Death's Half Acre

by Margaret Maron

  “She was starting to pack up her things,” Cameron Bradshaw said defensively. He touched the lacy white camisole that hung from the doorknob, then his fingers convulsed around it and for a minute, I thought he was going to break down.

  Tears moistened my own eyes and I reached out to him impulsively. “We’re so sorry, Mr. Bradshaw.”

  With a visible effort, he reined in his emotions and closed the door on his daughter’s room, then showed us into Candace’s immaculate and blatantly feminine office—frothy white sheers under rose damask drapes, a floral-patterned area rug atop the white Berber carpet.

  Like the rest of the house, there were no books on these shelves either. Instead, they held numerous brightly colored porcelain flowers, the kind of “collectible” sold to people with more money than taste.

  “The SBI agents took her computer and most of the file folders from the cabinet there,” said Bradshaw. “And that’s the dollhouse. She loved it so much that Dee wanted to keep it. I just hope that some scared little girls can lose themselves in it, too.”

  The dollhouse was at least three feet tall and looked like Tara. It sat on a wooden base that had been painted green and decorated to look like a lawn with flowering shrubs and pots of flowers on the porch. Beneath were casters that let the whole house be easily moved. Some tiny pots and pans lay on the floor next to a shoebox, along with a kitchen butcher’s block and some bar stools, all to the same scale. I assumed Dee had begun to take the house apart in preparation for its move.

  Will taped together some small cartons and handed me a thick stack of tissue paper and a handful of pint-sized plastic zip bags. I was given instructions to wrap the delicate furniture and carefully place the items in the boxes so they wouldn’t smash. I meekly agreed, but as soon as he and Bradshaw left to look at the rest of the house, I was right over to the file cabinet, where I paused to look at the silver-framed photographs on top of it. All of them seemed to feature Candace looking up adoringly to whichever man of power stood next to her—the movers and shakers of the region and, as Jamie Jacobson had pointed out, no women. I was amused to see that she had her hand on G. Hooks Talbert’s as they cut the ribbon to open the Grayson Village Inn.

  Unfortunately though, the SBI agents had been way too thorough. Anything of interest once held by those four drawers must now be at the SBI headquarters in Garner. Ditto the desk.

  There was nothing for it but to dismantle the three-story dollhouse. I knelt down on the rose-patterned rug that overlay the white carpet and began with the nursery on the top floor. A spindly rocking chair, a crib with a tiny baby doll inside, a high chair—each piece was soon nested into its own cocoon of tissue. The child’s bedroom followed, then the master bedroom. I was amazed to see that the lamps even had tiny wires and realized that there was a small transformer that stepped down regular house current so that the lamps and chandeliers in the dollhouse could actually light up. I couldn’t resist rolling it over to a nearby socket and plugging it in. Some of the furnishings were truly exquisite: there was a mahogany grandfather clock that showed the correct time, ticking away with the help of a watch battery. A gilded birdcage held a pair of lovebirds and a silver tea service sat on the dining room buffet.

  Amazing.

  A whole lifestyle in miniature.

  I never had a dollhouse. Never wanted one. But kneeling there beside that one, for the first time, I could understand the allure, and I couldn’t help wondering if this was an appropriate gift for a battered women’s shelter. These delicate pieces would be destroyed within weeks by the traumatized toddlers and children who cycle in and out of the place with their mothers. Bradshaw’s call, of course, even though it seemed a waste.

  By now, I had finished packing up all the rooms except the kitchen, which was the least interesting to me.

  While most of the dollhouse was furnished in contemporary modern, the kitchen on the bottom level was almost like a space-age laboratory. Stainless steel refrigerator, range, and dishwasher. Stainless steel cabinets above the range and—

  Huh?

  I looked closer at the object my groping fingers had found at the rear of the kitchen. What appeared to be a stainless steel cabinet resting atop the side-by-side refrigerator and Sub-Zero freezer was actually an aluminum-clad flash drive.

  CHAPTER 21

  . . . I cannot account for the purpose

  Of the simple life I did not choose.

  —Paul’s Hill, by Shelby Stephenson

  I know, I know. I should have left that flash drive exactly where I found it and immediately called Dwight.

  I should not have turned it over and over in my hand while I considered all the possibilities.

  And for damn sure, I should never have slid it into my purse and then gone back to packing up the dollhouse furniture as if nothing had happened.

  On the other hand, if Candace Bradshaw had somehow found out why our Republican governor had appointed me to the bench, I wanted to be the first to know it.

  “You’re going to tamper with evidence in a double murder?” asked the preacher, drawing himself up in righteous disapproval.

  “Not tamper,” the pragmatist said nervously. “Just look.”

  “And if you find?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Yeah, and blow it up if I know you.”

  When Will and Cameron Bradshaw returned, Will had a signed authorization in his hand to inventory and remove the saleable items in the house.

  “Mr. Bradshaw,” I said. “It’s none of my business, but this is a very valuable dollhouse full of delicate and fragile collectibles. It’s really an adult’s toy, not a child’s, and I’m sure my brother could get top dollar for it, right, Will?”

  “At least seven or eight hundred, if not more,” he readily agreed.

  “Instead of giving it directly to the shelter where everything will probably get broken and scattered, you might want to let him sell it and then donate the money to the shelter in your wife’s name. That way they could buy toys and books that are more appropriate for small children.”

  “You’re right,” he sighed. “Candace never let any little ones play with it. Not even Dee. She always said it was hers and she was going to be selfish with it.”

  Most people, my friend Jamie included, seemed to think that Candace had cared more about power than money, but I was sensing a woman who certainly cared about the things money could buy, beginning with this expensive dollhouse. Yes, it had been a present from her husband, but she had bought herself a lot of presents these past two years. A new car, a fancy house, and a hedonistic custom-built bathroom with three shower heads to spray herself with hot water, our country’s “greatest achievement.”

  Hot water? Give me a break.

  “I’ll help you load the van,” I told Will. I figured that if the dollhouse was at his warehouse, I had a better chance of sneaking that flash drive back into the little kitchen than if it stayed here until Will moved everything.

  On the drive back through Dobbs, Will was excited about the contents of Candace’s house. “The only thing Bradshaw wants to keep is a Thomas Day chest that belonged to a nineteenth-century great-great-grandfather. I think he plans to donate it to the Museum of History. Candace took several other important pieces when they separated, but he doesn’t want to keep them even though they’ve been in the family three or four generations. Says he lived without them these last few years and they might as well go somewhere else now that Dee’s gone and his line has come to an end.”

  “It’s so sad,” I said, thinking how unlikely this was to happen in our family anytime soon.

  “Sad for him, good for me,” said Will.

  He’s really not as heartless as he sounds, but he does tend to view events through the lens of self-interest.

  “I’ll have inquiries from Philadelphia to Atlanta when I get the word out about what I’m selling. With a little luck, I can finally hire a full-time assistant.”

  �
��Mr. Bradshaw have any idea why Dee was killed?”

  “No, but one odd thing. Whoever shot her didn’t take any of the jewelry—and Candace and Dee both had some nice pieces—but they did take her laptop.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Bradshaw said that the SBI agents who searched the house specifically asked him if Dee had one and he said she did. When we took a closer look at her room, I saw the cord on her bed. It’s still plugged into the wall socket, but the laptop itself is gone.”

  To me, that could only mean that the killer knew Dee had Candace’s flash drive. I could almost see Dee finding it in the dollhouse, taking a quick look at the contents on her own computer, and realizing that the data was potential dynamite. With all the foolhardiness of youth, had Dee hidden the drive and then gotten in touch with her killer, not realizing the danger? Her computer was gone, so no way to know if the contact was by e-mail or cell phone.

  Who did she call that night?

  Who had called her?

  Will dropped me at the courthouse, saying he’d see me later.

  “Later?”

  “Dwight said y’all were coming to Jackson’s game this evening. You forget?”

  “Oh, right.”

  Will’s son is eighteen and plays shortstop on their high school varsity team. Jackson’s so good that he’s won a baseball scholarship to Florida State next fall, so if we want to see him play without having to travel all around the southeast, these last few months are it.

  As I started up the courthouse steps, I met my cousin John Claude Lee, who was on his way back to his office, a much-remodeled 1867 white clapboard a half block away that had served the firm of Lee and Stephenson since the nineteen-twenties.

  “Ah, Deborah. Good,” he said. “I have the draft of your wills if you want to pick them up.”

  “That was quick,” I said. I’d only called him yesterday morning after talking over the main points with Dwight.

  “Everything to each other with Cal the residual beneficiary? Nothing complicated there.”

  John Claude has had snow-white hair from my earliest memory of him. He’s sedate and dignified and one of the most thoroughly ethical attorneys I’ve ever known, with a dry sense of humor and an old-fashioned set of manners. He offered his arm to me, and as we walked over to his office, he took the outside edge of the sidewalk in case any carriages should try to spatter mud on my long petticoats and high-button shoes. Never mind that there have been no carriages or mud puddles on the streets of Dobbs in fifty years, and that it hadn’t rained in over a week.

  “Well, hey, stranger,” said Sherry Cobb, the firm’s office manager, when we entered the reception area. Small and dark-haired, she flashed me a smile that was genuinely welcoming.

  For a moment, a wave of regretful nostalgia swept over me, even though Sherry used to drive me up the wall with her bossiness and incessant chatter when I was in practice here. Except for a year in the DA’s office, this had been my home from the time I passed the bar till I was appointed to the bench, and a lot of good memories were housed in these rooms.

  Now she handed me the draft of the wills and gave John Claude a list of the calls he needed to return.

  He kissed my cheek with a cousinly sweetness and said, “Now you let me know if there are any changes you want,” then went into his office and closed the door.

  I paused to chat with Sherry for a minute and to hear about her newest boyfriend. As she shut down her computer and tidied her desk, I suddenly remembered what had been nagging at the back of my mind since reading Linsey Thomas’s files on Sunday.

  “Greg Turner,” I said.

  Sherry stooped to retrieve a paper clip from the floor. “What about him?”

  “Wasn’t he opposing counsel on one of John Claude’s civil cases last year?”

  “Hockaday versus the Town of Black Creek,” she said promptly with a slightly sour expression on her face. “He was the town’s attorney in a zoning change. Mr. Hockaday was fighting the change from residential to industrial, remember? He didn’t want his old homeplace to wind up in the middle of a strip mall.”

  “And he lost, right?”

  Sherry gave a small tight nod. “He lost. It was real frustrating to Mr. Lee. He thought he had a good chance of winning, but it was like every single argument he made, Greg Turner was there with a sharp answer. Mr. Lee said it was almost like Turner was standing behind him and reading over his shoulder.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling,” I said. “He did it to me the last case I argued against him. He’s one sharp attorney, all right.”

  By then it was almost five, so I walked back to the parking lot, got in my car, and switched on my phone to see if I’d missed any calls. Candace’s flash drive was burning a hole in my purse and I couldn’t wait to plug it into a computer, but I had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen any time soon, not if I was committed to a ball game that evening.

  Like it or not, I needed to sit on my curiosity until I knew I would have some alone time at home. I’ve always been open with Dwight about almost everything and it bothers me that I can’t tell him about this, but I certainly don’t plan to in this lifetime. Confession may be good for the confessor’s soul, but it can play havoc with the heart and soul of the person forced to hear that confession. I’ve seen a lot of good marriages collapse because the husbands or wives were driven by their guilty consciences to confess to a single aberrant fling.

  I can rationalize from now till the trumpet blows that I’ve tried to be worthy of the office and to act ethically; that I haven’t taken bribes and that my judgments have all been based on the law and a sense of what is right and fair, not from self-interest or to benefit someone belonging to me. Nevertheless, come Judgment Day, I will have to look my rationalizations in the eye and admit that my first appointment was tainted.

  Till then, it’s a matter of “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” I had let Daddy squeeze G. Hooks Talbert with my eyes wide open, so I don’t get to unburden my soul on Dwight’s.

  Whose number popped up on the screen as soon as I switched on my phone.

  “Hey,” he said. “Did I catch you before you left town?”

  “Just got in the car,” I told him.

  “Good. Cal and I are fixing to ride in with Zach and his kids. Why don’t you meet us by the concession stand at the ball field? I’ll treat you to a hot dog all the way.”

  “All the way” means coleslaw, mustard, onions, and Texas Pete chili.

  “Make it two and you’ve got a deal,” I said and asked him to bring me a T-shirt and sweater. I keep sneakers in the car, but two hot dogs and an evening of cheering for Jackson would probably wreck the beautiful turquoise silk shirt I was wearing.

  CHAPTER 22

  I wish I could have been there when they courted.

  —The Persimmon Tree Carol, by Shelby Stephenson

  By the time my guys arrived at the Dobbs High School ball field, I was hungry enough to gnaw on the back leg of a rabbit hound. It didn’t help that Will and Amy kept offering me bites of their chili dogs, although I did let Will buy me an iced Pepsi. I was early enough to get a hug from Jackson before his team took the field to warm up. He’s tall and rangy like all the Stephenson males from Mother’s side of the family and he loped across the field like a young pony feeling his oats.

  We staked claim to some lower rows of seats between third and home where we could cheer for his every play.

  My niece Annie Sue arrived a few minutes later, pushing her daddy’s wheelchair. Herman is Haywood’s twin, one of the “big twins,” as opposed to Zach and Adam, the “little twins,” so called because they’re several years younger even though they’re actually taller. But Herman and Haywood are a lot broader, although Herman is a little thinner now that he’s confined to a wheelchair.

  Like his twin, Herman has no inhibitions and as soon as he spotted us, a big grin broke across his broad face. “Guess what, y’all?” he hollered.

  “Oh, Da
d!” Annie Sue protested.

  “What?” Amy called back.

  “She’s got her ’lectrician’s license!”

  We erupted from our seats in hugs and laughter and congratulations. There had been a time when Herman was less than thrilled at the idea of his baby daughter following in his footsteps, but it finally penetrated his thick skull that she was the only one of his four children with a natural talent for electricity and a real love for the work. Immediately after high school, she had enrolled at the community college and taken all the necessary courses to become a licensed electrician herself, acing the tests and graduating at the head of the department.

  “So are you changing the name of your business to Knott and Daughter?” Amy asked with a mischievous grin.

  “Naw, she won’t let me,” said Herman.

  Annie Sue shrugged her sturdy shoulders. “No point rubbing Reese’s nose in it.”

  “Hell, girl,” said Will. “He’s gonna be working for you someday, idn’t he?”

  “I hope it’ll be a partnership, Uncle Will. We sure don’t want him to quit. He’s a good electrician and he’s pulling his share of the load. This way, he can work off my license, too, now.”

  Herman’s oldest child, Edward, is a white-collar office worker out in Charlotte. Ditto Denise in Greensboro. Reese and Denise are twins and Annie Sue was an “oops” baby. Reese is still single, but he’s never been one to crack the books. As long as he can earn enough to pay for his truck, his trailer, and his tall ones, it doesn’t seem to much matter to him who’s higher in the pecking order. All the same, it was so like Annie Sue to consider his male pride. If and when Herman turns the business over to them, I’m sure it’ll be on equal terms.