Shooting at Loons Read online

  “Stay here,” said Kidd as he moved onto the porch. “Please?”

  As I may have said before, I don’t mind letting men do my dirty work if it makes them feel good, but that doesn’t include using one as a body shield. On the other hand, this one seemed to have picked up a short piece of pipe on our way over and I certainly didn’t need to be in the middle if he started swinging it.

  The front door was unlatched, but when Kidd pushed, it swung inward with a horrendous squeak and the light immediately vanished. As he stepped inside, I remembered that there was a side door I could be usefully watching, but for the moment, I blanked on which side. By the time I’d circled all the way around the house, the door was standing wide open and I saw a dark shape fleeing for the water. From the angle he was taking, I had a feeling he’d tied up at Mahlon’s landing, so I cut through the Lewis’s yard, trying not to skid on the wet grass, and sprinted down the narrow footpath the boys had worn through that overgrown vacant field, down to the shoreline. I bet I’d have made it in time to get a good look at the intruder, too, only just before I was to break through the bank, the toe of my sneaker caught in one of Mahlon’s discarded stop nets and I went sprawling into a yucca plant.

  A stiff needled blade jabbed my cheek, another raked my forehead, and more impaled themselves in my head and hands. I disentangled myself as quickly as I could, but already I could hear the boat motor; and when I finally made it to the shore, all I saw were the running lights as it headed out to the channel and back toward Beaufort. Without moon or stars, I couldn’t even say if it had a cabin or an open cockpit, for it was just a gray blur against the dark water.

  Discouraged, thoroughly wet and hurting like hell, I started to cross Mahlon’s rickety dock and stumbled against a bucket. It went banging against the piling and, as I set it upright, a light snapped on. Mahlon’s grizzled head appeared at the open window and he squinted out to see into the darkness.

  “Who’s that out there?”

  “It’s just me, Mahlon,” I called, edging away from the light. “I couldn’t sleep and was taking a walk and I kicked a bucket. Sorry. G’night.”

  He was still muttering about dingbatters without enough sense to come in out of the rain as I walked hastily back to the cottage.

  Kidd Chapin was there before me and as soon as I stepped inside, he drew the shades and turned on the lights. His wet hair clung flat to his head, but mine was hanging in strings.

  “Sweet Jesus in the morning! Look at you. What happened?”

  I touched my damp face and my torn hands came away with more blood. “I fell into a damn yucca.”

  “Spanish bayonets,” he said, calling its colloquial name.

  “They weren’t kidding. The way it hurts, I’m lucky I didn’t get one in the eye. I don’t suppose you got a look at him either?”

  “No, by the time I got to the open side door, you were both gone and I didn’t have a clue which way. I was on my way to the water when the light came on over there and I could see you by yourself, so I decided to sneak on back in here while you were creating a diversion. Come on, shug, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  I was drained into docility and obediently sat at the kitchen table while he washed the blood off my face and hands with a hot soapy washcloth, then dabbed at the cuts and punctures with peroxide.

  “Hope you got a light calendar tomorrow,” he said. “You’re going to look like hell a couple of days, but I’d leave the Band-Aids off, let the air heal it.”

  “Take two aspirin and call you tomorrow?” I said groggily.

  “Wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Which?”

  “Both.”

  I swallowed the aspirin he brought me, shucked off the wet sweatshirt and warm-up pants, and crawled into bed.

  • • •

  My head felt as if it’d barely touched the pillow when Kidd’s hand touched my bare shoulder. At first I thought it was still that hazy cusp between night and sunrise, but according to the clock it was nearly seven-thirty and I realized that the gray light was due to the gray day. The rain had stopped, though clouds still lingered. If more clouds didn’t blow in, it would probably be sunny by noon. I tried to sit up and every muscle in my body started screaming that this was really a bad idea and maybe we could all come back and try it again tomorrow.

  “I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” said Kidd.

  “No loons?”

  “No. Ol’ Mahlon left at first light without a gun. Gone fishing, I’d guess.”

  A hot cup of coffee steamed on the stand beside the bed. I eased up against the pillows and took a grateful sip.

  “How’d you know I like it black?”

  “No sugar bowl on the counter, no milk in the fridge. Made it easy. How you feeling?”

  “Stiff, sore. How do I look?”

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Except for the dueling scars. You’re a gutsy lady. Want to come hunting poachers with me some night?”

  “Any time you’re in Dobbs,” I smiled.

  “Bet you just would, too. Listen, though. You were too beat to talk, but whoever that was last night, he must have gone straight to the desk in what looked like the den ‘cause when I walked in, it was flat torn apart. Papers everywhere. I called Quig Smith and told him and he’s coming out this morning to see if he can get any fingerprints off the doors and desk. I didn’t touch anything inside and you never went in, so he’s going to tell Bynum’s family that he got an anonymous phone tip, okay?”

  “Okay,” I yawned.

  Very gently, he leaned over and kissed my uninjured cheek. “See you around, Ms. Judge,” and then he was gone.

  • • •

  A hot shower did wonders for my aching muscles, but it also brought out the bright red of my scratches. I hesitated between leaving them clean for quicker healing and covering them with makeup.

  Vanity won, but I promised my face I’d take cream and face soap with me and wipe off all the makeup as soon as court was adjourned. That should be by noon or one o’clock and nothing was on the docket for next day.

  And all the time I was dressing, Kidd’s words rang in my head. What sort of burglar tore apart a desk and scattered papers rather than grabbing up the nearest pawnable items? And did he want papers relating to the Alliance or papers relating to Pope Properties?

  Suddenly I was reevaluating the figure I’d chased last night. Could it have been a woman? More specifically, Linville Pope? Barbara Jean’s accusations began to take on a tinge of reality.

  Since it would be almost as quick to swing back past the island as to leave straight for Beaufort, I planned to wait till after court to pack and clean up. Unless Jay Hadley told (and why would she?), no one else knew I had half of Andy’s papers; but I’ve always thought it better to set the glass back on a sturdy table than cry over spilt milk, even though the cottage offered few places to hide a bundle of files. I briefly considered and rejected the linen closet with its neat stacks of sheets and towels, the oven, or between the mattresses.

  In the end, I went for Poe’s solution. Neatly stacked for recycling beside the kitchen garbage basket were all the newspapers I’d read that week, both the News and Observer and the Carteret County News-Times. Quickly, I divided the files between several of the newspapers, replaced them in the stack, and convinced myself that no one would give the papers a second glance.

  Outside, grinding gears announced the arrival of a large white truck in the field next to Mahlon’s. The door panel read COASTAL WASTE MANAGEMENT CORP, MOREHEAD CITY. Two muscular men stepped out, surveyed the scope of the job, then began tossing junk into the back of the truck. I saw Mickey Mantle go over and speak to them, then a few minutes later, he was tugging at those gamecock pens and moving them one at a time back nearer the house.

  Looked like Linville Pope was serious about cleaning up her property. What was it she’d said yesterday? “I do not threaten. I merely state.”

  No joke.

  • • •

&n
bsp; As I crossed the causeway to the mainland, I passed Quig Smith and he gave me a big wave.

  At the courthouse, Chet did a double take when he saw my face. “My God, girl! You look like you ought to be standing in front of the bench instead of sitting on it.”

  “Oh come on, it doesn’t look that bad, does it?” I examined my face again in the mirror. My hair half hid the scratch on my forehead and makeup almost covered the deeper one on my cheek.

  He shook his head. “What happened?”

  “I fell into a yucca plant.”

  “Ouch!” He flinched in sympathy. “Just jumped up and bit you, huh?”

  “What I get for playing Nancy Drew,” I said and told him about chasing the burglar who’d broken into Andy Bynum’s house. With some editing, of course. I didn’t need stories getting back to my family, and he didn’t need to know about the papers or Kidd Chapin either, which meant I had to fudge about what Quig Smith knew.

  “I hope you won’t mention this to anybody. I didn’t want to get hung up down here, maybe have to stay over an extra day to answer dumb questions, so I didn’t give my name when I reported it,” I lied.

  “You’re lucky they didn’t take a shot at you. Would you know him if you saw him again?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not even sure if it was a man or a woman.”

  “What about Mahlon Davis or Mickey Mantle?”

  “You know them?”

  “Everybody knows them. They’ve never showed up in my courtroom yet. Probably just a matter of time. Although, to give the devil his due, they’re both brilliant woodworkers, even if they are morally retarded. Mickey Mantle did some cabinet work for us last fall. Long as we could keep him sober...”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t Mahlon, though, because he was home in bed. But that reminds me. Before I leave this time, I need to speak to somebody in Social Services about his grandson Guthrie. I want to know if Mahlon treats him too rough.”

  “That’d be Shelby Spivey. And she probably already has a file started on him if he lives with Mahlon.”

  I made a note of the name and number, as Chet glanced at his watch and stood to go to his courtroom.

  “What happened to you?” I said, noticing how he favored his right leg.

  “Pulled a muscle when I jogged up for my paper this morning.” He grinned. “We’re the walking wounded, aren’t we, girl? I’ll be finished by mid-morning, so in case I don’t see you ‘fore you leave—” He gave me a warm hug. “Drive careful and come back real soon, you hear?”

  “Thanks, Chet. Say ’bye to Barbara Jean for me. I hope it all works out about the fishery.”

  • • •

  Chet may have been finished by mid-morning, but I wasn’t far behind. When the last judgment had been rendered and the last paper signed, I stopped by the Clerk of Court’s office to thank her for her courtesies and to see if there were any last-minute details I’d missed before I left.

  Darlene Leonard laughed as I entered. “Well, speak of the Devil and up she jumps!”

  “Somebody been taking my name in vain?” I asked.

  She said she’d just hung up from talking to the chief district court judge and he’d spoken to my chief, who said, and I quote: “We’ll bring Harrison Hobart out of retirement to handle Judge Knott’s schedule here next week, so, yes, you can keep her an extra week.”

  Just like that. Not “Do you want to?” Not “Would you mind?”

  “What’d you do to tick off F Roger Longmire?” asked the pragmatist, who usually kept track of where I stood with my district’s chief judge.

  “It must have been that smartass remark you made about his brown shoes last week,” said the preacher. “One of these days you’re gonna learn—”

  Before I could work up a good head of steam, Darlene Leonard said, “Judge Longmire sent word for you to get a good rest and enjoy the beach next week. He said you’ve earned it.”

  So much for pragmatism and preaching.

  With the folders Jay Hadley had given me still uppermost in my mind, I asked, “You knew Andy Bynum, didn’t you?”

  “I knew who he was,” she answered, “but I can’t say I really knew him.”

  “Someone said he’d been digging through some old deeds and such. Would you have helped him?”

  “No, that would have been over at the Register of Deeds,” she said and gave me directions to the office.

  There, a helpful young clerk remembered Andy clearly. “Sure, Mr. Bynum was in and out almost every day right up till about a week before he was killed. Wasn’t it just awful? He was such a nice man.”

  She had no idea what he was after specifically, “But he started with a piece of property Mrs. Pope had acquired over on Harkers Island last month and pulled most everything he could find on Pope Properties, right back to when she handled the sale of the Ritchie House.”

  “Which piece of Harkers Island property?” I asked.

  She very nicely pulled out the right deed book on her first try. As I’d suspected, it was the land adjacent to Chet and Barbara Jean’s daughter, formerly owned by one Gilbert Epson. So Andy had known about the sale at least a week before Linville told Barbara Jean.

  Interesting, but what was the significance?

  “Mr. Bynum wanted photocopies of everything,” said the clerk. “Want me to make you a copy, too?”

  I thanked her but declined the offer. No point duplicating what I already had. And it looked like I’d have a nice quiet weekend to finish reading the rest of the stack.

  I commandeered an unoccupied phone and left a message on Aunt Zell’s machine as to why I wouldn’t be home that weekend. I’ve had my own set of rooms in Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash’s house since Mother died; and although I come and go freely, I do try to let her know my general plans. It tickles me that a childless, un-employed woman nearing seventy is so actively in her world that she needs an answering machine.

  Next I called Social Services and got through to the Shelby Spivey Chet had mentioned. She sighed when I told her who I was and why I was calling.

  “I know it probably seems bad to you, Judge Knott, but we are monitoring that situation. I did the initial field investigation on that child myself, and if it’ll make you feel any better, I do believe that his grandfather really loves him. Most of the time, he’s patient. He’s teaching him how to fish and build boats, the boy does attend school and all his physical needs are being met.”

  She sighed again in my ear. “There doesn’t seem to be any systematic violence, but according to the neighbors, Mr. Davis does lose it about three or four times a year and then he hauls off and smacks whoever’s closest that can’t hit back. The trouble is, the child’s old enough now to testify, but he won’t. And neither will his grandmother, so our hands are pretty much tied. Unless you’d be willing to attest that you’ve witnessed incidents of abuse yourself?”

  I had to admit that I hadn’t. All I had were suspicions.

  We agreed that it was a hell of way to protect our young.

  “They keep making the stretch size of net mesh bigger and bigger to save the little game fish,” she said unexpectedly. “Wish they’d take another look at the size of our mesh.”

  10

  I tell you, wife, it did me good

  To sing that hymn once more;

  I felt like some wrecked mariner

  Who gets a glimpse of shore.

  I almost want to lay aside

  This weather-beaten form,

  And anchor in the blessed port,

  Forever from the storm.

  —John H. Yates

  As long as I was taking care of business with the deeds office and Social Services, I stopped by the Sheriff’s Department and asked for Detective Smith. I wanted to tell him about Andy Bynum’s files, but I wasn’t any luckier there. The clerk on duty said she reckoned he ought to be back by two, though she wasn’t real sure, which left me at loose ends.

  When I drove in that morning, large ragged patches of blue had begun to show thr
ough. Now, as I retrieved my car from beneath the courthouse live oaks at a little before one, the gray clouds had all turned white and they sailed clean and fresh against pure cerulean.

  Ignoring the promises I’d made to my wounded face at dawn, I gingerly smoothed another layer of makeup over the scratches, dug a pair of oversized Jackie O. sunglasses out of my glove compartment, and drove down to Front Street. Might as well take F. Roger Longmire’s relayed blessing and enjoy Beaufort. There was a whole complex of shops right on the water that I hadn’t visited this trip, so I parked there and went inside.

  From the luscious aroma that met me at the entrance, I could tell that the Fudge Factory was still doing business, but I resisted. At least, I resisted till I’d finished browsing in the Rocking Chair Book Store, where I picked up Glenn Lawson’s book on how the Army Corps of Engineers cooperates with business and agri-industries to despoil our wetlands (I wanted to see some facts and figures on the broader environmental issues), an ecological field guide to seacoast biota, and—in case the weekend dragged—a paperback mystery. Then, savoring a tiny square of still-warm fudge, I strolled along the boardwalk. At one point, I thought I saw Chet Winberry out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked back, whoever it was must have stepped into one of the shops.

  Oddly enough, I did see someone I recognized. Zeke Myers, the stocky man who’d been so furious with Linville Pope about the boat she sold him, was leaning with his back against the railing and a dour expression on his face.

  Pennants snapped in the wind, the smell of fried fish mingled with salt water, and knots of vacationers lingered along the walk to compare boats. I wasn’t sure if I was glad or disappointed when I realized that the Rainmaker was no longer among the gleaming craft tied up there. Part of me was miffed that Lev hadn’t called again, hadn’t turned up in my courtroom to apologize, hadn’t tried to move the moon and stars to lure me to his bed again before he left—not that it would have done him any good, of course.

  (“Oh yeah?”)

  The other part... well, the other part was academic, I told myself, since by now the Rainmaker was probably somewhere on a canal in the middle of the Great Dismal Swamp.