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  it’s something else.

  “She ever think about going back to work?”

  “While Jay’s still nursing?” He sounded shocked at

  the idea.

  “I was just thinking that if she wants a bigger place

  or—?”

  “Not if it means leaving our son.”

  Mayleen glanced over at him. “Well, then?”

  “I could maybe get on with the Wake County sheriff ’s

  department, but it wouldn’t pay that much more.”

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  HARD ROW

  “Plus you’d lose any seniority,” she said. “Anyhow,

  you’re happy here, aren’t you? Money’s not every-

  thing.”

  “Right,” he said with more sarcasm than she had ever

  heard from him. “It’s just new houses, new cars, and

  fancy swimming pools.” He sighed. “Police work’s all

  I ever wanted to do. But if it won’t pay enough here,

  then maybe I should—”

  He broke off as they saw Denning flip on his turn

  signal upon approaching two dignified stone columns

  that marked a long driveway up to a much-remodeled

  farmhouse.

  The housekeeper was expecting them and opened

  the door before they rang. Short and sturdy with dark

  brown skin, wiry salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in

  a bun, and intelligent brown eyes, Jincy Samuelson

  wore a spotless white bib apron over a long-sleeved

  blue denim dress. She brushed aside the search war-

  rant they tried to give her and led them immediately to

  her employer’s home office. Paneled in dark wood, the

  room looked more like a decorator’s idea of a gentle-

  man farmer’s office than a place where real work was

  done by a roughneck, up-from-the-soil, self-made mil-

  lionaire. The only authentic signs that he actually used

  the room were a rump-sprung leather executive chair

  behind the polished walnut desk, a couple of mounted

  deer heads, a desktop littered with papers, and a framed

  snapshot of a child who sat on a man’s lap as he drove

  a huge tractor.

  “That him?” Richards asked.

  The housekeeper nodded. “And his daughter when

  she was a little girl.”

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  MARGARET MARON

  It was their first look at the victim’s face and the two

  deputies stared long and hard at it. He was dressed in

  sweaty work clothes, and only one hand was on the

  steering wheel. The other arm was curved protectively

  around the child who smiled up at him.

  “He doesn’t want anybody to do anything in here

  except run a dust cloth over the surfaces, vacuum the

  rug, and wash the windows twice a year,” said Mrs.

  Samuelson. “Once in a while his secretary from over in

  New Bern might come by, but for the most part, he’s

  the only one who uses this room. If you want to be sure

  it’s just his fingerprints . . .”

  “Not his bedroom or his bathroom?” Mayleen won-

  dered aloud.

  “Those rooms the maid or I clean regularly. Besides,”

  she added with a small tight frown, “he occasionally

  takes— took—company up there.”

  Percy Denning had brought a small field kit and was

  soon lifting prints from the desk items.

  Dwight Bryant arrived while they were questioning

  Mrs. Samuelson about Buck Harris’s usual routine. He

  found them in the kitchen, a kitchen so immaculate that

  it might never have cooked a meal or had grease pop

  from a pan even though he could smell vanilla and the

  rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Heavy-duty stain-

  less steel appliances and cherry cabinets lined the walls

  and the floor was paved with terra cotta tiles. Only the

  long walnut table that sat in the middle of the room

  looked old, so old that its edges had been rounded

  smooth over the years and there were deep scratches in

  the polished top. He would later learn that it was, as he

  suspected, the same kitchen table that had belonged to

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  HARD ROW

  Buck Harris’s great-grandparents and that it had stood

  in this same spot for over a hundred years.

  While Denning labored in Harris’s office, Richards

  and Jamison were enjoying coffee and homemade cin-

  namon rolls at that table.

  Dwight joined them in time to hear Mrs. Samuelson

  tell how Mrs. Harris had originally hired her some six

  or eight years earlier to live in an apartment over the ga-

  rage out back and act as both housekeeper and general

  caretaker.

  “Sid Lomax manages this farm and the migrant camp.

  Whenever I need someone to do the grounds or help

  with the heavy work here in the house, he’ll lend me a

  couple of Mexicans.”

  She told them that the Harrises lived together in New

  Bern before the separation and divorce. “But this house

  is the one he loves best—it was his grandfather’s—and

  he wanted it kept so that he could walk right in out of

  the fields if he felt like staying over. She always called

  if they were both coming, but a lot of times he’d just

  show up by himself and expect fresh sheets on the bed,

  the rooms aired, and for me to have a meal ready to

  eat pretty quick, just like his grandmother did for him.

  I always keep something in the freezer that I can stick

  in the microwave. I don’t look anything like his old

  granny, but he loved my stuffed peppers and they freeze

  up good. Meatloaf, too.”

  “So he was a demanding employer?” Mayleen asked.

  Mrs. Samuelson smoothed the bib of her crisp white

  apron. “That’s what he was paying me for. I’ve worked

  for worse.”

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  MARGARET MARON

  “And you went on working for him after he and Mrs.

  Harris separated?”

  “She asked me to come with her to New Bern, but

  we both knew that was because she wanted to mess it

  up here for him.” A bit of gold gleamed in her smile.

  “Both my sons are just down the road and so are my

  grandbabies. Nothing in New Bern worth moving there

  for. Besides, when I told him she wanted me to go, he

  raised me a hundred a month if I’d stay.”

  Dwight’s phone buzzed and as soon as he’d checked

  the small screen, he excused himself to take Deborah’s

  call. “I checked the records, Dwight. The Harris divorce

  became final on the twentieth of February.”

  Twentieth of February. The day after Flame Smith

  said she last spoke to him.

  He turned back to Mrs. Samuelson and said, “When

  did you see him last?”

  “Saturday morning, three weeks ago,” she answered

  promptly as she set a mug of coffee in front of him. It

  was so robust that he had to reach for the milk pitcher.

  “Saturday the eighteenth. Reason I remember is that’s

  my sister’s birthday. On weekends, I only work a half

  day on Saturday. I gave him his breakfast as usual and I

  left vegetable soup and a turkey sandwich for his lunch.

  When I came in on Mo
nday morning, I saw by the mess

  he’d left in the kitchen that he’d fixed himself breakfast

  on Sunday morning, but that was the last meal he ate

  here.”

  “Did he sleep here Sunday night?”

  She thought a moment, then frowned. “I don’t know.

  I made the bed while he was eating breakfast and it had

  been slept in when I got here that Monday morning,

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  but whether he slept here one night or two, I just can’t

  say.”

  “But you’re positive you didn’t see him again after

  you left at noon on Saturday?”

  “No sir, I didn’t.”

  “What about children? The Harrises have any?”

  “Just one girl. Susan. She was grown and gone before

  I started working here, but she’s been here with them for

  Christmas a time or two. You could tell that she was his

  eyeballs, he was that foolish about her, but she was break-

  ing his heart. Her husband was killed in Nine-Eleven and

  it changed her. Mrs. Harris says she used to love pretty

  dresses and parties and flying off to Europe. First time

  I saw her, though, she was skinny as a broomstick and

  she was wearing stuff that looked like it came from the

  Goodwill. Turned her away from God. She sat right here

  at this table and told them both that if God made the

  world, he wasn’t taking very good care of it and it was up

  to people like them—people who had money—to do the

  work God should’ve been doing. I believe she still lives in

  New York. No children though. I think he used to take

  off and go see her two or three times a year.”

  “And you didn’t see the need to notify her or Mrs.

  Harris that he was missing?”

  “I didn’t know that he was. He could have been at

  his place in the mountains or he might’ve been working

  over in the New Bern office. Like I say, he never lets me

  know where he was going or when he was coming back.

  He’d take a notion and he’d be gone and the only way

  I’d know was if I happened to be out there in the hall

  when he was leaving. ‘Back in a few days.’ That’s all he

  ever told me. But you can ask Sid—Mr. Lomax.”

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  MARGARET MARON

  She passed the plate of cinnamon rolls down the

  table and Jamison took another. Dwight and Richards

  passed.

  “Do you know Ms. Smith?” Dwight asked. “Flame

  Smith?”

  Mrs. Samuelson was too disciplined to sniff, but the

  expression that crossed her face was one that reminded

  him of Bessie Stewart, his mother’s housekeeper who

  had helped raise him. He would not have been surprised

  to hear a muttered, “Common as dirt.”

  “I’ve met her,” she admitted.

  “And?”

  “And nothing. If she was here in the mornings, I

  fixed her some breakfast, too. Wasn’t any of my busi-

  ness what went on upstairs, although I have to say that

  she was always polite to me. Not like some of them he

  brought home.”

  Dwight paused at that. “He had other women?”

  “He used to. When he and Mrs. Harris were still liv-

  ing together. This last year though, it’s only been her.

  That Smith woman.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  Mrs. Samuelson cupped her mug in her workworn

  hands as if to hold in the warmth and her brown eyes

  met Dwight’s in a steady look. “If you don’t mind, sir,

  I’d just as soon not say.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if Mr. Harris has been mur-

  dered, we need to know who might have hated him

  enough to do it.”

  The housekeeper nodded to the two detectives. “They

  say those hands and legs y’all’ve been finding might be

  him?”

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  HARD ROW

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She shook her graying head. “I don’t see how any

  woman could do that. That takes a hateful and hating

  man.”

  “Like a husband who finds out his wife’s been cheat-

  ing on him?”

  She thought about it, then nodded slowly. “Only one

  of them was married, but yes, her husband might could

  do it. A gal from El Salvador. Said her name was Strella.

  I think her husband’s name is Ramon. Mr. Lomax can

  tell you. They live in the migrant camp on the other side

  of the field. She was here twice last summer. First time

  was to help me turn all the mattresses and he came in

  and saw her. Second time, I guess she was stretched out

  on one of the mattresses.”

  “Who else, Mrs. Samuelson?”

  Reluctantly, she gave up two more names. “Both

  of ’em white, but I haven’t seen either of them in this

  house in over a year. Mrs. Smith pretty much had a lock

  on him.”

  They all looked up as Denning came to the kitchen

  door. There was a smudge of fingerprint powder on his

  chin, more on his fingers. He crossed to the sink to

  wash his hands and Mrs. Samuelson immediately rose

  and tore off some paper towels.

  “Thanks,” he said, drying his hands.

  “Any luck?” Dwight asked.

  “It’s a match. No question about it. The state lab can

  take a look if you want, Major, but it’s Harris.”

  153

  MARGARET MARON

  While Mrs. Samuelson showed Richards and Denning

  over the house and the nearer outbuildings, Dwight

  called Reid Stephenson as he had promised and asked

  him to notify the Harris daughter before it hit the news

  media. “And you might as well tell Pete Taylor so he

  can pass the word on to Mrs. Harris.”

  Then he and Jamison drove along a lane that was a

  shortcut over to the farm manager’s home. Trim and

  tidy, the white clapboard house appeared to date from

  the late thirties and sat in a grove of pecan trees whose

  buds were beginning to swell in the mild spring air.

  No one appeared when Dwight tapped the horn, but

  through the open window of the truck, they could hear

  the sound of tractors in the distance and they followed

  another lane past a line of scrubby trees and out into a

  forty- or fifty-acre field. Two tractors were preparing

  the ground for planting. A third tractor seemed to be

  in trouble. It was surrounded by a mechanic’s truck,

  two pickups with a Harris Farms logo on the doors, and

  several Latino and Anglo men.

  As the two deputies drew near, a tall Anglo detached

  himself from the group.

  “Mr. Lomax?” Dwight asked. “Sid Lomax?”

  The man nodded in wary acknowledgment. He wore

  a billed cap that did not hide the flecks of gray at his

  temples and his face was weathered like the leather of a

  baseball glove, but if the muscles of his body had begun

  to soften, it was not evident in the way he moved with

  such easy grace.

  “Lomax,” Dwight said again. “Didn’t you use to play

  shortstop for Fuquay High School?”

  Lomax looked at Dwig
ht more carefully and a rueful

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  HARD ROW

  grin spread across his face. “I oughta bust you one in

  the jaw, bo. You played third for West Colleton, didn’t

  you? Can’t call your name right now, but damned if you

  weren’t the one got an unassisted triple play off my line

  drive in the semifinals with the bases loaded, right?”

  “Dwight Bryant,” Dwight said, putting out his hand.

  “Colleton County Sheriff ’s Department.”

  “Yeah?” Lomax took his hand in a strong clasp.

  “Reckon I’d better not punch you out then.”

  “Might make it a little hard for my deputy here,”

  Dwight agreed as Jamison smiled.

  “Man, we were supposed to go all the way that year,”

  he said, shaking his head. “Oh well. What can I do for

  you?”

  “You’ve heard about the body parts been scattered

  along this road?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m afraid it’s your boss.”

  “The hell you say!” His surprise seemed genuine.

  “Buck Harris? You sure?”

  “We’ve just compared the fingerprints with those in

  Harris’s study here. They match.”

  “Well, damn!”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Lomax pulled out a Palm Pilot and consulted his cal-

  endar. “Sunday the nineteenth at the Cracker Barrel out

  on the Interstate. I was having dinner with my son and

  his wife after church and he stopped by our table on

  his way out. I walked out to the car with him because

  he wanted to firm it up about moving most of the crew

  on this place to one of our camps down east. We’ve

  had tomatoes here the last two years, so this year we’re

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  MARGARET MARON

  planting these fields in soybeans. Beans don’t take a lot

  of labor.”

  “So did you move them yet?” Dwight asked.

  “All but these guys you see here. Why?”

  “Any women or children left in the camp?”

  “A couple to cook for the men. Three or four kids

  and they all go to school. We encourage that. We don’t

  let ’em quit or work during the school year. Mrs. Harris

  is pretty strict about that.”

  “Not Mr. Harris?”

  “Well, you know Buck.” He paused and looked at

  them dubiously. “Or do you?”

  “Never met him that I know of,” said Dwight.

  “Me neither,” said Jamison.

  “Buck didn’t mind cutting corners if it would save a

  few dollars.”

  “In what way?”

  Lomax shrugged. “Hard to think of any one thing.