Home Fires (23 page)

April’s as bad as Julia Lee. If she didn’t love teaching so much, she could make a living at interior design and she is personally handy with a circular saw and hammer.

This house, for instance, began life as a 1920s bungalow that her uncle owned over in Makely. When he died, his son sold the lot to a supermarket and told April that she and Andrew could have the house as a wedding present if they’d move it. Since then, they’ve raised the roof to add a second floor and she keeps shifting walls the way other women rearrange furniture. Will doesn’t think she really appreciates the significance of load-bearing walls and swears that one of these days, she’s going to move one door hinge too many and the whole place is going to cave in. She just laughs and hands him a screwdriver.

Her latest project was making herself a real work space in the den. Before, she’d used a wooden desk, a metal file cabinet and some old mismatched bookcases. Now the space was filled with a sleek built-in unit that stretched from floor to ceiling and covered the whole wall. Below were file drawers and cabinets, above were bookshelves. There was a workstation on the countertop for the family’s computer and printer and more counter space where she could spread out to grade papers.

“I want it,” I said.

She laughed. “Can’t have it. What you can have is my old desk.”

The old desk was imitation mahogany and had looked okay before. Standing out in the middle of the room against the new backdrop though, it was pretty shabby.

“Give it a coat of red enamel or decoupage it and it’ll look fine for now,” said April.

She was right, of course, and besides, beggars can’t be choosers. I pulled out one of the drawers. It seemed to be stuffed with sixth-grade spelling papers. “Do all teachers save this much paper? You’re worse than Mrs. Avery.”

“Is she a paper saver, too?”

“You better believe it! When I was over there the other day, she pulled out a note that I’d tried to pass to Portland when we were in her sophomore English class.”

April gave a rueful laugh. “I would cluck in superior horror if I hadn’t just found an absentee excuse from the mother of a student who graduated from college last month. I keep thinking I’m going to sort through and keep selected samples—you do like to see how the children compare from one year to another—but look at all these cartons! I’m tempted to just close my eyes and have A.K. take them all to the firehouse.”

“Firehouse?”

“They have a recycling bin there for white paper. The dump recycles newspapers, magazines and corrugated cardboard but they’re not into copier paper yet.”

For a minute I hesitated, almost feeling a connection somewhere.

Then it was gone.

“How’s it been going?” I asked. “With A.K. and everything?”

“Okay.” Her bright face dimmed a little. Then she shrugged. “It kills me that he’s going to have a record, but I keep reminding myself that it’s not as if I had serious hopes of his going to Harvard or becoming a brain surgeon. All he’s ever wanted to do is farm just like his daddy and a jail record certainly didn’t hurt Andrew’s ability to farm. So all in all…”

“A.K.’s a good kid,” I said.

She smiled. “Oh, Deborah, honey, I do know that. But he doesn’t always think. These three weekends may truly be what he’s needed. A taste of what can happen if he’s not more careful. He’s going to be just fine.”

“Okay,” I said briskly. “Will said something about a sleeper couch?”

“Right. You may not have seen it before because we’ve had it up in the spare bedroom. Ruth’s decided she wants to switch rooms, so we’re going to get rid of it. It’s one my Aunt Mildred had. The fabric’s awful but it has good lines and the mattress is very comfortable.”

I winced when I saw the blue and purple stripes with little pink morning glories twining in and out.

“We can reupholster it,” she said brightly.

“Aunt Zell probably knows somebody.”

“So do I, but it’s a lot cheaper if we do it ourselves. Anyhow, let me know when you’re ready for these things and I’ll have them sent over.”

I hugged her hard. “Thanks, neighbor.”

Will was gone when I got back and I used my new keys to get inside and walk through the empty rooms. I noted how the late afternoon sunlight fell through the windows, looked at the view from the sunroom, saw from my screened porch how the pond reflected the willows and overhead clouds.

Nothing is certain in life and heaven knows the county is changing out from under our feet, but I thought how I might very well live out my life here. Fifty years from now I could be an arthritic old woman who sits on this very same porch to enjoy afternoon sunlight and to watch summer clouds float across a mirror-flat sheet of water.

Enter into thy kingdom and take possession.

I will plant pecan trees, I promised myself. I will have daylilies and gardenias, azaleas and irises, and all the flowers of my mother’s garden. I will take cuttings of Aunt Zell’s lilacs and Miss Sallie Anderson’s pink roses and Daddy’s figs. I’ll dig dogwoods out of the woods and maples and willow oaks.

Deep inside my head, the preacher and the pragmatist nudged each other in the ribs and began to laugh. I ignored them. I would too make the time.

And yes, Haywood was going to have to move that damn greenhouse or I’d move it for him. It was just like—

“Ah,” said the pragmatist, halting in mid-laughter. “Do you suppose—?”

The preacher sat very still, and then he nodded.

Parallel construction, I thought, remembering Mrs. Avery’s English classes. Or did I mean math? If A is to B as C is to D, then A equals C?

More like C squared, I decided, as everything I’d observed over the last few weeks began to line up and make sense.

Carry a grudge and it gets heavier with every step.

—Freedom Baptist Church

My phone line hadn’t yet been connected, but even though I had my cell phone on the car, I didn’t have a directory. I suppose I could have called 911 and explained that it wasn’t really an emergency and could I please have the fire chief’s home number, but in the end, it was easier to call Seth and ask him.

It took three calls to locate him, then two more to locate the deputy chief, who said No, not as far as he knew, but he could ask some of the others.

Dwight wasn’t as obliging. He was off duty, he said. He had some fresh tomatoes from his mother’s garden and was about to make himself a killer BLT as soon as the bacon thawed enough to prise off a few slices and no, running halfway across the county on a spur-of-the-moment whim wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his evening, thank you very much.

I waited him out, then told him that if he didn’t want to come, I’d call Ed Gardner. Let Ed get all the glory. Let the
Ledger
and the
News and Observer
make what they would of the fact that Colleton County couldn’t take care of its own problems but had to have the Feds solve it for them while its chief of detectives stayed home to fix himself a tomato sandwich.

“Okay,
okay!
I’m on my way. Meet you at the firehouse in twenty-five minutes.”

“Don’t forget to get a search warrant from the magistrate,” I said.

“Tell me again what we’re looking for and where you think we’ll find it?”

“Well, I’m not completely sure,” I admitted, “but you should recognize it when you see it, and as for where—” I quickly listed some general areas.

It was actually closer to thirty-five minutes before Dwight rolled up at the firehouse. Unless he’s expediting—blue lights flashing, siren howling—Dwight’s one of the slowest drivers I know.

While I waited, the volunteer on duty, a recent transplant from Rochester, gave me the fifty-cent tour and I was shamed into writing a check for their fund toward a new fire truck. I looked at the large recycling bin for collecting white office paper and no, he told me, he’d never seen anybody rummaging through it, but that wasn’t to say they couldn’t.

I casually dropped Donny Turner’s name into the conversation and that got me a glowing account of young Turner’s tireless dedication. “Donny checks by here almost every night, even when he’s not on call. He’s up for Volunteer of the Year again this year.”

We still had two good hours of daylight left when Dwight finally pulled in beside my car. He was followed by a patrol car with officers Jack Jamison and Mayleen Richards.

“I figure if I’m gonna search, I might as well have some help.”

We drove in tandem out to the King homeplace.

Grace King Avery was watering her collection of flowering baskets on the screened back porch when our three cars came to a stop on her newly graveled driveway. She wore her usual cotton shirtdress—this one was pink—and her gray hair was tied back in a black ribbon. It was the first time I’d ever seen her without a bun. Retirement must be making her lax, I thought.

The white dog came to the screen door, nudged it open with his head and stood on the doorstep barking loudly.

“Smudge! Stop that this minute,” she scolded.

Dogs are amenable. He stopped barking and began wagging his tail instead.

“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Avery said, holding open the screen door and looking askance at the two uniformed officers behind me. “Is something wrong, Deborah?”

I murmured inconsequentially and introduced Jamison and Richards. Dwight she had met before.

“Oh, but where are my manners? Please! Do have a seat.”

The house stood in a grove of ancient oak trees, some of them eight or ten feet in circumference and more than seventy feet tall. Despite the heat, the open porch was cool and shady. We had our choice of porch swing, rocking chairs or Adirondack chairs, all freshly painted in that notorious green enamel.

Since it was my idea, Dwight thought I should be the one to speak, so when she asked if this was an official visit, I said, “I’m afraid so. You see, Mrs. Avery, when Mount Olive’s sexton died in that fire, the arson stopped being a simple felony and became a capital offense.”

“Capital?
” She sank down in the rocker next to mine and looked at me, appalled. Smudge pricked up his ears and came to stand by her chair as if to comfort her. “You mean that Raymond could be put to death?”

“If he and Starling were found guilty, yes.”

“But surely they didn’t intend for anyone to die. I’m
positive
they didn’t know that poor man was there.”

“Intent doesn’t matter, ma’am,” Dwight said. “Anybody who sets fire to a dwelling—”

Mrs. Avery was shaking her head. “It was a church!”

“It was also Arthur Hunt’s dwelling,” I said gently, suddenly feeling like a Judas. “He lived in that room at the back.”

“So even if they didn’t know it was a dwelling, they’re still liable,” Dwight said inexorably.

“But all the evidence isn’t in place,” I told her, “and that’s why we’ve come. Raymond Bagwell has been working for you how long?”

“I didn’t move back here until I retired in May, but I’d hired Raymond, let me think… in March, it was. Yes, because I had him paint my bedroom before I came. And he’s been working on the grounds. I wish you could remember what the flower gardens were like when my mother was alive. It’s slow work bringing them back to life, but Raymond’s been such a good hard worker.”

She turned abruptly to Dwight. “Are you absolutely sure he’s really involved? Maybe it was just the Starling boy alone. Isn’t there some way to tell who did the spray-painting? Compare their handwriting or something?”

“They were together both nights,” Dwight said. “They alibi each other.”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath and sank back in her chair in resignation. “You asked how long he’s worked for me? Almost five months. And occasional jobs for my brother before that, of course. My brother died last November, you remember, and that’s when the house and land passed to me.”

“And Raymond had access to every part of it?”

“Access?” She seemed bewildered by my question.

“Maybe I should rephrase that,” I said. “Were there any parts of the house or farm that you’d put off-limits to him? Any of the barns or shelters?”

“No, of course not. He had to be able to get to the tools and equipment—the lawn mower, tractor, the rakes and shovels.”

“What about the house? Basement, attic?”

“There is no basement. As for the attic, there’s nothing up there for him. In fact, he never goes beyond the kitchen unless I need him to move a heavy piece of furniture.”

“So the kitchen is the only place he would feel free to enter?”

Her neat gray head gave a firm nod. “And then only if I were here.”

“There might be times though when you were gone and he was working outside alone?” I persisted.

“Well, yes, but—“

“Mrs. Avery, Major Bryant here has a warrant to search your house.”

Dwight drew the warrant from the inner breast pocket of his sports jacket. Smudge cocked his head, but Mrs. Avery did not reach for it.

“Search?
My
house?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Whatever for? I told you that he wasn’t allowed—oh! You think he came in when I wasn’t here?”

“Have we your permission?” I asked

“Well, yes, of course, although if you brought a search warrant, it seems to me you don’t need my permission, do you?”

She started to rise, but Dwight touched her arm and said, “Why don’t you wait out here with Deborah, ma’am? It might be less upsetting for you.”

As Dwight followed his two deputies inside, Mrs. Avery shook her head. “It’s wicked, just wicked.”

“The search?” I asked.

“That Raymond could be put to death for something he didn’t even know he was doing.”

Her distress seemed genuine as she pleated the soft cotton fabric of her skirt between her fingers. The dog put his head on her knee and she stroked his silky ears until some of the tension went out of her face.

We sat without speaking for a time and gazed out over the shady green lawns that stretched through new flower beds down to the branch. Beyond the dip of the branch, there wasn’t much left of Burning Heart of God. Those workers had been industrious and had hauled away the burned-out trailer that had served as Sister Williams’s home. “I understand there was a reversion clause in the deed your grandfather gave the church.”