Up Jumps the Devil dk-4 Read online

  “Raiford? What about him?”

  “Is Katie Morgan his sister? The one whose name you couldn’t remember this morning?”

  “I thought you said Dwight told you all that.”

  “No, you said he did.”

  “Shit.”

  “And you’re in it up to your neck, aren’t you?”

  “No more’n usual, darlin’,” he sighed. “No more’n usual.”

  Once again I wondered how on earth I could have been so young, so recklessly naive to run off with such a shiftless womanizer. In the harsh overhead light, he looked every year of the knockabout life he’d led, like a car that had just rolled 200,000 on its odometer.

  “Dwight ask you where you got the money to give your harem?”

  He preened a little at the term, then gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Won’t none of his business long as I could prove I won’t here when Uncle Jap’s got stolen.”

  Shaking my head, I got up and stacked our dishes in the sink and put on my jacket.

  He followed me outside to the car. His voice was husky and a little embarrassed as he asked if I’d walk over to the garage with him and show him where it’d happened.

  “I just pulled into the driveway good this morning and that deputy was setting here waiting for me. Dwight says Mr. Kezzie found him?”

  “Yes.”

  We made our way down the sandy drive by the dim glow of a bare bulb on the back porch to the garage two hundred feet away. Yellow crime scene ribbons lay around on the ground, but I knew Dwight had finished with the building. Mr. Jap’s rattletrap truck loomed up before us, still parked where he’d left it Saturday morning. Allen touched the fender as we passed, almost like someone comforting an old horse that had lost its master.

  He fumbled with the garage lock in the darkness, then opened the side door and flicked on the lights.

  “He was lying there,” I said.

  In the fluorescent light, Mr. Jap’s dried blood looked like only another grease spot on the stained concrete.

  The old-fashioned iron safe still stood agape and the door lay on the floor in front of it. Gray fingerprint powder covered the acetylene torch which had been used to burn off the hinges. Someone—Dwight or one of his detectives, probably—had gathered up the strewn papers and piled them neatly inside the safe since I was here.

  Allen began to look through them. “Dwight said they took Uncle Jap’s corn money. You reckon that was all?”

  “Did he have anything else?”

  Allen shrugged. “Not that I know of. Just his marker chits where people owed him money. Far as I know, Billy Wall’s the only one he was holding paper on these days.”

  His lips quirked in a rueful smile beneath his bushy mustache. “He always wanted to be a big shot, like your daddy. ‘Kezzie Knott holds paper on half the county,’ he’d say. If he didn’t have but two dimes to rub together, he’d try and lend you one of ’em just so you’d owe him. Before Merrilee settled him down, Petey Grimes and me, we’d get Uncle Jap to bankroll us to cars and stuff just to make him feel good. Soon as we’d pay him back, he’d be wanting to lend us some more. Hey, here’s his bankbook.”

  He opened the small green passbook and riffled the pages. “Look at this. Not but three hundred dollars in it. Pitiful. Eighty-one years old and he barely got enough Social Security to live on.”

  “Hard to get a lot from something you never paid into,” I said tartly. “He always worked for cash, didn’t he? Tried his best not to let himself show up on anybody’s books was what I always heard.”

  Allen had to smile at that. “No, he was a catbird, all right.”

  He lifted a yellowed envelope that had the logo of Duck Aldcroft’s funeral home as a return address. “Here’s his burial insurance. All paid up so nobody’d be burdened when his time came.”

  “I think Merrilee’s handling arrangements,” I said. “Since you weren’t here.”

  It didn’t seem to occur to him that he should take offense at Merrilee’s preempting his next-of-kin duties.

  “Then she might ought to have this.”

  As he pulled the policy from the envelope, another paper fell to the floor.

  He picked it up and gave it a puzzled scan before handing it over to me. “Is this a deed?”

  It appeared to be a photocopy of a one-page notarized document signed by both Mr. Jap and Dick Sutterly. Hedged in therefores and whereases and dated just last week, it said that in consideration for a cash sum of one thousand dollars, Jasper Stancil promised to sell Richard Sutterly all but ten acres of his farm within ninety days of acquiring clear title to it, at a price guaranteed to be five percent above the high bid of any other would-be purchaser.

  “You didn’t know about this?”

  “He never said a word. What’s it mean? Does it give this Sutterly guy a lien on the land?”

  “Don’t worry about it. This paper would never hold up in court,” I said. “Even if Mr. Jap were still alive, almost any lawyer could get it set aside if he changed his mind and wanted to back out.”

  He took it from me and ran his rough fingers over the photocopied notary seal. “Sure looks legal.”

  To a shade-tree mechanic like Jap Stancil, it had probably felt pretty legal, too.

  “Dwight ought to see this,” I said. “It could mean that the killer got this thousand, too.”

  “If Sutterly paid him right then.” Allen turned this new development over in his mind. “Well, I can’t keep you from telling Dwight, but I believe I’ll hang on to this paper for right now.”

  “I’m telling you, Allen, it’s not worth the ink it’s written in. Especially with Mr. Jap gone. Dick Sutterly couldn’t use it to force a sale.”

  “But couldn’t I use it to make him buy? Five percent above the highest bid. Isn’t that what it says?”

  “Lot of if’s standing between you and this place. Cherry Lou’s not come to trial yet and Merrilee could probably fight you for half if she wanted to.”

  “Naw, she couldn’t. Uncle Jap won’t really her uncle.”

  “But Dallas owned it last and she’s as much his cousin as you were.”

  After spending most of the weekend educating my family and Merrilee about consanguinity, it amused me to play devil’s advocate and argue the opposing viewpoint. “Ellis Glover might see it your way—”

  “Who?”

  “Clerk of the Court. That’s who’d make the first disposition. But if Merrilee wanted to contest his decision, I bet any jury in the county would split it between you, given how much she’s done for Mr. Jap over the last few years.”

  But Allen had stopped listening. He was standing with his back to me, his big, grease-stained hands on the slat-backed, cane-bottomed chair that Mr. Jap always sat in. When he turned, his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “He was just a pigheaded, big-talking old man that never did no real harm to nobody. How could anybody hurt him, Deb’rah? He couldn’t have stopped a flea from taking that money. Why’d they have to kill him, too?”

  “I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “I don’t know.”

  We both sighed for the wasteful sadness of it and as we went outside, he switched off the light and snapped the hasp on the lock.

  The night was cold and still. Even with a jacket, I was chilly. No moon, but stars blazed overhead and the air was so crystalline that the Milky Way was a gauzy cloud that twined through the autumn constellations. I could see every star of the normally fuzzy Pleiades.

  “Makes a man feel mighty small, don’t it?” Allen said softly.

  He put his arm around my shoulder in a friendly gesture and I found myself leaning into it for warmth as we gazed up into the glittering sky.

  “You forget how big it is,” he said. “Over in Charlotte, there’s too many lights on the ground to let you see any but the biggest stars. But, my sweet Lord! Just look at them all up there.”

  I settled myself more comfortably on his shoulder and looked up, up, up into the celestial
depths, bedazzled as always, and mesmerized by the eternal, unending splendor of worlds without end. By the time it fully registered that his fingers had begun—almost imperceptibly—to caress my ear in gentle stroking exploration, I was dizzied by both the visual and sensual input and breathing more heavily than I realized.

  He gently turned my face to his and his mustache brushed my cheek. Our lips met sweetly, sweetly, with a growing intensity. The stars swirled overhead and I was falling into them, drowning in milky nebulae and—oh my God!

  I wrenched myself away. “You bastard! Here I was feeling sorry for you, and you—all you want—!”

  I stumbled across the rutted drive toward the porch light and my car.

  From the darkness behind me, Allen called, “You want it, too, darlin’.”

  My internal preacher yammered at me all the way back to Dobbs, but as I lay wide awake in bed that night, the pragmatist said, “You were wondering what you ever saw in him? Well, now you remember, don’t you?”

  22

  « ^ » Many of the old residenters in the inland counties of this province... have, in general, little inclination to mingle with the new-comers, who now arrive in such crowds. . .“Scotus Americanus,” 1773

  I went to sleep Monday night firmly resolved to mind my own business and stay out of things.

  Tuesday morning I showered, dressed in a simple, long-sleeved black knit turtleneck dress with black tights and Cuban heels, and snagged a cup of coffee on my way through the kitchen.

  “At least let me toast you a bagel,” said Aunt Zell.

  (She was so pleased when Winn-Dixie added bagels to their in-house bakery. I myself still find it hard to believe that there are enough people in Dobbs who even know what a bagel is to make stocking them economically feasible for Winn-Dixie.)

  “No time,” I said. “I have an early court date with Portland.”

  Uncle Ash smeared a dab of cream cheese on half of his blueberry bagel and held it out to me. “If you don’t eat, your aunt worries. Portland can wait.”

  I dropped a kiss on his white head, took a bite of his bagel, and left the rest for him.

  “Just because she’s your niece doesn’t mean you can fritter away her time,” I said, and hurried on out to my car.

  Driving over to the courthouse, I kept thinking about Daddy and Adam and the pawprints Blue and Ladybelle had left outside the garage door where Jap Stancil was struck down.

  After the rain. Sometime between midnight and when I found them with Adam.

  And thinking of Adam, did he burn his hand on a brush fire? Or was it an acetylene torch?

  I convened court fifteen minutes earlier than usual.

  A grim-faced Portland was seated at the defendant’s table. She wore an authoritative, don’t-mess-with-me coat-dress of power red. Beside her sat two very apprehensive people, Timothy Collins and Diana Henderson.

  Ambrose Daughtridge, who had represented Clea Beecham and her small daughter, sat at the opposing table. Mid-fifties, silver-haired, soft-spoken and courtly, he looks as if he should be cataloging books in a library at some small elite college.

  I fixed the two miscreants with what I hoped was a steely eye and said, “It has come to my attention that there may have been some irregularities in the paternity testing procedure done by you, Mrs. Henderson, resulting in some false testimony in the trial. I’m going to give you and Mr. Collins each an opportunity now to correct any testimony you may have given during the trial. I warn you that perjury and subornation of perjury are both felonies that carry serious penalties. Now, before I refer this matter to the DA for investigation of these charges, do either of you have anything to say?”

  Collins wanted to stonewall, but Mrs. Henderson started crying almost immediately.

  It was a shabby story that unfolded in the next few minutes. Each blamed the other for initiating the lie, but the end disclosure was that Collins paid her five hundred dollars in return for testimony that would let him weasel out of giving any support to his daughter.

  I thought of Dwight, who paid above and beyond for his son Cal.

  I thought of all the time and money Kidd devoted to his daughter Amber.

  Hell, even Allen, scoundrel that he was, not only paid for his daughter Wendy Nicole (admittedly not always on time), he was actually helping his girlfriend out with her daughter, little Tiffany Jane.

  But Timothy Collins, white-collar civil engineer, was ready to walk away from two-year-old Brittany, a baby he helped make, as if she were nothing more than a kitten or puppy that could be returned to the pet store for all he cared just so long as the monthly payments didn’t show up on his charge card statements.

  Dwight and Kidd and Allen were—

  I lost the rest of that thought because something niggled at the perimeter of my mind. Something not only niggled, it danced up and down and yelled, “Hey! Over here! Pay attention!”

  Diana Henderson? I checked back through the records. Jamerson Labs is headquartered in Burlington, only a stone’s throw from Greensboro.

  As I’d noticed before, her eyes were her best facial feature, but they were red and tear-drenched now. Her long nose was also red and her recessive chin quivered with suppressed sobs as I set about trying to undo the damage they’d done.

  I asked my recording clerk to prepare a transcript of this morning’s session and to deliver it to the DA, who would probably initiate an investigation of Mrs. Henderson’s previous court appearances. I told Mrs. Henderson that she could expect him to notify the appropriate agencies as well.

  “And, Mr. Daughtridge? If you wish to file a motion to set aside my earlier verdict, along with a motion for a new trial, I will allow it.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  I ended the session by calling for a ten-minute recess before getting into the day’s calendar. As everyone stood for me to leave the courtroom, Timothy Collins glanced at Portland. “Guess you want me to find another attorney?”

  “Yes, Mr. Collins, I certainly do,” she answered crisply.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the communal urn in the hallway and went on into my chamber, not realizing that Diana Henderson had followed.

  She stood in my doorway and fumbled with her coat. Early forties, ash blond hair and not a pretty face, but her voice still had that lovely timbre as she said, “May I speak to you a minute, Your Honor?”

  When I nodded, she came in and closed the door and headed for the chair by my desk. I kept trying to look at her from a male viewpoint. The dark green knit dress she wore demurely flattered a nicely proportioned body, accenting slender hips and full rounded breasts.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked fearfully.

  “I can’t say,” I replied, “but I suggest that you retain an attorney as soon as possible.”

  Another flood of tears.

  She seemed to have reduced all her tissues to damp shreds, so I went into the lavatory off my office and brought her some paper towels and toilet tissue.

  “Thank you.” She blew her nose and looked up at me. I was still standing beside her chair.

  “Oh, God! Why did I ever let him talk me into this?” she sobbed.

  I would have felt sorrier for her had not a strong conviction been growing inside me with every sob.

  Her green knit dress had a loose cowl neckline.

  “May I?” I asked. Without waiting for an answer, I pulled it down over her left shoulder.

  There, where Allen’s hand would have rested when they walked arm in arm, was a small black star. The day she had testified, it was not a mole I had noticed under her semi-sheer white blouse. It was another one of those damn tattoos.

  “How much did Allen Stancil pay you to lie for him?” I asked her. “Or did you take it out in trade?”

  My court calendar was longer than usual as the DA tried to schedule as many cases as possible in light of the Thanksgiving holiday coming up.

  Despite all that I had on my mind, I applied myself just as dil
igently as Cyl DeGraffenried, the ADA who was prosecuting that day. I kept our mid-session recesses to ten minutes and allowed only forty-five minutes for lunch. We got through everything except a small handful of defendants represented by Zack Young, who seemed to have disappeared even though he’d been in and out of my court all afternoon. I sent the bailiff out to look for him and asked my clerk to call his office, but I knew as well as Cyl that both would come back empty. When Zack doesn’t want to be found, nobody’s seen him.

  “On behalf of the court, I apologize,” I told his waiting clients, “but because Mr. Young can’t be found, you’ll have to come back another day. I’m here, Ms. DeGraffenried is here, you’re here. But your attorney isn’t and we can’t proceed without him. Come on up after I adjourn and she’ll reschedule your appearance. If this is an inconvenience, if you’re mad because you’ve wasted the whole day sitting here, don’t blame the court, blame Mr. Young. This court is adjourned.”

  “Oyez, oyez, oyez,” said the bailiff.

  Out of curiosity, I left the door of my chamber open. It wasn’t two minutes before Zack Young sauntered past.

  He nodded to me, pokerfaced. “Judge.”

  “Mr. Young.” I play poker, too.

  He continued on down to the courtroom to oversee the rescheduling of his clients, and it was hard for me not to chortle out loud.

  Zack’s probably the best criminal lawyer in the state. If I ever get charged with anything serious, he’s the one I’ll retain in a heartbeat.

  He had entered Not Guilty pleas for every one of those clients left waiting at the end of the day, but he clearly didn’t want to argue their cases before me.

  It was the first time he’d ever gone judge-shopping when I was the one scheduled to hear his cases.

  Hot damn!

  I went by Dwight’s office to tell him about the promissory note between Mr. Jap and Dick Sutterly which Allen and I had found in Mr. Jap’s burial papers. He wasn’t there so I scribbled the details on his scratch pad and left it on his desk.

  It was still chilly when I left the courthouse and headed for my car, but warmer weather was predicted by tomorrow morning. In the car just exiting from the parking lot, I saw a familiar face, but he didn’t seem to see me even though I waved.