Hog Wild

by Cathy Pickens

  He surprised me by agreeing. His only condition was that it not mention his name. He didn’t need to advertise, he said. He also picked the spot, on the left of the sidewalk as you faced the house, near the shrubs that encircled the porch.

  “That way, you can enjoy it from your window,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

  The morning set for the installation brought a crystal blue sky and that earth smell hinting spring won’t be late. I watched two guys hunch over the base of my new sign, centering it on the mounting rods protruding from the concrete pad they’d poured days earlier. They stepped back and motioned to the crane operator. He finished lowering it into place with a satisfying crunch.

  My angel was stunning. Innis Barker had carefully engraved Harden’s epitaph at her feet, as instructed. He had then engraved a second thin block and artfully mounted it to cover the epitaph, AVERY ANDREWS, ATTORNEY AT LAW. To complete Harden’s instructions to the letter, Mr. Barker arranged for the installation.

  Nothing in Harden’s instructions required that the angel stand at his grave. Nothing said the epitaph had to be visible.

  So she rested now, in winged glory, on the front lawn of my law office, my gift from Maggy Avinger. Looking up at the angel, I wasn’t sure how I felt. At first, it had seemed a quirky joke to have a grave marker for a sign, standing in front of the old mortuary. She looked sad and beautiful, luminous in the sunlight. I was surprised to find Maggy wasn’t the first thought in my mind. I was simply struck by her serenity. And her watchfulness.

  I couldn’t wait to hear what Aunt Letha had to say about my new sign.

  PIGS IN THE POKEY:

  SWINE AND SOUTH CAROLINA LAW

  Cathy Pickens

  The law is a reflection of life. As I’m fond of saying, “I don’t have to make this stuff up.” The law is as wacky, misguided, cruel, banal, shocking, poignant, and downright funny as we humans are.

  In working on Hog Wild, Avery had occasion to discover that pigs have periodically played a role in the legal annals of South Carolina—sometimes taking center stage, sometimes providing nothing more than the backdrop for a drama.

  Pig Parties

  One of the earliest formal records of a pig-picking gone bad was in 1888. At a barbecue dinner hosted by a neighbor, Mr. Addy commenced to horsing around and generally making a pest of himself. The host, “a powerful man, a man weighing from 170 to 175 pounds,” asked Mr. Addy to knock it off. When he didn’t, the host knocked him flat.

  Now Mr. Addy, as it develops, was a small, one-armed man who carried a pistol to keep people from picking on him. Even though the host hit the weak, one-armed man, the court observed that he didn’t knock him senseless. However, rather than take the host’s abuse lying down, Mr. Addy shot him dead. Readers can assume the party broke up soon afterwards. [State v. Addy, 4 S.E. 814 (1888).]

  Pigs on the Run

  Runaway pigs played a role in a case of self-defense, South Carolina style.

  Mr. Porter drove down from his home in North Carolina to check on his property in South Carolina. Reportedly, two of his pigs had run away. Porter’s visit to Mr. Slagle’s property in search of his pigs degenerated into a heated exchange that ended in gunfire. One person was shot seriously, one “slightly grazed.”

  Court testimony couldn’t really uncover who shot first or why because at least one participant admitted he was too drunk to remember much.

  According to South Carolina’s law on self-defense (whether pigs are involved or not), one cannot claim he fired in self-defense if he’s engaged in mutual combat. Because of “prior verbal abuse, threats, and gunshots,” the court wouldn’t allow Porter to claim he’d shot Slagle and his friend in self-defense. [State v. Porter, 239 S.E.2d 641 (1977).]

  Runaway pigs frequently come to no good end. In 1868, a case attempted to identify fifty pounds of pork in the possession of Eff MacGowan as the earthly remains of Mr. William’s two missing pigs. The court held that, even though some red and black hairs remained, the jury couldn’t convict the accused hog thieves without more evidence. [State v. Eff. McGowan, 1 S.C. 14 (1868).]

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  Catty Pickents’s next mystery

  HUSH MY MOUTH

  Coming soon in hardcover from

  St. Martin’s Minotaur

  Monday Morning

  I made it back downstairs after my shower mere seconds before my new client stepped onto the deep, shaded porch. When she’d called, she hadn’t given me much information, just that she needed help finding someone.

  In the seven months since I’d returned to Dacus from a big-firm specialized trial practice, I’d choked back a few knots of anxiety. In my old life in Columbia, I’d known what I was doing and I was good at it. The tougher and more complicated the case, the more I liked it. Now, all too often, the bread-and-butter problems that walked through the door—the wills or property transfers or divorces—all had learning curves for me. Whether my clients knew it or not, I was frequently surprised by how little nuts-and-bolts law I knew.

  On the other extreme, some of their problems were so simple, I felt like a thief asking for my fee. Too many of those who found themselves on my doorstep had already been beaten up and sucked dry. Likely why some of the other lawyers in town steered them in my direction.

  “Finding someone” fell outside my experience, but the young woman who now swung open my beveled-glass-and-oak door had been insistent.

  “Ms. French?” I asked. “I’m Avery Andrews.”

  “Fran.” Her heels made three businesslike clicks on the oak floorboards of the room-sized entry hall as she crossed to shake my hand.

  Her slender fingers were cool, her handshake firm. She looked down at me, her green eyes curious, studying me just as I was studying her.

  I led her to my back office and we settled in. The answering machine would catch any messages, and the two wing chairs in the window alcove would be comfortable and private. My outer office had once been a family parlor and later a funeral home viewing room. Beautifully furnished with a few carefully chosen chairs, my grandfather’s oak desk scavenged from my great-aunts’ attic, and my own collection of antiques, it lacked only one thing: the receptionist Melvin kept pestering me to hire. That seemed such a big step—both a financial and personal commitment to being here, to practicing law on my own. I kept putting off the decision.

  Fortunately, Fran declined my offer of coffee. I’d forgotten to check whether Melvin had made any and, as a non-coffee drinker, I was completely inept at the task. “You said you needed help finding someone,” I said.

  “My sister Neanna Lyles is missing. To be truthful, she’s not really my sister, but my parents . . . we were raised together as sisters.”

  The part of me always interested in others’ stories wanted to settle back for a chat. The part of me that had worked on billable hours with a big firm knew to get down to business. If I couldn’t help her, no point in dragging this out.

  “Your sister lives in Dacus?”

  “No. In Atlanta. We both do. We grew up there. She drove up here a couple of days ago. I haven’t heard from her, and I’m starting to panic. She should have called before now. I called all the places I could think of—the hospital, the sheriff, all the hotels in the area. When I ran out of options, I got in the car and drove.”

  Her fingers tangling and untwining in her lap were the only physical hint at her disquiet. Flawless makeup on porcelain skin, chocolate brown pants, cream silk shirt, bobbed auburn hair, wide green eyes, she looked like an Atlanta bank executive, which she might be when she wasn’t searching for her not-quite sister.

  “Was she here visiting someone?” The reasons to come to Dacus were limited, despite attempts by the Chamber of Commerce and the scattered bed-and-breakfasts to market the local charm. People mostly just passed through on their way to fish on the lakes or to camp or hike in the National Forest or to travel higher into the Blue Ridge Mountains seeking cooler weather.

 
“She said she was coming to a concert.” Fran untangled her fingers. “Nut Case, her favorite group. They were playing at some club around here.”

  “You know the name?”

  ‘The Pasture? Or the Ranch? Something like that.”

  “The Pasture.” I’d never heard of Nut Case, but The Pasture had been around, a honky-tonk that used a big pasture out back for occasional concerts.

  “Neanna called on her way here last Friday, then nothing. I didn’t know who else to call. It was just easier to drive here than to sit home and worry. I couldn’t help but see your angel sign when I drove into town. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the best to help you. Dacus has a private investigator who is actually very good. I could put you—”

  “No,” she said, her tone sharp. “No. I’ve had enough of P.I.s. You’re from around here, aren’t you.” She wasn’t asking. “You know people, know how things work around here.”

  “Yes.” My family had been here longer than dirt.

  She nodded at the confirmation. “I asked about you. People like your family. At least the people who work at the gas station on the north edge of town.” Her smile acknowledged the unscientifically small size of her sample.

  “The story is difficult. You can hire whatever help you need, but I need someone I can trust, someone who can handle a difficult case and move quickly.”

  “You can’t have learned that about me from the gas staion.”

  She laughed. “No, but they did tell me you were once a ‘big fancy lawyer in Columbia.’ After I called you to make the appointment, I stopped by the library to check you out online.”

  Hmm. I needed to check myself out sometime, see what popped up.

  “Okay, suppose you tell me about your sister. Then we can talk about next steps.”

  “Fair enough. To tell the truth, the concert wasn’t the real reason she came. She came looking for her aunt, for information about her death.”

  She noted my surprise.

  “Maybe you’ve heard about Wenda Sims?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m sure it was in the papers, but you’d have been young when she died.”

  Fran looked to be in her late twenties, no more than a few years younger than I was, but I let her tell her own story.

  “Wenda was murdered here in Dacus in 1985. She was found stretched out on a grave marker in a cemetery.”

  The light bulb came on. “I do remember that.” I’d been in junior high school. It had been all the buzz for a few weeks, just because it had been so strange that she’d been found in the graveyard. In the way of small towns, her murder had probably disappeared as a topic of conversation because she wasn’t from Dacus and people figured she’d brought her trouble with her from somewhere else. “That was Neanna’s aunt?”

  She nodded, her expression somber. “She’d been strangled and displayed there, with her suitcase and makeup kit sitting on the ground at her feet. Neanna idolized Wenda—and, I’m afraid, idealized her, Neanna was only seven when Wenda died. She was Neanna’s fairy godmother, her shining fight in an otherwise dreary and sometimes frightening family.”

  “Seven. That’s a tough age to—”

  “Lose someone? Particularly for Neanna. She wouldn’t talk about it for the longest time. It just hurt too much. I think a lot of what she remembers about Wenda are her grandmother’s stories about how much Aunt Wenda doted on her. Neanna still keeps the Raggedy Ann doll on her bed that Wenda gave her when she was a baby.”

  When she wasn’t talking with her hands, they moved restlessly in her lap.

  “Neanna’s grandmother—we called her Gran—raised her after her mother ran off with some guy. Neanna was just a baby. Gran never said, but I assumed Neanna’s mama had a drug or alcohol problem. When we were still in his school, Neanna found out her mama had died years earlier. They hadn’t heard from her pretty much since she’d taken off. Still, it hit Neanna hard,finding out her mama had been dead for years.”

  “Had anyone looked for her mother?”

  “Off and on. It’s why I don’t trust private investigators. I watched too many of them take Gran’s money—and her hopes. She couldn’t afford it, but they didn’t care. Gran found out on her own our senior year in high school that Marie had died, in San Francisco a year or two after she left Atlanta. Everything’s so emotional then anyway. You can imagine how hard it was on Neanna.”

  “What about Neanna’s father?”

  “Long gone. He’d disappeared when Neanna was a baby, never to be heard from again.”

  “How did you know Neanna?”

  “We’ve been best friends since kindergarten.”

  When she smiled, the fret wrinkles around her eyes eased. “We were in school together from them on. When we turned thirteen, Neanna’s grandmother started having some health problems—gall bladder surgery, diabetes, I don’t know what all. Neanna had always spent a lot of time at my house when we were little, and she stayed with us more and more whenever Gran started having to go to the hospital.

  “I don’t think Neanna’s teen years could have been much fun for Gran. Maybe she was remembering her own two daughters and how things hadn’t worked out too well, one murdered, one just gone. Neanna had a rebellious streak, at least when Gran was the one handing down ultimatums. Neanna would do anything for my dad, though. Eventually she just moved in with me and my parents.”

  She paused, staring into space—or across time. “Then after we graduated from college, Neanna drifted from job to job. She majored in art, but she didn’t want to teach and she didn’t have the business head to become a gallery darling. So she took retail or waitress jobs, just something to pay the rent. She doesn’t even paint for fun any more, which is a shame. If someone has a gift like that, she should use it.”

  “What do you do, Fran?”

  “Besides wish I was as talented an artist as Neanna? I own my own advertising and sport marketing firm.”

  That helped explain the creased slacks, the dusky eye makeup and lipstick, the pearly white teeth, and why she was so much better at articulating her case than many of my clients.

  “You did have the business head, then.”

  “Yeah. Too bad we couldn’t team up somehow, huh? We talked about it, but things just settled into a routine. Neanna is still a member of our family, for Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays. And, I suspect, for the occasional loan form my dad.”

  She emphasized the word loan with crooked forefingers, hinting that her dad hadn’t looked for or expected repayment. Judging from her lack of bitterness, I suspected her dad was generous with his daughters. Fran had that confidence and presence that appears so often in children who’ve been well cared for. Fran could be my sister—or at least a cousin. My hair had more gold than red in it, but the similarities outweighed the differences.

  “You said your family is from Atlanta?” I said.

  One of the essential Southern questions. Once you’d narrowed down location and how long they’d been there—which could range from those pre-Revolutionary War families who were Colonial-Dames eligible through the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) up to the UDC (United Daughters of the Confederacy). In some sections, such as Charleston, anybody who’d arrived after the Revolutionary War could expect a slightly raised eyebrow and a sniff of superiority from someone whose ancestors had fled England and France no later than the eighteenth century in the face of religious persecution or legal prosecution.

  The pecking order could be complicated—and in some places, it got so snobbish and tightly defined that, carried to its illogical conclusion, each clique would have but a single member.

  People from outside the South take this inquiry as a rude intrusion or inscrutable put-down. Some raise their hackles at being called “Yankees,” not realizing that’s just a shorthand way of saying we might not know as much about you because we have limited ways to define you. To lots of South
erners, Ohio and New Jersey might as well be the same place, for all they know about either. All most locals know of the North is that they’ve met some mighty rude people from there—and woe be it if you prove to be one of those. There’s an extra syllable or two added in front of the word Yankee and run together in a poetic but unmistakable curse.

  Fran knew exactly why I asked about her family. She knew the cultural shorthand. “We’ve been in Atlanta or around there since before there was much Atlanta,” she said, which meant they’d been there so long, it didn’t much matter whether they’d begun as red-dirt farmers, as merchants, or as plantation owners. She carried the certainty of knowing what she could call home. Her background would have pronounced differences from mine, but we knew each other all the same.

  “So you and Neanna grew up together. But this aunt—this was her real aunt?”

  “Yes. Her mother’s sister. Gran’s oldest daughter.”

  “Did Wenda live here?”

  “No. She had a boyfriend who’d moved here or was doing some work here, though. Tank Smith.”

  I didn’t recognize the name. “Wenda was murdered twenty-three years ago. What made Neanna decide to come here now?”

  Fran shrugged. “I’m not quite sure—though it started after Gran’s death.”

  “Which was . . . ?”

  “Six weeks ago. She was Neanna’s last real relative.”

  “That must have hit her hard.”

  “Harder than I would’ve expected.” She glanced down at her hands, maybe remembering the emotion but not sharing it with me. “Anyway, Mama and I were helping her clean out Gran’s house. She had still been living in the same little house she moved into when she’d first married, so she’d accumulated a lot of stuff. Neanna found a scrapbook and that was the start of it all.”

  “Scrapbook?” I pictured one with the multicolored pages and ruffle-cut trims and stickers and cute captions, but that sort of craft-store creation didn’t seem to mesh with the mental picture I had of a family with dead-beat dads and druggie moms.