Death's Half Acre dk-14 Page 8

  The banks down here were considerably tidier since Grayson Village got built on the other side. The village’s maintenance crew had trimmed back the wild grapevines. Poison oak had been eradicated, and greenbriers and blackberry brambles cleared away to make room for a path wide enough for two or three people to walk abreast and enjoy uninterrupted views of the creek. Discreetly placed black wire baskets encouraged hikers to toss their bottles and cans there and so far, it seemed to be working. No garbage in the water nor along the banks that he could see. Some of his sons still grumbled about establishing a greenbelt in common with Grayson Village, but Kezzie was pragmatist enough to know that if he had held Talbert’s feet to the fire over the property line, the man might have put in a trailer park with trashy tenants just to spite him. Possum Creek could be a dirty, choked-up sewer instead of a clear stream that sparkled and gurgled in the morning sunlight.

  He and Talbert might cooperate when necessary, “But we ain’t never gonna be friends,” he told himself.

  Ladybelle waited for them at the bend of the creek, panting with exertion. She and Blue touched noses, then he followed her down to the water’s edge.

  Distracted by a bullfrog that had recently emerged from hibernation beneath the soft wet mud, neither dog immediately saw the man leaning motionless against a tall maple tree on the other side of the creek near a rustic wooden bridge. He wore tailored khaki pants pressed to blade-sharp creases, leather boots, and a tan windbreaker. Sunlight caught the gold of an expensive watch on his wrist.

  The two men stared at each other across the water.

  “Knott,” the other man said evenly.

  Kezzie gave a formal nod of recognition. “Talbert,” he said.

  “We’re sure this is her writing?” Bo asked as he finished reading for the third time the letter found in Candace Bradshaw’s bedroom.

  “I faxed it over to the SBI lab along with known samples and they say everything was written by the same hand. No question,” said Dwight.

  The two sat in Sheriff Bo Poole’s office with a copy of the letter on Bo’s desk between them. The original pale pink sheet, monogrammed in a deeper rose, had been fingerprinted and was now preserved in an acid-free envelope under lock and key as part of the secured chain of evidence collected at the scene of every violent death, whether self-inflicted, accidental, or possible homicide.

  “I’ve got a call in for Terry Wilson,” Dwight said, referring to a supervisor in the State Bureau of Investigation who was as much a friend as a fellow lawman.

  “Good,” Bo said. “They’ve certainly got more people than we do. I’ll go upstairs and talk to Doug Woodall. If he’s not too busy running for governor, maybe I can get him to remember he’s still our DA and we need his full-time help on this.”

  He brushed back a strand of thinning broom-straw hair. A small trim man with an outsize reputation, the sheriff had won his last five elections and was likely to stay in office as long as he chose even though the allegations in this letter could be political dynamite. Granted, the alleged corruption probably would not reach beyond the county line and even if proved would not be worth more than a couple of paragraphs in The News & Observer. Nevertheless, thought Bo, a single small stick of dynamite can blow a damn big hole in any local power structure. They would need to move gingerly, and to do everything by the book. No point building a case—assuming there was a case to be built—only to watch the evidence get thrown out of court on a technicality. It was going to take the cooperation of the other agencies and his own best officers.

  On the other hand, he knew as well as Dwight how tightly they were stretched these days. More people in the county meant more crime. In addition to the normal load of homegrown sin, gang activity had picked up down near Makely, crack and meth were pouring into the county, a clerk in the utilities office was accused of embezzling nearly a quarter-million dollars, and there was a hit-and-run on Old 48, only this time they had a witness and a detailed description of the car, which reminded Bo all over again that they still had an open hit-and-run on their books. “And damn, I hate that, Dwight.”

  “Me, too, Bo. Deb’rah was talking about it again just last night. She really liked Linsey. Something she said though’s got me thinking. What if someone ran him down deliberately?”

  “Murder?” Bo asked.

  “Well, I look at this letter, I can’t help wondering. Candace says she was greedy and that she enriched herself and some of her friends with her insider knowledge. You’ve heard the talk, Bo. Wasn’t much said as openly last year as now, but what if it’s not all partisan political grousing? Say she really was misusing the office more than usual—took kickbacks, tipped off friends so they could buy up land before the county expressed an interest in it. If Linsey got wind of it last year, you know what a snapping turtle he could be.”

  “He’d sure hold on till it thundered,” Bo agreed. “So who was Candace Bradshaw balling these days, Dwight? Danny Creedmore?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. Long as she was going to kill herself, it’s too bad she didn’t name names. It’s almost like she wanted to slime as many people as she could.”

  The Humvee that drove into the farmyard that morning was black and menacing-looking, a behemoth that came nowhere close to matching the small bulldog of a man who swung himself down from behind the wheel. His jeans and his jean jacket were artfully faded, but their cut and fit did not come from Kmart and they were much newer than the authentically faded and stained pants of the big men who held their ground to watch the newcomer’s approach.

  “Mr. Knott?” he asked, stretching out his small pudgy hand with an ingratiating smile.

  “I’m Robert Knott,” said the elder of the two gray-haired farmers. After a slight hesitation, he put out a calloused hand that completely encased the other’s. “This here’s my brother Haywood.”

  “Glad to meet you both,” the other said heartily in a broad Midwestern accent. “My name’s Witkowski, Trevor Witkowski, and you’re just the ones I was hoping to see.”

  “Oh?” said Haywood Knott from his perch atop a large green tractor hitched to a set of gang disks. A big friendly man who had never seen a stranger, he was less suspicious than Robert and always ready to be entertained. He pushed his porkpie hat to the back of his head and said, “How’s that?”

  “I moved into Grayson Village about three weeks ago and I’ve spent the past few days driving around this neck of the woods to get my bearings. One thing I noticed right off the bat. This looks like prime hunting land, but every square foot of it seems to be posted.”

  Haywood nodded while Robert kept a stolid silence.

  “The signs say the land’s leased by the Possum Creek Hunt Club. That right?”

  Haywood grinned. “That’s right, Mr. W’kowski.”

  “Witkowski,” he said, emphasizing the t, “but call me Trevor. Please.”

  “So what can we do for you, Trevor?” Robert asked bluntly.

  “Well, I couldn’t find the club listed in the phone book and people tell me that you Knotts are the ones to see about joining. I went over to the Kezzie Knott house, but he wasn’t there and his black servant gal sent me here.”

  The brothers glanced at each other and Trevor Witkowski was perceptive enough to catch it. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Naw,” said Haywood. “It’s just that we don’t never think of Maidie Holt as a servant gal.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Anyhow, I was wondering what sort of game your club hunts here?”

  “Deer, squirrel, rabbits,” said Robert. “Sometimes possums.”

  “Any birds?”

  “Bobwhites and doves in the fall.”

  “Pheasants?”

  “ ’Fraid not,” said Haywood. “You more a bird hunter than a meat man, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting a nice big buck for my office,” Witkowski said, “but mostly, I find the birds more challenging. Now can you tell me how I’d go about joining?”

  “It’s a thousand
-dollar initiation fee,” Haywood said promptly, “but we’d have to put you on the waiting list and they’s about twenty-five ahead of you.”

  “I see. So how often do memberships open up?”

  Both men shrugged and Robert said, “I gotta be honest with you, Trevor. That don’t happen very often. Last one was more’n a year ago, back when—when was it Jap Stancil died, Haywood?”

  “Been at least two years ago, ain’t it?”

  “Tell you what,” Witkowski said as he pulled out a wallet thick with credit cards and greenbacks. “How about I make it worth your while to jump me up to the front of your waiting list?”

  Sitting high above him on the tractor, Haywood could see into the small man’s wallet without really trying and he looked with interest at the hundred-dollar bills Witkowski was fingering.

  “Well now, we couldn’t put you at the very front,” he said, but before he could decide how much it was safe to ask the man for, his brother stiffened and shook his head.

  “Sorry, Trevor,” Robert said. He glared at Haywood, who gave a sheepish grin. “Our club president knows every name on that list and he’d have our hides if we took money to jump up a stranger.”

  “Tell you what though,” Haywood said to Witkowski. “They’s a hunt club over in Johnston County that might have room for you.”

  “But—”

  “We’d like to stay and talk, but we got right much plowing to do today,” Robert said firmly.

  Haywood pulled his hat back down to shade his eyes and gave the stranger a cheerful wave. “Been real nice talking to you,” he said and turned the key in the tractor’s ignition.

  At the house where Candace Bradshaw died, Deputy Detectives Mayleen Richards and Sam Dalton walked through the public rooms, giving them only cursory glances. Everything was coordinated around a color scheme of dark rose and white, with touches of green. Natural light flooded through the many windows and skylights, and the place looked like an illustration out of a magazine, not a home where real people lived and relaxed and littered every surface with newspapers and dirty dishes. Even the kitchen was immaculate.

  “She must have dumped her old furniture,” Dalton said. “All of this looks brand-new.”

  He was very much aware that his promotion to detective was provisional and he tried not to sound too much of an eager beaver newbie.

  Richards nodded. Sam Dalton was about five years younger than the deputy she had partnered most often before he signed up with a civilian company to work in Iraq—and every time a car bomb exploded in Baghdad, she worried until Jack Jamison’s wife dropped a casual mention of something he’d e-mailed her about. But Dalton had the same chunky build and the same willingness to carry his share of the load. Much as she missed Jamison, she had to admit that Dalton was shaping into a competent detective who could be trusted to do a thorough search.

  At the master bedroom where the body had been found, she said, “You take this room. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find a diary full of names.”

  He gave a lopsided grin. “You think?”

  “Nope. But at least it cuts down on what we have to go through. Anything she kept must have significance to her, so keep an eye out for any personal papers.”

  At the other end of the house were two more bedrooms, one of which finally had a lived-in look. From the clothes strewn across the unmade bed and on the floor, this had to be the daughter’s. A sloppy daughter’s, thought Richards. Her own mother would never have let her leave her room like this.

  Immediately, her mind shied away from thoughts of her mother. Things were so strained between them these days that they had not spoken in weeks. Her family could not accept that she loved a Latino and had given her a him-or-us ultimatum. Mike Diaz kept reassuring her that all would be fine once they were actually married and the babies started coming. “If the president of the USA can accept some ‘little brown ones’ in his family, your family will, too, mi querida. You’ll see.”

  Reminding herself that Major Bryant had warned her about letting her personal life interfere with her work, she willed herself to stop thinking about the conflicting loyalties that were tearing her apart and to concentrate on the job at hand.

  This third bedroom had been furnished as a home office. Or rather, thought Richards as she paused in the doorway to get an overall impression, it was furnished as someone’s idea of what a home office should look like. Except for bathrooms and kitchen, the entire house was carpeted in an off-white wall-to-wall Berber. In this room, a pseudo-Oriental rug with a dusty rose background lay atop that. White enameled bookshelves bloomed with a collection of porcelain flowers. No books. In a niche below the shelves, a three-story dollhouse built to look like an antebellum plantation faced outward. Complete with white columns and tiny pots of artificial flowers on the porch, it sat on casters and rolled out smoothly when Richards touched it. Instead of having period furniture, though, the interior rooms were all modern.

  She pushed it back into place and turned her attention to the adult toys. A thin laptop computer sat on the pullout counter of a cherry table desk beneath a window swathed in dark rose drapes and sheer white under-curtains. A flower-sprigged mug that held scissors, a silver letter opener, and an assortment of colorful pens sat next to the laptop between a bottle of rose-tinted nail polish and a porcelain angel with bowed head. A locked three-drawer file cabinet beside the desk was also made of cherry. A vanity wall above the cabinet had been hung with a few plaques and awards from local civic groups. Several silver-framed photographs of Candace Bradshaw with various elected men sat atop the cabinet itself. No other women in the pictures. No picture of her daughter or ex-husband.

  A sturdily built five-foot-ten redhead with freckled face and arms and a slight unease whenever surrounded by so much blatant femininity, Richards doubted that much real work was done here. Nevertheless, it was a place to start collecting names. When the SBI reinforcements arrived, they would take a stethoscope and tongue depressor to this room and to the computer, but it wouldn’t hurt for a CCSD deputy to check it out first.

  She selected a likely candidate from the key ring found in Bradshaw’s purse, unlocked the cabinet on her first try, and opened the top drawer. This seemed to be general storage for her supplies: extra printer paper, ink cartridges, and other odds and ends.

  The middle drawer held neatly labeled hanging files and was apparently devoted to Bradshaw’s work as a county commissioner. In addition to the minutes of the meetings and various reports, there seemed to be a file on each of her fellow commissioners, past and present. She picked one at random—Harvey Underwood. “VP at the bank. Approved B’s loan w/o proper collateral. [fd] Wife, Leila. Two daughters in Raleigh. G’children. Drives late-model Lincolns. Doesn’t drink or smoke. Sleeping with B, but I could prob. have him. Registered Repub, but can’t be trusted to vote the right way.”

  There followed a list of issues that had come before the board and whether Underwood had voted with her or on the opposing side.

  So she kept score, thought Richards and a hasty flip through the other files confirmed it. There was a running tally on how each board member had voted since she became chair last year. The two Democrats on the board did not receive flattering comments. Jamie Jacobson seemed to be a particularly sharp burr under Bradshaw’s saddle and the dead woman had quoted some of the other woman’s comments with childish petulance, adding exclamation points and heavy underlining. The word bitch had been doodled in the margin.

  She pulled a folder for Lee, Stephenson and Knott, the law firm where Major Bryant’s wife had practiced before she became a judge. It held a few newspaper clippings of a case John Claude Lee had won in a civil suit that involved a farmer’s defense of his land when the state tried to condemn it for an exit ramp to I-40. There was also a sheet of paper with Lee’s name and that of Greg Turner, an attorney from Makely. That sheet bore the same [fd] notation she had spotted in Underwood’s file.

  [fd]? File drawer?

  Maybe she mean
t a computer file, Richards decided, and switched on the laptop. While she waited for it to load, she looked through the bottom drawer, which was labeled PERSONAL. Here were Bradshaw’s insurance policies, bank and medical records, tax returns, and a thick folder tabbed SEPARATION AGREEMENT.

  Separation?

  “I thought the Bradshaws were divorced,” she told Dalton when he came to report that he’d found nothing of apparent interest in the rest of the house.

  Dwight and SBI Special Agent Terry Wilson arrived at Bradshaw Management shortly after lunch to find Cameron Bradshaw seated behind the desk in Candace Bradshaw’s office. He acknowledged them by holding up a finger to indicate that he would be with them in a minute.

  According to the report, Candace had been forty-two and folks said her husband was nearly twenty-five years older. Dwight knew him by sight, although they had never interacted in the eight years he had been back in Colleton County. With that wrinkled face, white hair, and liver-splotched hands, Bradshaw did indeed look to be in his late sixties, but he seemed fit enough and his voice was vigorous as he said, “. . . taking it hard, but Dee’s stronger than she looks . . . Thanks, Tom. And you be sure to tell Mary how much we appreciated that chicken salad she brought over last night, you hear?”

  No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang again. “Sorry,” he told them, then lifting his voice, called, “Gracie?”

  The brightly dressed middle-aged office manager who had shown them in came to the door. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, Gracie, but could you take all my calls? Tell people I appreciate their concern, but . . .”

  “Sure thing, boss,” she said with a solicitous smile.

  “Boss,” said Bradshaw. He pushed back from the desk and stood to shake their hands in old-fashioned courtesy. “I haven’t been called that in a while. Smartest thing Candace did was keep Gracie Farmer on as office manager after I retired.”

  As the older man sat back down, Terry Wilson exchanged a quick glance with Dwight. A clerk at the courthouse had pulled the Bradshaw separation agreement and given them a quick overview. “Complete division of all the marital property and then at the last minute, they opted for a do-it-yourself separation instead of a divorce. Probably because of the business. It’s in his name alone, but she got to do the day-to-day running while he bowed out.”