardboard fans.”

  “I saved more than fans,” I said indignantly. “I brought out the pulpit Bible and—”

  Dwight’s lips were twitching. Done it to me again.

  I let him laugh, then said, “Be better if you’d heard who did it.”

  According to my watch, court was due to convene in two minutes and, as I stood up, Dwight turned serious. “Look like arson to you?”

  “ ’Fraid so. When I got inside, the worst was over in the corner where the electric wires came in, but one of the pews in the middle of the room was burning, too, and it was nowhere near a wire.”

  Dwight opened the door for me and walked me down the hall. “You reckon it really was a hate burning or just kids fooling around?”

  “Who knows?” I paused at the door to my courtroom. “But it sure did look a lot like what was done out at the Crocker cemetery—green paint, block printing, swastikas. I’m no handwriting expert though. You need to get Cyl DeGraffenried to show you the Polaroids.”

  “You saying A.K.’s involved in this?”

  “A.K. didn’t do any spray-painting at the cemetery,” I said firmly. “Andrew and April both say he was home last night and I didn’t see either of his friends. Besides, don’t arsonists usually like to hang around and watch their handiwork?”

  “I heard that Starling’s a racist.”

  “But why would he take his anger out on a church?”

  “Because it’s at Starling’s Crossroads? And he already used green paint one time this week, right?”

  I nodded glumly. “But it still might just be a coincidence.”

  Dwight pushed open the courtroom door and stood back for me to enter.

  ✡ ✡ ✡

  “All rise,” said the bailiff as soon as he caught sight of me.

  “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.”

  Normally Cyl DeGraffenried is already standing when I walk in. Today, the bailiff was halfway through his spiel before the words seemed to register enough to bring her to her feet. Reid was defending a young Hispanic for possession of marijuana and when he requested that the case be thrown out because of sloppy police mistakes with the search warrant, her opposing argument was so unfocussed that I granted Reid’s request and dismissed the charges.

  Cyl didn’t even shrug, just called the next case in an absentminded voice. We were almost to the midmorning recess before she got herself up to speed. By noon, she was again demanding heads on a silver salver but somehow her heart didn’t seem to be in it.

  “Left it a little late, ain’t you?” asked Leamon Webb, who runs the Print Place down from the courthouse in Dobbs, when I stopped in on my noon recess. “Judge Longmire had his campaign stuff printed up in February.”

  “That’s because he had a challenger in the May primary,” I said, feeling a little testy.

  I told myself it was still only June. Plenty of time till the November election and it’s not like I have any serious competition this year. (“Not as if,” came Aunt Zell’s schoolteacher voice in my head.)

  Everybody’s a critic these days. First Minnie, who wanted to know if I was getting complacent; then my niece Emma, who was busy putting stuff together for Vacation Bible School; and now Leamon.

  Minnie’s my sister-in-law and campaign adviser and Emma’s the family computer whiz who gets saddled with any electronically creative project her relatives can think up, so I’m obliged to listen to them grumble. But Leamon Webb’s not one drop of kin and there are other print shops in the county. Besides, I hadn’t eaten lunch yet and I didn’t have time for any hassle.

  “If you’re too backed up to do it—” I reached for the folder with Emma’s camera-ready sheets that lay on the counter between us.

  “Naw, now, I didn’t say that.”

  Leamon slid the folder out from under my hand and looked at the mock-ups my niece had done of a simple single-fold leaflet and pasteboard bookmarks. Both had a dignified head-and-shoulders picture of me in my judge’s robes and “RE-ELECT JUDGE KNOTT” in bold block capitals. In the picture, the lacy edge of a standup white collar was meant to remind voters that I was both feminine and womanly. My shoulder-length dark blonde hair was pinned up in a modified French twist to make me look more mature and my blue eyes looked candidly into the camera. The bookmark stated my background and experience—the legal and professional bits, not the personal, thank you very much.

  Because I’m only thirty-six and haven’t sat on many boards or commissions, the leaflet encompassed lots of tasteful, if useless, white space. A short text elaborated that I’d begun my law studies at Columbia and finished at Chapel Hill and that I’d been a partner in the well-respected firm of Lee and Stephenson right here in Colleton County. It also mentioned that I was a member of First Baptist of Dobbs and that I’d been born near Cotton Grove, smack-dab in the middle of Judicial Court District 11-C.

  It did not mention a disastrous attempt at marriage, my lack of husband and 1.3 children (the county average in my socioeconomic age group), nor that my father had once run white lightning from Canada to Mexico.

  I didn’t expect anyone else to mention those last three things either, since Howard Woodlief was my only opposition this time and judgeships aren’t hotly contested before statewide television cameras. Mine was nothing like the race shaping up between Richard Petty and Elaine Marshall for Secretary of State. Even CNN was interested in that one, since she would be the first woman elected to North Carolina’s Council of State if she won, while King Richard would be its first NASCAR champion if he took the checkered flag.

  Then there was the Jesse Helms/Harvey Gantt rematch.

  With all those horses crashing through the woods, my run for reelection would be lucky to get a mention in the Dobbs Ledger.

  Which was why I needed bookmarks and leaflets to remind the voters I’d be on the ballot.

  Leamon’s lips moved as he read to himself the closing motto that Emma had composed: “Caring, Compassionate and Competent.”

  Emma loves alliteration.

  So do most of the voters in this district.

  “Real nice,” said Leamon. “Now was you thinking black ink on white or can we juice it up with a little color?”

  ✡ ✡ ✡

  With no time left for a sit-down lunch, I grabbed a salad and a bottle of apple juice at the sandwich shop across the street and carried them back to the courthouse, intending to eat at my desk. But when I tried to open the office door, it was locked.

  Odd. I never push the button latch when I leave because I’ve never had a key. No problem though. Luther Parker, who shares the connecting lavatory, wasn’t back yet, so I scooted across his office, through the lavatory, then stopped short as I opened the inner door.

  Cyl DeGraffenried was there, hunched in the chair before my desk.

  She whirled around to face me.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I thought you were— I needed a little privacy— I—I—”

  Her hair was disheveled and as she stood up, it was clear from her swollen eyes that she’d been crying. Indeed a last tear trickled slowly down her smooth dark cheek as she stood there staring at me helplessly. In the time that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Cyl DeGraffenried cry or look helpless and it left me at a loss,
too.

  “That’s okay.” I gestured awkwardly with my brown paper bag and started to back out. “I’ll eat at Luther’s desk. You take all the time you want.”

  I retreated to Luther’s office and a few minutes later heard water running in the lavatory sink. I was halfway through my salad when she opened the door.

  Cold compresses had worked magic on her eyes and every hair was in place. I could almost swear that she’d even sent her beige linen suit out for a quick press.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. And I apologize for inconveniencing you.”

  Not only was every hair in place, so were all her defenses.

  “You didn’t inconvenience me.” I unscrewed the top of my juice bottle. “Apple juice? There are cups—”

  “No, thank you,” she said brusquely, heading for the door.

  “Look, Cyr," I said. Is there anything I can do? Would it help to talk?”

  “To you?” There was so much scorn in her voice that I felt as if I’d been slapped.

  “Why not me?” I asked indignantly just as Luther Parker opened the door.

  “Excuse me,” said Cyl, and Luther stepped back to let her pass.

  His chocolate-brown eyes moved from Cyl’s disappearing back to my usurpation of his desk.

  “Something going on I should know about?”

  “What’s her real problem, Luther?” I asked him bluntly.

  He looked at me over his rimless glasses. “You mean right now or in general?”

  “Either one.”

  He shrugged. “Beats me. But then I’ve always lived in Makely, so how would I know? My wife knew her when she was a kid, though.”

  I was confused, knowing that Cyl grew up down near New Bern. “Really? Louise has down east connections?”

  “No, but Ms. DeGraffenried has Cotton Grove connections. When she first started working for Woodall, I remember Louise said something about seeing her at church with her auntie or granny or somebody when she was just a little girl.”

  Louise Parker’s great-great-grandfather had been Mount Olive’s first black preacher and, according to Maidie, she’s never moved her membership over to Makely even though she and Luther must be married at least thirty years.