First Kill All the Lawyers (17 page)

There in the middle of the road was the old courthouse Beau had described, two-storied and crumbling a bit like a jilted bride’s wedding cake. Other than that, there was no real center to the town, not even a block-long parade of stores, but here and there were a fuel company, a tiny library, a poolroom, a florist, three new-looking gas stations, and a Qwik-Stop grocery store. Off on the one little street that intersected the highway was a window with gold-leaf letters announcing it to be the office of Jeb Saunders, the lawyer whom George had indicated was arm-in-arm with Sheriff Dodd.

On the other side of the road, down in a gully, was the new white-brick courthouse, standing out like a bottle blonde. Sam walked down that way. Harpo raised his leg against the tire of a brown Ford, a Watkin County Sheriff’s patrol car. Behind the courthouse she could see the county jail, its windows barred. To one side of it was an exercise yard with a horseshoe pit. If that was the extent of the recreational activity, Sam thought, serving time in Watkin County must be terrifically boring. To one side of the door to the sheriff’s office was a Pepsi-Cola machine. A tall, chunky man in a brown uniform standing in front of it looked up and smiled.

“How you?” he said.

“Fine.”

It had taken her a while to acclimate again to the friendly ways of Southerners. They waved, tipped their hats, made small polite conversation with any stranger who passed. It was quite a contrast to San Francisco, where people slid by one another avoiding eye contact.

“Nice morning,” he continued, then peered at Harpo. “Pardon me, ma’am, but what kind of dog is that?”

“A Shih Tzu.”

“Well, I never saw nothing like it.”

“He’s Chinese.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Chinese. The breed’s Chinese.”

The man tipped his hat back and studied Harpo, who studied him back. Harpo gave great eye contact.

“If he’s Chinese,” the man said after a while, “how come his eyes ain’t slanted?” And then he slapped his knee and broke up laughing at his own joke.

“Pretty funny,” Sam agreed. “Tell me, where could I get a cup of coffee around here?”

“Up at Millie’s.” He pointed north. “Just on the other side of the old courthouse. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, sir. Come on, Harpo.” Harpo resisted
her pull on the leash. He had an eyelock on the deputy, as if he were still trying to figure out what the man thought was so funny. Harpo had a well-defined sense of humor, but he didn’t get the man’s joke. Sam had to pick him up and carry him away.

Sam was hoping that Millie’s would be a homey kind of place like the Silver Skillet or Melvin’s, but it wasn’t. It was new plastic from top to bottom, though the pie in the case and the clientele looked homemade enough.

She took a seat at the counter, which was almost full, though the booths were all empty, then twirled around toward the plate glass window to check on Harpo, whom she’d locked in the car. He was staring indignantly at her from behind the steering wheel.

“What can I get you?”

Sam turned, but she couldn’t find the owner of the voice. Then she looked down. The waitress was a red-haired midget about four feet tall.

Sam didn’t blink. “A cup of coffee, please.”

At that, the other heads at the counter, all male, turned, stared politely, and nodded. She and the waitress seemed to be the only two women in Monroeville who didn’t drink their morning coffee at home.

“You traveling?” asked the old man on her right, who was dressed in a khaki workshirt and matching pants. His cigarette never moved from his mouth, not even when he sipped his coffee.

“I am,” she said with a smile. “Drove up from Atlanta. I understand there’s a lot of pretty land up here for sale. Thought I might be interested in a big parcel for a summer place.”

“Humph,” said the old man, nudging his neighbor
with his right elbow. “Reckon we don’t know about summer places. We work our land all four seasons.”

Sam smiled weakly. What a dummy she was. “Well,” she repeated, “it is awfully pretty. You know of any for sale?”

“Nope.” The man shook his head. “Don’t reckon I do. Do you, Willis?”

His neighbor shook his head even as he buried his face in a plate of pancakes.

“Well, when land does come up for sale, do you have any idea how much it would sell for per acre?” Sam persisted.

“Nope.”

Giving up on him, Sam tried a smile on the man to her left, a young man who had a creaky look as if life had sucked all of the juice out of him.

Before she could even reframe the question he joined the chorus: “Nope.”

“Well, if a person
was
ever to buy some land up here, is there anyplace that you could fly a small plane into? I mean, if you wanted to fly up from Atlanta instead of drive?”

The three men exchanged glances across her. Even without looking, she could feel their lines of silent communication as clearly as if they were darts.

She
knew
she shouldn’t have asked that. It was far too obviously a question about drugs. Stick to it, Sam, she lectured herself. Just like George told you, you go on an unfocused fishing expedition up here, you may come up with things more wiggly than worms.

“Nope.” They shook their heads in three-part harmony. “Nope. Nope.”

Well, this certainly has been an informative little cup of coffee, Sam thought. She could have learned
just as much by sitting in the car drinking from her thermos and talking with Harpo. She motioned for her check and paid up.

Halfway out to her car, she heard someone calling after her.

“Miss, miss, you left your paper.”

It was the waitress. She shifted from side to side above her short legs as she descended the diner’s steps.

“Thanks. You needn’t have bothered.”

“There’s an old landing strip from World War II about three miles east of town,” the woman said, and then turned on her heel.

“Wait.”

The woman paused.

“Why did you tell me that?” Sam asked.

“Slow as hell around here.” She grinned. “Looks to me like you’re here to stir things up.”

Well, Sam told herself with a resigned sigh, there was no need pretending that she didn’t stand out like flashing neon here in Monroeville. George had said that the tax auction was at eleven. She might as well blunder on in.

There didn’t seem to be any other place to ask, so she checked in at the courthouse.

“Excuse me,” she said to the secretary in the first office she came to. “Can you tell me where the tax auction’s being held?”

“Tax auction?” The plump young woman with bright pink skin stared at her through purple-rimmed glasses. “I don’t know nothing about no tax auction. Clotile?” she called.

From the other side of a partition came a disembodied voice. “What?”

“You know anything about a tax auction?”

“Nope. I sure don’t.”

“Do you know who might?” Sam asked the plump woman.

“No, ma’am.” The purple-rimmed glasses winked at her. “I sure don’t.”

“I think Sheriff Dodd will probably be there.”

“Oh! Well, why didn’t you say so? Sheriff Dodd is back in his office. Out that door”—she pointed—“and back to the right.”

“Then the tax auction’s in his office?”

“Honey, I don’t know nothing about no tax auction. I just know where Sheriff Dodd is at.”

Sam followed the woman’s directions and stepped into the sheriff’s office. “Is this where the tax auction’s being held?” she asked the young deputy at the front desk. He was cursing softly at the green screen of a computer.

“Damned thing was put here by the state to drive us crazy,” he said, looking up at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, what was it you said you wanted?”

“The tax auction.”

He pushed his hat farther back on his head. He looked like he was about eighteen years old. “Sorry, I don’t know about any tax auction.”

“How about Sheriff Dodd?”

He broke into a grin. Eager to be of help, he pointed. “He’s back there in his office, visiting with Mr. Saunders.”

“They’re having a meeting?”

“No ma’am, I don’t think so. I think they’re just visiting. Why don’t you go back and knock on the door?”

Sam walked down the hall and paused outside the door marked
Sheriff.
She was about to knock when from inside she heard someone say, “Well, you just whistling Dixie, boy, is what I think.” The voice was a soft rumble that reminded her of melted caramel.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” a higher voice responded.

Behind her, Sam heard footsteps. She was about to get caught eavesdropping. She knocked quickly.

“Come on in,” called the rumble, and she opened the door. “Why, hi there, ma’am,” said a big, dark, handsome man. He pulled his boots down off his desk and stood. “What can we do for you?”

“We” included the other man in the room, who was of medium build, with slightly buck teeth, middle-parted hair, and horn-rimmed glasses. Jeb Saunders looked like he’d be more at home at Yale than in Monroeville.

Sam held out her hand and introduced herself. “Susan Sloan. I’m looking for the tax auction.”

“Well,” Buford Dodd said, grinning, “you come to the right place, but you got the wrong time. Just missed it. It was over about five minutes ago. Have a seat.” He pulled out a chair for her.

“Right here?” she asked, sitting down.

“Yep. Right here in this office.”

“Where’s everybody else?”

“Well, they’ve done gone.”

Sam knew that Dodd was fooling with her. There had been nobody else in this room. Dodd, acting as tax commissioner, had just sold to himself, through the auspices of Jeb Saunders, some land that would eventually pass into the hands of Edison Kay or someone else who wasn’t shy about stealing from people who couldn’t pay their taxes.

“I’m looking for some land up here. What sold today?” she asked.

“Well, a couple of nice parcels.” Saunders had one of those genteel Southern voices that always made Sam feel like she should go back to finishing school.

“Ten cents on the dollar?”

“Depends on what you thought the dollar value was in the first place.” Saunders smiled.

They could go on like this all day. She was no match for these men, no match for anyone in Monroeville, for that matter. Though they might be friendly on the surface, they had more practice,
generations
of practice, at closemouthed horse-trading. She might as well go on home and figure out another approach.

“Well, I’ve got to be going,” Saunders said, moving toward the door.

“Me, too.” Sam stood.

“Hold up there, Miz Sloan,” said Dodd. “It’s not often we get visitors from the big city. Why don’t you sit and visit for a while?”

That was more like it. “Why, thanks.” She put her bag back down. “I’d be happy to.”

“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing up here alone looking for a tax auction?” Buford Dodd smiled. And then he stood up again, showing off his powerful body. His brown twill uniform fit as if it had been custom-tailored to his broad shoulders, his muscular thighs. He walked over to the open door and shut it firmly. “Coffee?”

Sam nodded.

“Sugar?” When he said the word, it sounded like its taste. He rolled it around on his tongue.

He brushed his hand against hers as he gave her the cup and was in no hurry to remove it. She was
suddenly aware of being alone in the room with this man. She wondered if he’d locked the door when he closed it.

“Your husband too busy to make the trip?” He glanced pointedly at her unadorned left hand.

“The land will be in my name.”

But he was as tenacious as a well-trained coon dog. “Then you
are
married?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“I’m not.” He grinned.

Two could play that game. Sam looked openly at the wide gold band on his left hand.

“My wife is,” he said, and laughed.

Sam smiled only with the corners of her mouth and sipped her coffee. “So, do large parcels frequently come up for sale up here? My husband thinks that this is
the
county in which to buy. This and Pickens. He says values are going to be skyrocketing any day now, what with Atlanta growing so.”

“Could be,” Dodd said, sitting down on the edge of his desk, leaning just a little too close. “Course, we country boys wouldn’t know. We just hunt and fish. Leave the fancy work to the lawyers and real estate developers.”

It was the opening she’d been hoping for. “Speaking of lawyers, isn’t this the area where that lawyer, Forrest Ridley, was found?”

“Not far from here. On up the road a piece.”

“Appalachian Falls?”

“Apalachee. Guess you never been up there. You know Forrest Ridley?”

“No.” She shook her head. “My husband does. But I read about it in the paper. Must have been awful, to die like that.”