In Daddy’s Colleton County accent, words like “tire iron” come out “tar arn,” but neither Adam nor I needed to think twice about his meaning.
Nor did it occur to us that Jap Stancil might not be dead or that his death was accidental. Daddy’s seen a lot of violence over the years. He’d know.
He wasn’t real happy that I’d insisted on coming back with him and Adam. Even though he brought me up on a working farm that routinely slaughters hogs and cows and chickens for the freezer, even though he helped me get a job that routinely brings the dregs of the county before me, even though he hasn’t seen me in ruffles and Mary Janes since I was old enough to routinely reach for jeans and sneakers, in my daddy’s heart I’ll probably always be his dainty little baby girl who needs protection and shielding from the harsh realities of life.
And death.
Squashed in between the two men, my knee in danger of getting banged every time Daddy shifted gears, I couldn’t keep the images of what we were soon going to see at that garage from being colored by Adam’s earlier jibes.
As a child, I was never terrorized on the school bus like so many other kids. The bullies soon learned that messing with me meant they were messing with Adam and Zach. And if the little twins couldn’t handle it, there was always Will, who kept an eye out for all three of us. My biggest battle was making them let me take care of my own problems and I seldom won it till after all the boys were grown and out of the house.
Now I had to wonder if protecting me was something the boys had wanted to do, out of family solidarity, or because they knew what Daddy would say if they didn’t.
If I ever fell out of a tree, got stung by yellow jackets, was chased by a dog or ran into a barbed wire fence, sooner or later, when Mother was patching me up, Daddy would ask her who was supposed to be watching me? Where was [Zach] [Adam] [Will] [Jack] [Seth]? Pick one, any one. Hell, pick two or three if I were seriously hurt.
“Oh, Kezzie, hush,” Mother would say. “They’re not responsible for her and anyhow, hardheaded as this one is, you’re never going to keep her wrapped in cotton.”
Nevertheless, he would pick me up and pet me till I’d stopped crying. Being wrapped in cotton didn’t sound like much fun the way Mother said it, but sitting on his lap, leaning against his strong chest, diverted by the inner workings of his big gold pocket watch while Mother applied bright orange Mercurochrome to my scrapes or cuts, made me feel cherished and safe.
“How much petting you reckon he gave the boys?” asked the preacher. “Or Adam?”
By the time I was old enough to notice, Zach and Adam were almost too big for lap-sitting, but I seem to remember all three of us squooshed in together like a lapful of puppies to watch television or listen to Mother read, with Will and Jack and Seth and even Ben sprawled on the rug or couch next to us. And the way my brothers still hug each other, going and coming?
“And didn’t your daddy go right off and find some burn salve for Adam’s blistered hand while you were talking to the dispatcher?” asked the pragmatist.
If Adam feels shortchanged, maybe it’s his fault, not mine or Daddy’s.
As we approached Mr. Jap’s place, I said, “You might want to put your tires exactly where you had them before, if you can.”
But Daddy’d already had the same thoughts. “I’m not gonna mess up Dwight’s trail,” he assured me, and carefully drove off into the weeds where it was clear no other tires had passed since the rain stopped last night.
“Mind where you put your feet,” he warned Adam and me as he stepped across the overlapping tire tracks.
Dwight’s tracking skills were going to be put to the test if he tried to sort them all out. It was clear that at least three or four different vehicles had been past today.
The dirt drive that enters beside the old garage continues across an expanse of fallow ground too weedy and unkempt to be called a lawn, circles on around behind Jap’s house, then exits onto the road on the other side of the house. But the drive forks in a couple of places along the way. One fork leads over to Dallas’s house and storage barn. Another joins the lane Kidd and I had used a few weeks earlier. It was the one Dick Sutterly took after he finished talking to Adam, the same one that Daddy had used just now to cross the creek when he met Adam and me.
Mr. Jap was never territorial about Daddy and the boys or their tenants crossing his land. We’ve all used it as a shortcut to the stores at Pleasant’s Crossroads. Nor has Gray Talbert ever complained, not even when he had good reason to keep strangers from poking around his place. Not that actual strangers would know much about the back lanes since the woods on both sides of the creek are posted with those phony Possum Creek Hunt Club signs. A lane can look well traveled and still dead-end at an irrigation pond.
Seeing poor Mr. Jap was as bad as I expected, but by no means as bad as it could have been. Sprawled face-down on the damp cement floor halfway across the shop, he looked a little larger in death than he had in life. Adam seemed uneasy with this close view of violent death and murmured, “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
Along with the Bible, Dickens and One Hundred and One Famous Poems, Mother had read Shakespeare aloud to us of a winter’s evening, and we three younger ones can glibly quote from her favorite plays.
Daddy gave me an odd look. I shrugged and we both turned our attention to the condition of the shop. At the far rear corner stood a massive iron safe so old that its original green paint and gold lettering were nearly undiscernible beneath the layers of dirt and grease. According to Daddy, this was where Mr. Jap had kept the few papers he considered valuable: his farm deed before he signed it over to Dallas, his marriage certificate, Dallas’s birth certificate, Miss Elsie’s death certificate, Social Security papers, promissory notes, insurance policies and the like.
The acetylene torch lay atop the safe door, which had been burned off its hinges, and papers were scattered all around.
Adam started to walk over there, but Daddy pulled him back. “Better not mess with anything till Dwight gets here,” he said and we stayed clustered just inside the doorway.
“Why was he killed?” I asked.
Daddy pushed his white straw hat back on the crown of his head and said, “Don’t know, shug. He sure won’t worried about dying when I seen him down at the crossroads this morning.”
He gestured to Mr. Jap’s truck parked just beyond the door and we could see some conical bushel baskets sticking up above the tailgate. “He brought some of that fancy corn, a few squash and pumpkins and a dozen bags of turnip greens down to the flea market to sell. I told him I was going to eat a sandwich at the store when I finished getting my haircut. Asked if he was going to be there, but he said he had to come on back. Said there was somebody he was expecting.”
“Who?” Adam wondered.
“He didn’t say, but I expect it was the Wall boy. He was supposed to come sometime this weekend and settle up with Jap about the com.”
“Did you know Mr. Jap was thinking about selling some of his land?” I asked.
Daddy gave me a hard look. “Who told you that?”
“He did. Sort of.”
“How could he do that?” Adam protested. “You said it was going to be tied up in court till after the murder trial on Dallas’s wife.”
“He said John Claude had about talked Cherry Lou into renouncing any of her rights to the land. She thinks it would take away her motive, maybe get her a lighter sentence.”
“When’d he tell you all that?” asked Daddy.
“Yesterday.” I felt my face flush as I added, “Jimmy White was too busy to look at my car, so Allen Stancil changed the alternator for me here. Mr. Jap was here, too.”
I wasn’t sure if Adam remembered my involvement with Allen or even knew about it in the first place since he was off in California then, but certainly Daddy did. Neither of them said anything, although Adam looked around as if wondering for the first time where Allen was. “I never knew him too well, but
didn’t he used to be even rougher than Dallas when he was growing up?”
Daddy shrugged. “Elsie did what she could for both of ’em. Dallas got hisself straightened out a long time ago. I don’t know about Allen. Jap didn’t talk much on him.”
And with good reason, as Daddy and I both knew.
We heard the patrol cars first as they made the turn off New Forty-Eight, then we saw the flashing blue lights come over the rise.
“Well, now,” said Daddy, and Adam and I automatically snapped to attention. “I don’t believe we ought to say nothing to Dwight—not right yet anyhow—that Jap was talking about maybe gonna sell some of his land.”
12
« ^ » I venture this brief account under the eye of the public and as it may be supported by the concurring testimony of many gentlemen of repute and credit who have been among our settlers in North Carolina...“Scotus Americanus,” 1773
Dwight Bryant hung around our house so much when he was growing up, he could have been another of my brothers, fitting in somewhere between Will and the little twins. He has a football build now, but back then it’d been one-on-one basketball down at the barn and baseball out in the pasture. Whatever ball was in season, he’d be out there with the boys when they were free to play even if it meant he first had to help with their chores after he’d finished his own chores at home. Dwight’s father was killed in a tractor accident when he was young and his strong-minded mother never remarried, so I guess Daddy is the closest thing he has to a father figure; and Daddy’s always been partial to him, too.
That doesn’t mean though that Dwight didn’t cross-question us three ways to Sunday after the crime scene unit got there and he could give us his full attention. As Detective Chief of the Colleton County Sheriff’s Department, he would never stint his duty; but at least he didn’t start right in lecturing me for getting myself mixed up in another murder, not with Daddy sitting there on the tailgate of his old pickup.
Adam said he hadn’t seen anyone while he was burning trash back near the creek. Nor had he noticed the sound of a truck or car passing on the far side. Both of us had forgotten to wear a watch, so we didn’t know when it was that Dick Sutterly drove off toward Mr. Jap’s place, but Adam said they’d been talking about ten minutes when I got there. We both agreed that it was probably close to twenty minutes from the time he left till the time Daddy arrived.
“According to my piece, when I got back in my truck after finding Jap, it was exactly twenty-two minutes after one.”
Daddy pulled on the slender gold chain that was linked to a belt loop and his pocket watch slid into view. He flipped back the lid and compared the old-fashioned dial with Dwight’s digital wristwatch. They were less than a minute apart.
“And no,” he said, before Dwight could ask him, “I didn’t see Sutterly nor his truck neither when I turned in here.” He paused, remembering. “Did see Dallas’s wife when I passed. Least I reckon it was her, raking up leaves in her backyard. She might’ve noticed something.”
There were too many trees between the two houses for a clean view even if all the leaves had fallen, but it was true that she might have noticed if someone left by the far drive or if someone circled around by the back lanes.
Dwight made a note of it. “Now, you say you saw him at the flea market this morning. Did he seem any different?”
Daddy shook his head. “Nope. He was just Jap. This close to Thanksgiving, he reckoned it was the last time he could put out his corn and pumpkins before folks started wanting holly and mistletoe. He was thinking of shooting some down for next week. I thought it was a little early myself, but then I seen Christmas trees shining in some windows already, so maybe he was right.”
Mistletoe is an evergreen parasite on hardwoods. The seeds ripen inside waxy white berries and many cling to a bird’s beak while it’s eating. When the bird next lands in an oak or pecan tree, it cleans its beak on the nearest twig and the sticky seeds are glued to the spot. If conditions are just right, the seeds will sprout and send feeder roots down through the bark and soon there’s a bushy green ball of mistletoe putting out more white berries. Since the bird usually does its beak cleaning out on the tips of a tree’s branches, twenty or thirty feet off the ground, this does not make for simple gathering. Nevertheless, with a .22 rifle, a good marksman can prune you off enough mistletoe to kiss half the county.
“Jap did say he needed to come on back before dinner,” Daddy told Dwight. “Said he was expecting somebody.”
“He didn’t say who?”
Daddy shook his head. I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t speculate about the Wall boy. He wouldn’t put suspicion on somebody unless he knew it was true.
“What about Allen Stancil?” asked Dwight. “Any of y’all see him today?”
We told him no.
Even though Dwight had met Allen back when he and my brothers were messing around with their first cars, he was in the army and stationed in Germany at the time Mother died and I started college. There was no reason for him to’ve heard about my running off to Martinsville with Allen and I didn’t see any point in bringing him up to speed on it at this late date. I just hoped nobody else would either.
J.V. Pruitt, who’s acted as the county’s coroner most of my lifetime, stepped out of the garage. He’s an undertaker, not a doctor, but he’s seldom second-guessed by the ME over in Chapel Hill.
I have never seen Pruitt when he wasn’t dressed in a three-piece suit, white shirt and dark tie, and a plain felt hat—tan in the summertime, dark gray in the winter. He tipped his winter hat to me and nodded to Daddy, who always contributes to his campaign and hangs his poster in the crossroads store.
“Just what it looks like, Dwight,” he said now. “A single blow to the back of his head with that tire iron. Wouldn’t take much strength, just determination.”
“When?” asked Dwight.
“Now, Dwight, you been doing this long enough to know we can only approximate. When was he last seen?”
Dwight glanced at Daddy, who said, “Well, I seen him down at the crossroads around ten-thirty and I found him at one twenty-two.”
“Well, there you are,” said Pruitt, straightening his already straight tie. “Death occurred sometime between ten-thirty and one twenty-two. Chapel Hill won’t get it any tighter than that.”
The garage was a good hundred feet off the road, but a hundred feet back wasn’t enough to deter the curious. Cars were starting to clog up both lanes as people slowed to a crawl and craned their necks to see what had brought the blue-lights out to Jap Stancil’s. A highway patrolman arrived and began directing traffic in an effort to keep things moving.
As we stood out there talking, the crime scene unit had strung yellow tape across the drive to preserve the tracks. Their photographer finished up inside and came out to take close-ups of the separate tread marks, carefully laying a foot rule beside each one so as to have an accurate scale if and when the tires were found.
Unfortunately, that yellow tape only covered the entrance to the drive. Before anyone realized what was happening, a white Subaru sedan circled around behind Jap Stancil’s house and came jouncing down the lane toward the photographer, who hastily stood and tried to wave it back.
Merrilee Grimes ignored him till she was less than four feet from hitting him where he stood. Then she slammed on the brakes, slipped out from behind the wheel, and came running toward us. “What happened? Where’s Uncle Jap?”
Slender and small-boned, Merrilee probably gets all her clothes from the Petite Lady, while her husband Pete is limited to Big ’n Tall. It’s not that he’s fat, just really, really solid with lots of shaggy brown hair on his head and hairy arms and legs. He pried himself loose from the passenger side and lumbered after her. “Now, Merrilee, honey—”
I couldn’t help noticing Merrilee’s dainty black velvet slippers. They were almost instantly caked in damp sand. Not many women would wear velvet shoes outdoors in the country, but maybe she hadn’t planned on
taking a hike. Pete was marginally better in his suede ripple treads. Both wore black slacks and casual white windbreakers over oxford shirts. Merrilee had knotted a silk scarf around her neck and its gold and orange design was flecked with reddish brown rings that echoed her auburn hair and her close-set brown eyes. Papa Bear and Mama Bear off on a Saturday afternoon outing, but from the way they were dressed, their original destination had probably been Crabtree or North Hills Mall, not Possum Creek.
Merrilee didn’t seem to recognize Dwight or Adam. Instead, she looked from me to Daddy. “What’s happened to Uncle Jap, Mr. Kezzie? That yellow ribbon says crime scene. Did somebody try to rob him? Is he hurt? Did they take him to a hospital?”
Daddy stood up awkwardly. “I’m real sorry, Merrilee, but somebody seems to’ve hit him purty hard. Mr. Pruitt here don’t think he ever knowed what happened, it was probably so quick.”
Tears filled her eyes as his words sank in. “He’s gone? Just like that? Who hit him? Deborah?”
“We don’t know yet,” I said and put out my arms to her just as Pete caught up and engulfed the two of us.
We stood in that unwieldy bear hug until I managed to detach myself, still patting her slender back and murmuring sympathetic noises.
For a moment, there were only the sounds of traffic and her muffled sobs on the mild November air, then she sniffled and her hand groped for Pete’s pants pocket. Without asking what she wanted, Pete automatically pulled out a large white handkerchief. Even after she blew her nose, tears continued to spill from her eyes. She remained in the protective circle of Pete’s arms, but we could almost see her spine stiffen.
“Where is he?” she said. “I want to see him.”
“Now, Miz Grimes,” said Dwight.
“Aw, now, honey,” said her husband, “you don’t want to go in there and remember him like that.”
She pulled away and headed toward the open side door.
Young Jack Jamison, one of the sheriff’s deputies, looked inquiringly at Dwight, who shrugged and followed.
Up Jumps the Devil dk-4 Page 11
