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  Hard Row

  ( Deborah Knott - 13 )

  Margaret Maron

  Hard Row Deborah Knott Mystery [13] Margaret Maron Grand Central Publishing (2008) Tags: Cozy Mystery, Contemporary

  Cozy Mysteryttt Contemporaryttt

  Fans of Edgar-winner Maron's reliably pleasing Deborah Knott series will be glad to see the North Carolina judge back on the bench in this intriguing 13th mystery Deborah has to decide a high-stakes divorce case with a no-show husband as well as preside over a growing caseload involving migrant workers pitted against locals. Meanwhile, body parts begin to appear in rural Colleton County that turn out to belong to Buck Harris, a farmer known for his exploitation of cheap immigrant labor who happens to be Deborah's missing divorce plaintiff. When Knott's new husband, sheriff's deputy Dwight Bryant, investigates the immigrants living on the Harris farm, he uncovers a sequence of events that suggest something much more damaging than the sheer indifference the victim had shown to his workers. As Deborah adjusts to becoming the stepmother of Dwight's motherless eight-year-old son, Cal, her large extended family debates the future of their own family farm. Readers will eagerly await further developments in the next book. (Aug.)

  Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

  From

  North Carolina judge Deborah Knott is adjusting to her recent marriage to sheriff's department investigator Dwight Bryant and the addition to her household of a stepson, Cal, when human body parts begin appearing throughout the county. Bryant is charged with identifying the victim and finding his killer. Also, an elderly man has disappeared from a nursing home, and his daughter is frantic. Bryant, with Deborah's help, identifies the victim, a man who was not well liked in the community. While the search for the killer continues, Deborah deals with the challenges of learning to mother and discipline a stepson and to be part of a couple after years of living on her own. In this long-running series, now in its thirteenth installment, Maron continues to produce an effective mix of mystery and domestic drama, drawing on Deborah's large extended family (she is the youngest of 12 children and the only girl) for nicely individualized secondary characters. There is an established audience for this series, and they will welcome the latest. O'Brien, Sue

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  Deborah Knott novels:

  HARD ROW

  WINTER’S CHILD

  RITUALS OF THE SEASON

  HIGH COUNTRY FALL

  SLOW DOLLAR

  UNCOMMON CLAY

  STORM TRACK

  HOME FIRES

  KILLER MARKET

  UP JUMPS THE DEVIL

  SHOOTING AT LOONS

  SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

  BOOTLEGGER’S DAUGHTER

  Sigrid Harald novels:

  FUGITIVE COLORS

  PAST IMPERFECT

  CORPUS CHRISTMAS

  BABY DOLL GAMES

  THE RIGHT JACK

  DEATH IN BLUE FOLDERS

  DEATH OF A BUTTERFLY

  ONE COFFEE WITH

  Non-series:

  LAST LESSONS OF SUMMER

  BLOODY KIN

  SUITABLE FOR HANGING

  SHOVELING SMOKE

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  %

  MARGARET

  MARON

  Copyright © 2007 by Margaret Maron

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,

  no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any

  form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior

  written permission of the publisher.

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.

  Warner Books and the “W” logo are trademarks of Time Warner Inc. or an affiliated

  company. Used under license by Hachette Book Group USA, which is not affiliated

  with Time Warner Inc.

  First eBook Edition: August 2007

  Summary: “As judge Deborah Knott presides over a case involving a barroom

  brawl, it becomes clear that deep resentments over race, class, and illegal immigration

  are simmering just below the surface in the North Carolina countryside”—Provided

  by publisher.

  ISBN:

  0-446-19825-0

  1. Knott, Deborah (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women judges—Fiction.

  3. North Carolina—Fiction. I. Title.

  For Ann Ragan Stephenson,

  whose friendship enriches me and

  keeps me rooted in reality

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Jay Stephenson, my friend and neigh-

  bor, for sharing his practical knowledge and farming

  expertise; to Margaret Ruley for insights into stepmoth-

  ering; and to my cousin Judy Johnson for giving me

  tuberoses. As always, I am indebted to District Court

  Judges Shelly S. Holt and Rebecca W. Blackmore, of the

  5th Judicial District Court (New Hanover and Pender

  Counties, North Carolina), and Special Superior Court

  Judge John Smith, who keep a watching brief on

  Deborah’s grasp of the law.

  That most farmers have had “a hard row to hoe” during the

  last few years is a fact which admits of no argument.

  The famous poets who never plowed a furrow in their lives

  go into raptures over rural life.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

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  D E B O R A H K N O T T ’ S

  F A M I L Y T R E E

  (stillborn son)

  Annie Ruth

  1) Ina Faye

  Langdon

  (1) Robert

  m.

  2) Doris > Betsy, Robert Jr. (Bobby) >

  (1)

  grandchildren

  (2) Franklin

  m.

  Mae > children > grandchildren

  1) Carol > Olivia > Braz & Val

  (3) Andrew

  m.

  2) Lois

  3) April > A.K. & Ruth

  m.

  (4) Herman*

  m.

  Nadine > *Reese, *Denise, Edward,

  Annie Sue

  (5) Haywood* m.

  Isabel > at least 3, including Valerie,

  Steven, Jane Ann > g’children

  (6) Benjamin

  m.

  Kezzie Knott

  (7) Seth

  m.

  Minnie > at least 3, including John and

  Jessica

  (8) Jack

  m.

  1) Patricia (“Trish”)

  (9) Will

  m.

  2) Kathleen

  m.

  3) Amy > at least 2 children

  (2)

  (10) Adam*

  m.

  Karen > 2 sons

  Susan

  Stephenson

  (11) Zach*

  m.

  Barbara > Lee, Emma

  (12) Deborah

  m.

  Dwight Bryant > stepson Cal

  *Twins

  January

  % El Toro Negro sits next to an abandoned tobacco

  warehouse a few feet inside the Dobbs city limits.

  Back when the club catered to the country-western

  crowd, a mechanical bull used to be one of the attrac-

  tions; but after a disgruntled customer took a sledge-

  hammer to its motor, the bull was l
eft behind when the

  club changed hands. Now it stands atop the flat roof

  and someone with more verve than talent has painted a

  picture of it on the windowless front wall. As visibly

  masculine as his three-dimensional counterpart over-

  head, the painted bull is additionally endowed with long

  sharp horns. He seems to snort and paw at hot desert

  sands although it is a frigid night and more than a thou-

  sand miles north of the border. Two weeks into January,

  yet a white plastic banner that reads FELIZ NAVIDAD Y

  PRÓSPERO AÑO NUEVO still hangs over the entrance. A

  chill wind sweeps across the gravel parking lot and sends

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  MARGARET MARON

  beer cups and empty cigarette packs scudding like tum-

  bleweeds until they catch in the bushes that line the

  sidewalk.

  Every Saturday night, the parking lot is jammed with

  work vehicles of all descriptions and tonight is no ex-

  ception. Pickup trucks with extended crew cabs pre-

  dominate. Pulled up close to the club’s side entrance

  is a refurbished schoolbus, its windows and body both

  painted a dark purple that looks black under the lone

  security light. A rainbow of racing stripes surrounds

  the elaborate lettering of the band’s name. Los Cuatro

  Reyes del Hidalgo are playing here tonight and when-

  ever the door opens, live music with a strong Tejano

  beat swirls out on gusts of warm air.

  Like most of the Latinos clustered beneath the col-

  ored lights around the doorway, the muscular Anglo

  who passes them is without a woman on his arm. He

  has clearly been drinking and the bouncers at the door

  glance at each other, silently conferring if they should

  let him in; but he has already handed over his fifteen-

  dollar cover charge. They sweep him thoroughly with

  their metal detector and make him empty his pockets

  when the wand beeps for a handful of coins, then stamp

  the back of his hand and let him pass.

  Inside, he heads straight to the far end of the long

  bar that stretches down the whole length of one wall.

  Even though dark faces beneath wide cowboy hats line

  the bar three and four deep, they move aside to let him

  prop a foot on the wooden rail and order a Corona. In

  addition to the hats, most of the other men are wear-

  ing tooled cowboy boots, fleece-lined jackets, and belt

  buckles as big as tamales. The Anglo is tall enough to

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  see over the hats and when his beer comes, he takes a

  deep swig and scans the further room.

  On a low stage at the back, the Hidalgo Kings are

  belting it out on keyboard, drum, and guitars to an en-

  thusiastic audience. Colored lights play across the danc-

  ers as their bodies keep time to the pulsating rhythm.

  Between songs, the click of balls can be heard from the

  pool tables in a side room.

  The bouncers keep an eye on the Anglo, but the

  sprawling club is crowded, men outnumber women at

  least four to one, and tempers can flare with little prov-

  ocation. A Colombian accuses a Salvadoran of taking his

  drink when his back was turned and the bouncers move

  in to break it up.

  At the bar, the Anglo orders another cerveza, and after

  a while, the bouncers relax their surveillance of him.

  Shortly before midnight, he leaves his third beer on

  the counter and moves through the crowd toward the

  restroom just as a woman bundled in a bulky jacket and

  knitted hat urgently approaches a knot of men still nurs-

  ing their beers.

  “¿Dónde está Ernesto?” she asks.

  With a tilt of his head, one of the men gestures to-

  ward one of the side rooms and the woman hurries over

  to the pool table. “¡Ernesto! ¡Date prisa!” she says to

  the man who looks up when she speaks. “Es María. Ya

  viene el bebe.”

  He immediately throws down his cue and follows

  her through the crowd. His friends call after him,

  “¡Felicitaciones, amigo!”

  Inside the bathroom at the far end of the club, the

  big Anglo quickly grabs a man waiting his turn at a

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  MARGARET MARON

  urinal. The man is smaller and shorter, and before he

  can defend himself, his white hat goes flying and the

  Anglo has his bolo tie in a stranglehold with his left

  hand while his right fist delivers a punishing blow to the

  victim’s chin.

  A second blow opens a gash over his eye. Gasping for

  breath as his bolo tightens around his neck, the Latino

  fumbles frantically for a beer bottle lying atop others in

  the trash bin and in one sweeping motion smashes the

  end against the sink.

  Several men reach to pull the two apart. Others open

  the door and cry out to the bouncers as the bottle

  gleams in the dull light.

  Blood suddenly spurts across the white cowboy hat

  now trampled beneath their feet and the big Anglo

  crashes to the floor, writhing in pain.

  4

  C H A P T E R

  1

  If a man goes at his work with his fists he is not so successful

  as if he goes at it with his head.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

  Deborah Knott

  Friday, February 24

  % A cold February morning and the first thing on

  my calendar was the State of North Carolina ver-

  sus James Braswell and Hector Macedo.

  Misdemeanor assault inflicting serious bodily injury.

  I vaguely remembered doing first appearances on

  them both two or three weeks earlier although I would

  have heard only enough facts to set an appropriate bond

  and appoint attorneys if they couldn’t afford their own.

  According to the papers now before me, Braswell was

  a lineman for the local power company and could not

  only afford an attorney, but had also made bail immedi-

  ately. His co-defendant, here on a legal visa, had needed

  an appointed lawyer and he had sat in the Colleton

  County jail for eleven days till someone went his bail.

  Each was charged with assaulting the other, and while

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  MARGARET MARON

  it might have been better to try them separately, Doug

  Woodall’s office had decided to join the two cases and

  prosecute them together since the charges rose out of

  the same brawl. Despite a broken bottle, our DA had

  not gone for the more serious charge of felony assault

  because keeping them both misdemeanors would save

  his office time and the county money, something he was

  more conscious of now that he’d decided to run for

  governor.

  Neither attorney had objected even though it meant

  they had to put themselves between the two men scowl-

  ing at each other from opposite ends of the defendants’

  table.

  Braswell’s left hand and wrist had been bandaged last

  month. Today, a scabby red line ran diagonally across

  the back of his hand and continued do
wn along the

  outer edge of his wrist till it disappeared under the cuff

  of his jacket. The stitches had been removed, but the

  puncture marks on either side were still visible. I’m no

  doctor, but it looked as if the jagged glass had barely

  missed the veins on the underside of Braswell’s wrist.

  The cut over Macedo’s right eye was mostly hidden

  by his thick dark eyebrow.

  I listened as Julie Walsh finished reading the charges.

  Doug’s newest ADA was a recent graduate of Campbell

  University’s law school over in Buies Creek. Small-boned,

  with light brown hair and blue-green eyes, she dressed

  like the perfectly conservative product of a conservative

  school except that a delicate tracery of tattooed flowers

  circled one thin white wrist and was almost unnotice-

  able beneath the leather band of her watch. Rumor said

  there was a Japanese symbol for trust at the nape of her

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  HARD ROW

  neck but because she favored turtleneck sweaters and

  wore her long hair down, I couldn’t swear to that.

  “How do you plead?” I asked the defendants.

  “Not guilty,” said Braswell.

  “Guilty with extenuating circumstances,” said Macedo

  through his attorney.

  While Walsh laid out the State’s case, I thought about

  the club where the incident took place.

  El Toro Negro. The name brought back a rush of

  mental images. I had been there twice myself. Last

  spring, back when I still thought of Sheriff Bo Poole’s

  chief deputy as a sort of twelfth brother and a handy

  escort if both of us were at loose ends, a couple of court

  translators had invited me to a Cinco de Mayo fiesta at

  the club. My latest romance had gone sour the month

  before so I’d asked Dwight if he wanted to join us.

  “Yeah, wouldn’t hurt for me to take a look at that

  place,” he’d said. “Maybe keep you out of trouble while

  I’m at it.”

  Knowing that he likes to dance just as much as I do,

  I didn’t rise to the bait.

  The club was so jammed that the party had spilled

  out into the cordoned-off parking lot. It felt as if every

  Hispanic in Colleton County had turned out. I hadn’t

  realized till then just how many there were—all those

  mostly ignored people who had filtered in around the

  fringes of our lives. Normally, they wear faded shirts

  and mud-stained jeans while working long hours in our