Hard Row

by Margaret Maron

  “Because Flame talked to him then?”

  “And because his farm manager saw him on Sunday around noon. If the body was in that unheated shed from the time of death till the night they were found, then Sunday’s more likely. If somebody held him prisoner for a few days first though, it could be as late as Thursday. Denning’s taking extra pains with the insect evidence in the blood.”

  Insect evidence?

  Read maggots.

  “Is that going to be much use? Cold as it was all that week, would there have been blowflies?”

  “Remember the foxes?”

  I smiled and lifted his hand to my lips. Of course I remembered.

  It had been a chilly Sunday morning back in early January. The temperature could not have been much over freezing, but the sun was shining and when he asked if I’d like to take a walk, I had immediately reached for a scarf and jacket. Hand in hand, we had rambled down along the far side of the pond, going nowhere and in no hurry to get there, enjoying the morning and sharing a contentment that had needed few words. On the right side of the rutted lane lay the lake-size expanse of dark water; on the left, a tangle of bushes, trash trees, and vines edged a field that had lain fallow since early summer. Some farmers hate to see messy underbrush and are out with weed killers at the first hint of unwanted woody plants, but we’ve always left wide swaths for the birds and small mammals that share the farm with us.

  That morning, sparrows and thrashers fluttered in and out of the hedgerow ahead of us as we approached and our footsteps flushed huge grasshoppers that had emerged from their winter hiding to bask in the warm sun. At a break in the bushes, we paused to look out over the field and saw movement in the dried weeds less than fifty feet away. A warning squeeze of his hand made me keep still. At first I couldn’t make out if they were dogs or rabbits or—

  “Foxes!” Dwight said in a half-whisper.

  A pair of little gray foxes were jumping and pouncing. With the wind blowing in our direction, they had not caught our scent and seemed not to have heard our low voices.

  “What are they after?” I asked, standing on tiptoes to see. “Field mice?”

  At that instant, a big grasshopper flew off from a tuft of broomstraw and one of the foxes leaped to catch it in mid-flight.

  Entranced, we stood motionless and watched them hunt and catch more of the hapless insects until they spooked a cottontail that sprang straight up in the air and lit off toward the woods with both foxes close behind.

  So no, not all insects died in winter.

  “There are always blowflies in barns and sheds,” Dwight reminded me. “They may hunker down when the mercury drops, but anything above thirty-five and they’re right back out, especially if there’s blood around.”

  We rode in silence for a few minutes. I was carefully keeping under the speed limit. With all he’d had to cope with today, I didn’t need to add any more stress. So what if we missed the opening face-off?

  “If it turns out Harris died on Sunday, what’s this going to do to your ED case?” he asked.

  “Not my problem. If it can be proved that he died before I signed the divorce judgment, then that judgment’s vacated. If he died afterwards, then it proceeds unless Mrs. Harris dismisses her claim.”

  “And if nobody can agree on a time of death?”

  “Then Reid and Pete get to argue it out. They or the beneficiaries under Harris’s will. With a little bit of luck, some other judge will get to decide on time of death.” I thought about Flame Smith, who had clearly planned on becoming the second Mrs. Harris. “I wonder if he made a will after the separation? Want me to ask Reid?”

  “Better let me,” Dwight said. “Could be the motive for his death.”

  “I rather doubt if Flame Smith swung that axe,” I said.

  “You think? I long ago quit saying what a woman will or won’t do.”

  After such a harrowing day, I was glad to see Dwight get caught up in the hockey game. We ordered hamburgers and beers that were delivered to our seats and found we had only missed the first few scoreless minutes. Soon we were roaring and shouting with the rest of the fans as the lead seesawed back and forth. Each time one of our players was sent to the penalty box, the clock ticked off the seconds with a maddening slowness that was just the opposite of the way time whizzed by if it was our chance for a power play. Near the end, the Canes pulled ahead 3 to 2 and when Brind’Amour iced the cake with a slap shot that zoomed past their goalie, Dwight swept me up and spun me around in an exuberant bear hug.

  Canes 4 to 2.

  Yes!

  CHAPTER 20

  Those farmers who are generally dissatisfied with their condition and imagine that they may be greatly benefitted by a change of place, will find, in the majority of cases, that the fault is more in themselves than in their surroundings.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

  DWIGHT BRYANT

  TUESDAY MORNING, MARCH 7

  The clouds that had intermittently obscured the moon on the drive home last night had thickened in the early morning hours and now a heavy rain beat against the cab of the truck as Dwight and Deborah waited with Cal at the end of their long driveway for his schoolbus to arrive.

  Normally, thought Dwight, the three of them would be laughing and chattering about last night’s game, but his attempt to get Cal to speak of it earlier went nowhere. “The Canes won, you know.”

  “I didn’t watch it,” Cal had said, concentrating on his cereal.

  Yes, they had watched the beginning of the game, he said, but then it was his bedtime. Yes, it was good the Canes had won. Yes, he’d had a good time with Jessie and Emma. When pushed for details, he allowed as how they had taken him over to Jessie’s house for a couple of hours to ride horses across the farm. These boots that he was wearing today? “Jess said I could have them since they don’t fit anybody else right now.”

  “That was nice of her,” Dwight said heartily.

  Cal shrugged. “I have to give them back when they get too tight, so that maybe Bert can wear them.”

  He wasn’t openly sulking, and he wasn’t rude. He did and said nothing that Dwight could use as a launching pad for a lecture on attitude.

  Sitting between them while the rain streamed down and fogged the truck windows, Deborah was pleasant and matter-of-fact. Had he not known her so intimately, he could almost swear that it was a perfectly ordinary morning. He did know her though, and he sensed her conscious determination to keep the situation from becoming confrontational.

  He also sensed the relief that radiated from both of his passengers when they spotted the big yellow bus lumbering down the road. Cal immediately pulled on the door handle.

  Although his hooded jacket was water-repellent, Dwight said, “Wait till she stops or you’ll get soaked,” but his son was out the truck so quickly that he had to wait in the downpour for a moment before the driver could get the door open.

  Dwight sighed as the bus pulled off and he gave a rueful smile to Deborah, who had not moved away even though the other third of the truck’s bench seat was now empty. “Sorry about that.”

  She laid a hand on his thigh and smiled back. A genuine smile this time. “Don’t be. If he wasn’t mad because I made him miss the game, I’d be worried. I like it that he’s feeling secure enough to show a little temper.”

  “You’re still not going to tell me what it was all about?”

  “One of these years, maybe. Not now though.”

  “All the same,” he said as he pulled onto the road and headed the truck toward Dobbs, “I think he and I are due to have a little talk this afternoon.”

  She considered the ramifications for a moment, then said, “That might not be a bad idea. It won’t hurt for him to hear again from you that he’s supposed to listen to me when you’re not around so that he’ll know we’re both on the same page, but please make it clear that you don’t know any details and that you’re not asking for any, okay?”

  “Got
cha.”

  She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Poor kid. I think it’s really starting to sink in that Jonna’s gone forever and he’s stuck here with us.”

  “That still doesn’t mean—”

  “No,” she agreed before he could finish the thought. “But it does mean I’m not going to take it too personally and you shouldn’t either. Mother used to tease me about the time I stomped my foot and yelled that I was purply mad with her.”

  “Purply mad?”

  “I knew purple, I didn’t know perfect. The point is, she was my mother. Not my stepmother, yet I absolutely hated her at that moment. Nothing we can say or do changes the fact that Jonna’s dead. That’s the cold hard reality Cal has to deal with, but it’s something he’s going to have to work through on his own. All we can do is give him love and security and let him know what the rules are.”

  Her face was turned up to his and he bent his head to kiss her. “Anybody ever tell you you ought to run for judge?”

  When they got to the courthouse, it was still pouring, so he dropped her at the covered doorway to the Sheriff’s Department and she waited while he parked and made his way back with a large umbrella. Despite the rawness of the day, this felt to him like a spring rain, not a winter one.

  “I know Cletus and Mr. Kezzie have a garden big enough to feed everybody,” he said happily, “but don’t we want a few tomato plants of our own? And maybe some peppers? Oh, and three or four hills of okra, too?”

  She shook her head in mock dismay. “Are tomatoes the camel’s nose under the tent? Am I going to come home and find the south forty planted in kitchen vegetables? I’m warning you right now, Major Bryant. You can plant anything you want, but I don’t freeze and I certainly don’t can.”

  Because it was early for her, they walked down to the break room and as they emerged with paper cups of steaming coffee, they met a damp Reid Stephenson.

  “Got an extra one of those?” he asked.

  “You’re out early,” Deborah said.

  “I’ve had Flame Smith on my tail since last night. What about it, Dwight? When did he die? Before the divorce or after?”

  “Now that I can’t tell you for sure. We may not ever know.”

  “Guess I’d better go talk to Pete Taylor,” he said.

  “Was there a will?” Deborah asked.

  Dwight frowned at her and she grinned unrepentantly. “It’s going to be a matter of public record sooner or later. So cui bono, Reid? Or weren’t you the one who drew it up?”

  “Oh, I did one. It was about a week after he initiated divorce proceedings over here. Both the Harrises decided to hire personal attorneys instead of using the New Bern firm that handles their combined business interests.”

  “Does Flame inherit anything?”

  “Goodbye, Deborah,” Dwight said, sounding out every syllable of her name.

  She laughed and turned to go. “See you for lunch?”

  “Probably not.” He motioned for Reid to follow him into his office.

  “I really ought not to tell you anything till I put the will in for probate,” the younger man said.

  Dwight took his seat behind the desk and asked, “Who’s his executor?”

  “His daughter up in New York.” Reid pulled up a chair and set his coffee on the edge of the desk. “She was pretty upset when I called her yesterday, but she called back this morning and she’s flying in this afternoon.”

  “Whether or not the divorce was final won’t affect the terms of the will, will it?”

  “Actually, it probably will. From the documents he gave me—and you might want to check with their company attorneys—their LLC was set for shared ownership with rights of survival.”

  “If one of them dies, the other gets full ownership?”

  “That’s my understanding. I’m sure Mrs. Harris’s attorney will argue that the divorce doesn’t really matter because there had been no formal division of property yet so the terms of the LLC will still be in effect. On the other hand, if the divorce was finalized before he died, then the ED could go forward, with his estate taking whatever he was awarded. It could be a pretty little legal problem. Of course, he did own property and money in his own name and his will should stand as to the disposition of that part of his estate.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  “His personal estate? Maybe three million, give or take a few thousand.”

  “So answer me Deb’rah’s question. Who inherits?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Dwight.”

  “Sure you can. Like she said, it’s all going to be public record soon enough. Is Flame Smith in the will?”

  Reid thought about it a minute, then threw up his hands in surrender. “Oh yes. To the tune of half a million. Except for a few small bequests, the daughter gets everything else, which he thought was going to be half of Harris Farms.”

  Dwight leaned back in his chair. “What was Buck Harris really like, Reid?”

  “He was okay. Blunt. To the point. Knew what he wanted and was willing to pay for it. Expected full value for his money though.”

  “So why would someone take an axe to him like that?”

  “Damned if I know.” Reid took a first swallow of his coffee and grimaced. “Y’all need to let Julia Lee start buying your coffee beans. This stuff’s like battery acid.”

  “I doubt if Bo’s budget runs to a coffee grinder and gourmet beans,” he said, remembering how he used to look for excuses to drop by the firm of Lee, Stephenson and Knott, before Deborah ran for the bench. Coffee was always good for one visit a week and they did have the best coffee of any office in town.

  Not that he was ever there for the coffee.

  After Reid left, Dwight phoned Pete Taylor. “I’d appreciate it if you could get Mrs. Harris to come in and see me this afternoon?”

  Taylor promised that he would try.

  Down in the detectives’ squad room, he gave out the day’s assignments as to the lines he wanted pursued and the people they should interview.

  “One thing, boss,” said Denning. “I found a hammer at the back of the shed. There was blood on the peen and one strand of hair that I compared with hairs from the comb in Harris’s bathroom. I’ve sent them both to the state lab, but the hairs look like a match to me.”

  “Which means?”

  “He was probably coldcocked over the head with the hammer first. We’ll have to wait till we find the head to know for sure.”

  As Dwight returned to his office and the rat’s nest of paperwork awaiting his attention, he heard Jamison say, “Talk to you a minute, Major?”

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  The deputy followed and closed the door. There was a troubled look on his round face.

  “What’s up?” Dwight asked. He gestured to the chair Reid Stephenson had vacated, but Jamison continued to stand.

  “I need to tell you that I’m resigning, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir. Effective the end of next week, if that’s okay with you.”

  “What the hell’s this about? And for God’s sake, sit down.”

  The detective sat, but he looked even more uncomfortable and was having trouble meeting Dwight’s eyes.

  Dwight studied him a long moment. “What’s going on, Jack? If it’s a better offer from another department, you’re about due a raise. I don’t know that we can match Raleigh, but—”

  “It’s not Raleigh, Major. It’s Iraq.”

  Dwight frowned. “I didn’t realize you’re in the Guard.”

  “I’m not. It’s DynCorp. They’re a private security company that—”

  “I know what DynCorp is.” He realized that he should have seen this coming. Police departments all over the area had lost good men to private security companies. First war America’s ever had to contract out, he thought sourly.

  “They’ve accepted me into their training program. If I qualify, I’ll be helping to train Iraqi police officers.”


  “And that’s what you want to do?”

  “Not really but the pay’s too good to pass up, Major. We’re just not making it on thirty-seven thousand a year. Cindy wants things for our son and I want them, too. Over there, I can start at around a hundred-thirty.”

  Dwight leaned back in his chair, feeling older and more tired than he had in a long time. “No, we certainly can’t match that. But you say you want things for your son. What about a father? Civilian personnel are getting killed over there.”

  Jamison nodded. “I know. But like Cindy says, police officers are getting shot at over here, too.”

  “You ever been shot at?”

  “Well, no sir, but it does happen, doesn’t it? A couple or three inches more and Mayleen could have died back in January. Anyhow, I figure two years and we’ll be out of debt with enough saved up to put a good down payment on a real house. It’s worth the risk.” He took a deep breath. “And if I do get killed, she’ll get a quarter million in insurance. That should be enough to get Jay through college.”

  Dwight shook his head. “Do the math, Jack. Divide a quarter million by eighteen years. Cindy won’t have enough left to pay your son’s application fees.”

  By the determined look on Jamison’s face, his mind was clearly made up.

  “So. The end of next week?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. I’m really sorry you feel you need to do this, but notify human resources and make sure your paperwork’s caught up.”

  Jamison came to his feet. “Thank you, Major. And I really do appreciate all you’ve done for me, making me a detective and all. Maybe when I get back . . .”

  “We’ll see. You’re not gone yet though, and I expect another full week of work from you, so get out there and see what you can dig up on the Harris murder.”

  CHAPTER 21

  It is a matter of paramount importance to the prosperity of any community or State to have its surplus lands occupied by an industrious, enterprising, and moral population.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890