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    Hard Row dk-13

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      it’s something else.

      “She ever think about going back to work?”

      “While Jay’s still nursing?” He sounded shocked at

      the idea.

      “I was just thinking that if she wants a bigger place

      or—?”

      “Not if it means leaving our son.”

      Mayleen glanced over at him. “Well, then?”

      “I could maybe get on with the Wake County sheriff ’s

      department, but it wouldn’t pay that much more.”

      146

      HARD ROW

      “Plus you’d lose any seniority,” she said. “Anyhow,

      you’re happy here, aren’t you? Money’s not every-

      thing.”

      “Right,” he said with more sarcasm than she had ever

      heard from him. “It’s just new houses, new cars, and

      fancy swimming pools.” He sighed. “Police work’s all

      I ever wanted to do. But if it won’t pay enough here,

      then maybe I should—”

      He broke off as they saw Denning flip on his turn

      signal upon approaching two dignified stone columns

      that marked a long driveway up to a much-remodeled

      farmhouse.

      The housekeeper was expecting them and opened

      the door before they rang. Short and sturdy with dark

      brown skin, wiry salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in

      a bun, and intelligent brown eyes, Jincy Samuelson

      wore a spotless white bib apron over a long-sleeved

      blue denim dress. She brushed aside the search war-

      rant they tried to give her and led them immediately to

      her employer’s home office. Paneled in dark wood, the

      room looked more like a decorator’s idea of a gentle-

      man farmer’s office than a place where real work was

      done by a roughneck, up-from-the-soil, self-made mil-

      lionaire. The only authentic signs that he actually used

      the room were a rump-sprung leather executive chair

      behind the polished walnut desk, a couple of mounted

      deer heads, a desktop littered with papers, and a framed

      snapshot of a child who sat on a man’s lap as he drove

      a huge tractor.

      “That him?” Richards asked.

      The housekeeper nodded. “And his daughter when

      she was a little girl.”

      147

      MARGARET MARON

      It was their first look at the victim’s face and the two

      deputies stared long and hard at it. He was dressed in

      sweaty work clothes, and only one hand was on the

      steering wheel. The other arm was curved protectively

      around the child who smiled up at him.

      “He doesn’t want anybody to do anything in here

      except run a dust cloth over the surfaces, vacuum the

      rug, and wash the windows twice a year,” said Mrs.

      Samuelson. “Once in a while his secretary from over in

      New Bern might come by, but for the most part, he’s

      the only one who uses this room. If you want to be sure

      it’s just his fingerprints . . .”

      “Not his bedroom or his bathroom?” Mayleen won-

      dered aloud.

      “Those rooms the maid or I clean regularly. Besides,”

      she added with a small tight frown, “he occasionally

      takes— took—company up there.”

      Percy Denning had brought a small field kit and was

      soon lifting prints from the desk items.

      Dwight Bryant arrived while they were questioning

      Mrs. Samuelson about Buck Harris’s usual routine. He

      found them in the kitchen, a kitchen so immaculate that

      it might never have cooked a meal or had grease pop

      from a pan even though he could smell vanilla and the

      rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Heavy-duty stain-

      less steel appliances and cherry cabinets lined the walls

      and the floor was paved with terra cotta tiles. Only the

      long walnut table that sat in the middle of the room

      looked old, so old that its edges had been rounded

      smooth over the years and there were deep scratches in

      the polished top. He would later learn that it was, as he

      suspected, the same kitchen table that had belonged to

      148

      HARD ROW

      Buck Harris’s great-grandparents and that it had stood

      in this same spot for over a hundred years.

      While Denning labored in Harris’s office, Richards

      and Jamison were enjoying coffee and homemade cin-

      namon rolls at that table.

      Dwight joined them in time to hear Mrs. Samuelson

      tell how Mrs. Harris had originally hired her some six

      or eight years earlier to live in an apartment over the ga-

      rage out back and act as both housekeeper and general

      caretaker.

      “Sid Lomax manages this farm and the migrant camp.

      Whenever I need someone to do the grounds or help

      with the heavy work here in the house, he’ll lend me a

      couple of Mexicans.”

      She told them that the Harrises lived together in New

      Bern before the separation and divorce. “But this house

      is the one he loves best—it was his grandfather’s—and

      he wanted it kept so that he could walk right in out of

      the fields if he felt like staying over. She always called

      if they were both coming, but a lot of times he’d just

      show up by himself and expect fresh sheets on the bed,

      the rooms aired, and for me to have a meal ready to

      eat pretty quick, just like his grandmother did for him.

      I always keep something in the freezer that I can stick

      in the microwave. I don’t look anything like his old

      granny, but he loved my stuffed peppers and they freeze

      up good. Meatloaf, too.”

      “So he was a demanding employer?” Mayleen asked.

      Mrs. Samuelson smoothed the bib of her crisp white

      apron. “That’s what he was paying me for. I’ve worked

      for worse.”

      149

      MARGARET MARON

      “And you went on working for him after he and Mrs.

      Harris separated?”

      “She asked me to come with her to New Bern, but

      we both knew that was because she wanted to mess it

      up here for him.” A bit of gold gleamed in her smile.

      “Both my sons are just down the road and so are my

      grandbabies. Nothing in New Bern worth moving there

      for. Besides, when I told him she wanted me to go, he

      raised me a hundred a month if I’d stay.”

      Dwight’s phone buzzed and as soon as he’d checked

      the small screen, he excused himself to take Deborah’s

      call. “I checked the records, Dwight. The Harris divorce

      became final on the twentieth of February.”

      Twentieth of February. The day after Flame Smith

      said she last spoke to him.

      He turned back to Mrs. Samuelson and said, “When

      did you see him last?”

      “Saturday morning, three weeks ago,” she answered

      promptly as she set a mug of coffee in front of him. It

      was so robust that he had to reach for the milk pitcher.

      “Saturday the eighteenth. Reason I remember is that’s

      my sister’s birthday. On weekends, I only work a half

      day on Saturday. I gave him his breakfast as usual and I

      left vegetable soup and a turkey sandwich for his lunch.

      When I came in on Mo
    nday morning, I saw by the mess

      he’d left in the kitchen that he’d fixed himself breakfast

      on Sunday morning, but that was the last meal he ate

      here.”

      “Did he sleep here Sunday night?”

      She thought a moment, then frowned. “I don’t know.

      I made the bed while he was eating breakfast and it had

      been slept in when I got here that Monday morning,

      150

      HARD ROW

      but whether he slept here one night or two, I just can’t

      say.”

      “But you’re positive you didn’t see him again after

      you left at noon on Saturday?”

      “No sir, I didn’t.”

      “What about children? The Harrises have any?”

      “Just one girl. Susan. She was grown and gone before

      I started working here, but she’s been here with them for

      Christmas a time or two. You could tell that she was his

      eyeballs, he was that foolish about her, but she was break-

      ing his heart. Her husband was killed in Nine-Eleven and

      it changed her. Mrs. Harris says she used to love pretty

      dresses and parties and flying off to Europe. First time

      I saw her, though, she was skinny as a broomstick and

      she was wearing stuff that looked like it came from the

      Goodwill. Turned her away from God. She sat right here

      at this table and told them both that if God made the

      world, he wasn’t taking very good care of it and it was up

      to people like them—people who had money—to do the

      work God should’ve been doing. I believe she still lives in

      New York. No children though. I think he used to take

      off and go see her two or three times a year.”

      “And you didn’t see the need to notify her or Mrs.

      Harris that he was missing?”

      “I didn’t know that he was. He could have been at

      his place in the mountains or he might’ve been working

      over in the New Bern office. Like I say, he never lets me

      know where he was going or when he was coming back.

      He’d take a notion and he’d be gone and the only way

      I’d know was if I happened to be out there in the hall

      when he was leaving. ‘Back in a few days.’ That’s all he

      ever told me. But you can ask Sid—Mr. Lomax.”

      151

      MARGARET MARON

      She passed the plate of cinnamon rolls down the

      table and Jamison took another. Dwight and Richards

      passed.

      “Do you know Ms. Smith?” Dwight asked. “Flame

      Smith?”

      Mrs. Samuelson was too disciplined to sniff, but the

      expression that crossed her face was one that reminded

      him of Bessie Stewart, his mother’s housekeeper who

      had helped raise him. He would not have been surprised

      to hear a muttered, “Common as dirt.”

      “I’ve met her,” she admitted.

      “And?”

      “And nothing. If she was here in the mornings, I

      fixed her some breakfast, too. Wasn’t any of my busi-

      ness what went on upstairs, although I have to say that

      she was always polite to me. Not like some of them he

      brought home.”

      Dwight paused at that. “He had other women?”

      “He used to. When he and Mrs. Harris were still liv-

      ing together. This last year though, it’s only been her.

      That Smith woman.”

      “Do you know their names?”

      Mrs. Samuelson cupped her mug in her workworn

      hands as if to hold in the warmth and her brown eyes

      met Dwight’s in a steady look. “If you don’t mind, sir,

      I’d just as soon not say.”

      “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if Mr. Harris has been mur-

      dered, we need to know who might have hated him

      enough to do it.”

      The housekeeper nodded to the two detectives. “They

      say those hands and legs y’all’ve been finding might be

      him?”

      152

      HARD ROW

      “I’m afraid so.”

      She shook her graying head. “I don’t see how any

      woman could do that. That takes a hateful and hating

      man.”

      “Like a husband who finds out his wife’s been cheat-

      ing on him?”

      She thought about it, then nodded slowly. “Only one

      of them was married, but yes, her husband might could

      do it. A gal from El Salvador. Said her name was Strella.

      I think her husband’s name is Ramon. Mr. Lomax can

      tell you. They live in the migrant camp on the other side

      of the field. She was here twice last summer. First time

      was to help me turn all the mattresses and he came in

      and saw her. Second time, I guess she was stretched out

      on one of the mattresses.”

      “Who else, Mrs. Samuelson?”

      Reluctantly, she gave up two more names. “Both

      of ’em white, but I haven’t seen either of them in this

      house in over a year. Mrs. Smith pretty much had a lock

      on him.”

      They all looked up as Denning came to the kitchen

      door. There was a smudge of fingerprint powder on his

      chin, more on his fingers. He crossed to the sink to

      wash his hands and Mrs. Samuelson immediately rose

      and tore off some paper towels.

      “Thanks,” he said, drying his hands.

      “Any luck?” Dwight asked.

      “It’s a match. No question about it. The state lab can

      take a look if you want, Major, but it’s Harris.”

      153

      MARGARET MARON

      While Mrs. Samuelson showed Richards and Denning

      over the house and the nearer outbuildings, Dwight

      called Reid Stephenson as he had promised and asked

      him to notify the Harris daughter before it hit the news

      media. “And you might as well tell Pete Taylor so he

      can pass the word on to Mrs. Harris.”

      Then he and Jamison drove along a lane that was a

      shortcut over to the farm manager’s home. Trim and

      tidy, the white clapboard house appeared to date from

      the late thirties and sat in a grove of pecan trees whose

      buds were beginning to swell in the mild spring air.

      No one appeared when Dwight tapped the horn, but

      through the open window of the truck, they could hear

      the sound of tractors in the distance and they followed

      another lane past a line of scrubby trees and out into a

      forty- or fifty-acre field. Two tractors were preparing

      the ground for planting. A third tractor seemed to be

      in trouble. It was surrounded by a mechanic’s truck,

      two pickups with a Harris Farms logo on the doors, and

      several Latino and Anglo men.

      As the two deputies drew near, a tall Anglo detached

      himself from the group.

      “Mr. Lomax?” Dwight asked. “Sid Lomax?”

      The man nodded in wary acknowledgment. He wore

      a billed cap that did not hide the flecks of gray at his

      temples and his face was weathered like the leather of a

      baseball glove, but if the muscles of his body had begun

      to soften, it was not evident in the way he moved with

      such easy grace.

      “Lomax,” Dwight said again. “Didn’t you use to play

      shortstop for Fuquay High School?”

      Lomax looked at Dwig
    ht more carefully and a rueful

      154

      HARD ROW

      grin spread across his face. “I oughta bust you one in

      the jaw, bo. You played third for West Colleton, didn’t

      you? Can’t call your name right now, but damned if you

      weren’t the one got an unassisted triple play off my line

      drive in the semifinals with the bases loaded, right?”

      “Dwight Bryant,” Dwight said, putting out his hand.

      “Colleton County Sheriff ’s Department.”

      “Yeah?” Lomax took his hand in a strong clasp.

      “Reckon I’d better not punch you out then.”

      “Might make it a little hard for my deputy here,”

      Dwight agreed as Jamison smiled.

      “Man, we were supposed to go all the way that year,”

      he said, shaking his head. “Oh well. What can I do for

      you?”

      “You’ve heard about the body parts been scattered

      along this road?”

      “Yeah?”

      “I’m afraid it’s your boss.”

      “The hell you say!” His surprise seemed genuine.

      “Buck Harris? You sure?”

      “We’ve just compared the fingerprints with those in

      Harris’s study here. They match.”

      “Well, damn!”

      “When’s the last time you saw him?”

      Lomax pulled out a Palm Pilot and consulted his cal-

      endar. “Sunday the nineteenth at the Cracker Barrel out

      on the Interstate. I was having dinner with my son and

      his wife after church and he stopped by our table on

      his way out. I walked out to the car with him because

      he wanted to firm it up about moving most of the crew

      on this place to one of our camps down east. We’ve

      had tomatoes here the last two years, so this year we’re

      155

      MARGARET MARON

      planting these fields in soybeans. Beans don’t take a lot

      of labor.”

      “So did you move them yet?” Dwight asked.

      “All but these guys you see here. Why?”

      “Any women or children left in the camp?”

      “A couple to cook for the men. Three or four kids

      and they all go to school. We encourage that. We don’t

      let ’em quit or work during the school year. Mrs. Harris

      is pretty strict about that.”

      “Not Mr. Harris?”

      “Well, you know Buck.” He paused and looked at

      them dubiously. “Or do you?”

      “Never met him that I know of,” said Dwight.

      “Me neither,” said Jamison.

      “Buck didn’t mind cutting corners if it would save a

      few dollars.”

      “In what way?”

      Lomax shrugged. “Hard to think of any one thing.

     


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