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  “There are times when I wish I could ask Mother how she did it,” I admitted. “At least Dwight and I have known each other long enough to be used to each other’s good and bad points, but how on earth did she find time to get to know Daddy with eight young boys in the house?”

  “You’ll figure it out,” said Mr. Frank. “You’re a lot like Sue, isn’t she, Zell?”

  Aunt Zell smiled and squeezed my hand, then we got to work unpacking the lunch. I filled the five glasses with ice cubes and poured tea while she set out a large earthenware casserole, a side dish of baby butter beans that she’d frozen last summer, and a basket of fresh hot yeast rolls. Miss Phyllis brought in butter and a dish of crisp sweet pickles.

  By the time we sat down at the table, I had heard all about the severed hand Taffy found.

  “I let her out as usual around seven this morning,” said Miss Phyllis. “Most days, Frank and I will take a cup of coffee and walk around the edge of the woods with her, but it was so raw and wet this morning that we let her go alone. I have no idea where she went, but as muddy and drenched as she was when she came back, I’m sure she was over splashing in the creek.”

  “She’ll do that if we’re not with her,” said Mr. Frank, smoothing down silky white hair that still bore the marks of the hat he must have worn earlier. “Doesn’t matter how cold it is.”

  “She was out there a good forty-five minutes,” his wife continued, “and I was loading the dishwasher when I saw her, through the kitchen window, coming across the backyard with something in her mouth. At first I thought it was somebody’s old brown leather work glove or an oddly shaped piece of wood. As soon as I opened the door for her, I told her to drop it because whatever it was, I didn’t want it on my clean floor. She left it on the step and came on in. I keep an old towel out there on the sun porch to wipe her off if she comes back muddy and she knows to stand still for me, but this morning, she kept nosing at the door like she wanted her find.

  “I finally opened the door to see what was so interesting to her and as soon as I took a good look, I just screamed for Frank. It was horrible, Deborah! A hand chopped off at the wrist. Yuck!”

  “I called 911,” said Mr. Frank.

  “And I took Taffy right out to the garage for a good soapy bath. I even washed out her mouth. I couldn’t bear to think of her licking me with a tongue that had licked at that thing.”

  She shuddered and almost spilled the glass of tea when she took a sip to steady her nerves.

  “Try not to think about that part,” said Aunt Zell. “I’m sure her mouth is nice and sweet again.”

  With a heartiness that fooled no one, Mr. Frank said, “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. This looks delicious, Zell.”

  Miss Phyllis allowed herself to be distracted from that grisly image and indicated where we were to sit.

  “Is someone else coming?” I asked as I sat down next to the extra chair and unfolded my napkin.

  Mr. Frank nodded. “I did tell Dwight that lunch would be here when he was ready to eat, but he said for us not to wait on him.”

  That was all I needed to hear and as soon as he’d said grace, I excused myself and went out to the sun porch to call. Taffy followed, her fur soft and shining clean. Nevertheless, I did not put my hand out for her to lick.

  “Just wanted you to know that lunch is on the table,” I said when Dwight answered.

  “Sorry, shug. I can’t leave now. I’ll have to grab a sandwich or something back in town.” He let two beats of silence go by, then said, “What? No questions?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “No. Mr. Frank and Miss Phyllis have already told me everything.”

  “Not everything,” he said and hung up before I could say another word.

  Mindful that I had to get back to court yet solicitous of Dwight who had been out in the cold and wet for hours, Phyllis Ward said she’d carry Aunt Zell back to town if I wanted to swing down and take him some lunch. Because she was already pulling out bread and lettuce and sliced ham from the refrigerator, and because Aunt Zell seemed to be settling in for a nice long visit, I really had no choice except to thank her for her thoughtfulness and do as I was told.

  “I hope he’s dressed warm enough,” she worried aloud as she saw me off. “I’d send him one of Frank’s white sweaters if he wasn’t twice as big as Frank.”

  The rain had pretty much stopped as I drove the hundred yards or so down the highway, then turned into the rutted lane. A few yards off the road, a left fork continued on down the slope into the woods and presumably to the creek. The right one ran along the far edge of fields green with winter rye and would eventually lead over to Ward Dairy Road, so named for the original dairy farm. A knot of patrol cars blocked the left lane, which seemed to be the center of activity, so I did a U-turn and backed into the other one.

  As I expected, someone alerted Dwight and in a couple of minutes he slung his raincoat in back and eased his tall frame into the front seat beside me with a head-shaking smile. “Couldn’t resist it, could you?”

  “Not me,” I said, handing him the sandwiches and hot coffee. His brown hair was dark from the rain. “I’d’ve let you stay out here and starve, but Miss Phyllis was worried about you. I think she feels guilty that Taffy brought you out on such a cold wet day.”

  “Who’s Taffy?” he asked around a mouthful of ham and lettuce.

  “Their dog. The one that found the hand. Was it a left or right?”

  He uncapped the coffee and took a long drink, then grinned at me. “I thought you said the Wards told you everything.”

  “I forgot to ask them that particular detail. Miss Phyllis was freaking just thinking about it in Taffy’s mouth.”

  “It’s a right hand.”

  “Too bad it wasn’t the left. A ring might have given you a lead if he was wearing one.”

  We both glanced at the gold band gleaming on his own left hand. The words I’d had engraved there wouldn’t have helped anyone identify the owner, but the date could narrow it down a bit.

  “I just hope the guy’s prints are on file.” He finished the first sandwich and unwrapped the second.

  “The fingertips are still intact?”

  “Some of them.” He didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask. “The cold weather helps. We found the left arm about an hour ago. Makes us think that the other arm and hand might be here but some animal could have dragged them off. Coons or possums or more dogs maybe. Their tracks are all over and something’s been at it.”

  He continued to eat, his appetite unaffected by a situation that would make my skin crawl if I allowed myself to dwell on it.

  “This lane connects to Ward Dairy Road,” I said.

  He nodded, already there before me. “And Ward Dairy runs right by Bethel Baptist, less than five miles from where those legs were found. When we finish up here, I’m going to have our patrol cars eyeball all the ditches between here and there.”

  I glanced at my watch and realized that I was going to be late if I didn’t hurry.

  “Yeah, I need to get back to work, too,” Dwight said. He put the wrappings in the bag Miss Phyllis had sent the sandwiches in, wiped his mouth with the napkins she’d provided and leaned over to kiss me. “The roads are slick, so don’t speed, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He raised a cynical eyebrow. “You say it, but do you really mean it?”

  Fortunately, there were no slow-moving tractors out on the road this first day of March and I made it back to court with a few minutes to spare and without going more than five or six miles over the limit. To my surprise, the litigating parties had indeed decided to settle, and after I signed all the orders, we moved on to the next item on the docket, which was more complicated.

  Judson “Buck” Harris, a large commercial grower, had divorced his wife, Suzanne “Suzu” Poynter Harris, a middle-aged woman who might have been attractive in her youth but had now let herself go. A bad hair color was showing at least an inch of gray roots, her skin had
faced too many hours of wind and sun without moisturizers, and her boxy navy blue suit and navy overblouse did nothing to disguise the extra thirty pounds she was carrying.

  The divorce had been finalized a week or so ago and we were now trying to make an equitable division of their jointly held assets. “Trying to” because, to my annoyance, there was no Mr. Harris at the other attorney’s table. Said attorney was my cousin Reid Stephenson, a younger partner at my old law firm and someone who knows me well enough to know when I’m unhappy with a situation.

  “Your Honor,” he said, giving me a hopeful look of boyish entreaty, “I would ask the court’s patience and request one final continuance.”

  “Objection,” snapped Mrs. Harris’s lawyer.

  Pete Taylor was just as problematic for me as Reid, even though he, too, had agreed to my hearing this case. Pete’s the current president of the District Bar Association and he was one of my early supporters when I first decided to run for the bench. And yes, there are times when practicing law in this district can feel almost incestuous. But if every judge recused himself because of personal connections, our dockets would never be cleared.

  “Is Mr. Harris ill or physically unable to come to court?” I asked Reid as I looked around the almost empty courtroom.

  “Not to my knowledge, Your Honor, but I haven’t been able to reach him this week.”

  Pete Taylor straightened his bright red bow tie, one of dozens that he owns, and got to his feet. “Your Honor, this matter has dragged on three months longer than necessary because Mr. Harris can’t seem to remember court dates. Today’s hearing is to establish his financial worth and this is the third time that Mr. Lee has been called to testify as to the validity and accuracy of Mr. Harris’s bank records. Unless my worthy opponent plans to challenge Mr. Lee’s veracity, I submit that there is no substantive reason not to begin without Mr. Harris’s presence and hope he will arrive before we get to disputed matters.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Call your witness, Mr. Taylor.”

  Before he could do so, Mrs. Harris tugged at his sleeve and when he bent to hear what she wanted to ask, it was clear from her body language that she was upset about something and that Pete’s answer did not please her. She immediately let go his sleeve and spoke to me directly.

  “Your Honor?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Harris?”

  “Can’t this be more private?”

  “More private?”

  “Mr. Lee’s going to be talking about personal stuff, about how much money we have and how much land we own, and I don’t see why it has to be said in front of a lot of people.”

  A lot of people?

  At this point, except for the participants in the case, there were only five others in the courtroom, a man and four women. I recognized two of the women, elderly regulars who prefer courtroom drama to afternoon television. The young man sat three rows in front of the third woman, but a current seemed to run between them. No doubt this was the divorcing couple scheduled to follow the Harris hearing. The fourth woman was unfamiliar to me.

  In her anger, Mrs. Harris spoke with a good old Colleton County twang like someone raised on a local farm. I didn’t know much about the Harrises except by hearsay, but I gathered that she had worked right alongside her husband back when he was out in the fields, plowing and planting and growing the produce that was now sold in grocery chains from Maryland to Maine. There might be diamonds on her big-knuckled fingers and those might be real pearls around her neck, but this was clearly someone who had spent her youth in hard work and plain dealing.

  She turned to glare accusingly at the woman seated alone on the last bench in the courtroom. “I don’t want her here while this is going on.”

  The woman returned her glare with level eyes that were vaguely—arrogantly?—amused. Wearing jeans and a chocolate brown turtleneck sweater, with a fleece-lined beige leather jacket draped over her slender shoulders, she lounged against the armrest at the end of the bench and seemed completely at ease. From where I sat, she looked to be my age—late thirties. She wasn’t classically beautiful, yet there was something that made you take a second look and it wasn’t just the flaming red hair that flowed in loose waves to her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Harris. This is a public hearing.”

  She wasn’t the first person to cringe at the realization that what had been private was now going to become public knowledge, but her animosity was so palpable that I had a feeling that the redhead back there must have played a starring role in the disintegration of the Harris partnership.

  Mrs. Harris flounced back around in her chair and I nodded to her attorney. “Call your witness, Mr. Taylor.”

  As expected, that witness was Denton Lee, an executive at Dobbs Fidelity Trust and one good-looking man. Dent’s a few years older than me but even though he’s a distant cousin by way of my former law partner, John Claude Lee, I hadn’t known him when I was growing up, so I was devastated to come back to Dobbs and discover that the most stone-cold gorgeous man in town was happily married and the father of two equally beautiful children. Like all the Colleton County Lees, his hair is prematurely white which goes very nicely with his piercing blue eyes and fair skin.

  After firmly reminding myself that I was a married woman now (“Married but not brain dead,” my interior pragmatist said tartly), I put aside those memories of past regrets and concentrated on his testimony as to the financial holdings of Harris Farms.

  In front of me was a thick sheaf of records that detailed the checks deposited and the withdrawals made from the three accounts that the bank handled.

  In clear, direct testimony, Dent explained for the rec-ord precisely how these statements had been generated, the technology used, the validity and accuracy of the data. This was not the first time he had come to court with such testimony and I was no more inclined to distrust his expertise than was my cousin Reid.

  The Harrises may have started with a single thirty-acre farm here in the county, but their tomatoes now grew in huge fields that sprawled from Cotton Grove to the other side of New Bern. Yet, despite the amount of money trundling in and out of their accounts, the Harrises ran what was still basically a mom-and-pop organization. Yes, there was a layer of accountants and clerks to track expenses and taxes; overseers who directed the planting, cultivation, and harvesting out on the land; mechanics who kept the equipment in good repair; managers who kept the migrant camps up to federal standards; and marketing personnel, too, but Harris Farms was a limited liability company, which meant that the Harrises owned all the “shares.” Mr. Harris was said to be a hands-on farmer who still got on a tractor occasionally or rode out to the fields himself.

  The gross take from fresh produce they’d sold to the grocery chain was astonishing, but my eyes really widened when I saw the size of the check from a major cannery for the bulk of last year’s tomato crop. Maybe Haywood was right. Maybe my brothers could do with garden peas what the Harrises had done with tomatoes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lee,” Pete Taylor said when the banker finished speaking.

  “No questions,” said Reid.

  Next came testimony from their chief accountant, then Reid asked for a recess to see if he could contact his client.

  “Good luck on that!” I heard Mrs. Harris say. “If he’s still holed up in the mountains, we don’t get good cell service there and he never answers a land line.”

  As Reid stepped out to place his call, I signaled to the divorcing couple. It was a do-it-yourself filing. Both were only twenty-two. No children, no marital property to divide, no request for alimony by either party. I looked at the two of them.

  “According to these papers, you were only married four months before you called it quits. Are you sure you gave it enough time?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am,” said the woman. “We lived together two years before we got married.”

  The man gave a silent shrug.

  His soon-to-be-ex-wife said, “Marriage always changes things,
doesn’t it?”

  I couldn’t argue with that. I signed the documents that would dissolve their legal bond and wished them both better luck next time.

  “Won’t be a next time,” the young man said quietly.

  CHAPTER 7

  The farmer must be vigilant and sensible to all that happens upon his land.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

  On Thursday, I had lunch with Portland at a Tex-Mex restaurant that’s recently opened up only two blocks from the courthouse. Although the sun was finally shining, the mercury wasn’t supposed to climb higher than the mid-thirties, which made chile rellenos and jalapeño cornbread sound appealing to me.

  Portland was game even though she couldn’t eat anything very hot or spicy.

  As we were shown to our table, she tried to remember just how many times this place had changed hands in the last eight or nine years since the original longtime owner died and his heirs put it up for sale.

  “First it was Peggy’s Pantry, then the Souper Sandwich House, but wasn’t there something else right after Peggy’s?”

  “The Sunshine Café?” I hazarded.

  “No, that was two doors down from here, where the new card shop’s opened.”

  Neither of us could remember and our waitress spoke too little English to be of help. She handed us menus, took our drink orders and went off to fetch them.

  “I swear I feel just like Clover,” Portland complained as she looked through the menu for something bland.

  “Clover?”

  “You remember Clover. My grandmother’s last cow? Every spring she’d get into the wild garlic and the milk would taste awful. That’s me these days. Anything fun to eat goes straight through my nipples and gives the baby colic or diarrhea.”

  With impeccable timing, a plate of something that involved black bean paste arrived at the next table.

  “A few less graphics here, please,” I said.

  “Sorry. I don’t suppose you want to talk about body parts either, huh?”