Hard Row dk-13 Read online

  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 dis-

  cover that the most stone-cold gorgeous man in town

  was happily married and the father of two equally beau-

  tiful 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 de-

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  tailed 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 dis-

  trust 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 or-

  ganization. Yes, there was a layer of accountants and

  clerks to track expenses and taxes; overseers who di-

  rected 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 fed-

  eral 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 oc-

  casionally 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.

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  MARGARET MARON

  “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 prop-

  erty 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 to-

  gether 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.

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  7

  The farmer must be vigilant and sensible to all that hap-

  pens 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 fi-

  nally 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 any-

  thing very hot or spicy.

  As we were shown to our table, she tried to remem-

  ber 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

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  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?”

  I sighed. “Not particularly. Without the head and

  torso, Dwight and Bo are beginning to think they may

  never get an identity. The fingerprints aren’t in any offi-

  cial databases and there don’t seem to be any men miss-

  ing who match the body type the medical examiner’s

  postulated, based on two legs, a hand, and an arm.”

  We ordered, then talked about the baby, about Cal,

  about Dwight and Avery, about the Mideast situation

  and the President’s latest imbecilic pronouncements

  until our food came. Our talk was the usual bouncing

  from subject to subject that friends do when they know

  each other so well they can almost finish each other’s

  sentences. She laughed when I told her Haywood and

  Isabel’s reaction to the idea of raising ostriches and she

  shared a bit of catty gossip about a woman attorney

  that neither of us likes. We worried briefly about Luther

  Parker, a judge that we do like, and how it was lucky

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  he’d only twisted his ankle when he fell on the ice yes-

  ter
day.

  “How did he rule on that violation of the restraining

  order by—what’s his name? Braswell? Your client’s ex-

  husband?” I asked.

  “James Braswell,” she said. “Imposed another fine

  and gave him ten more days in jail, but since it’s to

  run concurrent with what you gave him, he’ll be out

  again by the middle of next week. If he violates it again,

  Parker warned him that he could be doing some serious

  time. I hope this convinces him to stay away because

  Karen’s really scared of him, Deborah.”

  “Any children?”

  “No, but she’s got a sick mother that she’s caring for,

  so she doesn’t feel she can just cut and run even though

  that’s what her gut’s telling her.”

  This was not the first time we’d had this discussion

  about why some men can’t accept that a relationship is

  over when the woman says it’s over.

  “At least Judge Parker’s going to take away his

  guns.”

  “That’s a step in the right direction,” I said trying to

  ignore the dish of butter between us that cried out to be

  spread on the last of my cornbread.

  My back was to the door so I didn’t immediately

  see the woman who spoke to Portland by name as she

  started to pass our table.

  Portland looked up and did a double take. “Well, I’ll

  be darned! Hey, girl! What brings you up to Dobbs?”

  “A man, of course,” the laughing voice said. “Isn’t it

  always?”

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  MARGARET MARON

  I half-turned in my seat and immediately recognized

  the redhead who had been in my courtroom yesterday.

  “Deborah,” said Portland, “do y’all know each other?

  Robbie-Lane Smith?”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “Well, you’ve heard me talk about her. Deborah

  Knott, meet Robbie-Lane Smith. She managed that res-

  taurant down at Wrightsville Beach where I worked two

  summers.”

  “I thought her name was Flame—? Oh, right. The

  hair.”

  The woman laughed. “A lot of people still call me

  that.”

  Portland arched an eyebrow at her old roommate.

  “People of the male persuasion?”

  A noncommittal shrug didn’t exactly deny it. She

  wore jeans again today and carried her tan fleece-lined

  jacket over one arm. Her silk shirt was a dark copper

  that did nice things for her green eyes and fair complex-

  ion even as I realized that she was probably mid-forties

  instead of the late thirties I’d first thought her.

  “Are you by yourself?” Portland gestured to the

  empty chair at our table. “Deborah and I are almost

  finished, but why don’t you join us?”

  “Sorry. I’m meeting someone.” She pulled a card

  from her pocket. “Here’s my cell number and email,

  though, and why don’t you give me yours? It looks like

  I’m going to be around for a couple of days. Maybe we

  could get together for drinks or something?”

  “Sure.” Portland rummaged in her purse and came

  up with one of her own cards.

  “Portland Brewer now? You’re married?”

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  “And the mother of a two-and-a-half-month-old,”

  she said proudly. “You still at the restaurant?”

  “Nope. I own a B&B just two blocks from the River

  Walk down in Wilmington. We have some serious catch-

  ing up to do.” She turned to follow the waitress who

  had been waiting to show her to a booth in the back.

  “Call me, okay? Nice meeting you, Judge.”

  “Oh, God, look at those hips!” Portland murmured

  enviously as the other woman walked away. “She’s at

  least five years older than me and I never looked that

  sexy in jeans. I’m a cow!”

  “You are not a cow,” I soothed. “Besides, didn’t you

  say you’d lost another two pounds?”

  Her face brightened beneath her mop of short black

  curls. “True. And I didn’t eat any bread or butter

  today.”

  “There you go, then.”

  I signaled our waitress that we were ready for our

  check and we gathered up our coats and scarves.

  “How did Flame know you’re a judge?” asked

  Portland as we were leaving.

  I explained that she’d been in my court the after-

  noon before. “The Harris Farms divorce,” I said. “And

  Mrs. Harris was furious that she was there. I get the

  impression that your friend Flame is Buck Harris’s new

  flame.”

  “Really? I’ve heard tales about him for years but I

  never met him. Is he good-looking?”

  “I’ve only seen him once and he’s not our type—

  musclebound with a thick neck as I recall. I’ve had to

  grant four continuances because he just won’t come to

  court. Reid’s his attorney and I warned him yesterday

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  MARGARET MARON

  that if Harris doesn’t show up next week, I’m going to

  try the case without him.”

  “Speak of the devil and up he jumps,” said Portland,

  and we watched as my cousin Reid Stephenson entered

  the restaurant and went straight on back to join Flame

  Smith in a rear booth.

  “If Buck Harris doesn’t get himself down from the

  mountains and tend to business, he’s liable to find Reid

  warming her bed.”

  “You’re getting cynical in your old age,” Portland

  said. “She’s got at least ten years on him.”

  “You’re the one who said how sexy she looked in

  those jeans,” I reminded her. “And we both know

  Reid’s weakness for redheads.”

  “Not to mention blondes and brunettes,” Portland

  murmured.

  “Now who’s being cynical?”

  At the afternoon break, I called Dwight’s number.

  He answered on the first ring. “Bryant here.” His

  tone was brusque.

  “And hey to you, too,” I said. “Does this mean the

  honeymoon’s over?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t check my screen.” Warmth came back

  into his voice. “I assumed it was Richards calling back.

  What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to know if you remembered to pick up

  Bandit’s heartworm pills from the vet? Or should I do

  it on my way home?”

  “Could you?” he asked. “And call Kate to let her

  know I’m running late?”

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  “Don’t worry. I’ll pick Cal up, too.”

  I heard voices in the background. “What’s going

  on?”

  “Another hand’s been reported,” he said grimly. “At

  the edge of Apple Creek, just off Jernigan Road.”

  “Jernigan Road? That’s nowhere near Ward Dairy.

  Was there a wedding ring on the finger?”

  “I doubt it,” Dwight said. “They say it’s another

  right.”

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  C H A P T E R

  8

  Cold does not injure the vitality of seeds, but moisture is

  detrimental to all kinds.

 
; —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

  Dwight Bryant

  Thursday Afternoon, March 2

  % Dwight hung up the phone as several officers

  crowded into his office to get their instructions.

  Using the large topographical map of the county that

  covered most of one wall, he located Apple Creek and

  traced it with his finger till it crossed Jernigan Road. It

  was well south and east of Dobbs and, as Deborah had

  just pointed out, nowhere near Ward Dairy Road or

  Bethel Baptist where the other limbs had been found.

  “Here’s where the kids found the hand. Most animals

  won’t usually carry something all that far, but it could

  have washed down, so for starters, I want you walking

  at least a half-mile up the creek and maybe a quarter-

  mile down. Both sides. Pay particular attention here

  and here, where there’re lanes that get close enough

  to the creek that a body could be easily dumped from

  a vehicle. And keep your eyes open for anything out of

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  the ordinary that might give a clue to whoever did the

  dumping. Mel, you and your team take it north and

  the rest of you go south. Richards says it looks like that

  hand’s been out there a while, so take some rods and

  check anything that looks like a log.”

  “Not much of a creek, as I remember,” said Sheriff

  Bo Poole when the room was clear. “Just a little off-

  shoot of Black Creek.”

  “Best I recall, it pretty much dries up every August,”

  Dwight agreed, “but we’ve had a right wet winter and

  I’ve heard it can pool up in places.”

  Bo nodded. “Beaver dams.”

  He was a small trim man, but he carried his authority

  like a six-footer. “I used to run a trapline through there

  when I was a boy. Muskrats and beavers, even the oc-

  casional mink.”

  He went over to the map and looked at it so intently

  that Dwight was sure his boss was walking the creek

  again in his mind.

  While Dwight called Detective Mayleen Richards to

  tell her reinforcements were on the way and how she

  should deploy them, he watched as Bo put his finger on

  the creek and traced it a little further west.

  “Here’s where it flows out of Black Creek. Used to

  be good trapping along in here, too.” He looked up at

  Dwight. “You fixing to head out there?”

  Dwight nodded.

  “Let me get my hat. Maybe I’ll ride along with

  you.”

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  MARGARET MARON

  After so many gray days, the blue sky was washed clean