Death's Half Acre Page 6

  “So what did you do next?”

  “What I didn’t do is let her shoot Pixie. What sort of neighbor shoots another neighbor’s pedigreed dog over a dumb chicken? I offered to pay her for it, but she wouldn’t listen. Just kept yelling that she was going to kill ‘that damn dog.’ Her words, Your Honor, not mine. When I tried to take the gun away from her, she hit me in the face and we got into it. But she threw the first punch. Not me.”

  “Your witness, Mr. Foster,” Reid said.

  “Just to be clear, Mrs. Arnfeldt,” said Kevin. “You claim that the chicken flew into your yard, your dog killed it and then ran off with it when you came out so that you and your dog and the dead chicken were in the Udell yard when Mrs. Udell came out with the rifle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No further questions.”

  Francisco stood to cross-examine. “When you were buying your house, Mrs. Arnfeldt, did you look around out back?”

  “You mean did I see the chickens? Not really. I thought that little building was a toolshed or something. It was almost dark and they must have already gone in for the night so that rooster could get a good rest before it started crowing.”

  “But you did drive past farms to get to Crescent Ridge and knew that there were farms around?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s why we bought out there. So that we could live in the country, but I didn’t know that meant I was going to be living in someone’s barnyard.”

  Francisco paused. “Six chickens constitute a barnyard to you?”

  “Objection!” said Reid.

  “Sustained.”

  “My apologies,” Francisco told me. “Now on the evening in question, Mrs. Arnfeldt—”

  “You mean that afternoon?” she asked. “It was still daylight.”

  My clerk looked up with a small roll of her eyes but the rest of us kept a neutral face. We all realized that it was an innocent question. For us, “afternoon” becomes “evening” around three-thirty or four o’clock, a nuance that takes newcomers a while to pick up on.

  “I stand corrected,” Francisco said politely without the least trace of sarcasm. “That afternoon. Are you quite certain that you saw that chicken fly over your hedge?”

  “Absolutely. And then Pixie grabbed it and—”

  “You do understand the penalties for perjury, do you not?”

  “Objection!”

  “Overruled,” I said.

  Dorothy Arnfeldt turned to me indignantly. “Is he calling me a liar?”

  “I don’t think so, ma’am. I think he’s just warning you to be sure it’s the truth you’re speaking.”

  Reid’s head came up sharply at that. He knows me well enough to read me and the very fact that I’d just overruled his reasonable objection put him on alert that his client might somehow be walking on shaky ground although he didn’t know why.

  “Please take another look at Exhibit A,” Francisco said, handing her the picture after I’d nodded to show he could approach. “Is this the chicken that flew into your yard and that your dog killed?”

  With a toss of her pale blond hair, she gave the picture a disdainful glance. “I suppose so. All chickens look alike, though, don’t they?”

  “Not to people who keep chickens, Mrs. Arnfeldt.” His voice was scrupulously polite.

  “Look, Your Honor,” she said, twisting in her chair to face me directly. I think it was finally getting through to her that she wasn’t in Kansas any more. “I really do regret this and if that chicken was her pet, then I guess I can’t blame her for flying off the handle. I’m willing to pay a reasonable amount for what it was worth to her.”

  “We can discuss that later,” I said. “You’re not charged with contributing to the death of a chicken. You’re charged with assault and battery.”

  “No further questions,” said Francisco. “May I call my client to the stand?”

  Baffled, Mrs. Arnfeldt returned to the defense table and Mrs. Udell took her place.

  After she was sworn in, Francisco asked her to tell her side of the story.

  Monica Udell’s skin was the color of wild honey. Her straight brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense bob. A wisp of bangs brushed her forehead. She wore black slacks and a white shirt layered over a red-checked shirt. No jewelry except for a wedding band and a modest diamond on her left hand.

  She described how her two acres were all that were left of her grandfather’s farm. “You divide the land four or five times every generation and not much is left,” she said. “One of my sisters still lives next door, but the others sold out to Crescent Ridge. I’ve tried to be a good neighbor to these new folks, but I like eggs that have some color to their yolks and aren’t full of hormones and stuff and I don’t plan to quit just because city’s come to the country.”

  She admitted that her chickens had originally strayed over to the newcomers’ yards, “but as soon as they asked me to keep them penned, I did. And when she put the law on me about my rooster, I made a big pot of pastry out of him rather than have hard feelings with her. Once in a while, one would fly over the fence in the morning and head straight for her yard. But her dog was over at my place more than my chickens were over there, worrying around the pen like he hadn’t never seen a chicken before. When she complained to me the last time, I quit letting them out in the morning, just in the evening right before dark. They don’t get far from their roost when night’s coming on. And I clipped the left wing of all five of ’em as any fool can see if they look at that picture of poor Bella laying there dead. So if she says that chicken flew over her hedge, she’s just pure-out lying. There’s never been a chicken hatched that can fly on just one set of wing feathers. Her dog came in my yard and killed my chicken right where it had every right to be, and yeah, I might’ve hit her first, but I do believe she was asking for it when she came over yelling and cussing me out because I was about to shoot me a chicken-killing dog.”

  Reid immediately asked to see the picture again and his client’s blue eyes widened when she saw the closely clipped feathers on the dead chicken’s left wing and comprehended the significance. She whispered something to him and he stood. “Your Honor, about my client’s testimony . . .”

  “About her perjury, Mr. Stephenson?”

  “My client would like to correct her earlier misstatement.”

  “I’m sure she would,” I said crisply, “but I’ve let this drag on too long as it is. Perjury is a Class F felony, Mrs. Arnfeldt, and I could send you to jail for thirteen months. Or, I could cite you for contempt, which carries ten days in jail.”

  She gave an audible gasp and clutched Reid’s arm.

  “But I’m going to overlook it this time.” Before she could quit looking worried, I continued, “On the other hand, because you did lie to this court, I’m going to accept that Mrs. Udell’s is the truthful account and that your dog did go into her yard and kill her chicken. I’m ordering you to keep your dog on a leash when it’s outside or else strengthen the charge on your invisible fence. If she had shot your dog, how much compensation would you have asked for?”

  She balked at that. “My dog has papers.”

  “If you’re going to live in the country,” I said, “then you need to know that some chickens have pedigrees, too, and a lot of them are pets with personalities as individual as dogs or cats. I’m entering a judgment of three hundred dollars against you for the death of the chicken, payable to Mrs. Udell.

  “As to the assault and battery, I find you each guilty as charged and sentence you to ten days in jail, suspended for one year, unsupervised probation, on condition that you each pay a hundred-dollar fine and court costs, and that you neither threaten nor assault each other during that year or you will go to jail.”

  It did not immediately register with either woman that Mrs. Arnfeldt was going to be out at least five hundred dollars while Mrs. Udell would break even, assuming her attorney didn’t bill too many hours.

  With an amused nod of his head, George Francisco
said, “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  He started to follow his client out but I motioned for him to come up to the bench. As Kevin Foster looked through his shucks before calling the next case, I leaned forward and said, “Did you have a pet chicken when you were a kid?”

  He smiled. “A white silkie. Her name was Blossom. You?”

  “A Rhode Island Red named Maisie Lou,” I told him.

  CHAPTER 5

  The relating debris scatters enough tiny reckonings to force off a Remembrance of tomorrows . . .

  —Paul’s Hill, by Shelby Stephenson

  I got to Will’s warehouse on the west side of Dobbs a few minutes past noon. It’s an old brick building with its own scruffy charm, sort of like Will himself, although Amy—she’s his third wife—has done what she could with both of them. Like the wisteria vine she planted in front of the warehouse, a vine that now grows lushly across the whole front right up to the roof and blossoms with great purple clusters, she’s given Will the freedom to be himself.

  Growing up, his nickname in the family was Won’t and not only because it’s an easy pun on Will Knott. Our mother was a Stephenson and while Stephensons are quick to anger, quick to tears, quick to forgive, Will was hardheaded as well, always ready to strike out across the field rather than plow a straight furrow, no matter what the consequences.

  To the dismay of his first two wives, he was constitutionally unable to hold down a nine-to-five job for longer than six months. We’ve lost count of how many different things he tried before he finally stumbled into auctioneering, which combines a certain amount of risk, ever-changing novelty, freedom to stick his nose into interesting places, and the possibility of big profits.

  Amy’s the director of human resources out at the hospital and it’s her job that provides medical insurance, buys groceries, and pays their day-to-day bills. Will’s earnings are more erratic, but they probably come close to matching hers on a year-to-year reckoning.

  He doesn’t keep regular hours at his warehouse. Instead, he roams the state as a freelance auctioneer. Your mother’s left you a houseful of furniture? Will can come and advise you on whether to hold an estate sale or offer it to an antiques dealer. Even after his commission, a well-advertised sale will usually net you more than a straight cash offer from a dealer.

  He doesn’t have any training in appraisals, but he does have a good eye for what’s quality and what should probably go to a flea market. During the year, the owners will often give him whatever doesn’t sell—the odd lamps, tables, mule collars, or mismatched dishes—and he sticks it in his warehouse. Then, twice a year, he holds his own auction. When Dwight was furnishing his bachelor apartment after his divorce from Jonna, he got a box of decent tableware and glasses at one of Will’s sales for ten dollars.

  His spring sale was coming up at the end of the month, so the warehouse was fairly cluttered when I walked in.

  “Will?” I called.

  “Down here, Deb’rah.”

  I followed the sound of his voice back to where he was trying to inventory what was to go into that sale.

  A very pretty young woman was perched on a nearby stool. A laptop was balanced atop a file cabinet and she seemed to be taking dictation from him.

  “Number 238,” he said, hefting a gloomy-looking portrait in a gilded frame. “The Reverend Jacob Saunders.”

  He looked at a Post-it note on the back. “Native of Colleton County, 1899 to 1980.”

  The girl’s slender fingers darted over the keyboard. “Nineteen-eighty. Got it.”

  “Saunders,” I said, trying to see a likeness in that grim, unsmiling face. “Any kin to Fred?”

  “His granddaddy. Scared the shit out of Fred and his brothers when they were kids. None of ’em want his picture hanging in their house. Nice frame though. You know Dee Bradshaw?”

  I took a second look at the girl. Cute, long brown hair, green eyes, short legs? Yes, this could be Candace Bradshaw’s daughter.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “I know you, though,” she said with a friendly smile. “You gave my boyfriend a prayer for judgment when he got caught for speeding last month.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. He’s kept it on cruise control ever since.”

  Will glanced at his watch. “We’ll break for lunch now, Dee. Back at one?”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Judge Knott.”

  Will watched appreciatively as she threaded her way through a maze of straight-back wooden chairs, her shapely hips swinging provocatively in her tight jeans.

  “Quit it,” I said.

  “What?” He tried to look innocent, then gave a sheepish grin. “I’m allowed to look. Amy doesn’t care if I look.”

  “She’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”

  “Go to hell!” he said indignantly. “She’s almost twenty-two.”

  “How long’s she been working for you?”

  “I only hired her yesterday. Nobody else answered my want ad for some temporary clerical work.” He peered at the computer screen. “At least she can spell.”

  “So where are those folders? I have to be back at the courthouse in an hour.”

  “Still in Linsey’s hassock.” He led me deeper into the warehouse. “I moved that thing over here after it didn’t sell last summer and I knew it was godawful heavy, but I didn’t realize the top could open. Then, when I was shifting it yesterday, I noticed a little keyhole up under the ledge.”

  He pointed to a cube with a cushioned top. The thing was covered in scuffed brown leather. “I tried to pick the lock, but nothing worked, so I finally took a crowbar to it.”

  Will lifted the hinged lid and I immediately saw that he’d wrecked the lock. “Doesn’t hurt the value,” he assured me. “It’s vinyl, not leather, and ugly as Aunt Sister’s pet goat.”

  Aunt Sister’s a little younger than Daddy and her pet goat died when she was still a child. No one ever took its picture, so we don’t know if it really did have bald spots and a misshapen horn that curled in the wrong direction. Nevertheless, it’s the standard of ugliness in our family. Aunt Sister swears that Daddy exaggerates the goat’s bad features, but we’ve heard her say things like, “Now I won’t say that baby’s as ugly as my pet goat, but . . .”

  Will cocked his head at that hassock. “I wonder if it came with a lock or if Linsey had it added? For a minute there, I thought I was going to find a real treasure—maybe the Thomas family silver or Confederate gold or something.”

  I knelt down for a closer examination. “It could’ve started life as a trunk or a footlocker that someone upholstered. Who knows? Maybe Linsey bought it at an estate sale himself.”

  The interior was deeper and slightly wider than the file folders that took up most of the space.

  I lifted one and a packet of letters slid into my lap. The pale blue and green envelopes were tied with a faded satin ribbon. “Oh, Will! Look at the return address.”

  “Meg Woods? Who was she?”

  “His wife. She died of a ruptured appendix when she was only thirty. Mother said it broke his heart and he never remarried. These must be her love letters to him.”

  I opened the file to put the letters back inside and found a photograph of a laughing girl with a pixie cut.

  “Wow!” Will gave a soft whistle. “If that’s her, no wonder he never married again.”

  Another folder was labeled DAD and seemed to be letters written to Linsey when he was in school over in Chapel Hill.

  And then there was the folder labeled KNOTT.

  As Will had said when he called last night, there were sheets of typescript, jotted notes, and several news clippings that chronicled my first campaign, my loss, and then my appointment. The papers were crammed in haphazardly with no apparent order and Will had to flip through to find a scrap of paper that looked as if it’d been torn from a yellow legal pad.

  “See this?”

  In what looked like Linsey’s distinctive pr
inting, my name was circled with several arrows that pointed to different names: Kezzie Knott, G. Hooks Talbert, and the former governor. All were surrounded by aimless doodles that appeared to have begun as question marks, as if Linsey had been trying to work out a connection. Luckily for me, he was missing the name that linked the three of us, that of Talbert’s older son, the son whose crime furnished the material for Daddy to blackmail G. Hooks. “Help my daughter and I won’t send your son to prison.”

  “What do you suppose that’s about?” Will asked.

  “I haven’t a clue,” I lied, “but these look like Linsey’s personal files. Wonder why he had us in here?”

  “Not just you and Daddy, kiddo. There’s files on half the commissioners, on our DA—”

  “But here’s one with his birth certificate, his marriage license . . . hmm. Who’s this, I wonder?”

  It was a picture of a teenage boy in a Confederate uniform, complete with sword and rifle. On the back, spidery handwriting identified the boy as Cpl. Joshua Thomas.

  “Some of this stuff probably needs to go to the historical society. I’ll take my folder, but—”

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” he said. “You want yours, you’re going to have to take them all and let me know what’s worth giving. And I want my name on it as the donor, okay?”

  “Okay, but there’s no way I can go through everything now. Give me a box and we’ll stick them in my car.”

  Ten minutes later, we had emptied the hassock and stashed the files in the trunk of my car. By then I was more than ready for some lunch. A small refrigerator stood in Will’s makeshift office and he brought out the chilled chicken salad sandwiches and soft drinks that he had picked up earlier.

  As we ate, he finally got around to his real reason for getting me over there.

  “Dwight says he and Cal are going up to Virginia and empty out Jonna’s house when school’s out. You think he’d like me to come help? I don’t want to step on the boy’s toes if there are things of his mother’s y’all think he might want someday, but it sounds like there’s gonna be a lot to get rid of.”