Death's Half Acre (22 page)

“Did you tell her that?”

“I tried, but she got mad and said it was none of my business, so I backed off.”

“Do you remember the date, Mrs. Farmer?”

“The week after her birthday,” she said and told them the date.

Exactly one day after Linsey Thomas was killed.

They allowed Mrs. Farmer to rejoin Bradshaw and were discussing the implications of what she had told them when Denning appeared in the hall doorway. “Major Bryant? You might want to see this.”

They followed him back to the front of the house. In the foyer, opposite a large coat closet, was a small powder room. When Denning opened the door, a strong odor of a chlorine-based toilet bowl cleanser hit their noses. He had removed the lid of the tank and left it propped against the wall. The three crowded into the room and peered inside the tank, where a wineglass lay completely submerged in the cleanser.

“Cute, huh?” said Denning from behind them. “Try getting DNA off
that
glass.”

CHAPTER 18

Quiet lies the body under the limb . . .

The ground’s a harp strung with shadows.

—Middle Creek Poems,
by Shelby Stephenson

M
ONDAY AFTERNOON

S
weat poured from Faison McKinney’s face, gnats whined in his unprotected ears, and the pace that old man had set was giving him a painful stitch in his side. How in the dickens could a man who was at least forty years older and six inches taller eel his way through briars and vines and low-hanging limbs without once tripping or banging his head? He himself had already fallen twice and he knew he had a nasty scrape on his forehead where he had misjudged a pine limb.

“ ’Fraid I’m gonna have to ask you to slow down a little, Brother Kezzie,” he called, embarrassed that the man ahead should be in such better shape. Maybe it was time to cut back on the cakes and pies the ladies of the church insisted on sharing with him and Marian. Cut back on the barbecue, too. Marian didn’t seem to gain an ounce, he thought irritably, but he’d had to let out his belt another notch recently and the gold band with the nice diamond inset that he used to wear on his ring finger when it was new only fit his pinky now. He was going to have to talk to her, make her—no, not
make
, he corrected himself—
ask
her to quit serving the rich foods he liked and learn how to prepare healthy low-calorie meals that still tasted just as good and rich.

“Sorry, Preacher,” Kezzie Knott said when McKinney caught up with him, huffing like a steam engine. “It ain’t much further now. Just on the other side of that big oak yonder.”

A few yards on and he came to a stop by a large tree that must have fallen in the last hurricane. He sat down on the trunk and a grateful McKinney sank down beside him, trying not to breathe too strenuously. Kezzie Knott seemed to be breathing normally and if the man had broken a sweat, McKinney couldn’t see it.

“It was right here,” the old man said. “Twenty-five years ago. I had me a still down the slope there on the creek bank and I come along this way that day. Never went to any of my stills the same way twice. You don’t want to make a path, see? Laziness’ll give you away quicker’n the smoke or the smell.”

He paused as if remembering old secrets of his craft. “It was just a little still. I’d purty much got out of making it myself by then. My wife didn’t like me messing with it and you know how women are. You got to promise them things, don’t you?”

“Well . . .” said McKinney, mopping his sweaty face with his handkerchief. “I believe it’s a woman’s place to abide by her husband’s wishes, but moonshining? She was probably trying to save your soul.”

“And my hide, too,” the old man said with a chuckle. “Them ATF men was plumb aching to catch me out and stick me in jail. That’s why I put my still down here on Sid Pritchard’s land so that—”

“Pritchard’s land?” McKinney exclaimed. “This is part of Frances Pritchard’s land?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t never do stuff like that on my own land. Ain’t safe. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, Brother Kezzie, you did
not
tell me. Isn’t there a road right over there? Why did we have to walk a mile through the woods when we could’ve driven almost right to the spot?”

“And park my truck on the road out yonder for every passing busybody to wonder what I was doing in here?” asked Kezzie. “No, sir. That ain’t my way. Iffen you don’t want people asking questions, then you don’t give ’em nothing to ask questions about.”

He stood up and pointed up into the limbs of the tall oak. “Right here’s where I found him hanging, all tangled up in them parachute lines. He was dangling just a few feet off the ground, and every time the wind blew, the branches make it look like he was still alive, but he won’t. His neck was broke. I cut him down and after I seen what was in his backpack, I buried him right here. Him and his parachute and everything on him except that backpack.”

“I see,” said the preacher.

“It’s been a-eating on me for twenty-five years,” the old man said, “and I just can’t go to meet my maker knowing he didn’t have a Christian burial and I didn’t take the opportunity to make things right when I got the chance. That was pure-out providence meeting you Friday.”

“The Lord still works in mysterious ways,” McKinney agreed solemnly. He waved away the gnats that were buzzing around his eyes. “I think He led us both to that fishpond for his own reasons.”

“I reckon you’re right, Preacher. Anyhow, his people never knowed what happened to him and that man he stole from never got his stuff back. So I’d really appreciate it, if you’d do what you can and say a few words over him for me.”

“Of course,” said the other man. He came to his feet and pulled out a small Bible. “How exactly did you bury him?”

“Right here,” said Kezzie, sketching a narrow rectangle with his hands. “Head up there, facing east, his feet right about down here.”

He sat back on the tree trunk again and listened respectfully as McKinney read from the Bible and then prayed for the repose of “thy servant, Nicholas Radzinsky. And, Father, we ask that You forgive his sins and let him enter into the paradise of Your blessed radiance, for we ask it in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Kezzie. “Thank you, Preacher. I surely do appreciate it and I believe he does, too.”

They sat in silence on the tree trunk for several long minutes as the sun sank lower in the west. McKinney was thinking of the long walk back to Kezzie Knott’s truck, but there was something even more important on his mind. When the other man remained silent, he said at last, “When you told me about this and asked my advice, it sounded so fantastic that if you hadn’t shown me that earring—”

“Oh. Yeah. I almost forgot about it,” said Kezzie. He held out his hand and the preacher pulled it from his pocket and held it up in the sunlight. The diamonds flashed and glittered.

“I took it to a jeweler I know,” he said as he reluctantly dropped it in the old man’s calloused hand.

“Yeah?”

“He said it was at least sixty years old and that the pair of them would be worth about two or three thousand dollars.”

“That all?” Kezzie Knott’s blue eyes looked disappointed. “I thought they’d be more’n that.”

“He looked at the diamonds under a magnifying glass and they’re not flawless.”

“They ain’t?” He held them up to the sun again and squinted. “They surely do sparkle.”

“The flaws aren’t visible to the naked eye,” the preacher explained in a kindly tone. “It’s what they call occlusions. Little cloudy spots no bigger than a speck of dust. They don’t hurt the way they look to you and me, but they can bring the price down real quick.”

“You sure your man knowed what he was talking about? The newspapers back then said he jumped out’n that plane with jewelry worth four million dollars. And that was twenty-five years ago. I was thinking that’d come out to be six or seven million these days what with inflation and all.”

“Oh, I imagine the owner might have exaggerated the value a little bit, don’t you? To get what he could from the insurance company? People aren’t always truthful, Brother Kezzie.”

Kezzie Knott nodded. “You ain’t never said a truer word, Preacher.”

He tucked the earring into his shirt pocket and buttoned it securely. “Still and all, every time me and mine’s ever insured anything, the man wants to see it. Wants to see the bill of sale, too, if it’s something that’s worth right much. Don’t you reckon the man these was stole from had to show receipts, too?”

“Hard to know, Brother Kezzie. I went and looked it up online. The owner was a fancy jeweler in Miami. Dealt in what they call estate jewelry.”

“Yeah, I’ve heared my boy Will talk about that stuff.”

“He’s dead now himself. Died about eight years ago, but he did collect on the insurance. If his family were to get these back, they’d have to turn around and come up with the four million he got paid.”

“That could work a real hardship on ’em, couldn’t it?”

“It could, Brother Kezzie. It really could. That man might’ve paid four million for ’em, but that doesn’t mean his people could sell them for that today. My jeweler says there’s auction value and then there’s insurance value and sometimes the two are miles apart.”

Kezzie Knott nodded sagely. “When it comes time to sell something, don’t matter how much you paid for it. You got to find somebody willing to buy what you’re selling.”

“That’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”

“The thing is, I ain’t never stole nothing in my life, but this ain’t really stealing, is it? I got land, but I ain’t got money. I was hoping maybe them earrings would be enough to buy the Pritchard land so no bulldozer could ever turn up them bones, but if they ain’t worth more’n a couple of thousand, don’t look like that’s gonna happen.”

McKinney swept the gnats away again with his handkerchief. “Tell you what, Brother Kezzie. Why don’t you go get the truck and drive it around here and let me take it to the Lord in prayer? He’s led us together and I’m sure He has a purpose in mind.”

“That’s real kindly of you, Preacher. I ain’t never been much for praying, but I’m feeling easier about this now that I’ve got you to help me do the right thing.”

As he walked away into the underbrush, Kezzie Knott glanced back and saw the preacher on his knees with his handkerchief draped over his head.

CHAPTER 19

The top of my head, Mister Paul, grows bald.

I mean the Old South is gone, ain’t it?

—Paul’s Hill,
by Shelby Stephenson

W
ith the death of Dee Bradshaw, the investigation took on a new urgency. Richards and McLamb spent Tuesday morning tracking down the county commissioners and getting statements as to their whereabouts on the previous Tuesday afternoon when Candace Bradshaw was killed and for Sunday evening between six-thirty and midnight, the assumed time of her daughter’s death until the ME told them differently.

Other deputies interviewed her office staff and any janitorial workers with whom Candace might have had words.

Predictably, most could not substantiate their movements. Several claimed to have been on their way home between four and five-thirty on Tuesday, or in church on Sunday evening.

Harvey Underwood, a commissioner and the banker who had handled the sale of Candace’s house, was the only one with solid alibis for both times. On Sunday, he and his wife had made the three-hour drive to Charlotte for their granddaughter’s birthday and had spent the night there. During the relevant time on Tuesday, he had been in consultation with his wife, a plumber, and a handyman about adding a closet for a second washer and dryer next to an upstairs bathroom.

“Damn foolishness, if you ask me,” he’d grumbled to Richards. “The cleaning woman does all the laundry and she’s never complained about having to take the sheets and towels downstairs.”

When pressed to elaborate on the source of Candace’s cash payment in full for the house, he looked uncomfortable, but claimed to know nothing about it. “She deposited a cashier’s check for a hundred thousand dollars ten days earlier, Deputy Richards, and she sold the old Bradshaw house for $140,000. That’s all I know.”

And no, he was not inclined to speculate on who had given her the cashier’s check.

It was duly noted that Candace was the only commissioner who had missed the meeting Tuesday night and none of them had noticed anything odd or constrained about any of their colleagues.

Or so they said.

Cameron Bradshaw would also appear to be in the clear on his wife’s murder. When his neighbors were canvassed, several confirmed that they had seen him sitting outside on his terrace that afternoon. One or another placed him there from around three o’clock till after five. As for Sunday evening, some old friends had called by to offer their condolences and the last did not leave until after nine.

Gracie Farmer had spent Tuesday afternoon inspecting a couple of offices in the area in preparation for drawing up cleaning contracts; and Dee’s cell phone records confirmed the calls between them, although Farmer lived alone and could not prove that she had stayed in all evening. “Too bad my two cats can’t talk,” she had said wryly.

Dee had kept her phone busy throughout the evening. Among the calls was one at 6:47 to Chapel Hill, to the dorm where her boyfriend lived, and an earlier one at 6:32 to Will Knott.

“Yeah,” he said when Dwight stopped by his warehouse. “She wanted to apologize for not showing back up for work. Hell’s bells, Dwight. Her mama’d been killed and she was worried about that? She said she was going to go back to school and wanted me to come over and take a look at the house, give her an appraisal of what the furnishings were worth. Maybe handle a sale for her. I agreed to drop by yesterday afternoon, but—” He shrugged. “Hell of a note, idn’t it? Pretty young thing like that? Why you reckon she was shot?”

“Beats me, Will. We’re starting to think maybe she found some records that her mother kept that might put somebody in jail.”

“And she let ’em know?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time somebody played with dynamite and had it blow up in their face.”