High Country Fall (24 page)
Bobby looked at her quizzically. “Did I know this?”
“Oops!” she said with a smile.
“They don’t have to live that close to the bone,” he said. “Dick and Sarah Granger are living on one of the prettiest pieces of land on Laudermilk Creek. They could sell out tomorrow and live in ease the rest of their lives.”
“Live where?” asked Joyce. “You know they’d die if you took them off that mountain.”
“All the same,” he said, “I believe I’ll take a ride out there next week, see if I can interest him in selling.”
“Bobby, no!” she protested.
“I know, honey, I know,” he said soothingly, “but if not me, it’ll be somebody else. Somebody who might not give him as good a price.”
When I got back to the condo, all it really needed to be ready to rent were fresher curtains and a carpet cleaning. The kitchen cabinets sparkled with new enamel, and all traces of paint buckets, brushes, and drop cloths were gone. Fred and Beverly should be pleased about this much, at least.
I checked my e-mail again. Still nothing from Dwight. Well, what did I expect?
There was also nothing on television, nothing in the condo’s selection of videos that I wanted to watch, and nothing I wanted to do.
Nobody to talk to either.
“Good thing, too,”
said the pragmatist.
“The way you’re feeling right now, you’d just be spoiling for a fight.”
“Go to bed,”
said the preacher.
“Go to hell!” I told them both.
And went to bed.
With no paint crew to cook breakfast for, the twins opted to sleep in the next morning. Hard as they’d been working, I certainly couldn’t blame them, and I tiptoed around quietly. Wouldn’t hurt me to make do with orange juice and an apple after those rolls last night.
Besides, I knew that the usual carafe of coffee would be waiting for me.
“The way you and Mr. Deeck are zipping through the calendar,” said Mary Kay, “it looks like tomorrow’s going to be early getaway.”
Now there was a thought. If I finished by lunch tomorrow, I could be home before dark.
Before Dwight left for Virginia.
Morning court was a brisk array of the usual, and at noon I went down to the Tea Room and scrounged a salad from the twins, who seemed strangely uninterested in discussing the murders.
“Of course, Carla and Trish still want to know who killed their dad,” June said, “but we were only asking around because Danny couldn’t afford a real detective.”
“And now that he’s going to be off the hook—” said May.
“—we can leave it to the police,” said June.
What mainly seemed to occupy their thoughts was where they were going to live after Parents’ Day at Tanser-MacLeod College. Beverly was bringing up the new curtains she’d made, and a new couch and chairs would be delivered at the same time. Fred had already contacted the management office about renting out the condo for the tail end of leaf season.
“We were going to crash on friends at our old dorm anyhow, but that’s just for the weekend.”
I cast a glance up at the pressed tin ceiling. “What’s up on the second floor here? Could you camp out up there?”
“Lord, no, don’t even think about it,” said May.
“It’s jammed with all the junk that came out of the ground floor,” June chimed in.
“Dirty.”
“Cold.”
“Spiderwebs.”
“I think I saw a mouse when we carried up the last load.”
“And anyhow, there’s no water up there.”
“And no shower in the ladies’ room down here.”
“Besides, if the Health Department caught us—”
“—not to mention the zoning people—”
“—we could lose our restaurant permit.”
“So where will you go?” I asked.
“We’ll think of something,” said June.
“Here, have a cruller,” May said.
Afternoon court was a repeat of the morning, until shortly before three, when I was presented with a couple of judgment-impaired twenty-one-year-olds from Tanser-MacLeod College who had gotten drunk and disorderly in a Howards Ford bar, where they did six hundred dollars’ worth of damage to the mirrors and bottles behind the bar. Both were white, both had that slightly arrogant stance of kids who were used to doing what they liked, knowing that their parents would clean up the mess. Indeed, Matt Dodson, an attorney I’d met at the Ashe party, presented documents that showed me that restitution had already been paid.
I listened to their guilty plea and their pro forma apologies and I heard what the prosecutor was recommending, then Dodson made a game plea for a low fine and community service.
Nice try, but I’d caught a good glimpse of the first youth when he swaggered up to the defense table in a preppy, long-sleeved rugby shirt, khaki shorts, moccasins, and no socks even though it was a cool fall day.
“Step out from behind the table,” I told him when both stood to hear my ruling.
There on his leg, from his ankle to his knee, was a tattoo of an extremely explicit nude with her legs spread wide. A full frontal view.
“Do you really think that tattoo is appropriate for a courtroom?” I asked.
He shrugged and with a nod toward Dodson said, “Well, he did tell me maybe I ought to be wearing long pants today.”
“You should have listened to him,” I said.
At least his partner in crime wore clothes a bit more appropriate: long cargo pants and a navy blue sweatshirt that read, “If you don’t love the South . . .”
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” the bailiff murmured, “but you might want to ask him to turn around.”
The young man glared at the bailiff and then reluctantly turned around when I made a circular motion with my finger.
There on the back was “. . . then you can suck my Dixie.”
Both had previous convictions for DWIs, so I fined them a thousand each with the stipulation that they pay the fines out of their own earnings and provide proof of it, but instead of suspending the full forty-five days as I might normally do, I decided that serving two days of it in jail this coming weekend might be a better attitude adjuster. I’m pretty sure I saw an amused gleam in Matt Dodson’s dark eyes as he thanked me for my leniency.
“Jail?”
snarled the tattooed one, angrily shaking off Dodson’s hand when the attorney tried to restrain him. “Hey, I know my rights. My tattoo’s protected under the First Amendment. Don’t I have freedom of speech?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “You have the freedom to talk your way right into a contempt of court.”
“Hey, dude, chill,” said his friend, which gave me a little hope for learning experiences.
“Sorry, Your Honor,” said Dodson and hustled his clients out of the courtroom.
The last three cases of the day asked for continuances, which I granted. I signed a couple of show-cause orders, but there was nothing else on my docket so I adjourned court shortly before three-thirty.
Rather than go back to the condo and veg out, I dug into my purse for the card that Billy Ed Johnson had given me Monday night with his cell phone number. He was so proud of the work he’d done in the area that he’d offered to tour me around. “Anytime,” he’d said. “Just give me a ring.”
When he answered on the third ring, he sounded pleased that I’d called. “I thought you were just being polite.”
I laughed and reminded him that I still had his ball cap from our drive up to the Ashe house.
“Aw, you don’t need to give it back.”
Remembering the raunchy logo on it, I assured him I did.
He told me that he was out near the Tennessee border at the moment, and we agreed to meet at a watering hole two ridges over from Cedar Gap, at a place called Eagle Rest. I gave him my cell phone number in case he got delayed and he gave me clear directions, which he made me write down and read back to him. He assured me that this was a can’t-miss shortcut that would take me straight to the pub by four o’clock if I left right then, so I slid my phone back into my purse, put on my jacket, hung my robe on a hook behind the door, slung my laptop over my shoulder, and was out of there, calling good-bye to Mary Kay, who was still looking at pictures of the bailiff’s new granddaughter.
A UPS truck was parked off to the side of the parking lot downstairs, and if I hadn’t already told Billy Ed I’d meet him by four, I would have hung around to hear what Underwood had learned. Now I’d have to wait till tomorrow.
There was a moment of unpleasantness as I put my laptop in the trunk and unlocked my car door. Several cars over from mine were the two young men I’d just sentenced. The one with the obscene sweatshirt quickly looked away when my eyes met his, but the tattooed one—Barringer—glared back and gave me the finger.
More freedom of speech.
I shrugged and got in my car.
Ten minutes later, I was two turns off the main road, bedazzled by the fall colors blazing all around me as I topped the first ridge. I kept the speedometer well under the limit because there were no guardrails along this secondary road. It’s crazy. I don’t pay a lot of attention to Republicans, but I sort of remembered how one of the state senators from out this way—Virginia Foxx?—keeps trying to get Raleigh to put guardrails on all paved mountain roads. I guess there must not be enough voters up here to keep DOT on its toes and that most of them probably skid off the road every time the roads ice over.
At least the traffic was light here, and the few cars that were on this narrow road seemed to be locals, not leaf-crazy tourists, so when a black Ford Ranger riding high on oversize tires zoomed right up behind me, I assumed it was someone in a hurry to get home and moved over to give him room to pass.
That’s when he bumped me.
Startled, I glanced in the rearview mirror and recognized the angry kid from court. What the hell—?
He bumped me again, harder.
I stepped on the accelerator and my wheels squealed as I took a curve a lot faster than I wanted. He started to pass me, but then a car from the opposite direction appeared in the left lane and he swerved back in, grazing my rear bumper.
I realized that I couldn’t let him get between me and the side of the mountain. The crazy way he was driving, he might push me off the road. The bottom fell out of my stomach as I stole a glance toward the side. No shoulder worth speaking of between the right lane and a sheer drop beyond. I hugged the center line as long as I could, till yet another car appeared and I had to move over, fighting the wheel as the curve tightened. Before I could get back to the center, he elbowed in beside me.
A Firebird’s something of a muscle car, but with those monster tires he could climb all over me. Metal crunched on metal as he nudged me closer to the edge. I battled to hold my own car on the road, then, more in desperate instinct than rational thought, I sat on my brakes and he shot past me.
Frantically, I made a three-point turn and headed back up the rise, but the clashes had done something to my alignment and I had to struggle with the wheel. At least I now had the mountain on my side of the road.
My moment of relief was short-lived, because here was that shiny black Ranger in my rearview mirror again and coming up fast. The road took a sharp right curve, but I kept my right foot on the gas pedal and mashed it to the floorboard as I cornered.
At that instant, I felt a sickening jolt from behind.
A split second later, I was sailing straight out through bright blue sunlight. I stomped on the brakes, but there was only air beneath my wheels.
Sky and trees tumbled wildly in front of my windshield, then my world went black.
THURSDAY, 3:50 P.M.
“Hey, Mary Kay,” George Underwood said as they met at the outer door on the lower level. “Playing hooky?”
“Just a little bit. We finished up early and Mrs. Vincent said I could cut out early, too,” she said, referring to Lafayette County’s clerk of court.
“Judge Knott’s already gone?”
She nodded. “You missed her by about fifteen minutes.”
Underwood experienced a twinge of disappointment. He was looking forward to telling her of their interview with the UPS driver, who was just now pulling his boxy brown truck out of the parking lot as they watched.
“You sure you remember that Monday?” they had asked him. “Could you maybe be thinking of an earlier day when Mrs. Ledwig actually did take delivery?”
“It was that Monday. That’s when my radio station does the roundup of all the weekend baseball scores, and I wanted to see who the Braves might be going to have to face in the playoffs.”
“And you’re positive it was Mrs. Ledwig? You knew her by sight?”
“I didn’t ask to see her birth certificate, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her before. Middle-aged? Blond? ’Bout as tall as me? She was coming around from the back to get in her car. Had the keys in her hand and looked a little like she really wanted me to move it ’cause the truck was blocking the drive. I just handed her the stuff and she went back with ’em the way she’d come.”
Underwood looked at his notes. Tina Ledwig drove a silver Lexus. “What kind of car was it?”
The driver shrugged. “I don’t keep up with the makes. It was a luxury sedan, though. White.”
“I don’t suppose you noticed the license plate?”
“Sorry. I don’t remember the numbers, but the first three letters were S-U-N.”
Underwood, who had been leaning back in his chair, came upright. “You sure about that?”
“About the letters? Sure, I’m sure.”
Underwood swung around to his computer. “I’m going to type up your statement, and while I’m doing that, Detective Fletcher here will need to get your fingerprints so we can eliminate them from the packages.”
Now, the deliveryman was on his way back to Asheville and Underwood took his signed statement into Sheriff Horton’s office.
“You saying Sunny Osborne was at the Ledwig house that afternoon?” asked the sheriff.
“She’s tall, blond, middle-aged, and the license plate on her white Lincoln has the word ‘SUN’ followed by the date she and Osborne were married. They say she swings a mean tennis racket, too,” Underwood told him.
“Jesus!” said Horton. “You serious? You really think she killed Ledwig?”
