Dent’s a few years older than me but even though he’s
a distant cousin by way of my former law partner, John
Claude Lee, I hadn’t known him when I was growing
up, so I was devastated to come back to Dobbs and dis-
cover that the most stone-cold gorgeous man in town
was happily married and the father of two equally beau-
tiful children. Like all the Colleton County Lees, his
hair is prematurely white which goes very nicely with his
piercing blue eyes and fair skin.
After firmly reminding myself that I was a married
woman now (“Married but not brain dead,” my interior
pragmatist said tartly), I put aside those memories of
past regrets and concentrated on his testimony as to the
financial holdings of Harris Farms.
In front of me was a thick sheaf of records that de-
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tailed the checks deposited and the withdrawals made
from the three accounts that the bank handled.
In clear, direct testimony, Dent explained for the rec-
ord precisely how these statements had been generated,
the technology used, the validity and accuracy of the
data. This was not the first time he had come to court
with such testimony and I was no more inclined to dis-
trust his expertise than was my cousin Reid.
The Harrises may have started with a single thirty-
acre farm here in the county, but their tomatoes now
grew in huge fields that sprawled from Cotton Grove
to the other side of New Bern. Yet, despite the amount
of money trundling in and out of their accounts, the
Harrises ran what was still basically a mom-and-pop or-
ganization. Yes, there was a layer of accountants and
clerks to track expenses and taxes; overseers who di-
rected the planting, cultivation, and harvesting out on
the land; mechanics who kept the equipment in good
repair; managers who kept the migrant camps up to fed-
eral standards; and marketing personnel, too, but Harris
Farms was a limited liability company, which meant that
the Harrises owned all the “shares.” Mr. Harris was said
to be a hands-on farmer who still got on a tractor oc-
casionally or rode out to the fields himself.
The gross take from fresh produce they’d sold to the
grocery chain was astonishing, but my eyes really widened
when I saw the size of the check from a major cannery
for the bulk of last year’s tomato crop. Maybe Haywood
was right. Maybe my brothers could do with garden peas
what the Harrises had done with tomatoes.
“Thank you, Mr. Lee,” Pete Taylor said when the
banker finished speaking.
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MARGARET MARON
“No questions,” said Reid.
Next came testimony from their chief accountant,
then Reid asked for a recess to see if he could contact
his client.
“Good luck on that!” I heard Mrs. Harris say. “If he’s
still holed up in the mountains, we don’t get good cell
service there and he never answers a land line.”
As Reid stepped out to place his call, I signaled to
the divorcing couple. It was a do-it-yourself filing. Both
were only twenty-two. No children, no marital prop-
erty to divide, no request for alimony by either party. I
looked at the two of them.
“According to these papers, you were only married
four months before you called it quits. Are you sure you
gave it enough time?”
“Oh yes, ma’am,” said the woman. “We lived to-
gether two years before we got married.”
The man gave a silent shrug.
His soon-to-be-ex-wife said, “Marriage always changes
things, doesn’t it?”
I couldn’t argue with that. I signed the documents
that would dissolve their legal bond and wished them
both better luck next time.
“Won’t be a next time,” the young man said quietly.
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C H A P T E R
7
The farmer must be vigilant and sensible to all that hap-
pens upon his land.
—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890
% On Thursday, I had lunch with Portland at a Tex-
Mex restaurant that’s recently opened up only two
blocks from the courthouse. Although the sun was fi-
nally shining, the mercury wasn’t supposed to climb
higher than the mid-thirties, which made chile rellenos
and jalapeño cornbread sound appealing to me.
Portland was game even though she couldn’t eat any-
thing very hot or spicy.
As we were shown to our table, she tried to remem-
ber just how many times this place had changed hands
in the last eight or nine years since the original longtime
owner died and his heirs put it up for sale.
“First it was Peggy’s Pantry, then the Souper Sandwich
House, but wasn’t there something else right after
Peggy’s?”
“The Sunshine Café?” I hazarded.
“No, that was two doors down from here, where the
new card shop’s opened.”
Neither of us could remember and our waitress spoke
63
MARGARET MARON
too little English to be of help. She handed us menus,
took our drink orders and went off to fetch them.
“I swear I feel just like Clover,” Portland complained
as she looked through the menu for something bland.
“Clover?”
“You remember Clover. My grandmother’s last cow?
Every spring she’d get into the wild garlic and the milk
would taste awful. That’s me these days. Anything fun
to eat goes straight through my nipples and gives the
baby colic or diarrhea.”
With impeccable timing, a plate of something that
involved black bean paste arrived at the next table.
“A few less graphics here, please,” I said.
“Sorry. I don’t suppose you want to talk about body
parts either, huh?”
I sighed. “Not particularly. Without the head and
torso, Dwight and Bo are beginning to think they may
never get an identity. The fingerprints aren’t in any offi-
cial databases and there don’t seem to be any men miss-
ing who match the body type the medical examiner’s
postulated, based on two legs, a hand, and an arm.”
We ordered, then talked about the baby, about Cal,
about Dwight and Avery, about the Mideast situation
and the President’s latest imbecilic pronouncements
until our food came. Our talk was the usual bouncing
from subject to subject that friends do when they know
each other so well they can almost finish each other’s
sentences. She laughed when I told her Haywood and
Isabel’s reaction to the idea of raising ostriches and she
shared a bit of catty gossip about a woman attorney
that neither of us likes. We worried briefly about Luther
Parker, a judge that we do like, and how it was lucky
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he’d only twisted his ankle when he fell on the ice yes-
ter
day.
“How did he rule on that violation of the restraining
order by—what’s his name? Braswell? Your client’s ex-
husband?” I asked.
“James Braswell,” she said. “Imposed another fine
and gave him ten more days in jail, but since it’s to
run concurrent with what you gave him, he’ll be out
again by the middle of next week. If he violates it again,
Parker warned him that he could be doing some serious
time. I hope this convinces him to stay away because
Karen’s really scared of him, Deborah.”
“Any children?”
“No, but she’s got a sick mother that she’s caring for,
so she doesn’t feel she can just cut and run even though
that’s what her gut’s telling her.”
This was not the first time we’d had this discussion
about why some men can’t accept that a relationship is
over when the woman says it’s over.
“At least Judge Parker’s going to take away his
guns.”
“That’s a step in the right direction,” I said trying to
ignore the dish of butter between us that cried out to be
spread on the last of my cornbread.
My back was to the door so I didn’t immediately
see the woman who spoke to Portland by name as she
started to pass our table.
Portland looked up and did a double take. “Well, I’ll
be darned! Hey, girl! What brings you up to Dobbs?”
“A man, of course,” the laughing voice said. “Isn’t it
always?”
65
MARGARET MARON
I half-turned in my seat and immediately recognized
the redhead who had been in my courtroom yesterday.
“Deborah,” said Portland, “do y’all know each other?
Robbie-Lane Smith?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“Well, you’ve heard me talk about her. Deborah
Knott, meet Robbie-Lane Smith. She managed that res-
taurant down at Wrightsville Beach where I worked two
summers.”
“I thought her name was Flame—? Oh, right. The
hair.”
The woman laughed. “A lot of people still call me
that.”
Portland arched an eyebrow at her old roommate.
“People of the male persuasion?”
A noncommittal shrug didn’t exactly deny it. She
wore jeans again today and carried her tan fleece-lined
jacket over one arm. Her silk shirt was a dark copper
that did nice things for her green eyes and fair complex-
ion even as I realized that she was probably mid-forties
instead of the late thirties I’d first thought her.
“Are you by yourself?” Portland gestured to the
empty chair at our table. “Deborah and I are almost
finished, but why don’t you join us?”
“Sorry. I’m meeting someone.” She pulled a card
from her pocket. “Here’s my cell number and email,
though, and why don’t you give me yours? It looks like
I’m going to be around for a couple of days. Maybe we
could get together for drinks or something?”
“Sure.” Portland rummaged in her purse and came
up with one of her own cards.
“Portland Brewer now? You’re married?”
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HARD ROW
“And the mother of a two-and-a-half-month-old,”
she said proudly. “You still at the restaurant?”
“Nope. I own a B&B just two blocks from the River
Walk down in Wilmington. We have some serious catch-
ing up to do.” She turned to follow the waitress who
had been waiting to show her to a booth in the back.
“Call me, okay? Nice meeting you, Judge.”
“Oh, God, look at those hips!” Portland murmured
enviously as the other woman walked away. “She’s at
least five years older than me and I never looked that
sexy in jeans. I’m a cow!”
“You are not a cow,” I soothed. “Besides, didn’t you
say you’d lost another two pounds?”
Her face brightened beneath her mop of short black
curls. “True. And I didn’t eat any bread or butter
today.”
“There you go, then.”
I signaled our waitress that we were ready for our
check and we gathered up our coats and scarves.
“How did Flame know you’re a judge?” asked
Portland as we were leaving.
I explained that she’d been in my court the after-
noon before. “The Harris Farms divorce,” I said. “And
Mrs. Harris was furious that she was there. I get the
impression that your friend Flame is Buck Harris’s new
flame.”
“Really? I’ve heard tales about him for years but I
never met him. Is he good-looking?”
“I’ve only seen him once and he’s not our type—
musclebound with a thick neck as I recall. I’ve had to
grant four continuances because he just won’t come to
court. Reid’s his attorney and I warned him yesterday
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MARGARET MARON
that if Harris doesn’t show up next week, I’m going to
try the case without him.”
“Speak of the devil and up he jumps,” said Portland,
and we watched as my cousin Reid Stephenson entered
the restaurant and went straight on back to join Flame
Smith in a rear booth.
“If Buck Harris doesn’t get himself down from the
mountains and tend to business, he’s liable to find Reid
warming her bed.”
“You’re getting cynical in your old age,” Portland
said. “She’s got at least ten years on him.”
“You’re the one who said how sexy she looked in
those jeans,” I reminded her. “And we both know
Reid’s weakness for redheads.”
“Not to mention blondes and brunettes,” Portland
murmured.
At the afternoon break, I called Dwight’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “Bryant here.” His
tone was brusque.
“And hey to you, too,” I said. “Does this mean the
honeymoon’s over?”
“Sorry. I didn’t check my screen.” Warmth came back
into his voice. “I assumed it was Richards calling back.
What’s up?”
“I just wanted to know if you remembered to pick up
Bandit’s heartworm pills from the vet? Or should I do
it on my way home?”
“Could you?” he asked. “And call Kate to let her
know I’m running late?”
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“Don’t worry. I’ll pick Cal up, too.”
I heard voices in the background. “What’s going
on?”
“Another hand’s been reported,” he said grimly. “At
the edge of Apple Creek, just off Jernigan Road.”
“Jernigan Road? That’s nowhere near Ward Dairy.
Was there a wedding ring on the finger?”
“I doubt it,” Dwight said. “They say it’s another
right.”
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C H A P T E R
8
Cold does not injure the vitality of seeds, but moisture is
detrimental to all kinds.
; —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890
Dwight Bryant
Thursday Afternoon, March 2
% Dwight hung up the phone as several officers
crowded into his office to get their instructions.
Using the large topographical map of the county that
covered most of one wall, he located Apple Creek and
traced it with his finger till it crossed Jernigan Road. It
was well south and east of Dobbs and, as Deborah had
just pointed out, nowhere near Ward Dairy Road or
Bethel Baptist where the other limbs had been found.
“Here’s where the kids found the hand. Most animals
won’t usually carry something all that far, but it could
have washed down, so for starters, I want you walking
at least a half-mile up the creek and maybe a quarter-
mile down. Both sides. Pay particular attention here
and here, where there’re lanes that get close enough
to the creek that a body could be easily dumped from
a vehicle. And keep your eyes open for anything out of
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the ordinary that might give a clue to whoever did the
dumping. Mel, you and your team take it north and
the rest of you go south. Richards says it looks like that
hand’s been out there a while, so take some rods and
check anything that looks like a log.”
“Not much of a creek, as I remember,” said Sheriff
Bo Poole when the room was clear. “Just a little off-
shoot of Black Creek.”
“Best I recall, it pretty much dries up every August,”
Dwight agreed, “but we’ve had a right wet winter and
I’ve heard it can pool up in places.”
Bo nodded. “Beaver dams.”
He was a small trim man, but he carried his authority
like a six-footer. “I used to run a trapline through there
when I was a boy. Muskrats and beavers, even the oc-
casional mink.”
He went over to the map and looked at it so intently
that Dwight was sure his boss was walking the creek
again in his mind.
While Dwight called Detective Mayleen Richards to
tell her reinforcements were on the way and how she
should deploy them, he watched as Bo put his finger on
the creek and traced it a little further west.
“Here’s where it flows out of Black Creek. Used to
be good trapping along in here, too.” He looked up at
Dwight. “You fixing to head out there?”
Dwight nodded.
“Let me get my hat. Maybe I’ll ride along with
you.”
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MARGARET MARON
After so many gray days, the blue sky was washed clean