High Country Fall (22 page)
Having seen Tina Ledwig’s capacity for vodka last evening, I had a feeling I knew what Trish’s “but” meant.
She checked her watch. “Time’s up. Gotta go. If Mom says anything, I’ll tell you. It sucks that she won’t help Carla hire a real detective. I just hope you can figure it out because it’s eating her and Danny up. Dad could be tight-assed about things, but he would’ve come around and Carla knows that.”
She grabbed her Coke and left.
I followed her example and headed for my morning shower before the twins could get on my case again.
Wednesday seemed to be Lafayette County’s day for assaults on females and domestic violence in general, but at lunchtime I didn’t have to go out because George Underwood appeared at my chamber door with a thermos of hot homemade vegetable beef soup.
“What’s this in aid of?” I asked, breathing in the hearty aroma as he opened the thermos and filled two mugs for both of us.
“A thank-you for noticing those packages,” he said. “We talked to the UPS guy that made the delivery that afternoon. Looks like Mrs. Ledwig’s alibi’s not as tight as we thought it was. She matches the description of the woman he gave the packages to. He says she was walking out to her car when he got there, so he handed her the things and the computerized scanner automatically entered the time—thirty-eight minutes after the bartender says she came into the club.”
“I take it you’ll be speaking to the bartender again?”
Underwood nodded. “I called the club. He comes on duty at one.”
Afternoon court was made interesting by the fact that I had caught on to the flow and rhythm of William Deeck’s methods. Yesterday, for instance, I noticed that he would present me with a string of egregious check-bouncers, habitual shoplifters, or repeat thieves, then slide in someone who seemed basically decent or who had yielded to temptation for the first time. His prosecution would be just as rigorous, but the contrast between defendants was such that most judges would automatically be more inclined to listen sympathetically to whatever justifications a court-appointed attorney might offer.
If Deeck realized that I knew, he didn’t let on by so much as a raised eyebrow.
It was late in the afternoon. We had just finished four trashy cases of domestic violence, men and women hammering on each other. The first, second, and fourth were men who had punched out their women. The third was a woman who’d thrown a kettle of boiling water on her man because he drank up all her bourbon—“And then damned if he didn’t smoke my last cigarette, too!”
Not a marriage license among them and I’ve quit trying to decide whether or not this is a good thing.
Then Deeck presented me with something completely different: the State v. Richard Granger, a tall, lanky man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties. Granger was accused of hunting turkeys out of season up on Laudermilk Ridge, a rather wild and isolated area. Testifying against him with great relish was an equally raw-boned neighbor, Hank Smith, who differed in appearance mainly by the large, slightly soiled bandage over his left ear.
In exchange for Smith’s testimony, the State had agreed not to prosecute him for hunting out of season himself.
I listened in bemusement as Deeck laid out the facts of the case. I’ve been told by one of my colleagues over in Hickory that the real mountain seasons aren’t spring, summer, autumn, or winter, but rather deer, bear, quail, and turkey. Unfortunately for Granger, turkey season ended back in May.
“Nevertheless, we will show the court that Mr. Granger went up to Laudermilk last month to shoot one. Call Mr. Hank Smith to the stand.”
Mr. Smith came forward, laid his hand on the Bible, and soon launched into his account of how he’d been up on the ridge himself that morning when he spied Granger coming up the trail with his shotgun.
“I knowed right away what he was after. If it was squirrels he was wanting, he could’ve bagged hisself one without never leaving his yard. And he’d be carrying his twenty-two, not his twelve-gauge.”
Smith was such a natural-born storyteller that for a moment he seemed to forget that he was sitting in a witness box instead of on somebody’s front porch. Caught up in the telling of the tale, he let his admiration of Granger’s talent almost outweigh his grudge over the personal cost to himself.
“Dick’s a champion turkey caller. You a tom, you’d swear it was the J. Lo of turkey hens a-promising you the best night of your life. Ain’t never seen the day he couldn’t call one up. And sure enough, one come a-walking right out into the clearing up above me, heading on down to where Dick was hiding. ’Bout the time I raised up to shoot, he let fire himself. Winged me right on the ear here.”
In other words, he’d planned to poach from the poacher and lost part of an ear for his sins.
“Mr. Granger’s not being charged with assault?” I asked Deeck.
“No, Your Honor. It was clearly an accident.” He paused, then added dryly, “The State feels that had Mr. Granger been aiming at Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith would probably be missing a head now, not merely an ear.”
“I thought I was up there all by myself,” Granger volunteered, nodding vigorous agreement. “Right when I was pulling the trigger, Hank here popped up like a full-blown rhododendron. I do purely hate it happened like that, ma’am.”
I suppressed a smile and told Granger he’d have a chance to speak his piece later.
As Deeck continued questioning Smith, Granger leaned over and spoke into his court-appointed attorney’s ear. They conferred for a moment, then the attorney rose and said, “Your Honor, at this time, my client would like to change his plea to guilty with mitigating circumstances and throw himself on the mercy of the court.”
“Very well,” I said. “You may step down, Mr. Smith. Mr. Granger?”
The man stood to address me with simple dignity. He wore a denim jacket over a flannel shirt and jeans. Jacket, shirt, and jeans had been washed so often that they were thin and faded, but they were immaculate and had a just-ironed look to them. Seated on the bench behind him was a woman with a worried face. Her hair was almost completely white and her black slacks were as faded as his jeans, but her soft blue cardigan looked brand-new. It had mock pearl buttons and pearl beaded flowers around the yoke. If asked, I’d have to say it was probably a gift from a dutiful relative who didn’t see her very often. It reminded me of the sort of sweater some of my older brothers would give Aunt Zell for her birthday or Christmas.
“Your Honor, ma’am, my wife’s got a bad heart and I ain’t been able to work myself since I hurt my back at the chip mill three years ago. They didn’t have no insurance on anybody there and the government says I ain’t entitled to workman’s compensation, so the onliest way we got to feed ourselves is from our little garden patch and with what I can catch or kill. Now I know it’s against the law to shoot turkeys in September, but, ma’am, it’s got to where it ain’t legal to shoot nothing but crows from May to October and I ain’t never been real partial to eating crow.”
“Me either,” I told him sympathetically.
I thought of the Tuzzolinos from yesterday’s court. A Coral Gables dentist and a Lafayette County mill worker. Both men disabled, but what a difference in the way they tried to provide for their wives. No key-man insurance for the Grangers of the world. No health insurance, precious few safety nets.
Okay, so maybe Deeck was trying to manipulate my emotions, but he didn’t really need to. I’m a softy for self-reliant throwbacks like Granger. Squirrels and rabbits kept my daddy’s family alive when he was a boy, and he still fumes about the foolishness of slapping a season on what he calls “tree rats.”
“The law is the law,”
my internal preacher sternly reminded me.
“You don’t get to choose which laws to enforce and you can’t let him off scot-free.”
“No, but you can come pretty damn close,”
said the pragmatist.
Instead of a fine or jail time such as I’d given the Tuzzolinos, I gave him a PJC—prayer for judgment continued—on condition he not kill turkeys out of season and that he pay the hundred-dollar court costs.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said the attorney.
Deeck didn’t thank me but a small satisfied smile lurked in the corner of his mouth as he called his next case.
When I passed the dispatcher’s station on my way through to the lower-level parking area, George Underwood was there and he walked out into the late-afternoon sunshine with me.
“Any luck with that bartender?” I asked.
“Not really. He’s ready to swear on any Bible I want to hand him that Tina Ledwig was definitely there by five minutes past two the day her husband was killed. Says he remembers because he ran out of her favorite brand of vodka the day before and they didn’t get in another shipment till the next morning. He even showed me the invoices.
And
gave me the names of a foursome who were waiting for a two-fifteen tee time.”
“Sounds pretty conclusive,” I said.
“Yeah. He had to comp her a couple of free Smirnoffs to stop her bitching, which is another reason he remembers. Unless he’s a real good actor, he was still pissed about it, too, if you’ll excuse my French.”
“So when will you talk to the UPS guy again?” I asked.
“He’s not due back up here till sometime after lunch tomorrow. I left word down in Asheville for him to come by.”
“Do you suppose that automatic dater on his computer was off?”
Underwood shrugged. “Who knows? One thing’s for sure, though—somebody’s screwed up somewhere, ’cause if Mrs. Ledwig was sitting at the bar in the Rabbit Hollow Country Club at two-thirty-eight, then she certainly couldn’t have been taking delivery from a UPS driver.”
“Let me know how it comes out,” I told him as I went on over to my car.
Once I had my key in the ignition, though, I hesitated about where to go. I’d already damaged my credit card too much to embark on another round of Cedar Gap shopping, yet it was only five-thirty and much too early for dinner.
Dwight’s always telling me not to get involved in things that don’t concern me, and had he been waiting for me at the condo, maybe I’d have gone straight there.
(
“Only maybe?”
leered the pragmatist.)
(
“Please!”
said the preacher, averting his eyes as erotic images suddenly flooded my senses.)
But Dwight wasn’t there, and okay, I’ll admit it: curiosity has always been an itch I have to scratch. Like chigger bites.
Five-thirty is smack in the middle of Dobbs’s moderate rush hour back home, but here in Cedar Gap it seemed to bring a temporary lull. Most of the leaf lovers had dwindled with the setting sun; the rest were sitting around the monument, licking ice-cream cones and soaking up the last rays of sunshine, while the seasonal people hadn’t yet come out for dinner.
The front part of the real estate office was dark, but I could see Joyce Ashe at the back when I rapped on the glass door. She looked up with a frown that immediately changed into a professional smile of welcome even before she recognized who it was.
“Hey, Deborah!” she said, holding the door wide for me. “Looking to buy a vacation place?”
“Sorry,” I said. “What I’m actually looking for is someone to come have a drink with me. You free?”
“Now that’s the best offer I’ve had all day! Give me ten minutes to finish up this new house and I’m your gal.”
While her fingers flew across the keyboard of her computer, I looked through a photo album of properties they had listed. A prominent bulletin board labeled “Osborne-Ashe High Country Realty” was covered with various architectural renderings for the ambitious facelift they planned to give this building.
It was closer to fifteen minutes before Joyce gave a sigh of satisfaction and the laser printer came to life and began cranking out copies of the new material, complete with color photos and all specifications.
“Done!” she said. “I’ve earned that drink.”
“I’m surprised you’re so hands-on,” I said. “I should think you’d have a secretary to do all this.”
“I do have a secretary. Two secretaries, actually, and Bobby nags me to delegate more, but I like the detail work, keeping tabs on what’s happening where. I know I’ll have to change now that we’re getting so much bigger, but I also know I’m going to miss being down in the trenches.”
“You’ll still be taking on all of Norman Osborne’s properties, then?”
“Oh, yes. Bobby’s down in Howards Ford right now, going over stuff with the lawyers and the insurance people. You wouldn’t believe—” She broke off with a wry smile. “Well, yes, I guess you would believe, being a lawyer yourself once, right?”
“Right,” I said, smiling back. “Why draw up just one document when ten will impress the clients?”
She laughed and reached for the red jacket that went with her tailored navy blue dress. “Drinks. Let me think . . . you been to the Rock yet?”
I shook my head and she picked up the nearest phone, punched in some numbers, and said, “Kevin? Joyce Ashe. A friend and I are headed your way. Any chance you could clear us a table out on the terrace? . . . Great! Be there in five minutes.”
She hung up and said, “It’s right outside of town on the main road. Follow me.”
I trailed her white Plymouth four-by-four up Main Street, past the condo, and on out of town. As promised, in less than five minutes we were pulling into the busy parking lot of what looked like a rustic hunting lodge built on the side of the mountain. Joyce zoomed right over to a spot on the very edge of the downsloping lot, and although there was a space next to her and although I’ve never had any reason to doubt my emergency brakes, I waited till someone pulled out of a level space nearer the front, next to a huge granite boulder that probably gave the place its name.
“Flatlander!” Joyce gibed.
“Hey, what can I tell you?” I said sheepishly.
A middle-aged man came through the crowded room and Joyce introduced me to the owner, who led us outside. The night air was chilly and my jacket wasn’t very heavy, but I needn’t have worried. Out on the terrace, each table had an umbrella, and each umbrella shaft contained a heating element that beamed down enough warmth to keep us comfortable.
