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  Although John Claude was arguing two cases in Makely that day, Reid was expecting me for lunch and I was expecting a quiet hour to catch my breath after such a busy morning with nothing much more weighty to discuss than Raymond Bagwell’s alibi and whether we were actually going to get the thundershowers they were predicting on the breakfast news.

  Instead, I came up onto the porch out of bright sunlight and when my eyes adjusted, I realized that Grace King Avery and Sister Byantha Williams were taking their leave of Reid.

  Too late to run and nowhere to hide.

  “Ah, Deborah!” exclaimed Mrs. Avery. “You know the Reverend Williams, don’t you? Sister Williams, this is Judge Deborah Knott.”

  The elderly preacher was dressed in a pale green muumuu today. She was still a large woman, but her skin was no longer firmly rounded as in years past. It was as if her skin had stayed the same while the body beneath had shrunk two sizes. As we murmured acknowledgments, Mrs. Avery turned back to Reid.

  “Is there any reason why Deborah couldn’t give us an injunction right now? He needs to be stopped, Reid.”

  “Please, Mrs. Avery,” he said rather desperately. “I promise you that I’ll take whatever steps are necessary and feasible.”

  “Very well. If you’re sure you understand the urgency of the matter?”

  “I do, I really do,” he assured her, and to me, “Come on in, Deb’rah.”

  It wasn’t quite as blatant as yanking me inside with one hand and locking the door behind them with the other, but that’s certainly what it felt like.

  I hadn’t stopped by in several months, so it wasn’t surprising to see new carpets on the floor and new color on the walls. Julia Lee, John Claude’s wife, is a frustrated designer and when she gets tired of redoing their personal house, she comes down and starts moving walls and ripping up carpets here.

  My former office still sat empty. I haven’t decided if that’s because I’m irreplaceable or they figure I won’t be reelected and will be coming back.

  “Injunction?” I asked as I walked straight back to the rear of the house.

  Several years ago, Julia had remodelled the old original kitchen. A tiny galley hidden by folding screens was at one end, the rest was a sunroom that could become a formal conference room or a comfortable place to spread out with morning coffee and newspapers.

  Or lunch. The table was set for two and I knew that those waxed paper packets held creamy chicken salad sandwiches on homemade bread from Sue’s Soup ’n’ Sandwich Shop across from the courthouse.

  Reid opened the refrigerator. “Tea? Or would you rather have Pepsi?”

  “Pepsi, if it’s diet. Who’s got Mrs. Avery’s feathers ruffled?”

  “Guy named Graham Dunn, owns the Red and White Grocery and Hardware out from Cotton Grove.” He put ice in two glasses and set them on the table beside the drink cans. “Seven years ago, Sister Williams signed a note with him for three thousand dollars.”

  “Using that raggedy old church as collateral?”

  “That and the acre of land it used to stand on. The note came due last year, but he let it ride because it was clear she couldn’t repay and he didn’t want to look bad by closing on the church his parents used to attend.”

  Reid always jiggles the drink cans too much and some of the Pepsi foamed up when I pulled the tab. I mopped up the overflow with his paper napkin.

  “But now that the church and trailer have burned?”

  “Right.” Reid unwrapped his sandwich, adjusted the lettuce and tomato and bit into it. His words were muffled as he talked around a chunk of chicken salad. “He’s read the paper, seen that money is coming in from all over and figures this is his chance to clear her debt. Trouble is, when Mrs. Avery first called me yesterday, I called Louise Parker, who’s overseeing the distribution of donations. She says they haven’t yet received a single check made out to Burning Heart of God and what little undesignated money they have gotten will be prorated by membership.”

  I licked a fleck of chicken salad from my fingertip. “Burning Heart of God has what? Eight members? Ten?”

  “Thirteen if you count one woman who hasn’t left the nursing home in three years and a man who’s serving a six-to-ten at State Prison.”

  “And did she borrow that three thousand as an individual or as an officer of the church?”

  “As minister and chairman of the board of deacons, unfortunately.”

  “So he’s looking to force a sale of the land and Mrs. Avery, full of noblesse oblige because of her grandfather King, wants you to stop it?”

  “You got it.”

  “Can you?”

  He shrugged. “I can try. I’ll have to check the deed, see if it’s in her name or the church’s and then see if the church really is responsible for her debts.”

  He got up for more napkins. Sue’s sandwiches are ambrosial, but messy to eat.

  “You speak to Raymond Bagwell this weekend?” I asked.

  “No.” He handed me a wad of napkins and sat back down across from me at the long conference table. “Is that what this lunch is about?”

  I told him what A.K. had told me last night and watched the play of emotions across his face.

  “Why the hell didn’t my client tell me this?”

  “Oh come on, Reid. As many times as you’ve taken married women to bed? I’d have thought you’d automatically understand the old male solidarity thing.”

  Not keeping his pants zipped outside of their bedroom is the main reason Karen divorced him.

  He gave a sheepish smile.

  “Besides,” I said. “Didn’t you say Saturday that your client was innocent?”

  “Yeah, but that’s what I always—”

  The penny finally finished dropping.

  “If this alibi holds up—?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It means the arsonist is still out there.”

  By the time I went back to court, he’d agreed that maybe A.K. wasn’t wrong after all. Maybe Dwight should be told.

  20

  “Thou Shalt Not Steal”—Exodus 20:15

  —Island Road Baptist

  The storm that had been threatening all afternoon finally tore loose shortly before four-thirty as I was finishing up for the day. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, a stiff wind tore leaves and twigs from the oaks that surrounded the courthouse and rain came down in such heavy sheets that when I looked out through the glass doors, visibility was less than a block.

  Naturally I’d left my umbrella on the car.

  “A real frog-strangler,” commented Thad Hamilton as he came up and looked out over my shoulder.

  Thad’s one of the new breed. The first time he ran for county commissioner, he was a Democrat and finished far back in the pack. The second time around, he switched parties and became the first Republican elected to the county board in this century. He’s about six-one, heavyset and, though only in his early forties, has a thick shock of prematurely white hair that makes his slightly florid face look even more youthful than it would have under ordinary salt-and-pepper.

  “Sorry I couldn’t make y’all’s pig-picking, but I was at a fund-raiser for King Richard.”

  “We missed you,” I said with sweet insincerity, “but I know Richard Petty’s going to need all the money he can get if he actually wins the Secretary of State race—oh, but wait a minute! Didn’t he say he was going to keep his STP endorsements, win or lose?”

  “He won’t lose,” Thad said with the confidence of one who knows his man’s ahead in the polls by double digits. “NASCAR champion versus that lady from Lillington?”

  Never mind that Elaine Marshall was a sharp attorney and former state senator. As he travelled around the state, signing hats and T-shirts, Richard Petty couldn’t seem to remember either her name or her title. It was always “that lady from Lillington.” She talked of strategies to strengthen the office and better serve the state’s business interests overseas; he didn’t seem real clear on what the office entailed but
was sure it was something that wouldn’t take up more than three days a week.

  Of all the Council of State candidates, she was the one I most wanted to win. Unfortunately, Thad was right. To most statewide voters, Elaine Marshall was a virtual unknown and King Richard knew how to win races.

  “You’ve got an easy time of it this year,” Thad said. “Running unopposed.”

  “Yeah, that sort of surprised me, too,” I admitted. “I thought sure y’all’d put somebody up.”

  “We had bigger fish to fry this year?” he said. “But don’t worry. We’ll get down to your level next time.”

  He unfurled a huge red-and-white-striped golf umbrella. “Walk you to your car, Judge?”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I think I’ll wait for it to let up a little.”

  Water was rushing across sidewalks and street too fast for the storm drains to handle it all and I knew that even if I shared Thad Hamilton’s umbrella, my favorite pair of cork-heeled red sandals would be wrecked before I was halfway to the parking lot.

  Fortunately, there was nowhere I needed to be until the Harvey Gantt rally out at the community college at six o’clock. Too, I hadn’t really talked to Dwight on Saturday, so I took the back stairs down to the Sheriff’s Department.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” said Deputy Jack Jamison. “Major Bryant and Sheriff Poole got called out to Mount Olive this afternoon and they’re not back yet. I know he plans to swing by here before he goes home. Can I leave him a message?”

  “If he gets back before five, tell him I’m in the Register of Deeds office,” I said and went back upstairs to pester Callie Yelverton.

  So far as we know, Miss Callie was the first Colleton County woman ever elected to a countywide office and she sort of got it by default since her daddy had held it from 1932 till his death in the seventies. (A county commissioner was the second and a school board member was third. I am the fourth.)

  I had expected the records room to be empty, what with the rain and the late hour, but there were at least a dozen people busy with the big oversized books. I recognized a couple of attorneys’ clerks, including Sherry Cobb, the office manager from Lee and Stephenson. Most of the others worked for the bigger developers. With the county’s building boom, developers were knocking on kitchen doors all up and down every dirt lane, chirping, “Hi, there! Y’all interested in selling?”

  I couldn’t find anything in the index for Burning Heart of God, so I tried Byantha Williams. She was listed, but that particular deed book wasn’t on the shelf, so I looked up Balm of Gilead instead.

  Its origin was as the papers had reported: “Witnesseth, that said Leon Starling, in consideration of five hundred dollars and other valuables to him paid by Augustus Saunders, the receipt of which is hereby acknowledged, does convey to said Augustus Saunders and his heirs and assigns a certain tract or parcel of land in Cotton Grove Township, Colleton County, State of North Carolina, bounded as follows.”

  I wondered if the saintly Augustus Saunders had indeed thrown in the jug of moonshine that Charles Starling impugned him with.

  A subsequent deed transferred that parcel to the board of trustees of Balm of Gilead Baptist Church.

  Sherry spotted me and motioned me over. “Reid said you were there for lunch. Sorry I missed you.” She was copying from the deed book that lay open on top of the waist-high bookcase in front of us.

  “Is that the Burning Heart of God deed you’re copying?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. Were you looking for it, too?”

  She moved over a little so that I could read the simple deed in which Langston King did convey to Washington Renfrow “one acre upon which to build a Negro church. And should said church cease to exist or remove itself from that place, then the land shall revert to Langston King or, if he be dead, to his heirs and assigns.”

  Twenty-seven years ago, probably at the death of Washington Renfrow, another deed transferred title to Byantha Renfrow Williams, Chairman of the Board of Trustees for Burning Heart of God Holiness Tabernacle Church.

  At this point, it could be argued that Sister Williams owned the church outright while an opposing attorney could no doubt argue that the church was a separate entity and owner of the land as implied in the original deed. Each would have a fair chance of winning the case depending on which way the wind was blowing or what day of the week Tuesday fell on.

  “Technically, the church didn’t remove itself,” I mused aloud.

  “But it’s sure ceased to exist,” said Sherry as she continued copying the deed’s provisions in her rapid shorthand of hooks and curlicues.

  “The building’s ceased to exist,” I agreed, “but the church itself is a body of worshippers, not walls and roof.”

  “You know, I never thought about it like that, but you’re absolutely right. You see all you need to?”

  I had.

  As she slid the thick canvas-bound book back into its place on the lower shelf and went off to look up something else, I was left to think.

  How about if Sister Williams declared Burning Heart of God legally defunct or else removed permanently to the storefront in Cotton Grove? She could let the land revert as specified in the deed and, since Mrs. Avery was the only surviving child of Langston King’s only child, the land would then be safe from any immediate judgment. At that point, Sister Williams could declare bankruptcy and she’d have no assets a creditor could attach. If and when the church raised enough money to rebuild, Mrs. Avery could restore her grandfather’s legacy.

  “You’re a judge now,” the preacher inside my head reminded me. “You’re not supposed to give legal advice, remember? Besides, Reid’s smart. He’ll probably come up with the same idea.”

  “And if he doesn’t,” said the pragmatist, “you can always give him a little nudge tomorrow.”

  “But what about the poor man who lent Sister Williams money? Declaring bankruptcy to avoid her debts is the same as stealing from him.”

  “His reward is in heaven,” said the pragmatist.

  Dwight was in his office and on the phone when I dropped by a second time. He motioned me in as he finished the call, hung up the receiver and leaned back wearily in his swivel chair. The chair was old and creaked as if it couldn’t hold up under his six-three frame, but he didn’t seem worried. He pulled the bottom desk drawer out with the tip of his boot and propped his size elevens on the ledge till he was nearly horizontal. His boots were caked with mud and so were the cuffs of his pants. His short-sleeved blue shirt was wet from the rain and there was a dark smudge on the shoulder.

  I took the armchair across from him and saw the weariness on his face. He was supposed to have driven Cal back to Virginia yesterday and he’d probably gotten home late. “Rough day?”

  “Yeah, you could say so. What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. Just wondered if you’d talked to Reid this afternoon?”

  “Not yet.” Dwight fanned some message slips with Reid’s name on them. “You know what all these are about?”

  “I probably ought to let him tell you.”

  “Probably. But all I’m getting is his answering machine, so why don’t you go ahead and tell me yourself?”

  Dwight listened in silence till I got to the part about Bobbie Jean Last-name-unknown being afraid of what her husband would do to Jerry Somebody if he found out they’d gone bass fishing together somewhere up in Massachusetts.

  “Bobbie Jean Pritchett and Jerry Farmer.”

  “You know them?”

  “Be nice if Bagwell had told us this before,” he sighed.

  “Before what?”

  “Before Cecil Pritchett gave Farmer three broken ribs, a concussion, and a broken jaw.”

  “What?”

  “Last night around nine. Pritchett made bail this morning. Farmer’s over in Memorial Hospital. Bobbie Jean’s hightailed it. Probably to her sister in Massachusetts for real this time.”

  “Can Farmer talk?”

  “Could when he finally came to last
night,” said Dwight. “His jaw’s wired shut right now, though.”

  “Can he communicate well enough to corroborate Bagwell’s story?”

  Dwight gave a palms-up gesture. “Who knows? I’ll tell Ed Gardner, but I wouldn’t count on him turning Bagwell and Starling loose anytime soon though. Starling might not’ve struck the match, but that’s sure his printing on the walls.”

  “But if those boys didn’t do it,” I said, “you’ve got an arsonist running around loose.”

  “But if they did do it, we don’t have to worry about any more fires right now God knows we’ve got enough on our plate as it is.”

  “What?” I asked, realizing that he was more weary than a late drive home should have caused. “Something else has happened, hasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Guess you might as well know. It’ll probably be on the six o’clock news if it isn’t already. They found another body out at Mount Olive.”

  21

  LIVING WITHOUT GOD

  IS LIKE DRIVING IN A FOG

  —Nazarene Church

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Dwight said. “At the moment, all we’ve got are charred bones.”

  That explained the dark smudges on his shirt.

  As Dwight described it, work had begun today for Mount Olive’s reconstruction. Two members of the church were bulldozer operators and a construction company had given them the use of some earthmoving equipment to clear the site. Others had volunteered to come help, too.

  With that low pressure system moving in from the west, they were double-timing to get as much done as possible before the rains got here.

  Starting at sunrise this morning, two big yellow bulldozers worked to push off the remains of the fellowship hall and send it to the landfill in heavy-duty dump trucks. By lunchtime, they were ready to start the more delicate operation of pulling off the burned parts of the main building, beginning with the old Sunday School classrooms and the choir stall where the sexton’s body had been found. One forkload of burned choir benches and collapsed flooring went into the dump truck. When the second forkload swung up over the truck bed, a piece of debris fell from the air and landed a few feet from the man supervising the operation.